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 <iolilsmith Ixviii
Lawrence G. Goulding Ixix
Alfred Percival Graves Ixix
< in-ald Griffin Ixx
Charles G. Halpine (Miles O'Reilly) Ixxii
Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans Ixxiii
Robert Dwyer Joyce Ixxv
Charles J. Kirkham Ixxvi
Charles J. I .ever 1 \ \ \ i i
John Locke Ixxviii
Samuel Lovrr ..I\\ix
Daniel R. Lyddy Ixxix
Edward Lysaght \m
Michael Joseph McCann Ixxxi
Denis Florence McCarthy Ixxxii
Justin Huntly McCarthy Ixxxiii
Rev. William James McClure Ixxxi v
Hugh Farrar McDermott Ixxxv
Thomas D' Arcy McGee Ixxx vi
John J. McGinnis Ixxxvii
Richard Machale Ixxx viii
Dr. William Maginn Ixxxviii
Francis Mahoriey (Father Prout) Ixxxix
James Clarence Mangan xc
Thomas Francis Meagher xci
Rev. C. P. Meehan xcii
Thomas Moore. xciii
Lady Sidney Morgan xciv
Rosa Mulholland xcv
Fitz-James O'Brien xcvii
T. O'D. O'Callaghan xcviii
Mary Eva Kelly (Mrs. O'Doherty) xcix
Judge O'Hagan c
M. J. O'Mahony ci
E. J. O'Reilly cii
John Boyldl O'Reilly Frontispiece
Fanny Parnell civ
Thomas Parnell cv
Thomas Buchanan Read cvi
James Whitcomb Riley cvi
Hon. W. E. Robinson cvii
James Jeffrey Roche cviii
O'Donovan Rossa cviii
Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J cix
Rev. Afcram J. Ryan ex
John Savage cxi
Michael Scanlan cxii
Richard Brinsley Sheridan cxiii
A. M. Sullivan cxiv
T. D. Sullivan eon
Dean Swift \\
Katharine Tynan cxvi
Mi<-liael J. Walsh cxviii
Richard Henry Wilde cxviii
Lady Wilde (Speranza) ex
Oscar Wilde .. . .cxx
TAMLU OF COXTKXTS.
THOMAS MOORE.
PAGE
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xciii
IRISH MELODIES.
Preface 27
Go where Glory waits Thee 31
War Song Remember the Glories of
Brien the Brave 81
Erin ! the Tear and the Smile in thine
Eyes 32
Oh, Breathe not his Name 32
When He who adores Thee 32
The Harp that once through Tara's Halls 32
Oh think not my Spirits are always as
light 33
Fly not yet 33
Though the Last Glimpse of Erin with
Sorrow I see 33
The Meeting of the Waters 34
Rich and Rare were the Gems she Wore 34
As a Beam o'er the Face of the Waters
may Glow 35
St. Senanus and the Lady 35
How Dear to me the Hour 35
Take Back the Virgin Page, Written on
Returning a Blank Book 35
The Legacy 36
How oft has the Benshee Cried 36
We may Roam through this World. . . 36
Eveleen's Bower 37
The Song of Fionnuala 37
Let Erin Remember the Days of Old 38
Come, Send round the Wine 38
Srblime was the Warning 88
Believe me, if all those Endearing Young
Charms 89
Erin! O Erin ! 39
Drink to Her 40
Oh, Blame not the Bard 40
While Gazing on the Moon's Light 41
III Omens 41
Before the Battle 42
After the Battle 42
Oh, 'tis Sweet to Think 42
The Irish Peasant to his Mistress 43
On Music 43
The Origin of the Harp 44
It is not the Tear at this Moment Shed . . 44
Love's Young Dream 44
I saw thy Form in Youthful Prime 45
XVli
The Prince's Day. % 45
Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye 46
Weep on, Weep on 46
By that Lake whose Gloomy Shore 47
She is far from the Land 47
Nay, tell me not 47
Avenging and Bright 48
Love and the Novice 48
What the Bee is to the Flowret 49
This Life is all Checkered with Pleasures
and Woes 49
O, the Shamrock 49
At the Mid-hour of Night 50
One Bumper at parting 50
'Tis the Last Rose of Summer 51
The young May Moon 51
The Minstrel Boy 51
The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni. 51
Oh 1 had we some Bright Little Isle of
our Own 52
Farewell ! but Whenever you Welcome
the Hour 53
You Remember Ellen 53
Oh I Doubt me Not 53
I'd Mourn the Hopes 53
Come o'er the Sea 54
Has Sorrow thy Young Days Shaded ?. . 54
No, not More Welcome 55
When First I Met Thee 55
While History's Muse 55
The Time I've Lost in Wooing 56
Oh ! Where's the Slave so Lowly 56
'Tis Gone, and Forever 57
I Saw from the. Beach 57
Come, Rest in this Bosom 58
Fill the Bumper Fair ! 58
Dear Harp of my Country 58
Remember Thee 59
Oh for the Swords of Former Time ! 59
Wreath the Bowl 59
The Parallel 60
Oh, Ye Dead ! 60
O'Donohue's Mistress 61
Shall the Harp then be Silent 61
Oh, the Sight Entrancing 62
Sweet Innisfallen 63
'Twas one of those Dreams 63
Fairest ! put on Awhile 64
As Vanquish'd Erin 64
3CV111
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Desmond's Song 65
I wish I was by that Dim Lake 65
Song of I n M iwfui 1 65
Oh I Arranmore, loved Arranmore 66
Lay his Sword by his Side 66
The Wine-cup is Circling 67
Oh ! could we do with this World of Ours 67
The Dream of those Days 67
Silence is in our Festal Halls
:LALLA ROOKH 69
The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan 70
Paradise and the Peri 108
The Fire-worshippers 118
The Light of the Harem 146
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
Fragment of College Exercises 160
The Same 160
Song" Mary, I Believe thee True " 160
To the Large and Beautiful Miss . . . 161
Inconstancy 161
To Julia 161
To Rosa 161
'Written in the Blank Leaf of a Lady's
Common-place Book 162
.Anacreontic 162
Anacreontic 162
Elegiac Stanzas 162
Go and Sin No More 162
'To Rosa 162
The Surprise 163
A Dream 163
Writtei in a Common-place Book called
" The Book of Follies.": 163
The Ballad 163
The Tear 164
uSong--"Have you not Seen the Timid
Tear?" 164
Elegiac Stanzas 164
A Night Thought 164
Song "Sweetest Love! I'll not Forget
Thee" 164
The Genius of Harmony 165
:Song "When Time, Who Steals our
years Away " 166
Peace and Glory 166
To Cloe 167
Lying 167
Woman 167
A Vision of Philosophy 167
A Ballad "The Lake of the Dismal
Swamp " 168
At Night 169
Odes to Nea (1) 169
" (2) 170
Lines Written in a Storm at Sea 170
The Steersman's Song Written aboard
the Boston Frigate, 28th April 170
.Lines Written on Leaving Philadelphia 171
Lines Written at the Cohoes, or Fall of
the Mohawk River 171
Ballad Stanzas 172
A Canadian Boat Song Written on the
River St. Lawrence 172
Black and Blue Eyes 172
Love and Time 173
Dear Fanny ... 173
From Life, without Freedom 178
Merrily every Bosom Boundeth The
Tyrolese Song of Liberty 174
Sigh not thus 174
SACRED SONGS.
Thou art, O God 175
The Bird let Loose 175
Fallen is thy Throne 175
O, Thou who dry'st the Mourner's Tear. 176
But Who shall See 176
This World is all a Fleeting Show 176
Almighty God ! Chorus of Priests 177
Sound the Loud Timbrel Miriam's Song 177
O, Fair I O, Purest ! Saint Augustine
to his sister 177
SAMUEL LOVER.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxix
The Angel's Whisper 179
The Fairy Boy 179
True Love can ne'er Forget 180
Nymph of Niagara 180
How to Ask and Have 181
The Land of the West 181
Sweet Harp of the Days that are Gone. . 182
Oh yield not, thou Sad One, to Sighs. . . 182
Widow Machree 182
Molly Bawn 183
Mother, He's Going Away 183
The Quaker's Meeting 184
Native Music 185
The Charm 185
The Four-leaved Shamrock 186
Oh, Watch you Well by Daylight 186
Rory O'More ; or, Good Omens 186
The Blarney 187
The Chain of Gold 187
Give me my Arrows and give me my
Bow 188
The Hour Before Day. 188
Macarthy's Grave (A Legend of Killar-
ney) 189
St. Kevin (A Legend of Glendalough). . . 189
The Indian Summer 190
The War-Ship of Peace 190
An Honest Heart to Guide Us 190
The Birth of Saint Patrick 191
The Arab 191
Fag-an-bealach 192
The Bridge of Sighs 192
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
xiz
The Child and Autumn Leaf 193
Forgive, but Don't Forget 193
The Girl I Left Behind Me 193
The Flag is Half-mast High (A ballad of
the Walmer Watch) 194
I Can Ne'er Forget Thee 195
Love and Home and Native Land 195
Memory and Hope 195
Molly Carew 195
My Dark-Haired Girl 196
Nora's Lament 197
The Silent Farewell 197
'Twas the Day of the Feast 197
What will You do, Love ? 198
Who are You? 198
GERALD GRIFFIN.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixx
The Bridal of Malahide (An Irish Legend) 199
Hark ! Hark ! the Soft Bugle 201
A Soldier a Soldier To-night is our
Guest 201
Aileen Aroon 201
Know ye not that Lovely River ? 202
'Tis, it is the Shannon's Stream 202
I love my Love in the Morning 203
Orange and Green 203
Sleep that like the Couched Dove 205
Gilli Ma Chree 205
Old Times ! Old Times ! 206
A place in thy Memory, Dearest 206
For I am Desolate 207
The Bridal Wake 207
Adare 208
The Poet's Prophecy 208
Twilight Song 209
The Mother's Lament 209
You never Bade me Hope, 'tis True 210
Like the Oak by the Fountain 210
The Phantom City 210
War ! War ! horrid War 210
Gone I Gone ! forerer Gone 211
Sonnets Addressed to Friends in Amer-
ica, and prefixed to " Card Drawing,"
one of the tales of the Munster festivals 211
War Song of O'Driscol 211
My Spirit is of pensive Mould 212
Impromptu On seeing an Iris formed by
the Spray of the Ocean, at Miltown,
Malbay 212
Friendship 212
Fame 218
Written in Adare in 1820 21JJ
The Wake of the Absent 218
On pulling some Campanulas in a Lady's
Garden 214
They speak of Scotland's Heroes bold ... ',' 14
0, Brazil, the Isle of the Blest A Spectre
Island, said to be sometimes visible on
the Verge of the Western Horizon, in
Atlantic, from the Isles on Arran 214
Lines addressed to a Sea-gull, seen off
the Cliffs of Moher, in the County of
Clare 215
The Sister of Charity 216
To Memory 217
The Song of the old Mendicant 217
Would you choose a Friend ? 218
JONATHAN SWIFT.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxv
Corinna 219
Epigram 219
Lines written on a Window Pane at
Chester 219
On Mrs. Biddy Floyd ; or the Receipt to
Form a Beauty 219
Would-Be Poets 220
Twelve Articles 220
Lesbia 220
Epigram 2-20
REV. FRANCIS MAHONY.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxix
Vert- Vert, the Parrot From the French
of the Jesuit Gresset 221
Hys original Innocence 221
Hys fatall Renowne 222
Hys evil Voyage 223
The awfull Discoverie 225
The Si Ik- worm. (A Poem from the Lati n
of Jerome Vida) 227
The Shandon Bells 238
The Red-breast of Aquitania 284
L'Envoy to W. H. Ainsworth, Esq 235
The Legend of Arethusa 236
The Ladye of Lee 286
Life, a Bubble. A Bird's-eye View there-
of 237
BLARNEY SONGS.
1. Jack Bellew's Song 237
IL Friar O'Meara's Song 238
HI. Terry Callaghan's Song -j:w
The Lament of Stella 239
Epitaph on Father Prout 2:
The Attractions of a fashionable Irish
Watering Place 239
From Gresset's Farewell to the Jesuits. . 240
Don Ignacio Loyola's Vigil in the Chapel
of our Lady of Montserrat 240
The Song of "the Cossack 241
Popular Recollections of Bonaparte 243
Address to the Vanguard of the Freiu-li.
under the Duke D'Alen9on, 1521 248
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Ode on the Signal Defeat of the Suitun
Osman, by the Army of Poland and her
Allies, September, 1621 243
Ode on the taking of Calais, addressed to
Henry II., King of France, by George
Buchanan 244
Michael Angelo's Farewell to Sculpture 246
The Song of Brennus, or the Introduc-
tion, of the Grape into France 247
Wine Debtor to Water 247
Popular Ballad on the Battle of Lepanto. 248
The three-colored Flag. (A prosecuted
song) 248
Malbrouck 249
The Obsequies of David the Painter.
From the French of Beranger 250
To Prostrate Italy 251
Ode to the Statue of Moses, at the Foot
of the Mausoleum of Pope Julius II.,
in the Church of Saint Peter ad Vin-
cula, Rome. The Masterpiece of
Michael Angelo 251
Lines addressed to the Tiber, by Ales-
sandro Guildi 251
The Angel of Poetry. To L. E. L 252
" Good Dry Lodgings," according to Be-
ranger, Songster 253
The Carrier-dove of Athens A Dream,
1822 254
The Fall of the Leaves. From the French
of Millevoye 254
Lines on the Burial of a Friend's Daugh-
ter, at Passy, July 16, 1832. From the
French of Chateaubriand 255
Pray for Me. A Ballad from the French
of Millevoye, on his Death-bed at the
Village of Neuilly 255
The French Fiddler's Lamentation 256
Consolation, addressed by Lamartine to
his Friend and Brother Poet, Manoel,
banished from Portugal 256
The Dog of the three Days. A Ballad,
September, 1831 257
The Mistletoe. A Type of the Heaven-
born 258
Shooting Stars 259
A Panegyric on Geese, (1810) 259
Ode to Time 260
The Garret of Beranger 260
Political Economy of the Gypsies 261
The God of Beranger 261
The Autobiography of P J. De Beranger 262
Meditations in a Wine Cellar. By the
Jesuit Vaniere 263
Lines on a Moth-eaten Book. From the
Latin of Beza 265
The Fountain of Saint Nazaro. From the
Latin of Sanuazar. . . 266
Petrarca's Dream. (After the Death of
Laura) 266
On Solar Eclipses. (A new Theory). For
the use of the London University 266
The Flight into Egypt. A Ballad 267
The Veil. An Oriental Dialogue. From
the French of Victor Hugo 268
The Bride of the Cyn^baleer. A Ballad
from Victor Hugo 268
The Military Profession in France 270
Time and Love 270
Petrarca's Address to the Summer Haunt
of Laura 271
The Porch of Hell. (Dante) 272
A True Ballad. Containing the Flight of
Napoleon Bonaparte, with the Loss of
his Sword, his Hat, and imperial Baton,
besides a Wound in the Head ; the good
Luck of the Prussians in getting hold of
his Valuables, in Diamonds and other
Properties ; and lastly, the happy
Entry of his Majesty, Louis Dix-huit,
into Paris. From the Italian of Nicode-
mus Lermil 273
The Wine-cup bespoken. From the Ital-
ian of Claudio Tolomei 273
Village Song 274
The Vision of Petrarca 274
A Venetian Barcarolle 274
Ode to the Wig of Father Boscovich, the
celebrated Astronomer. From the Ital-
ian of Julius Csesar Cordara 275
The Intruder. From the Italian of Men-
zini 275
A Serenade. By Vittorelli 276
The Repentance of Petrarca 276
ODES OF HORACE.
Ode I. To Mecaenas 276
Ode II 277
Ode III. To the ship bearing Virgil to
Greece 278
Ode IV 279
Ode V. Pyrrha's Inconstancy 279
Ode VI 280
Ode VII. To Munatius Plancus 280
Ode VIII. 281
Ode IX 281
Ode X. Hymn to Mercury 281
Ode XI. Ad Leuconoen 282
Ode XII. A Prayer for Augustus 282
Ode XIII. The Poet's Jealousy 283
Ode XIV. To the Vessel of the State.
An Allegory 283
Ode XV. The Sea-God's Warning to
Paris 283
Ode XVI. The Satirist's Recantation . . . 284
Ode XVII. An Invitation to Horace's
Villa.. . 285
TAHI.K ()K CONTKNTS.
xxi
Ode XVIII ............................. 285
Ode XIX. De Glycera ................. 285
Ode XX." Pot Luck " with Hoi-ace. . . 286
Ode XXI. To the Rising Generation of
Rome ................................ 286
Ode XXII .............................. 286
Ode XXIII. A Remonstrance to Chole,
the Bashful .......................... 28?'
Ode XXIV. To Virgil. A consolatory
Address .............................. 287
Ode XXVL Friendship and Poetry
the best Antidote to Sorrow ......... 287
Ode XXVII. A Banquet Scene Toast
and Sentiment ....................... 288
Ode XXIX. The Sage Turned Soldier.. 288
Ode XXX. The Dedication of Glyceras
Chapel .............................. 289
Ode XXXI. The Dedication of Apollo's
Temple .............................. 289
Ode XXXII. An occasional Prelude of
the Poet to his Songs ................. 289
Ode XXXIV. The Poet's Conversion.. 290
Ode XXXV. An Address to Fortune... 290
Ode XXXVI. A Welcome to Numida. . 291
Ode XXXVII. The Defeat of Cleopatra.
A joyful Ballad ...................... 291
Ode XXXVIIL Last Ode of Book the
First ............................... 292
Lib. II. Ode I. To Pollio on his Med-
itated History ....................... 292
Ode II. Thoughts on Bullion and the
Currency ............................ 293
Ode III. A Homily on Death .......... 293
Ode IV. Classical Love Matches ....... 294
Ode VI. The Attractions of Tibur and
Tarentum ............................ 294
Ode VII. A Fellow Soldier Welcome
from Exile ........................... 295
Ode VIII The Rogueries of Barin6 ____ 295
DENIS p. MCCARTHY.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ............. Ixxxii
The Voyage of St. Brendan ............ 297
Part I. The Vocation ............. 298
Part 11. Ara of the Saints ......... 300
Part III. The Voyage ............. 303
Part IV. The Buried City ......... 305
Part V. The Paradise of Birds ..... 309
Part VI. The Promised Land ...... 312
LEGENDS AND LYRICS
Tli.- I 'i liar Towers of Ireland ........... 314
The Lay Missioner ..................... 315
Summer Longings ..................... 817
A Lament ............................. 317
Tli.- ( Han of Mucran ra .................. :;]'.
Over the Sea. . . :;.-j
Home Preference :v.'vJ
The Fireside 323
The Vale of Shanganah 324
The Window 325
Advance 325
The Emigrants, Part 1 327
" 11 327
To Ethna 328
Wings for Home 329
To an Infant 329
Home Sickness 330
Youth and Age 330
Sunny Days in Winter 331
Duty 331
Order 331
The First of the Angels 332
Spirit Voices 333
Truth in Song :',:::{
All Fools' Day 334
The Birth of the Spring 335
JAMES C. MANGAN.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxix
GERMAN ANTHOLOGY.
The Lay of the Bell.
Preparations for Founding the Bell . 337
Offices of the Bell 3:<7
The Birth-day Bell 337
The Wedding Bell 338
The Fire Bell 339
The Passing Bell 340
The Tocsin, or Alarm Bell 341
The Destination of the Bell 341
The Diver. A Ballad 342
The Maiden's Plaint 344
The Unrealities 345
The Words of Reality 346
The Words of Delusion 347
The Course of Time 347
Hope 347
Spirits Everywhere 348
Spring Roses 348
The Castle Over the Sea 349
Durand of Blonden 349
Life is the Desert ami the Solitude 350
Light and Shade 351
The Midnight Bell 351
The Wanderer's Chant 351
Not at Home 352
Hope
O Maria, Regina Misericunlia- ! 3-">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 .\<th\>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 <Mlnr;it,ed in Mount Mellerey
and All Hallow's College, Ireland. After completing his studies he came to the
United States, where he has since resided. He is at present connected with the
New York Press. His poems are mostly of a patriotic or religious character.
(Poem, page 970.)
JOHN J. McGINNIS.
JOHN J. McGiNNis was born in St. John, N. B., July 24th, 1864. While yet
young he moved with his parents to Boston. In 1375, he went to Ireland.
There he taught an Irish national school for a time, but after a few years he
came to New York where he entered the field of journalism. In this sphere his
abilities soon found ample recognition. He is at present connected with the
editorial management of the Catholic News, a weekly paper published in
New York City. (Poems, page 982.)
KICHARD MACHALE.
RICHARD MACHALE was born in Liverpool in 1862. his mother being a niece
of the late Archbishop John MacHale of Tuam, " the Lion of the Fold of Jud.ili. "
Young MacHale, after leaving the Christian Brothers' schools ut Westport. Mayo,
spent a short time in St. Jarlath's College. Tuam. He published several poems
in the local papers at this time and soon was known in Youny Ireland and the
Ixxxviii
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND.
Weekly News under the nom du plume " Ricardo." These juvenile efforts were
afterwards collected and published in a small volume. Returning to Liverpool
he engaged in literary work on the Daily Telephone and in 1882 came to the
United States. He has been five years on the editorial staff of the Irish World.
and has published poems in the Boston Pilot, Scranton Youth, and other jour-
nals. (Poems, page 1001.)
DR. WILLIAM MAGINN.
DR, WM. MAGINN, a distinguished writer, born in Cork, July, 1793. At ten he
entered Trinity College, Dublin, graduating in his fourteenth year. He returned
TJ*
ju.;<M
era pit
FRANCIS MAHONY.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ixxxix
to Cork, assisting in his father's school, in which, later, he succeeded as princi-
pal. In 1816 he received the degree of Doctor of Laws. His contributions to
the Literary Gazette and Blackwood's Magazine gained him first rank in litera-
ture. He became junior Editor of the Standard in 1828, and the follow ing
year, in conjunction with the owner, projected Fraser's Magazine. After de-
tention for debt in 1842, he retired to Walton-on-Thames where he died of con-
sumption, at the age of forty-nine. (Poems, page 681.)
FRANCIS MAHONEY ("FATHER PROUT ").
REV. FRANCIS MAHONEY (" Father Prout"), a charming poet and versatile
'writer, was born in Cork about 1803. Entering college at an early age he com-
pleted his academic course, with much credit and finally was admitted to the
priesthood, and appointed curate to Father Prout, an old clergyman who resided
some eight miles from Cork. While fulfilling his duties in this quiet country
district, Father Mahoney sent many successful contributions to the Cork jour-
nals under the signature "Father Prout," much to the bewilderment of the
good old priest. Articles sent to London periodicals and Eraser's Magazine
meeting with favorable reception, he became weary of the monotony of a poor
curate's life, and allured by the desire of literary fame, he abandoned his pro-
fession and entered the world of letters. In London his genius met with the
recognition it deserved, and a rivalry ensued among the leading journals as to
which should secure his services. Finding the atmosphere of Paris more to his
tastes, he went to reside there in his fortieth year, and was correspondent of
two daily English journals, the News and Globe. He contributed his whimsi-
cal papers " The Reliques of Father Prout," to Fraser's Magazine. These were
afterwards published in book form. His " Bells of Shandon " and " Groves of
Blarney" have enjoyed aworld-wide reputation. He died in Paris, May 10,
1866. His remains were brought to Cork and buried under the shadow of
Shandon steeple. (Poems, page 221.)
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN was born in Dublin in 1803. His father, a grocer,
becoming bankrupt, James, was in his fifteenth year obliged to earn a livelihood.
He drudged as a scrivener for seven years, from five o'clock in the morn in-
until eleven at night, and afterwards became solicitor's clerk for three years.
His earnings went toward the support of himself and parents. This period of
his life he afterwards refers to as a time when a special providence prevented
him from committing suicide. Obtaining an engagement in the magnificent
library of Trinity College, he took advantage of means at his di: ;|x>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 <rris of new novels is H
course of publication by the London publishers, Messrs. Spencer, Blackett, Hallam
xcvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND.
& Co. Mr. Murphy's poetry is contained in a volume of some two hundred pages
entitled Lays and Legends of Ireland." (Poems, page 1005.)
KATHARINE MURPHY.
KATHARINE MURPHY was born in Cork, Ireland, and died in that city in 1885.
She wrote for many years for the Irish press under the nom deplume of '* Bridgid."
Her poems are noted for their dramatic force and vigor. (Poems, page 968.)
MRS. LOUISIANA MURPHY.
MRS. LOUISIANA MURPHY is a native of Dublin, having first seen the light in
the United States Consulate, Nelson Street, something better than thirty years
ago. Her father, Mr. Hugh Keenan, was a Northerner, but emigrated early in
life to America, where he studied law and was admitted to the Bar, practising
with great success, and, subsequently, on his return to Ireland, being nominated
United States Consul at Dublin, and afterward at Cork. When tired of public
life he resigned, purchased an estate in the North, and settled there with his
family, ultimately becoming a Justice of the Peace for the county Monaghan.
Mrs. Murphy had many opportunities of studying the peasantry, their dialect,
etc.. but her girlhood was for the most part spent away at school, her education
being divided between the Loretto Convent, Balbnggan. and the Convent of Notre
Dame, Tiiiemont, Belgium. She always had a taste for writing, but frittered
away much time in the composition of complimentary verses, birth and fete-
day odes, addresses, etc., doing no serious work save the Libretto of a semi-Irish
Operetta, which, although never published, was produced at the Loretto Con-
vent in 1878 with marked success.
On leaving school she had some thoughts of devoting herself to a literary
career, but married instead, and literary ambition had to be sacrificed to the
active domestic duties of her new sphere. She is now almost nine years married,
and only during the past couple of years has she resumed writing. She has
contributed some poems from time to time to various magazines, and has writ-
ten the Libretto of an Irish National Opera (which sanguine critics predict will
yet take its place upon the stage), the lyrical part of which, especially, has been
highly commended. (Poems, page 1016.)
CAROLINE NORTON.
CAROLINE NORTON, born in 1808, was a daughter of Thomas Sheridan, son of
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and sister of Lady Dufferin. She married the Hon.
G. C. Norton, and after his death, Sir William Stirling Maxwell. Her first
marriage proved unhappy and led to protracted legal proceedings. She was
widely known as a poet and novelist. Her death occurred in 1877. (Poems,
page 821.)
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. xcvii
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.
FITZ- JAMES O'BRIEN was born in the county of Limerick, Ireland, in 1830, of
a well-known and respected family. He was educated at Trinity College, Dub-
lin. He went to London, where he engaged in journalism, and shortly after
came to New York. He soon won renown by the production of some of the
most original poems and stories in the literature of his time. " He set up a
model of excellence in magazine literature, which has made it better than it ever
had been in this country before those tales were printed," says a biographer,
referring to his stories published in Harpers Magazine and the Atlantic
Monthly. He also wrote several pieces for the stage. At the outbreak of the
war, O'Brien joined the Union army, serving on the staff of Gen. Lander.
While on a foraging expedition, he met and attacked a large body of Confeder-
ate troops, under the command of Col. Ashly . Both leaders engaged in a reg-
ular duel, the result being that Ashly was killed and O'Brien mortally wounded.
He died seven weeks afterward, April 6th, 1862. His works, edited by William
Winter, were published in Boston in 1881. (Poems, page 870.)
T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN.
THOMAS O'DONNELL OV.\U-AHAN was born in 1847, in the town of Kil-
Tiiallock, county Limerick, Ireland, and came to this country in 18<;r,. When
but in his teens he was identified with the Fenian movement in livl.-ind
and was the Kilmallock correspondent, under the n<mt (/< />/<>///, " 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<> .//</ History of II,,-
m Scut/inn! initli-i- M<it !*<. i liiiio.i I'laiviidon owns that the Marquis of Montrose was inde bled for much of hia miraculouit
tn this small liainl of Irish heroes under Min-donnell.
1 ( >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 <cai /Sapcit, <c. T. A.
** Another lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency of what composers call consecutive fifths; but this is an ir-
regularity which can hardly be avoided by persons not very conversant with the rules of composition ; indeed, if I may
venture to cite my own wild attempts in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually committing, and which has
sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear that I have surrendered it to the critic with considerable reluctance. May there
not be a little pedantry in adhering too rigidly to this rule? I have been told that there are instances in Haydn of an un-
disguised succession of fifths ; and Mr Shield, in his Introduction to Harmony, seems to intimate that Handel has been,
sometimes guilty of the same irregularity.
tf A singular oversight occurs in an Essay on the Irish Harp by Mr. Beauford, which is inserted in the Appendix to
Walker's Historical Memoirs. " The Irish," says he, "according to Bromton, in the reign of Henry II., had two kinds
of harps, ' Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis instrumentis. quamvis preecipitem et velocem, suavem tainen et jucun-
dam, 1 the one greatly bold and quick, the other soft and pleasing." How a man of Mr. Beauford 's learning could so mistake
the meaning and mutilate the grammatical construction of this extract is unaccountable. The following is the passage as
I find it entire in Bromton, and it requires but little Latin to perceive the injustice which has been done to the words of the
old chronicler : " Et cum Scotia, hujus terrse fllia, utatur lyrd, tympano et choro, ac Wallia cithara, ttibis et chora Hiber-
nici tamen in duobus musici generis instrumentis, quamvis pra>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,- <!!' /:/i<-i/<-/<./ : (/iV.) The reader may find Mime
good remarks on the subject in Avison upon Musical Expression ; a work which, though under the name of Avisun. wan
written, it is said, by Dr. Brown.
t Virgil, JKntid, lib. 6, v. 204.
; S, lytt.-rs. iiinlt-r the signature* of "Timaeus," &c.. In the Morning Pitst, Pilot, and other paper*.
30 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
Demophon of old who, when the sun shone upon him shivered ! * to such men I shall not
deign to apologize for the warmth of any political sentiment which may occur in the course
of these pages. But as there are many among the more wise and tolerant who, with feel-
ing enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all
the danger of not redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree bold
or inflammatory should be avoided in a publication of this popular description I beg of
these respected persons to believe that there is no one who deprecates more sincerely than
I do any appeal to the passions of an ignorant and angry multitude; but that it is not
through that gross and inflammable region of society a work of this nature could ever have
been intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers it is found
upon the piano-fortes of the rich and the educated of those who can afford to have their
national zeal a little stimulated without exciting much dread of the excesses into which it
may hurry them; and of many whose nerves may be now and then alarmed with advan-
tage, as much more is to be gained by their fears than could ever be expected from their
justice.
Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has been hitherto made to the
poetical part of this work, allow me to add a few words in defence of my ingenious
coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of
the airs by the chromatic richness of his symphonies and the elaborate variety of his har-
monies. We might cite the example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported through
all the mazes of musical science in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies; but
it appears to me that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which
it would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. Through
many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as
peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country's music: and, far from agreeing with
those critics who think that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs which they
introduce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illuminated initials of old
manuscripts which are of the same character with the writing which follows, though more
highly colored and more curiously ornamented.
In those airs which are arranged for voices, his skill has particularly distinguished
itself, and, though, it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the
language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favorite strain has been dismissed as
having lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it returns in a harmonized shape with new
claims upon our interest and attention; and to those who study the delicate artifices of
composition, the construction of the inner parts of these pieces must afford, I think, con-
siderable satisfaction. Every voice has an air to itself, a flowing succession of notes,
which might be heard with pleasure independent of the rest, so artfully has the harmonist
(if I may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distributing an equal portion of its sweet-
ness to every part.
*"This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (rpan-e OTTOIOS) to Alexander the Great." Sext. Empir. Pyrrh
Hypoth., lib. i.
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE,
GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.
Go where glory waits thee,
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,
Oh ! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
Oh! then remember me.
When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,
Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
Oh! thus remember me.
Oft as summer closes,
On its lingering roses,
Once so loved by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them,
Oh! then remember me.
When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,
Oh! then remember me.
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me,
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,
Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee
Oh! then remember me.
WAR SONG.
REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE. 1
REMEMBER the glories of Brien the Brave.
Though the days of the hero are o'er;
Though lost to Mononia, 7 and cold in the
grave,
He returns to Kinkora 1 no more!
That star of the field, which so often has
pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each
sword
To light us to glory yet!
Mononia! when nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should
print
The footstep of slavery there ?
No, freedom! whose smile we shall never
resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
'Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy
shrine,
Than to sleep but a moment in chains!
Forget not our wounded companions who
stood 4
In the day of distress by our side;
1 Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was
killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the briimii> 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, <fcc., p^rt
L, chapter v.
* It was an old tradition in the time of Giraldus, that Lough
Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden over-
flowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, lik
the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says, that the fisher-
men, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall
Cft'/>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," <fcc. Arabian Nights. Story of Kunun'J
al Ziimtnnmi and the Princess of Cb'ua
I'OK.MS OF THOMAS
If thus the sweet hours have fleeted
When sorrow herself lookM bright :
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light ;
If thus the unkind world wither
Each feeling that once \v:is dear;
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,
Than came that voice, when all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort ! 'twas like the steal-
ing
Of summer wind through some wreathed
ihell
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echo'd to its spell !
'Twas whisper'd balm 'twas sunshine
spoken !
I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again !
WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.
WHEN first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver ! go,
The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,
Deserves that thou shouldst break it!
When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory,
/still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ;
The heart, that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,
Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.
Even now, though youth its bloom has shed
No lights of age adorn thee ;
The few who loved thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter, scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,
No genial ties cnwreath it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
lias rank cold hearts beneath it !
Go go though worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine
For all thy guilty splendor !
And days may come, thou false one ! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call with vain regret
On her thou'st lost forever !
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Pier fancy first believed thee.
Go go 'tis vain to curse,
'Tis weakness to upbraid thee,
Hate cannot wish thee worse
Than guilt and shame have made thee,
WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.
WHILE history's muse the memorial was
keeping
Of all that the dark hand of destiny weaves,
Beside her the genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the
leaves.
But oh, how the tear in her eyelids grew
bright.
56
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORL.
When, after whole pages of sorrow and
shame,
She saw history write
With a pencil of light
That illumed all the volume, her Wellington's
name !
" Hail, star of my isle !" said the spirit, all
sparkling
With beams such as break from her own
dewy skies;
" Through ages of sorrow, deserted and
darkling,
I've watch'd for some glory like thine to
arise.
For though heroes I've number'd, unblest
was their lot,
And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-
ways of fame !
But oh there is not
One dishonoring blot
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's
name !
And still the last crown of thy toils is re-
maining,
The grandest, the purest even thou hast
yet known ;
Though proud was thy task, other nations
unchaining,
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of
thy own.
At the foot of that throne, for whose weal
thou hast stood,
Go, plead for the land that first cradled
thy fame
And bright o'er the flood
Of her tears and her blood
Let the rainbow of hope be her Wellington's
name !"
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.
THE time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
lias been my heart's undoing.
Though wisdom oft has taught me,
I scorn the lore that bought me,
My only books
Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.
Her smile when beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him, the sprite, 1
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray
Was turn'd away,
Oh ! winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going !
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing ?
No vain, alas ! the endeavor
From bonds so sweet to sever ;
Poor wisdom's chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever !
WHERE'S THE SLAVE.
OH ! where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it ?
Farewell, Erin ! fai'ewell all
Who live to weep our fall !
Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing,
1 This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to he met
with, they eay, in the fields at dusk. As long as you keep
your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power ; but th
moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing eom
inducement) he vanishes.
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
Than that whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade
The brows with victory glowing !
We tread the land that bore us,
Our green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried
Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us 1
Farewell, Erin ! farewell all
Who live to weep our fall 1
'TIS GONE, AND FOREVER.
Tis gone, and forever, the light we saw
breaking,
Like heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of
the dead
When man, from the slumber of ages awak-
ing,
Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray
ere it fled !
'Tis gone and the gleams it has left of its
burning
But deepen the long night of bondage and
mourning
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is re-
tnrning,
And, darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.
For high was thy hope when those glories
were darting
Around thee through all the gross clouds
of the world ;
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly
starting,
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner un-
furl'd. 1
Oh 1 never shall earth see a moment so
splendid !
Then, then had one hymn of deliverance
blended
The tongues of all nations how sweet had
ascended
The first note of liberty, Erin ! from thee.
1 " The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the an-
cient Irish to the royal banner.
But, shame on those tyrants who envied the
blessing !
And shame on the light race, unworthy
its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furiet,
caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptized it
in blood !
Then vanish'd forever that fair sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold he-art's
derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and
elysian,
As first it arose, my lost Erin ! on thee.
I SAW FROM THE BEACH.
I SAW from the beach, when the morning
was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ;
I came when the sun o'er that beach \vas de-
clining,
The bark was still there, but the waters
were gone !
Ah ! such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have
known :
Each wave that we danced on at morning
ebbs from us,
And leaves us at eve on the bleak shore
alone.
Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our
night ;
Give me back, give me back the wild fresh-
ness of morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth even-
ing's best light.
Oh who would not welcome that monu-nt'i
returning,
When passion first waked a new life
through his frame,
And his soul like the wood that grows
precious in burning
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite
flame !
58
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.
COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken
deer !
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy
home is still here ;
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'er-
cast,
And the heart and the hand all thy own to
the last !
Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the
same
Through joy and through torments, through
glory and shame ?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that
heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou
art!
Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments
of bliss,
Still thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of
this,
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps
to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish
there too !
FILL THE BUMPER FAIR!
FILL the bumper fair !
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame
Ne'er so swiftly passes,
As when through the frame
It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair !
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Sages can, they say,
Grasp the lightning's pinions,
And bring down its ray
From the starr'd dominions ;
So we, sages, sit,
And 'mid bumpers bright'iiing.
From the heaven of wit
Draw down all its lightning !
Wouldst thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst
For wine's celestial spirit ?
It chanced upon that day,
When, as bauds inform us,
Prometheus stole away
The living fires that warm us.
The careless youth, when up
To glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup,
To hide the pilfer'd fire in ;
But, oh, his joy ! when, round
The halls of heaven spying,
Amongst the stars he found
O
A bowl of Bacchus lying.
Some drops were in the bowl,
Remains of last night's pleasure,
With which the sparks of soul
Mix'd their burning treasure !
Hence the goblet's shower
Hath such spells to win us
Hence its mighty power
O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper fair !
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY
DEAR Harp of my country ! in darkness I
found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er
thee long,
When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I un-
bound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom,
and song !
The warm lay of love and the light note of
gladness
COME, REST IX TUTS BOSOM.
POEMS OF THOMAS
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest
thrill ;
But so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of
sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from
thee still.
Dear Harp of my country ! farewell to thy
numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we
shall twine ;
Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy
slumbers,
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy
than mine.
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Has throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ;
I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I waked was
thy own.
REMEMBER THEE.
REMEMBER thee ! yes, while there's life in
this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art,
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy
showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest
hours.
Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glori-
ous, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of
the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier
brow,
But oh ! could I love thee more deeply than
now ?
No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as
it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy
sons
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert
bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from
thy breast.
OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER
TIME!
OH for the swords of former time !
Oh for the men who bore them,
When arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouch'd before them :
When pure yet, ere courts began
With honors to enslave him,
The best honors worn by Man
Were those which Virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords, <fcc., &c.
Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then !
Oh for the pomp that crown'd '.hem,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them.
When, safe built on bosoms tnu-.
The throne was but the centiv,
Round which LOVE a circle dre\v,
That Treason durst not enter.
Oh for the Kings who flourish'd tlu>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<ay they arc obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and
disappear immediately.
* The particular? of the tradition respecting O'Donohne and
his White Ht.rsc-, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of
Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For
many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed
to have been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding ever the
'ake on hi.' favorite white horse, to the sound of sweet un-
earthly music, and preceded by group* of youths and maid-
sng, who flung wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in hie path.
Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the
Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl,
Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, white Steed, most joy to
thee ;
Who still, with the first young glance of
spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
Proud Steed, proud Steed, my love to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch 'd, thy long mane* curls,
Fair Steed, tail Steed, as white and free ;
And spiriv irom all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide over the blue wave scattering flowers,
Fair Steed, around my love and thee.
Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be,
Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee.
SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.
SHALL the Harp then be silent, when he who
first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from
all eyes ?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the
grave,
Where the first where the last of her
Patriots lies ?
No faint tho' the death-song may fall from
his lips,
Though his Harp, like his soul, may with
shadows be crost,
Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,
And proclaim to the world what a star
hath been lost !*
whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of thin
visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in IOTC with him,
and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning threw her-
self into the lake.
* The boatmen at Killarney call those wave* which come
on a windy day, crested with foam, " O'Donohoe's whit*
It is only the two first Tenet that are either fitted or IB
tended to be sung.
62
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
What a union of all the affections and powers
By which life is exalted, embellish'd,
refined,
Was embraced in that spirit whose centre
was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled
mankind.
Oh, who that loves Erin or who that can see,
Through the waste of her annals, that
epoch sublime
Like a pyramid raised in the desert where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all
time;
That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the
gloom
And the madness of ages, when fill'd with
his soul,
A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her
doom,
And for one sacred instant, touch'd Liber-
ty's goal ?
Who, that ever hath heard him hath drank
at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire,
and the force,
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit
are shown ?
An eloquence rich, wheresoever fts wave
Wander'd free and triumphant, with
thoughts that shone through,
As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre,"
that gave,
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.
Who, that ever approach'd him, when free
from the crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread
'Mong the trees which a nation had given,
and which bow'd,
As if each brought a new civic crown for
his head
That home, where like him who, as fable
hath told, 1
Put the rays from his brow, that his child
might come near,
> 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 Iris<h pearls." O'Halloran.
' Qlengariff.
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
05
M When will this end, ye Powers of God ?"
She weeping asks forever ;
But only hears from out that flood,
The Demon answer, " Never I"
DESMOND'S SONG. 1
BY the Feal's wave benighted,
Not a star in the skies,
To thy door by Love lighted,
I first saw those eyes.
Some voice whisper'd o'er me
As the threshold I crost,
There was ruin before me,
If I loved, I was lost.
Love came, and brought sorrow
Too soon in his train ;
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow
'Twere welcome again.
Though misery's full measure
My portion should be,
I would drain it with pleasure,
If pour'd out by thee.
You, who call it dishonor
To bow to this flame,
If you've eyes, look but on her,
And blush while you blame.
I lath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth ?
Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth ?
No Man for his glory,
To ancestry flies ;
While Woman's bright story
Is told in her eyes.
While the Monarch but traces
Through mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,
Ranks next to Divine !
1 "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accident-
ally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near
Trulee, and obliged to take shelter ut the Abbey of Feal, in the
house of one of his dependents, called MacCormnc. Cathe-
rine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the
Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He
married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his follow-
ers, \vhoe brutal pride regarded thl* indulgi-nce of his love
*a aii unpardonable degradation ofln.- family. "-/x/>i/>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 <y' Inland.
66
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
" Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
Our destined home or grave ?" '
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,
They swept the Atlantic wave.
And lo, where afar o'er ocean shines
A sparkle of radiant green,
As though in that deep lay emerald mines,
Whose light through the wave was seen.
" 'Tis Innisfail" 'tis Innisfail !"
Rings o'er the echoing sea,
While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail
That home of the brave and frea
Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave,
Where now their Day -god's eye
A look of such sunny omen gave
As lighted up sea and sky.
Nor frown was seen through sky or sea,
Nor tear on leaf or sod,
When first on their Isle of Destiny
Our Eastern fathers trod.
OH! ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRAN
MORE.
OH ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wander'd young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then,
Through pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.
How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave gvew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light
Which dreaming poets sing ; 3
1 " Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the
principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus
Fhould obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was
Ireland), and there inhabit." Keating.
8 The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.
1 " The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that,
I* a clear day, they can see from this coast Ily Brysail or the
That Eden, where the immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.
Ah, dream too full of sadd'ning truth !
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,
As sunny and as vain 1
LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.
LAY his sword by his side 4 it hath served
him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below ;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere
it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in
death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing
brave,
That sword which he loved still unbroke in
its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.
Yet pause for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart's re
mains ;
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word " Burst your
chains !"
And it cries, from the grave where the hero
lies deep,
" Though the day of your Chieftain forever
hath set,
Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to
sleep,
It hath victory's life in it yet !
"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon
to wield,
Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd,
Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.
Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and con-
cerning which they relate a number of romantic stories."
Beaufort's Ancient Tojxx/raphy of Ireland.
* It was the custom of the anc-ient Irish, in the manner of
the Scythians, to bury the favorite sword* of their bro*t
alone with them.
C7
But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath known
the bright use
Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-
plain
Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning
let loose,
Leap forth from thy dark sheath again !"
THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.
THE wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall, 1
And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
Where his falchion hangs idly shining.
When, hark ! that shout
From the vale without,
" Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is
nigh !"
Every Chief starts up
From his foaming cup,
And "To battle, to battle," is the Finian's
cry.
The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,
And they sing such thrilling numbers
Oh ! 'tis like the voice of* the Dead, of old,
Breaking forth from their place of slumbers !
Spear to buckler rang
As the minstrels sang,
And the Sun-burst" o'er them floated wide ;
While rememb'ring the yoke
Which their fathers broke,
" On for liberty, for liberty !" the Finians
cried.
Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward moved, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering.
With the mingling shock
Ring cliff and rock,
\Vhile, rank on rank, the invaders die :
The Palace of Pin MacCumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson)
n. Leingtcr. It wag built on the top of the hill, which lia* re-
in >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, wh<f had once in her life seen a poet from be-
hind the screens of gauze in her father's hall, and had con-
ceived from that epecimen no very favorable ideas of the cast
expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her;
she felt inclined however to alter her opinion on the very first
appearance of Feramorz. He was a youth about Lalla Rookh's
own age, and graceful as that idol of woman, Chrishna (the
Indian A.pollo),' such as he appears to their young imagina-
tions, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his Tery eyes,
and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. His
dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness,
and the ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering
that the cloth which encircled hie high Tartarian cap, was of
the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply.
Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a
flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, dis-
posed with an air of studied negligence ; nor did the exquisite
embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these
fair critics ; who, however they might give way to Fadladeen,
upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had
the spirit of martyrs in everything relating to such momentous
matters as jewels and embroidery.
For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by
music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar, such
as, in old times, the Arab maids of the west used to listen to
by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra, and, having
premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to
relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet
of Khorassan, 10 who. in the year of the Hegira 163, created
such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance
to the Princess, and thus began :
THE VEILED PROPHET OF
KHORASSAN. 11
IN that delightful Province of the Sun,
The first of Persian lands he shines upon,
Where, all the loveliest children of his beam,
Flowerets and fruits blush over every
stream, 12
8 " Abou-Tige. ville de la Thebalde, ou il croit beaucoup dc
pavot noir, dont se fait le meillenr opium." D'Herbetot.
" He and the three Ramas are described as youths of per-
fect beauty ; and the Princesses of Hindustan were all pas-
sionately in love with Crishna, who continues to this hour tha
darling god of the Indian women." Sir W. Jones, on the godt
of Greece, Italy, and India.
10 For the real history of this impostor, whose original name
was Hakera ben Haschem, and who was called Mokanna from
the veil of silver gauze (or, as others say, golden) which he
always wore, vide D'Herbelot.
11 ' Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language,
Province or Region of the Sun."
12 "The fruits of Meru are finer than those of any other
place ; and one cannot see in any other city suet palaces,
with groves, and streams, and gardens." Etrn HaukaTi
Geography.
POEMS OF THOMAS MOOIM,
71
And fairest of all streams, the Murga roves
Among MerouV bright palaces and
groves ,
There on that throne, to which the blind
belief
Of millions raised him, sat the Prophet-
Chief,
The Great Mokanna. O'er his features
hung
The veil, the silver veil, which he had flung
In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight
His dazzling brow, till man could bear its
light
For, far less luminous, his votaries said, 1
Were even the gleams miraculously shed
O'er Moussa's* cheek, when down the Mount
he trod,
All glowing from the presence of his God !
On either side, with ready hearts and hands,
His chosen guard of bold Believers stands ;
Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their
swords,
On points of faith, more eloquent than
words ;
And such their zeal, there's not a youth with
brand
Tj. lifted there, but, at the Chief's command,
Would make his own devoted heart its
sheath,
And bless the lips that doom'd so dear a
death !
In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night, 4
Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy
white ;
Their weapons various some equipp'd for
speed,
With javelins of the light Kathaian reed ;*
Or bows of buffalo horn, and shining quivers
1 One of the royal cities of Khorassan.
' "See ^disciples aceuroient qu'il BC couvroit Ic visage pour
tie par eblouir ceux qui 1'approchoit par 1'eclat de son visage,
tore me Moyse." D'Herbelot.
' Mose.
Black was the color adopted by the Caliphs of the House
at Abba*, in their garments, turbans, and standards.
" II faut remarquer ici touchant lea habits blancs des
iisc'.plef de Hakcm. que la couletir des habit*, des coiffure*, et
dec ttendardt des Khalifas Abastides plant la noire, ce chef de
replies ne poavoit pas choisir one qui Ini flit plus op-
pose- "-D' 7/eri/elot.
* 'Our dark jnvellns. exquisitely wrought of Kathaian
-.a. slender and delicate." Poem ofAmru.
FilPd with the stems' that bloom on Iran'i
rivers ; f
While some, for war's more terrible attack?,
Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle-
axe;
And as they wave aloft in morning's beam
The milk-white plumage of their helms, thev
seem
Like a chenar-tree grove,' when winter
throws
O'er all its tufted heads his feathering
snows.
Between the porphyry pillars that uphold
The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold,
Aloft the Haram's curtain'd galleries rise,
Where, through the silken net-work, glao-
cing eyes,
From time to time, like sudden gleams that
glow
Through autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp
below.
What impious tongue, ye blushing saints,
would dare
To hint that aught but Hfoven had p.av,ec?
you there ?
Or that the loves of this light world could
bind
In their gross chain your Prophet's soaring
mind ?
No wrongful thought ! commission'd from
above
To people Eden's bowers with shapes of
love,
(Creatures so bright, that the same lips and
eyes
They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,)
There to recline among Heaven's native
maids,
And crown the Elect with bliss that never
fades !
Well hath the Piophet-Chief his bidding
done ;
Piclmla. usec anciently for arrows by the Persians.
' The Persians call this plant Oaz. The celebrated shaft of
Isfendiar, one of their ancient heroes, was made of it.
" Nothing can be more beautiful than the appearance of thii
plant In flower during the rain* on the banks ofrlton. when
It l usually interwoven with a lovely twining ascli>la." 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. <ju' apret U
mort d'Adam. Dim etoit apparn sous la figure de pltuieur*
prophetes, et ant res grands hommen, qu'il avoit choiK
Jusqu'a ce qu'il pnt ci-ilc d'Abu Moslem, Prince de KhoranMuv
Icqnel professoU I'erreur de la Tonasunkhtah, on Metempr
daoxe; et qu' aprei- la mort de ce Prince. )a Divlnlte* Atoll
pa6r. et deKenrioc en M personne."
Je*u*.
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in
Her wakening daylight on a world of sin !
But then, celestial warriors, then when all
Earth's shrines and thrones before our ban-
ner fall ;
When the glad slave shall at these feet lay
down
His broken chain, the tyrant lord his crown,
The priest his book, the conqueror his
wreath,
And from the lips of truth one mighty
breath
Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze
That whole dark pile of human mockeries ;
Then shall the reign of Mind commence on
earth,
And starting fresh as from a second birth,
Man, in the sunshine of the world's new
spring,
Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing !
Then, too, your Prophet from his angel
brow
Shall cast the veil that hides its splendors
now,
And gladden'd Earth shall, through her
wide expanse,
Bask in the glories of this countenance !
" For thee, young warrior, welcome !
thou hast yet
Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget,
Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can
wave ;
But, once my own, mine all till in the
grave !"
The pomp is at an end, the crowds are
gone
Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone
Of that deep voice which thrill'd like Alla's
own !
The young all dazzled by the plumes and
lances,
The glittering throne, and Haram's half-
eaught glances ;
The old deep pondering on the promised
reign
Of peace and truth; and all the female train
Ready to risk their eyes could they but i
gaze
A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze ! i
But there was one, among the chosen
maids
Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken
shades,
One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day
Has been like death ; you saw her pale dis-
may,
Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the
burst
Of exclamation from her lips, when first
She saw that youth, too well, too dearly
known,
Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne.
Ah Zelica ! there was a time when bliss
Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his;
When but to see him, hear him, breathe the
air
In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest
prayer !
When round him hung such a perpetual
spell,
Whate'er he did, none ever did so well.
Too happy days! when, if he touch'd a
flower
Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that
hour ;
When thou didst study him, till every tone
And gesture and dear look became thy own,
Thy voice like his, the changes of his face
In thine reflected with still lovelier grace,
Like echo, sending back sweet music fraught
With twice the aerial sweetness it had
brought !
Yet now he comes brighter than even he
E'er beam'd before, but ah ! not bright for
thee ;
No dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant
From the other world, he comes as if to
haunt
Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight,
Long lost to all but memory's aching sight:
Sad dreams ! as when the spirit of our youth
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth
And innocence once ours, and leads us back,
In mournful mockerv, o'er the shining track
/ * O
Of our young life, and points out every ray
Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way !
Once happy pair! in proud Bokhara's
grovea
I '>!-; 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<ppect to the god Hannnman, a deity partaking of the form
of that race." Pennant's Hlndostan.
See a curious account in Stephen's Persia of a solemn em-
hassy from some part of the Indies to Goa, when the Portu-
truese were there, offering vast treasures for the recovery of a
monkey 1 * tooth, which they held in great veneration, and
which had been taken away upon the conquest of the kingdom
f Jafanapatan.
Refused, though at the forfeit of heaven'*
light,
To bend in worship, Lucifer was right !*
Soon shall I plant tin's foot upon the neck
Of j'our foul race, and without fear or chock,
Luxuriating in hate, avcn^ my shame,
My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man'*
name !
Soon, at the head of myriads, blind and
fierce
As hooded falcons, throng}) the universe
I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way,
Weak man my instrument, curst man my
prey !
"Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull
way on
By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone,
Like superstitious thieves, who think the
light
From dead men's marrow guides them best
at night'
Ye shall have honors wealth, yes, sages,
yes
I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothing-
ness;
Undazzled it can track yon starry spuere,
But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here.
How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along
In lying speech, and still more lying song,
By these learn'd slaves, the meanest of the
throng ;
Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk
so small,
A sceptre's puny point can wield it all !
" Ye too, believers of incredible creeds,
Whose faith enshrines the mon&ters which it
breeds ;
This resolution of Eblis not to acknowledge the new crea-
ture man, was, according to Mohammedan tradition, thn*
adopted : " The earth (which God had selected for the mate-
rials of His work) was carried into Arabia, to a place be
Mecca and Tayef, where, being first kneeded by the angels, it
was afterward fashioned by God himself into a human form,
and left to dry for the space of forty days, or. a* others say, an
many years ; the angels in the mean time often visiting it, and
Eblis (then one of the angels nearest to G<><! after-
ward the devil) among the rest; but he, not contented wilb
looking at it, kicked it with his foot till it rung, and knowing
God designed that creature to be his superior, took a -
resolution never to acknowledge him as such." Sale 0* IA*
Koran.
A kind of lantcn. formerly used by robber*, ra.lcd th
Hand of Glory, the candle for which wa* made of 'be tat of
dead malefactor.
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
Who, bolder even than Nimrod, think to
rise,
By nonsense heap'd on nonsense, to the
skies ;
Ye shall have mii'acles, ay, sound ones too,
Seen, heard, attested, everything but true.
Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek
One grace of meaning for the things they
speak ;
Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood
For truths too heavenly to be understood ;
And your state priests, sole vendors of the
lore
That works salvation ; as on Ava's shore,
Where none but priests are privileged to
trade
In that best marble of which gods are
made ;'
They shall have mysteries ay, precious
stuff
For knaves to thrive by mysterious
enough ;
Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraxid can
weave,
Which simple votai'ies shall on trust receive,
While craftier feign belief, till they believe.
A heaven too ye must have, ye lords of
dust,
A splendid Paradise, pure souls, ye must :
That prophet ill sustains his holy call
Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of
all;
Ilouris for boys, omniscience for sages,
And wings and glories for all ranks and acres.
o o o
Vain things ! as lust or vanity inspires,
The heaven of each is but what each desires,
And, soul or sense, whate : er the object be,
Man would be man to all eternity !
So let him Eblis ! grant this crowning curse,
But keep him what he is, no hell were
\v orse."
" Oh, my lost soul !" exdaim'd the shud-
dering maid,
Whose ears had drunk like poison all he
said,
Mokanna started not abash'd, afraid,
1 The nu'.tcrial of which images of Guadma (the Binnan
deiry) is mtde. is held eacred. "Birraaus may not purchuce
the marbk 1 In muse, but are suffered, and indeed encuiirajfeil.
lo buy flgures of the deity ready made." Syme'a A c-u. vol. ii.,
. 376.
He knew no more of fear than one who
dwells
Beneath the tropics knows of icicles !
But in those dismal words that reach'd bli
ear,
"Oh, my lost soul !" there was a sound *9
drear,
So like that voice, among the sinful dead,
In which the legend o'er hell's gate is read,
That, new as 'twas from her, whom naught
could dim
Or sink till now, it startled even him.
"Ha, my fair Priestess!" thus, wich
ready wile,
The impostor turn'd to greet her "thou
whose smile
Hath inspiration in its rosy beam
Beyond the enthusiast's hope or prophet's
dream !
Light of the FaJ.th ! who tv/in'st religion's
zeal
So close with IcvoVj, men know net which
they fee 1 ,
Nor which to s : gh for, in their trance of
heart,
The heaven thou preachedt or the heaven
thou art !
What should I be without thee ? without
thee
How dull were power, how joyless victory !
Though borne by angels, if that smile of
thine
Bless'd not my banner, 'twere but 1? .if
divine.
But why so mournful, child ? those eyes
that shone
All life last night what ! is their glory
gone ?
Come, come this morn's fatigue hath made
them pale,
They want rekindling suns themselves
would fail,
Did not their comets bring, as I to thee,
From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy !
Thou.seest this cup no juice of earth is
here,
But the pure waters of that upper sphere,
Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow,
Catching the gems' bright color as they go.
Nightly my genii come and fill these urn
POKMS OF THOMAS MooKK.
81
Nay, drink in every drop life's essence
burns ;
'Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all
bright
Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to-
night :
There is a youth why start ? thou sawst
him then ;
Look'd he not nobly? such the godlike men
Thou'lt have to woo thee in the bowers
above ;
Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern
for love,
Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss
The world calls Virtue we must conquer
this ;
Nay, shrink not, pretty sage ; 'tis not for
thee
To scan the mazes of heaven's mystery.
The steel must pass through fire, ere it can
yield
Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield.
This very night I mean to try the art
Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart ;
All that my Hiram boasts of bloom and wit,
Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite,
Shall tempt the boy ; young Mirzala's blue
eyes,
Whose sleepy lid like snow on violet lies ;
Arouya's cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun,
And lips that, like the seal of Solomon,
Have magic in their pressure ; Zeba's lute,
And Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and
shoot
Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the
deep !
All shall combine their witching powers to
steep
My convert's spirit in that softening trance,
From which to heaven is but the next
advance ;
That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast
On which Religion stamps her image best.
But hear me, Priestess! though each
nymph of these
Hath some peculiar, practised power to
please,
Some glance or step which, at the mirror
tried,
First charms herself, then all the world
bcrde ;
There still wants on, to make the victory
sure,
One, who in every look joins every lure;
Through whom all beauty's beams concen
tred pa
Dazzling and rich, as through love'i
burning-glass ;
Whose gentle lips persuade without a word,
Whose words, even when unmeaning', are
' O*
adored,
Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine,
Which our faith takes for granted ar
divine !
Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and
light,
To crown the rich temptations of to-night ,
Such the refined enchantress that must be
This hero's vanquisher, and thou art she!"
With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and
pale,
The maid had stood, gazing upon the veil
From which these words, like south-winds
through a fence
Of Kerzrah flowers, came rill'd with pesti-
lence :'
So boldly utter'd too ! as if all d,read
Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns,
were fled,
And the wretch felt assured that, once
plunged in,
Her woman's soul would know no pause in
sin !
At first, though mute she listen'd, like *
dream
Seem'd all he said ; nor could her mind,
whose beam
As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme.
But when, at length, he utter'd, "Thou art
she !"
All flash'd at once, and shrieking piteously,
"Oh, not for worlds!" she cried "Great
God ! to whom
I once knelt innocent, is this my doom ?
Are all ray dreams, my hopes of heavenly
bliss,
My purity, my pride, then come to this,
1 " It is commonly said in Pprl. th.it If rain broatto la
tin- hot Bonth wind, which In .Tune or -Talr p**et ov* . U.
flower, (the Kerzrirh.i It will kill him."
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
To live the wanton of a fiend ! to be
The pander of his guilt oh, infamy !
And, sunk myself as low as hell can steep
In its hot flood, drag others down as deep !
Others ? ha ! yes : that youth who came
to day
Not him I loved not him oh ! do but say,
But swear to me this moment 'tis not he,
And I will serve, dark fiend ! will worship,
even thee !"
" Beware, young raving thing ! in time,
beware,
Nor utter what I cannot, must nor bear
Even from thy lips. Go try thy lute, thy
voice,
The boy must feel their magic I rejoice
To see those fires, no matter whence they
rise,
Once more illuming my fair Priestess' eyes ;
And should the youth, whom soon those
eyes shall warm,
Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form,
So much the happier wilt thou find thy
doom,
As one warm lover, full of life and bloom,
Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb.
Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet ! those eyes
were made
For love, not anger I must be obey'd."
" Obey'd ! 'tis well yes, I deserve it
all
On me, on me Heaven's vengeance cannot fall
Too heavily but Azim, brave and true
And beautiful must tie be ruin'd too ?
Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven
A renegade like me from love and heaven ?
Like me ? weak wretch, I wrono; him not
o
like me ;
No he's all truth and strength and purity !
Fill up your maddening hell-cup to the
brim,
Its witchery, fiend, will have no charm for
him.
Let loose your glowing wantons from their
bowers,
He loves, he loves, and can defy their
powers !
Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign
Puie as when first we met, without a stain !
Though ruin'd lost my memory, like
charm
Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from
harm.
Oh ! never let him know how deep the brow
He kiss'd at parting is dishonor'd now
Ne'er tell him how debased, how sunk is she
Whom once he loved once! still lovea
dotingly !
Thou laughst, tormentor, what! thou'lt
brand my name ?
Do, do in vain he'll not believe ray
shame
He thinks me true, that naught beneath
God's sky
Could tempt or change me, and so once
thought I.
But this is past though worse than death
my lot,
Than hell 'tis nothing, while he knows it not
Far off to some benighted land I'll fly,
Where sunbeam ne'er shall enter till I die ;
Where none will ask the lost one whence shfr
came,
But I may fade and fall without a name !
And thou curst man or fiend, whate'er thou
art,
Who foundst this burning plague-sput in my
heart,
And spreadst it oh, so quick ! through
soul and frame
With more than demon's art, till I became
A loathsome thing, all pestilence, aD
flame !
If, when I'm gone "
"Hold, fearless maniac, holl,
Nor tempt my rage by Heaven not half so
bold
The puny bird that dares with teasing hum
Within the crocodile's stretch'd jaws to
come! 1
And so thou'lt fly, forsooth ? what ! give
up all
Thy chaste dominion in the Haram hall,
i "The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or hum
ming-bird, entering with impunity into the mouth of the cro-
codile, is firmly believed at Java."
The humming-bird is said to run this risk for the purpose of
picking the crocodile's teeth. The same rircnmetance is r-
lated of the lapwing, as a fact to which he was witness, by
Paul Lucas, (Voyage faite en 1714.)
-
" He raised his veil the Maid turn'd
slowly round,
Look'd at him shriek'd and sunk upoii
the ground !
POEMS OF THOMAS MOOK!..
83
Where, now to love and now to Alia given,
Half mistress and half saint, thou hangst as
even
As doth Medina's tomb, 'twixt hell and
heaven !
Thou'lt fly ? as easily may reptiles run
The gaunt snake once hath fix'd his eyes
upon ;
As easily, when caught, the prey may be
I'luck'd from his loving folds, as thou from
me.
No, no, 'tis fix'd let good or ill betide,
Thou'rt mine till death till death Mokan-
na's bride !
Hast thou forgot thy oath ?"
At this dread word,
The maid whose spirit his rude taunts had
stirr'd
Through all its depths, and roused an- anger
there
That burst and lighten'd even through her
despair
Shrunk back, as il a blight were in the
breath
That spoke that word, and stagger'd, pale as
death.
" Yes, my sworn Bride, let others seek in
bowers
Their bridal place the charnel vault was
GUI'S !
Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me
1 lose the rich steams of sweet mortality ;
Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we
were wed,
And, for our guests, a row of goodly dead
(Immortal spirits in their time no doubt)
From rooking shrouds upon the rite look'd
out!
That oath thou heardst more lips than thine
repeat
That cup thou shudderest lady was it
sweet ?
That cup we pledged, the enamel's choicest
wine,
Hath bound thee ay body and soul all
mine ;
Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or
curst
K) matter now, not hell itself shall burst!
Honce, woman, to the Haram, and look gay,
Look wild, look anything but sad; yet
stay
One moment more from what this night
hath pass'd,
I see thou knowst me, knowst me well at last.
Ha ! ha ! and so, fond thing, thou thoughtst
all true,
And that I love mankind ! I do, I do
As victims, love them ; as the sea-dog doats
Upon the small, sweet fry that round him
floats ;
Or as the Nile-bird loves the slime that
gives
That rank and venomous food on which she
lives !
"And now thou seest my sou?* angelic
hue,
'Tis time these features were uncurtain'd
too;
This brow, whose light oh, rare celestial
light !
Hath been reserved to bless thy favorM
sight ;
These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded
might
Thou'st seen immortal man kneel down and
quake
Would that they were Heaven's lightnings
for his sake !
But turn and look then wonder, if thou
wilt,
That I should hate, should take revenge, by
guilt,
Upon the hand whose mischief or whose
mirth
Sent me thus maim'd and monstrous upon
earth ;
And on that race who, though more vile
they be
Than mowing apes, are demigods to me !
I lore judge if hell, with all its power to
damn,
Can add one curse to the foul thing 1
am !"
" He raised his veil the Maid tnrn'J
slowly round,
Look'd at him shriek'd and sunk upon
the ground I
84
POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE.
On their arrival, next night, at the place
of encampment, they were surprised and de-
lighted to find the proves all round illumi-
O O
nated; some artists of Yamtcheou having
been sent on previously for the purpose. 1
eacli side of the green alley, which led
to the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of
bamboo-work were erected, representing
arches, minarets, and towers, from which
hung thousands oi silken lanterns, painted
by the most delicate pencils of Canton.
Nothing could be more beautiful than the
leaves of the mango-trees and acacias, shin-
ing in the light of the bamboo scenery,
which shed a lustre round as soft as that of
the nights of Peristun.
Lalla Rookh, however, who was too much
occupied by the sad story of Zelica and her
lover, to give a thought to anything else,
except, perhaps, to him who related it,
hurried on through this scene of splendor to
her pavilion, greatly to the mortification
of the poor artists of Yamtcheou, and was
followed with equal rapidity by the Great
Chamberlain, cursing, as he went, that
ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety
in lighting up the shores of the lake, where
his beloved daughter had wandered and
been lost, was the origin of these fantastic
Chinese illuminations. 2
Without a moment's delay young
Feramorz was introduced, and Fadladeen,
who could never make up his mind as to the
merits of a poet, till he knew the religious
sect to which he belonged, was about to ask
him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni, when
Lalla Rookh impatiently clapped her hands
for silence, and the youth, being seated upon
the musnud near her, proceeded :
Prepare tny soul, joung Azim. ! thou hast
braved
1 " The Feasi of Lanterns is celebrated at Yamtchetm wiih
more magnificence than anywhere else." Present State qf
China, p. 150.
2 " The vulgar ascribe it to an accident that happened in
the family of a fiimous mandarin, whose daughter walking
one evening upon the shore of a lake, fell in and was
drowned ; the afllicted father, with his family, ran thither,
nd, tha better to tindber, caused a great company of lanterns
to be lighted. All the inhabitants of the pl-.tee thronged after
him with torches. The year ensuing they made fires upon
the shores the same clay ; they continued the ceremony every
>--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 <lia-
s, arjMn:.' from the cra-glantf and crystal.* with which it
abonndi"." Journey of the Ruffian AmbtufaUor to ]'?r*ia, 17 Hi.
"To which will he added, the round of the hells hanging
oil the trci, which will be put in motion by the wind pro-
ceeding from the throne of God, as often as the hlct>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 <fT Utakhmr there i* i kind of *pplv. hall
of which it iwei-l ud half our." Kbn ll<iu*al
94
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
placing it in an earthen dish, adorned with a
wreath of flowers, had committed it with a
trembling hand to the stream, and was now
anxiously watching its progress down the
current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which
had drawn up beside her. Lai la Rookh was
all curiosity ; when one of her attendants,
who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges,
(where this ceremony is so frequent, that
often, in the dusk of the evening, the river
is seen glittering all over with lights, like
the Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,) 1 informed
the Princess that it was the usual way in
which the friends of those who had gone on
dangerous voyages offered up vows for their
safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately,
the omen was disastrous ; but if it went shin-
ing down the stream, and continued to burn
till entirely out of sight, the return of the
beloved object was considered as certain.
Lai la Rookh, as they moved on, more than
once looked back to observe how the young
Hindoo's lamp proceeded ; and while she saw
with pleasure that it was still unextinguished,
she could not help fearing that all the hopes
of this life were no better than that feeble
light upon the river. The remainder of the
journey was passed in silence. She now, for
the first time, felt that shade of melancholy
which comes over the youthful maiden's
heart, as sweet and transient as her own
breath upon a mirror ; nor was it till she
heard the lute of Feramorz touched lightly
at the door of her pavilion, that she waked
from the reverie in which she had been wan-
dering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up
with pleasure, and, after a few unheard re-
marks from Fadladeen upon the indecorum
of a poet seating himself % presence of a
princess, everything was arranged as on the
preceding evening, and all listened with
eagerness, while the story was thus con-
tinued :
Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the
way,
Where all was waste and silent yesterday?
1 " The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, rises,
and where there are more than a hundred springs, which
parkle like stars ; whence it is called ^lotun-hor, that is, the
iva of Stars '- Description of Tibet in Pint"* 'n^.
This City of War which, in a few short hours
Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers
Of him who, in the twinkling of a star,
Built the high-pillar'd halls of Chilminar, 1
Had conjured up, far as the eye can see,
This world of tents and domes and SUD-
bright armory !
Princely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold
Of crimson cloth, and topp'd with balls of
gold ;
Steeds, wich their housings of rich silver spun,
Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun ;
And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells, 1
Shaking in every breeze their light-toned
bells !
But yester-eve, so motionless around,
So mute was this wide plain, that not a
sound
But the far torrent, or the loust-bird, 4
Hunting among the thickets, could be
heard ;
Yet hark ! what discords now of every kind,
Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in
the wind !
The neigh of cavalry ; the tinkling throngs
Of laden camels and their drivers' songs ;'
Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies ;
War-music, bursting out from time to time
With gong and tymbalon's tremendous
chime ;
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are
mute,
The mellow breathings of some horn or flute.
That far off, broken by the eagle note
Of the Abyssinian trumpet, 8 swell and float !
2 The edifices of Chilminar and Baalbec are supposed to
have been built by the genii, acting under the orders of Jan
ben Jan, who governed the world long before the time of Adam.
s "A superb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of
small shells." All Bey.
A native of Khorassan, and allured southward by moans
of the water of a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called
the Fountain of Birds, of which it is BO fond that it will follow
wherever that water is carried.
" Some of the camels have bells about their necks, and
some about their legs, like those which our carriers put about
their fore-horses' necks." Pitt's Account of the Mafiam-
medans.
"The camel-driver follows the camel singing, and some-
times playing upon his pipe; the louder he sings and pipe*,
the faster the camels go. Nay, they will stand still when h
gives over his music." Tavernifr.
* " This trumpet is often called in Abyssinia Xwtr /"<**
which signifies the Note t f the Eagle."
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
95
Who leads this mighty army ? ask ye
" who ?"
And mark ye not those banners of dark line,
The Night and Shadow, 1 over yonder tent?
It is the Caliph's glorious armament.
Roused in his palace by the dread alarms,
That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms
And of his host of infidels, who hurl'd
Defiance fierce at Islam* and the world ;
Thouerh worn with Grecian warfare, and
O f
behind
The veils of his bright palace calm reclined,
Yet brook'd he not such blasphemy should
stain,
Thus unrevenged the evening of his reign,
But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave*
To conquer or to perish, once more gave
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze,
And with an army nursed in victories,
Here stands to crush the rebels that o'errun
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sim.
Ne'er did the march of Mahadi display
Such pomp before; not even when on his
way
To Mecca's temple, when both land and sea
Were spoil'd to feed the pilgrim's luxury; 4
When round him, 'mid the burning sands,
he saw
Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw,
And cool'd his thirsty lip, beneath the glow
Of Mecca's sun, with urns of Persian snow:
Nor e'er did armament more grand than that
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat.
First in the van, the People of the Rock/
On their light mountain steeds of royal stock ;*
Then Chieftains of Damascus, proud to see
The flashing of their swords rich marque-
try ;'
" " The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the
House of Abbaa were called, allegorical!/, 'The Night and
The Shadow.' "
* The Mohammedan religion.
* " The Persian* swear by the Tomb of Shah Besade, who
> 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 </
beauty in the earth, but because it has retained it* anctaut
beauty; and thli alone is of great importance in China, whort
106
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
terect the whole set to pieces an irreparable
loss, as many of the vessels were so exqin-
>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<t as tar as the mountains of Cashmere;
while tin- ladie>, 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
<Bitr of emeralds ha immediately becomes blind."
After the day -beam's withering fire,"
He built her bower of freshness there,
And had it deck'd with costliest skill,
And fondly thought it safe as fair.
Think, reverend dreamer ! think so still,
Nor wake to learn what love can dare-
Love, all-defying Love, who sees
No charm in trophies won with ease ;
Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss
Are pluck'd on danger's precipice !
Bolder than they who dare not dive
For pearls but when the sea's at rest,
Love, in the tempest most alive,
Hath ever held that pearl the best
He finds beneath the stormiest water !
Yes, Araby's unrivall'd daughter,
Though high that tower, that rock- way rude,.
There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek,
Would climb the untrodden solitude
Of Ararat's tremendous peak,
And think its steeps, though dark and dread,.
Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led !
Even now thou seest the flashing spray,
That lights his oar's impatient way ;
Even now thou hearst the sudden shock
Of his swift bark against the rock,
And stretchest down thy arms of snow,
As if to lift him from below !
Like her to whom, at dead of night,
The bridegroom, with his locks of light,
Came, in the flush. of love and pride,
And scaled the terrace of his bride ;
When as she saw him rashly spring,
And mid-way up in danger cling,
She flung him down her long black hair,
Exclaiming, breathless, " There, love, there !*
And scarce did manlier nerve uphold
The hero Zal in that fond hour,
Than wings the youth who fleet and bold
Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower^
See light as up their granite steeps
The rock-goats of Arabia clamber,'
Fearless from crag to crag he leaps,
And now is at the maiden's chamber.
She loves but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;
a " At Qoinbaroon and the Isle of Orrnus, it is sometimes s*
hot that the people are obliged to lie all day in the water."
Maroo Polo.
"On the lofty hills of Arabia Petraea are rock-goads." -
Niebukr.
POEMS OF THOMAS MooKK.
Like one who meets, in Indian groves,
Seme beauteous bird without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze,
From isles in the undiscover'd seas,
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, and wing away !
Will he thus fly her nameless lover?
Alia forbid ! 'twas by a moon
As fair as this, while singing over
Some ditty to her soft kanoon, 1
Alone, at this same witching hour
She first beheld his radiant eyes
(Jleam through the lattice of the bower,
Where nightly now they mix their sighs;
And thought some spirit of the air
(For what could waft a mortal thc-re ?)
Was pausing on his moonlight way
To listen to her lonely lay !
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind ;
And though, when terror's swoon had
pass'd.
She saw a youth of mortal kind
Before her in obeisance cast,
Yet often since, when he has spoken
Strange, awful words, and gleams have
broken
From his dark eyes, too bright to bear,
Oh ! she hath fear'd her soul was given
To some unhallow'd child of air,
Some erring spirit, cast from heaven,
Like those angelic youths of old,
Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould,
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies,
And lost their heaven for woman's eyes !
Fond girl ! nor fiend nor angel he,
Who woos thy young simplicity ;
But one of earth's impassion'd sons,
As warm in love, as fierce in ire
As the best heart whose current runs
Full of the Day-God's living fire !
But quench'd to-night that ardor seems,
And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow ;
Never before, but in her dreams,
Had she beheld him pale as now:
And those were dreams of troubled sleep,
From which 'twas joy to wake and weep;
Visions that will not be forgot,
1 " Can an, etpe'cc de palterion, avec dee cordea de bojraux,
<ro dames en touchent dan* le frail.avec de* dikaille* armies
* po4ntee de coco." Toderinl, translated by De Cournaud.
But sadden every waking scene,
Like warning ghosts that leave the spot
All wither'd where they once have be.-u !
" How sweetly," said the trembling maid,
Of her own gentle voice afraid,
So long had they in silence stood,
Looking upon that moonlight flood
" How sweetly does the moonbeam smile
To-night upon yon leafy isle !
Oft, in my fancy's wandering,
I've wish'd that little isle had wings,
And we, within its fairy bowers.
Were wafted off to seas unknown,
Where not a pulse should beat but ours,
And we might live, love, die alone.
Far from the cruel and the cold,
Where the bright eyes of angels only
Should come around us, to behold
A Paradise so pure and lonely !
Would this be world enough for thee 'f
Playful she turn'd, that he might see
The passing smile her cheek put on ;
But when she mark'd how mournfully
His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ,
And, bursting into heartfelt tears,
"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears,
My dreams have boded all too right
We part forever part to-night !
I knew, I knew it could not last
'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis paat '.
Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never loved a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away.
1 never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
lut when it came to know me well,
And love nu i , it was sure to die !
Now too the joy most like divine
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
To see thce, hear thee, call thee mine
O misery ! must I lose that too?
Yet go on peril's brink we meet ;
Those frightful rocks that treaeheroa*
sea
Xo, never come again though sweet,
Though heaven, it may be death to thoe.
Farewell and blessings on thy way,
Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger'.
I'M 'it IT to sit and watch that ray,
122
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
And think thee safe, though far away,
Than have thee near me, and in danger !"
c Danger ! oh, tempt me not to boast,"
The youth exclaim'd " thou little knowst
What he can brave, who, born and nurst
In danger's paths, has dared her woi*st!
Upon whose ear the signal-word
Of strife and death is hourly breaking ;
Who sleeps with head upon the sword
His fever'd hand must grasp in waking !
Danger ! "
" Say on thou fearst not, then,
And we may meet oft meet again ?"
"Oh! look not so, beneath the skies
I now fear nothing but those eyes.
If aught on earth could charm or force
My spirit from its destined course,
If aught could make this soul forget
The bond to which its seal is set,
'Twould be those eyes ; they, only they,
Could melt that sacred seal away !
But> 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 th<j
manifold benefits flowing from its ministerial omn science.
But they are so far from confounding the subordination of the
servant with the majesty of its Creator, that they not only
attribute no sort of sense or reasoning to the sun or fire i*i
any of its operations, but consider it as a purely passive blind
instrument, directed and governed by the immediate impres-
sion on it of the will of God ; but they do not even give that
luminary, all-glorious as it is, more than the second rank
amongst his works, reserving the first for that stupendous
production of divine power, the mind of man." Grose. The
false charges brought against the religion of these people by
their Mussulman tyrants is but one proof among many of (he
truth of this writer's remark, "that calumny is often added to
oppression, if but for the sake of justifying it."
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
When, from my watch-boat on the sea,
I caught this turret's glimmering light,
And up the rude rocks desperately
Rn&h'd to my prey thou knowst the rest
I climb'd the gory vulture's nest,
And found a trembling dove within ;
Thin?, thine the victory thine the sin
If Love has made one thought his own,
That Vengeance .claims first last alone!
Oh ! had we never, never met,
Or could this heart even now forget
How link'd, how bless'd we might have been,
Had fate not frown'd so dark between !
Hadst thou been born a Persian maid,
In neighboring valleys had we dwelt,
Through the same fields in childhood play'd,
At the same kindling altar knelt,
Phen, then, while all those nameless ties,
In which the charm of country lies,
Had round our hearts been hourly spun,
Till Iran's cause and thine were one ;
While in thy lute's awakening sigh
I hwird the voice of days gone by,
And saw in every smile of thine
Upturning hours of glory shine !
While the . wrong' d spirit of our land
Lived, .v>ok'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<jm'd a place where ghouls might come
With their foul banquets from the tomb,
And in its caverns feed unseen.
Like distant thunder, from below
The sound of many torrents came ;
Too deep for eye or ear to know
If 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow,
Or floods of ever-restless flame.
.For each rapine, each rocky spire
Of that vast mountain stood on fire ; J
And though forever past the days
When God was \vo/shipp'd in the blaze
That from its lofty altar shone,
Though fled the priestc, the votaries gone,
Still did the mighty flarue burn on*
Through chance and chajge, through good
and ill,
Like its own God's eternal A ill,
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable !
Thither the vanquish'd Hafed ieu
His little army's last remains ;-
" Welcome, terrific glen !" he said,
" Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread,
Is heaven to him who flies from chains !"
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known
To him and to his chiefs alone,
They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the
towers ;
"This home," he cried, "at least is oius
Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns
Of Moslem triumph o'er our head ;
Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs
To quiver to the Moslem's tread.
Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks
Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks,
Jlere happy that no tyrant's eye
Gloats on our torments we may die !"
'Twas night when to those towers they came,
\inl gloomily the fitful flame,
That from the ruin'd altar broke,
1 The Gheber* generally .milt their temples over enbtcrra-
ne<xi flres.
" At the city of Yezd in Persia, which is distinguished by
the appellation of the Darflb Abadut. or Seat of Religion, the
Uaebres are permitted to have an Atush Kudu or Fire Temple
(which they assert haa had the sacred fire in it since the day*
of Zoroaster) in their own compartment of the city : but for
this indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the toler
ance of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty-
live miwes each man." Pottinyer'i Btloochtetun.
<ll;uc<l on his features as he spoke:
" 'Tis o'c-r what cnen could do, we've done-
If Iran will look tamely on,
And see her priests, her warriors driven
Before a sensual bigot's nod,
A wretch who takts his lusts to heaven,
And makes a pander of his (Jod !
II' her proud sous, her high-born souls,
Men in whose veins oh, last disgrace !
The blood of Zal and llustam' rolls,
If they will court this upstart race,
And turn from .Mahra's ancient ray,
To kneel at shrines of yesterday !
If they will crouch to Iran's foes,
Why, let them till the land's despair
Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows
Too vile for even the vile to bear !
Till shame at last, long hidden, burns
Their inmost core, and conscience turns
Each coward tear the slave lets fall
Back on his heart in drops of gall !
But here, at least, are arms unchain'd,
And souls thr.t thraldom never stain' d ;
This spot, at least, no toot of slav*-.
Or satrap ever yet profaned;
And though but few though fast the wave
Of life is ebbing from our veins,
Enough for vengeance still remains
As panthers, after set of sun,
Rush from the roots of Lebanon
Across the dark sea-robber's way,
We'll bound upon our startled prey ;
And when some hearts that proudest swell
Have felt our falchion's last farewell ;
When Hope's expiring throb is o'er,
And even Despair can prompt no more,
This spot shall be the sacred grave
Of the last few who, vainly brave,
Die for the land they cannot save !"
His chiefs stood round each shining blade
Upon the broken altar laid
And though so wild and desolate
Those courts, where once the mighty sate;
Nor longer on those mouldering towers
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers,
With which of old the Magi fed
The wandering spirits of their dead ;*
Ancient heroes of Persia. " Among the Ohcbers then
are some who boast their descent from Rustam."
4 " Among other ceremonies, the Mayi need to place npo*
the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viand*, apor
128
POEMS OF THOMAS JMOOIJE.
Though neither priest nor rites were there,
Nor charm'd leaf of pure pomegranate ; l
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air,
Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet;*
Yet the same God that heard their sires
Heard them, while on that altar's fires
They swore* the latest, holiest deed
Of the few hearts still left to bleed,
Should be in Iran's injured name
To die upon that mount of flame
The last of all her patriot line,
Before her last untrampled shrine !
Brave, suffering souls ! they little knew
How many a tear their injuries drew
From one meek heart, one gentle foe,
Whom Love first touch'd with others' woe
Whose life, as free from thought as sin,
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in
His talisman, and woke the tide,
And spread its trembling circles wide.
Once, Emir! thy unheeding child,
Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smiled
Tranquil as on some battle-plain
The Persian lily shines and towers, 4
Before the combat's reddening stain
Had fallen upon her golden flowers.
Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved,
While Heaven but spared the sire she loved,
Once at thy evening tales of blood
CJnlistening and aloof she stood
And oft, when thou hast paced along
Thy Haram halls with furious heat,
Hast thou not cursed her cheerful song,
That came across thee, calm and sweet,
Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near
Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear?
Far other feelings love has brought
o o
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness,
which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their de-
parted heroes regaled themselves."
1 In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their are, as de-
scribed by Lord. " The Daroo," he says, " giveth them water
to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in the mouth, to
Cleanse them from inward uncleanness."
* "Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at
Dulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the sun, to
whom upon ail tlie altars there are spheres consecrated, made
by magic, resemoling the circles of the sun, and when the sun
rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a
great noise. They have every one a censer in their hands,
nd offer incense to the sun."
1 "Nul d'entre eux oseroit se perjurer, quand il a pris a
temoin cet Element terrible et vengeur." Encyclopedia
Francois.
* "A vivid verdure succeeds tne autumnal pains, and the
ploughed fields arc covered with the Persian lily, of a resplen-
dent ytllow color."- -RusseTt Aleppo.
She now has but the one dear thought,
O /
And thinks that o'er, almost to madness !
Oft doth her sinking heart recall
His words " For my sake, weep for all ;"
And bitterly, as day on day
Of rebel carnage fast succeeds,
She weeps a lover snatch'd away
. In every Gheber wretch that bleeds.
There's not a sabre meets her eye,
But with his life-blood seems to swim ;
There's not an arrow wings the sky
But fancy turns its point to him.
No more she brings with footstep light
Al Hassan's falchion for the fight ;
And had he look'd with clearer sight,
Had not the mists, that ever rise
From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame,
When from the field of blood he came,
The faltering speech the look estranged
Voice, step, and life, and beauty changed ;
He would have mark'd all this, and known
Such change is wrought by love alone !
Ah ! not the love that should have bless'd
So young, so innocent a breast ;
Not the pure, open, prosperous love
That, pledged on earth and seal'd above,
Grows in the world's approving eyes,
In friendship's smile and home's caress,
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness !
No, Hinda, no thy fatal flame
Is nursed in silence, sorrow, shame.
A passion, without hope or pleasure,
In thy soul's darkness buried deep
It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure,
Some idol, without shrine or name,
O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep
Unholy watch, while others sleep !
Seven nights have darken'd Oman's Sea,
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray,
She saw his light oar rapidly
Hurry her Gheber's b&rk away ;
And still she goes, at midnight hour,
To weep alone in that high bower,
And watch, and look along the deep
For him whose smiles first made her weep,
But watching, weeping, all was vain,
She never saw that bark asrain.
POEMS OF THOMAS MOOUK.
129
The owlet's solitary cry,
The night-hawk, flitting darkly by,
And oft the hateful carrion-bird,
Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing,
Which reek'd with that day's b:m<|ueting
"Was all she saw, was all she hoard.
'Tie the eighth morn Al Hassan's brow
Is brighten'd with unusual joy
What mighty mischief glads him now,
Who never smiles but to destroy ?
The sparkle upon Ilerkend's Sea,
When tost at midnight furiously, 1
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh,
More surely than that smiling eye !
" Up, daughter, up the KernaV breath
Has blown a blast would waken Death,
And yet thou sleepst up, child, and see
This blessed day for Heaven and me,
A day more rich in Pagan blood
Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood.
Before another dawn shall shine,
His head heart limbs will all be mine ;
This very night his blood shall steep
These hands all over ere I sleep !"
" Hits blood !" she faintly scream'd her mind
Still singling one from all mankind.
" Yes, spite of his ravines and towers,
Hafed, my child, this night is ours.
Thanks to all-conquering treachery,
Without whose aid the links accurst,
That bind these impious slaves, would be
Too strong for Alla's self to burst !
That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread
My path with piles of Moslem dead,
Whose baffling spells had almost driven
Back from their course the swords of Heaven,
This night, with all his band, shall know
How deep an Arab's steel can go,
When God and vengeance speed the blow.
And Prophet ! by that holy wreath
Thou worest on Ohod's field of death
I swear, for every sob that parts
In anguish from these heathen hearts,
" It 5* observed, with reppect to the Sea of Herkend, that
wi.eii it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire."
' A kind of trumpet ; it "was that used by Tamerlane, the
-.-.I of which is so loud as to be heard at the distance of
tevi -mJ miles."
' " tobammed had two helmet*, an interior and exterior
we Jje latter of which, called Al Mawaxhah, the wreathed
vlaL'i he wort at the battle of Oboe
A gem from IVrsi:i' plunder'd mines
Shall glitter on thy shrine of shrinrs.
But, ha ! she sinks that look so wild
Those livid lips my child, my child,
This life of blood befits not thee,
And thou must back to Araby.
Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex
In scenes that man himself might dread,
Had I not hoped our every tread
Would be on prostrate Persian necka
Curst race, they offer swords instead !
But cheer thee, maid, the wind that now
Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow
To-day shall waft thee from the shore ;
And, ere a drop of this night's gore
Hath time to chill in yonder towers,
Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers ! w
His bloody boast was all too true
There lurk'd one wretch among the few
Whom Hafed's eagle eye could count
Around him on that fiery mount,
One miscreant, who for gold betray'd
The pathway through the valley's shade
To those high towers where Freedom stood
In her last hold of flame and blood
Left on the field last dreadfiK night.
When, sallying from their sacred height,
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight,
He lay but died not with the brave ;
That sun, which should have gilt his grave,
Saw him a traitor and a slave ;
And, while the few, who thence return'd
To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd
For him among the matchless dead
They left behind on glory's bed,
He lived, and, in the face of morn,
Laugh'd them and faith and heaven to scorn 1
Oh for a tongue to curse the slave,
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the counsels of the brave,
And blasts them in their hour of might !
May life's unblessed cup for him
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim,
With hopes that but allure to fly,
With joys that vanish while lie sips,
Like Dead-Sea fruits that tempt the eye,*
I5ut turn to ashes on the lips !
" They say that there are apple-trees upon the tldo* of
this sea. which bear very lovely fruit, bat withic are fall of
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
His country's curse, his children's shame,
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame,
May he, at last, with lips of flame,
On the parch'd desert thirsting die,
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh 1
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted !
And, when from earth his spirit flies,
Just Prophet, let the damn'd one dwell
Full in the sight of Paradise,
Beholding heaven, and feeling hell !
Lalla Rookh had had a dream the night
before, which, in spite of the impending fate
of poor Hafed, made her heart more than
usually cheerful during the morning, and
gave her cheeks all the freshened animation
of a flower that the Bid-musk had just passed
over." She fancied that she was sailing on
that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies,'
who live forever on the water, enjoy a per-
petual summer in wandering from isle to isle,
when she saw a small gilded bark approach-
ing her. It was like one of those boats
which the Maldivian islanders annually send
adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves,
loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odorifer-
ous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom
they call King of the Sea. At first this
little bark appeared to be empty, but on
coming nearer
ashes. 1 ' Tfievenot. The same is asserted of the oranges there.
Vide Witman's Travels in Asiatic Turkey.
Lord Byron has a similar allusion to the fruits of the Dead
Sea, in that wonderful display of genius his Third Canto of
" CbiMe Harold" magnificent beyond anything, perhaps, that
even he has ever written.
'' The Shuhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused
oy the refraction of the atmosphere from extreme heat ; and,
which augments the delusion, it is most frequent in hollows,
where water might be expected to lodge. I have seen bushes
and trees reflected in it, with as much accuracy as though it
had been the face of a clear and still lake." Pottinger.
" As to the unbelievers, their works are like a vapor in a
plain, which the thirsty traveller thinketh to be water, until
when he cometh thereto he flndeth it to be nothing." Koran,
chap. 24.
" " A wind which prevails in February, called Bidmusk,
from a small and odoriferous flower of that name." " The
wind which blows these flowers commonly lasts till the end
of the month." Le Bniyn.
"The Biajus are of two races; the one is settled on
Borneo, and are a rude but warlike and industrious nation,
who reckon themoelves the original possessors of the island
f Borneo. The othar is a species of sea-gipsies or itinerant
fishermen, who live in small covered boats, and enjoy a per-
petual summer or '.b-s eastern ocean, shifting to leeward from
Bland to island, with the variations of the monsoon." Dr.
Leyd'n on tht Indo- Chit test \atian*. -
She had proceeded thus far in relating th
dream to her ladies, when Feramorz appeared
at the door of the pavilion. In his presence
of course, everything else was forgotten,
and the continuance of the story was in-
stantly requested by all. Fresh wood of
aloes was set to burn in the cassolets ; the
violet sherbets 4 were hastily handed round,
and, after a short prelude on his lute, in the
pathetic measure of Nava, 6 which is always
used to express the lamentations of absent
lovers, the poet thus continued :
The day is lowering stilly black
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack>
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,
A<!'1 day with its banner of radiance un-
furlM,
Shines in through the mountainous portal
that opes,
Sublime, from that valley of bliss to th
world !
But never yet, by night or day,
In dew of spring or summer's ray,
Did the sweet valley shine so gay
As now it shines all love and light,
Visions by day and feasts by night !
A happier smile illumes each brow,
With quicker spread each heart unclose*
And all is ecstasy, for now
The valley holds its Feast of Roses.*
That joyous time, when pleasures pour
Profusely round, and in their shower
Hearts open, like the season's rose,
The floweret of a hundred leaves,
Expanding while the dew-fall flows,
And every leaf its balm receives.
| 'Twas when the hour of evening came
Upon the lake, serene and cool,
When day had hid his sultry flame
Behind the palms of Baramoule.
When maids began to lift their heads,
Refresh'd from their embroider'd beds,
Where they had slept the sun away,
And waked to moonlight and to play.
All were abroad the busiest hive
On BelaV hills is less alive
When saffron beds are full in flower,
Than look'd the valley in that hour.
A thousand restless torches play'd
Through every grove and island shade ;
A thousand sparkling lamps were set
On every dome and minaret ;
And fields and pathways, far and near,
Were lighted by a blaze so clear,
That you could see, in wandering round,
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground.
Yet did the maids and matrons leave
Their veils at home that brilliant eve ;
And there were glancing eyes about,
And cheeks that would not dare shine out
In open day, but thought they might
1 " The Tuckt Snllman, the name bestowed by the Moham-
medan* on this hill, forms one aide of a grand portal to Uu
lake."
* "The Feast of Roses continues the whole time <>l 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<nnti.$ Mrmovt of *
M 1 ^ "f Hindottan.
158
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
houses, roofed with flowers,' appeared at a
distance like one vast and variegated par-
terre : not all these wonders and glories of
the most lovely country under the sun could
steal her heart for a minute from those sad
thoughts, which but darkened and grew bit-
terer every step she advanced.
The gay pomps and processions that met
her upon her entrance into the valley, and
the magnificence with which the roads
all along were decorated, did honor to the
taste and gallantry of the young king. It
was night when they approached the city,
and for the last two miles they had passed
under arches, thrown from hedge to hedge,
festooned with only those rarest roses from
which the Attar Gul, more precious than
gold, is distilled, and illuminated in rich and
fanciful forms with lanterns of the triple-
colored tortoise-shell of Pegu. 2 Sometimes,
from a dark wood by the side of the road, a
display of fire-works would break out, so
sudden and so brilliant, that a Brahmin
might think he saw that grove, in whose
purple shade the god of battles was born,
bursting into a flame at the moment of his
birth. While, at other times, a quick and
playful irradiation continued to brighten all
the fields and gardens by which they passed,
forming a line of dancing lights along the
horizon ; like the meteors of the north as
they are seen by those hunters who pursue
che white and blue foxes on the confines of
the Icy Sea.
These arches and fire-works delighted the
ladies of the Princess exceedingly ; and,
with their usual good logic, they deduced
from his taste for illuminations, that the
King of Bucharia would make the most ex-
emplary husband imaginable. Nor, indeed,
could Lalla Rookh herself help feeling the
kindness and splendor with which the young
bridegroom welcomed her ; but she also
1 " On a standing roof of wood is laid a covering of fine earth,
which shelters the building from the great quantity of snow
that falls in the winter season. This fence communicates an
tqual warmth in winter, as a refreshing coolness in the sum-
mer season, when the tops of the houses, which are planted
with a variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the spacious
view of a beautifully chequered parterre." Forster.
a " Two hundred slaves there are who have no other office
than to hunt the woods and marshes for triple-colored tortoises
for the Kind's Vivary. Of the shells of these also lanterns are
imde." Vincent le IHanc's Travels.
felt how painful is the gratitude which kind-
ness from those we cannot love excites ; and
that their best blandishments come over the
heart with all that chilling and deadly
sweetness which we can fancy in the cold,
odoriferous wind 8 that is to blow over this
earth in the last days.
The marriage was fixed for the morning
after her arrival, when she was, for the first
time, to be presented to the monarch in that
imperial palace beyond the lake, called the
Shalimar. Though a night of more wakeful
and anxious thought had never been passed
in the Happy Valley, yet, when she rose in
the morning, and her ladies came round her,
to assist in the adjustment of the bridal or-
naments, they thought they had never seen
her look half so beautiful. What she had
lost of the bloom and radiancy of her charms
was more than made up by that intellectual
expression that soul in the eyes which is
worth all the rest of loveliness. When they
had tinged her fingers with the henna leaf,
and placed upon her brow a small coronet
of jewels, of the shape worn by the ancient
Queens of Bucharia, they flung over her
head the rose-colored bridal veil, and she
proceeded to the barge that was to convey
her across the lake; first kissing, with a
mournful look, the little amulet of cornelian
which her father had hung about her neck at
parting.
The morning was as fair as the maid upon
whose nuptials it rose, and the shining lake,
all covered with boats, the minstrels playing
upon the shoves of the islands, and the
crowded summer-houses on the green hills
around, with shawls and banners waving
from their roofs, presented such a picture of
animated rejoicing, as only she who was the
object of it all did not feel with transport.
To Lalla Rookh alone it was a melancholy
pageant ; nor could she have even borne to
look upon the scene, wei'e it not for a hope
that, among the crowds around she might
once more perhaps catch a glimpse of Fera-
' This wind, which is to blow from Syria Dainasceua is, ac-
cording to the Mohammedans, one of the signs of the Last
Day's approach.
Another of the signs is, " Great distress in the world, so
that a man when he passes by another's grave shall say.
Would to God I were in his place." Sale's Preliminary Di#-
course.
POEMS OF THOMAS MOOUK.
159
morz. So much was her imagination haunted
by this thought, that there was scarcely an
islet or boat she passed, at which her h'-art
did not flutter with a momentary fancy that
he was there. Happy, in her eyes, the hum-
blest slave upon whom the light of his dear
looks fell ! In the barge immediately after
the Princess was Fadladeen, with his silken
curtains thrown widely apart, that all might
iave the benefit of his august presence, and
with his head full of the speech he was to
deliver to the king, " concerning Feramor/.,
and literature, and the chabuk, as connected
therewith."
They had now entered the canal which
leads from the Lake to the splendid domes
and saloons of the Shalimar, and glided on
through gardens ascendicg from each bank,
full of flowering shrubs that made the air all
perfume ; while from the middle of the canal
rose jets of water, smooth and unbroken, to
such a dazzling height, that they stood like
pillars of diamond in the sunshine. After
Bailing under the arches of various saloons,
they at length arrived at the last and most
magnificent, where the monarch awaited the
coming of his bride ; and such was the agita-
tion of her heart and frame, that it was with
difficulty she walked up the marble steps,
which were covered with cloth of gold for
her ascent from the barge. At the end of
the hall stood two thrones, as precious as the
cerulean throne of Koolburga, 1 on one of
1 " Ou Mohammed Shaw'? return to Koolburga, (the capital
of Dekkan,) he made a great festival, and mounted this throne
with much pomp and magnificence, calling it Firo/eh or Ce-
rulean. I have heard t<ome old persons, who saw the throne
Firozeh in the mini of Sultan Mamood BNimcnee, describe
it. They say that it was in length nine feet, and three in
breadth ; made of ebony, covered with plates of pure gold, and
"set with precious stones of immense value. Every prince of
the bouse of Bhamenee, who possessed this throne, made a
point of adding to it some rich stones, so that when in the
reign of Sultan Mamotd it was taken to pieces, to remove
tome of the jewels to be set in vase* and CPUS, the iewellera
which sat Aliris, the youthful King of
Bucharia, and on the other was, in a few
minutes, to be placed the most beautiful
Princess in the world. Immediately upon
the entrance of Lalla Rookh into the saloon,
the monarch descended from his throne to
meet her ; but scarcely had he time to take
her hand in his, when she screamed with
surprise, and fainted at his feet. It was
Feramorz himself that stood before her !
Feramorz was, himself, the sovereign of
Bucharia, who in this disguise had accom-
panied his young bride from Delhi, and hav-
ing won her love as an humble minstrel, now
amply deserved to enjoy it as a king.
The consternation of Fadladeen at this
discovery was, for the moment, almost piti-
able. But change of opinion is a resource
too convenient in courts for this experienced
courtier not to have learned to avail himself
of it. His criticisms were all, of course, re-
canted instantly: he was seized with an
admiration of the king's verses, as unbounded
us, lie begged him to believe, it was disinter
ested ; and the following week saw him in
possession of an additional place, swearing
by all the saints of Islam that never had
there existed so great a poet as the monarch
Aliris, and ready to prescribe his favorite
regimen of the chabuk for every man, woman,
and child that dared to think otherwise.
Of the happiness of the King and Queeu
of Bucharia, after such a beginning, there
can be but little doubt ; and, among the
lesser symptoms, it is recorded of Lalla
Rookh, that, to the day of her death, iu
memory of their delightful journey, she
never called the king by any other name
than Feramorz.
valued it at one corore of oons, (nearly four millions sterling. )
I learned also that it was called Flrozeh from being partly
enamelled of a sky-blue color, which v.f in time totally coo
coaled by the number of jewtl."
FRAGMENT OF COLLEGE EXER-
CISES.
" Nobiiitas sola eat atque unica virtus." Juv.
MARK those proud boasters of a splendid
line,
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they
shine,
How heavy sits that weight of alien show,
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow ;
Those borrow'd splendors, whose contrasting
light
Throws back the native shades in deeper
night.
Ask the proud train who glory's shade
pursue,
Where are the arts by which that glory grew ?
The genuine virtues that with eagle gaze
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze !
Where is the heart by chemic truth refined,
The exploring soul, whose eye had read
mankind ?
Where are the links that twined with heav-
enly art
His country's interest round the patriot's
heart ?
Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of
fire?
The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre ?
Do these descend with all that tide of fame
Which vainly waters an unfruitful name ?
THE SAME.
* Jo? tern bellnm quibus ueceesarium, et pia anna quibus nnlla
nisi in armia relinquitur spes." Livy.
Is there no call, no consecrating cause,
Approved by Heaven, ordain'd by nature's
laws,
Where justice flies the herald of our way,
And truth's pure beams upon the bannert
play?
Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath
To slumbering babes, or innocence in death ;
And urgent as the tongue of heaven within.
~ O
When the mind's balance trembles upn sin.
Oh ! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim
should meet
An echo in the soul's most deep retreat ;
Along the heart's responding string should
run,
Nor let a tone there vibrate but the one !
SONG. 1
MAKY, I believed thee true,
And I was blest in thus believing ;
But now I mourn that e'er I knew
A girl so fair and so deceiving !
Fare thee weii !
Few have ever loved like me,
Oh ! I have loved thee too sincerely !
And few have e'er deceived like thee,
Alas ! deceived me too severely !
Fare thee well !
Fare thee well ! yet think a while
On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee ;
Who now would rather trust that smile,
And die with thee than live without thee !
Fare thee well !
Fare thee well ! I'll think of thee,
Thou leav'st me many a bitter token ;
For see, distracting woman ! see,
My peace is gone, my heart is broken !
Fare thee well !
1 To the Scotch air, " Gala Water.'
POK.MS OF THOMAS MOO I:K.
1G1
TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL
MISS .
IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A
LOTTERY SHARE.
IN wedlock a species of lottery lies,
Where in blanks and in prizes we deal :
But how comes it that yon, such u capital
prize
Should so long have remained on the
wheel !
If ever, by fortune's indulgent decree,
To me such a ticket should roll,
A sixteenth, Heaven knows ! were sufficient
for me ;
For what could I do with the whole ?
INCONSTANCY.
AND do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
When surely there's nothing in nature
more common ?
She vows to be true, and while vowing she
leaves me
But coald I expect any more from a
woman ?
O woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ;
And Mohammed's doctrine was not too
severe,
When he thought you were only materials
of pleasure,
And reason and thinking were out of your
sphere.
By your heart, when the fond sighing lover
can win it,
He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ;
But, oh ! while he's blest, let him die on the
minute
If he live but a day, he'll be surely be-
tray'd.
TO JULIA.
THOUGH Fate, my girl, may bid us part,
Our sonls it cannot, shall not sever
The heart will seek its kindred heart,
And cling to it as close as ever.
But must we, must we part indeed ?
Is all our dream of rapture over ?
And does not Julia's bosom bleed
To leave so dear, so fond a lover 'i
Does she too mourn ? Perhaps she may ,
Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting ;
But why is Julia's eye so gay,
If Julia's heart like mine is beating ?
I oft have loved the brilliant glow
Of rapture in her blue eye streaming
But can the bosom bleed with woe,
While joy is in the glances beaming ?
No, no ! Yet, love, I will not chide,
Although your heart were fond of roving :
Nor that, nor all the world beside,
Could keep your faithful boy from loving.
You'll soon be distant from his eye,
And, with you, all that's worth possessing.
Oh ! then it will be sweet to die,
When life has lost its only blessing !
TO ROSA.
DOES the harp of Rosa slumber?
Once it breathed the sweetest number I
Never does a wilder song
Steal the breezy lyre along,
When the wind, in odors dying,
Woos it with enamor'd sighing.
Does the harp of Rosa cease ?
Once it told a tale of peace
To her lover's throbbing breast
Then he was divinely blest !
Ah ! but Rosa loves no more,
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er ;
And her harp neglected lies ;
And her boy forgotten sighs.
Silent harp forgotten lover
Rosa's love and song are over!
162
POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE.
WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF
A LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK.
HERE is one leaf reserved for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free ;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well.
But could I thus, within thy mind,
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been,
Oh ! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name forever there I
ANACREONTIC.
" in lachrymas verterat omne merum." Tib., lib. 1., eleg. 5.
PRESS the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple shower :
And while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think in woe the clusters weep.
Weep o'/i, weep on, my pouting vine :
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wiiie.
Weep oi> : 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<l brave
1 " The Scriptures" having declared that the Temple of Jeru-
salem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that
the Pahiif. which made so conspicuous a figure in that struc-
ture, represented that Life and Immortality which were
orouirht to light by the Gospel." Observations on the Palm, as
a sacrtd Emblem, by W. Tight.
* " And he carved nil the walls of the nounc round about
with carved figures of cherubim*, and palm-trees, and open
tou'trf."\ Kings, vi. 2!l.
' "When the passover of the tabernacles wan revealed to
the great lawgiver on the mount, then the cherubic imau-e*
which appeared in that structure were no longer surrounded
by flame* ; for the tabernacle was a type of the dispensation
of mercy, oy which JEHOVAH confirmed His gracious covenant
v> 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 :m<l mother's so cruel,
Most surely I'll die!"
" Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary ;
" A way now to save you, I see :
Since my parents are both so contrary
You'd better ask me."
THE LAND OF THE WEST.
OH ! come to the West, love, oh, come
there with me ;
'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs
from the sea,
Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald
throne ;
Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee
my own !
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee
the best,
And you'll say there's no land like the land
of the West.
The South has its roses and bright skies of
blue,
But ours are more sweet with love's OWE
changeful hue
Half sunshine, half tears, like the girl I
love best,
Oh ! what is the South to the beautiful West !
Then come to the West, and the rose on thy
mouth
Will be sweeter to me than the flowers of the
South !
The North has its snow-towers of dazzling
array,
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er-setting
day;
There the Storm-King may dwell in the halls
he loves best,
But the soft-breathing Zephyr he plays in
the West.
Then come there with me, where no cold
wind doth blow,
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the
snow !
The Sun in the gorgeous East chaseth the
night
When he risoth, rct'resh'd, in his glory and
might
But where doth he go when he seeks' his
sweet rest ?
Oh ! doth he not haste to the beautiful W-st ?
Then come there with me: 'tis tin- l:m<l I
love best,
Tis the land of my sites! 'tis my own <lar
I'm ir WWt !
182
POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER.
SWEET HARP OF THE DAYS THAT
ARE GONE.
TO THE IRISH HARP.
OH, give me one strain
Of that wild harp again,
In melody proudly its own !
Sweet harp of the days that are gone
Time's wide-wasting wing
Its cold shadow may fling
Where the light of the soul hath no
part ;
The sceptre and sword
Both decay with their lord
But the throne of the bard, is the heart.
And hearts, while they beat
To thy music so sweet,
Thy glories will ever prolong,
Land of honor and beauty and song !
The beauty, whose sway
Woke the bard's votive lay,
Hath gone to eternity's shade,
While, fresh in its fame,
Lives the song to her name,
Which the minstrel immortal hath
made !
YIELD NOT, THOU SAD ONE, TO
SIGHS.
OH yield not, thou sad one, to sighs,
Nor murmur at Destiny's will.
Behold, for each pleasure that flies,
Another replacing it still.
Time's wing, were it all of one feather,
Far slower would be in its flight ;
The storm gives a charm to fine weather,
And day would seem dark without night.
Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs.
When we look on some lake that repeats
The loveliness bounding its shore,
A breese o'er the soft surface fleets,
And the mirror-like beauty is o'er :
But the breeze, ere it ruftled the deep,
Pervading the odorous bowers,
Awaken'd the flowers from their sleep,
And wafted their sweets to be ours.
Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs.
Oh, blame not the change nor the flight
Of our joys as they're passing away,
'Tis the swiftness and change give delight
They would pall if permitted to stay.
More gayly they glitter in flying,
They perish in lustre still bright,
Like the hues of the dolphin, in dying,
Or humming-bird's wing in its flight.
Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs.
WIDOW MACHREE.
WIDOW Machree, it's no wonder you frown,
Och hone ! Widow Machree ;
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty
black gown,
Och hone ! Widow Machree;
How alter'd your air,
With that close cap you wear
'Tis destroying your hair,
Which should be flowing free ;
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone ! Widow Machree !
Widow Machree, now the summer is come,
Och hone ! Widow Machree :
When everything smiles, should a beauty
look glum ?
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares
Why even the bears
Now in couples agree ;
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
Widow Machree, and when winter comes in,
Och hone ! Widow Machree,
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone ! Widow Machree ;
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs
POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER.
183
Full of family glee ;
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit, you sup,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
And how do you know, with the comforts
I've towld,
Och hone ! Widow Machree,
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in
the cowlH ?
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
With such sins on your head
Sure your peace would be fled .
Could you sleep in your bed
Without thinking to see
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,
Crying, " Och hone ! Widow Machree ?"
Then take my advice, darling Widow Ma-
chree,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
And with my advice, faitli I wish you'd take
me,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
You'd have me to desire,
Then to sit by the fire,
And sure Hope is no liar
In whispering to me,
That the ghosts would depart,
When you'd me near your heart,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
MOLLY BAWN.
O ! MOLLY BAWN, why leave me pining,
All lonely waiting here for you ?
The stars above are brightly shining
Because they've nothing else to do.
The flowers, late, were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you,
Hut their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash'd with dew.
O ! Molly, <fcc.
\<>w 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, <ko.
MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY.
Mother.
Now what are you crying for, Nelly ?
Don't be blubbering there like a fool ;
With the weight o' the grief, faith, I tell you
You'll break down the three-legged stooL
I suppose now you're crying for Barney,
But don't b'lieve a word that he'd say,
He tells nothing but big lies and blarney,
Sure you know how he sarved poor Kat
Karney.
Daughter.
But, mother !
Mother.
Oh, bother !
Daughter.
Oh, mother, he's going away,
And I dreamt the other niijht
O
Of his ghost all in white f
[Mother speaks in an undertone.
The dirty blackguard !]
Daughter.
Oh, mother, he's going away.
Mother.
If he's going away all the betther,
Blessed hour when he's out o' your sight
There's one comfort you can't get a letther
For yiz 1 neither can read nor can write.
Sure, 'twas only last week you protested,
Since he coorted fat Jinney M'Cray,
That the sight o' the scamp you detested
With abuse sure your tongue nerei
rested
Te.
184
POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER.
Daughter.
But, mother !
Mother.
Oh, bother !
Daughter.
Oh, mother, he's going away !
[ Mother, speaking again with peculiar paren-
tal piety,
May he never come back !]
Daughter.
And I dream of his ghost
Walking round my bedpost
Oh, mother, he's going away !
THE QUAKER'S MEETING.
A TRAVELLER wended the wilds among,
With a purse of gold and a silver tongue ;
His hat it was broad and all drab were his
clothes,
For he hated high colors except on his nose,
And he met with a lady, the story goes.
HeigTio ! yea thee and nay thee.
The damsel she cast him a beamy blink,
And the ti'aveller nothing was loth, I think ;
Her merry black eye beam'd her bonnet
beneath,
And the Quaker he grinn'd for he'd very
good teeth.
And he ask'd, " Art thee going to ride on
the heath ?"
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said
the maid,
" As to ride this heath over I'm sadly afraid ;
For robbers, they say, here in numbers
abound,
And I wouldn't ' for anything' I should be
found,
For between you and me I have five
hundred pound."
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
"If that is thee 1 own, dear," the Quaker he
said,
" I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed ;
And I have another five hundred just now,
In the padding that's under my saddle-bow.
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow !"
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
The maiden she smiled, and her rein she drew,
" Your offer I'll take though I'll not take
you."
A pistol she held at the Quaker's head
" Now give me your gold^-or I'll give you
my lead
'Tis under the saddle I think you said."
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
The damsel she ripp'd up the saddle-bow,
And the Quaker was never a Quaker till now,
And he saw, by the fair one he wish'd for a
bride,
His purse borne away with a swaggering
stride,
And the eye that shamm'd tender, now only
defied.
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
" The spirit doth move me, friend Broad-
brim," quoth she,
" To take all this filthy temptation from thee,
For Mammon deceiveth and beauty is fleet-
ing ;
Accept from thy maaid'n a right loving
greeting,
For much doth she profit by this Quaker's
meeting."
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
"And hark ! jolly Quaker,. so rosy and sly,
Have righteousness, more than a wench, in.
thine eye,
Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath,
Remember the one that you met on the
heath,
Her name's Jimmy Barlow I tell to your
teeth !" *
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
1 The inferior class of Quakers* make tfoe serve not only in
HP true grammatical nSK ^ but alto to do the duty of Ciou, thy,
and tfiine.
POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER
"Friend James," quoth the Quaker, "pray
listen to me,
For thou canst confer a great favor, d'ye see ;
The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my
friend,
But my master's and truly on thee I depend,
To make it appear I my trust did defend."
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
"So fire a few shots through my clothes,
here and there,
To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair.''
So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of
his coat,
And then through his collar quite close to
his throat ;
" Now one through my broadbrim," quoth
Ephraim, " I vote."
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
" I have but a brace," said bold Jim, " and
they're spent,
And I won't load again for a make-believe
rent."
" Then" said Ephraim, producing his pis-
tols "just give
My five hundred pounds back or as sure as
you live
I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve."
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
Jim Barlow was diddled -and, though he
was game,
He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim,
That he gave up the gold, and he took to
his scrapers ;
And when the whole story got into the
papers,
They said that " the thieves were no match
for the Quakers.' 1 ''
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.
NATIVE MUSIC.
OH ! native music ! beyond comparing
The sweetest far on the ear that falls,
Thy gentle numbers the heart remembers,
Thy strains enchain us in tender thralls.
Thy tones endearing,
Or sad or cheering,
The absent soothe on a foreign strand;
Ah ! who can tell
What a holy spell
I in the song of our native land ?
The proud and lowly, the pilgrim holy,
The lover, kneeling at beauty's shrine,
The bard who dreams by the haunted
streams,
All, all are touch'd by thy power divine !
The captive cheerless,
The soldier fearless ;
The mother taught by Nature's hand
Her child when weeping,
Will lull to sleeping,
With some sweet song of her native land !
THE CHARM.
[They say that a flower may be found in a valley opening to
the West, which bestows on the finder the power of winning
the affection of the person to whom it is presented. Hence,
it is supposed, has originated the custom of presenting a.
bouquet.]
THEY say there's a secret charm which lies
In some wild floweret's bell,
That grows in a vale where the west wind
sighs,
And where secrets best may dwell ;
And they who can find the fairy flower,
A treasure possess that might grace a
throne ;
For, oh ! they can rule with the softest power
The heart they would make their own.
The Indian has toil'd in the dusky mine,
For the gold that has made him a slave ;
Or, plucking the pearl from the sea-god's
shrine,
Has tempted the wrath of the wave;
But ne'er lias he sought, with a love like mine,
The flower that holds the heart in thrall :
Oh ! rather I'd win that charm divine,
Than their gold and their pearl and all.
I've sought it by day, from morn till eve
I've won it in dreams at night;
Ibb
POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER.
And then how I grieve my couch to leave,
And sigh at the morning's light :
Yet sometimes I think in a hopeful hour,
The blissful moment I yet may see
TJ win the fair flower from the fairy's bower
And give it, love to thee.
THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK.
[A four-leaved Shamrock is of such rarity that it is supposed
to endue the finder with magic power.]
I'LL seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the
fairy dells,
And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how
I'll weave my spells !
I would not waste my magic might on dia-
mond, peai'l, or gold,
For treasure tires the weary sense, such
triumph is but cold ;
But I would play the enchanter's part, in
casting bliss around,
Oh ! not a tear, nor aching heart, should in
the world be found !
To worth I would give honor ! I'd dry the
mourner's tears,
And to the pallid lip recall the smile of hap-
pier years,
And hearts that had been long estranged,
and friends that had grown cold,
Should meet again like parted streams
and mingle as of old ;
Oh ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus
scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in
the world be found !
The heart that had been mourning o'er van-
ish'd dreams of love,
Should see them all returning like Noah's
faithful dove,
And Hope should launch her blessed bark
on Sorrow's darkening sea,
And Misery's children have an ark$ and
saved from sinking be ;
OL ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus
scatter bliss around,
Ai J not a tear, nor aching heart, should in
the world be found !
OH! WATCH YOU WELL
DAYLIGHT.
BY
[The Irish peasant says, " Watch well by daylight, for then
your own senses are awake to guard you : but keep no watch
in darkness, for then God watches over you." This, however,
can hardly be called a superstition, there is so much of rightful
reverence in it : for though, iu perfect truth, we are as depend-
ent on God by day as by night, yet some allowance ma? b
made for the poetic fondness of the saying.]
On, watch you well by daylight,
By daylight may you fear,
But take no watch in darkness
The angels then are near :
For Heaven the gift bestoweth
Our waking life to keep,
But tender mercy showeth
To guard us in our sleep.
Then watch you well by daylight
Oh, watch you well in pleasure,
For pleasure oft betrays,
But take no watch in sorrow,
When joy withdraws its rays :
For in the hour of sorrow,
As in the darkness drear,
To Heaven intrust the morrow
The angels then are near.
Then watch you well by daylight.
UORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS.
YOUNG RORY O'MoiiE courted Kathleen
Bawn,
He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the
dawn ;
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to
please,
And he thought the best way to do that was
to tease.
" Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen
would cry,
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,)
" With your tricks I don't know, in troth,
what I'm about ;
Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak
inside out."
" Oh ! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the
way
You've thrated my heart this many a day ;
POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVKK.
187
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not to be
sun- ?
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory
O'More.
4; Indeed then," says Kathleen, " don't think
of the like,
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike :
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be
bound."
" Faith," says Rory, " I'd rather love you
than the ground."
" Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ;
Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating
you so !"
" Oh," says Rory, " that same I'm delighted
to hear,
For drain ex always go by conthrairies, my
dear ;
Oh ! jewel, keep draming that same till you
die,
And bright morning will give dirty night
the black lie !
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not to be
sure?
Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory
O'More.
" Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased
me enough,
Sure IVe thrash'd for your sake Dinny
Grimes and Jim Duff;
And I've made myself, drinking your health,
quite a baste,
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round
her neck,
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,
And he look'd in her eyes that were beam-
ing with light,
And he kiss'd her sweet lips; don't you
think he was right ?
"Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me
no more,
That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me
before."
"Then here goes another," says he, "to
make sure,
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory
O'More.
THE BLARNEY.
[There i* a certain cnlgn-ntnnc on the summit ol Blarney
Castle, in the county ol' Cork, the kituiini; of which is uid to
impart the j,'ill of persuasion. Hence the phrase, applied to
there who make a flattering speech " You've kicked the
Blarney Stone."]
On ! did you ne'er hear of " the Blarney,"
That's found near the banks of Killarney ?
Believe it from me,
No girl's heart is free,
Once she hears the sweet sound of tne
Blarney.
For the Blarney's so great a deceiver,
That a girl thinks you're there, though yuo
leave her ;
And never finds out
All the tricks you're about,
Till she's quite gone herself, with your
Blarney.
Oh ! say, would you find this same " Blar-
ney ?"
There's a castle not far from Killarney,
On the top of its wall
(But take care you don't fall)
There's a stone that contains all this Blar-
ney.
Like a magnet, its influence such is,
That attraction it gives all it touches ;
If you kiss it, they say,
From that blesse'd day,
You may kiss whom you please with your
Blarney.
Paddy's mode of asking; a tfrl to name the day.
THE CHAIN OF GOLD.
[The Earl of Kildare, Lord-Deputy of Ireland, ruled Jusllj.
and wax hated by the small oppressors whose practices he dis-
countenanced. They accused him of favoring the Irish to the
Kin;;'* detriment, but lie, in tin- pp>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 <jet a
peep :
Oh, lave off that bonnet,
Or else I'll lave on it
The loss of my wandherin' sowl !
Och hone ! wevrasthru !
Och hone ! like an owl,
Day is night, dear, to me, without you I
Och hone ! don't provoke me to do it ;
For there's girls by the score
That love me and more,
And you'd look very quare if some morning
you'd meet
My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the
sthreet ;
Throth, you'd open your eyes,
And you'd die with surprise,
To think 'twasn't you was come to it ' /
And faith Katty Naile,
And her cow, I go bail,
Would jump if I'd say,
" Katty Naile, name the day. w
And though you're fair and fresh as a morn
ing in May,
While she's short and dark like a cowld
winther's day,
Yet if you don't repent
Before Easther, when Lent
Is over I'll marry for spite !
Och hone! weirasthru!
And when I die for you,
My ghost will haunt you every night.
MY DARK-HAIRED GIRL.
MY dark-hair'd girl, thy ringlets deck,
In silken curl, thy graceful neck ;
Thy neck is like the swan, and fair as the
pearl,
And light as' air the step is of my dark-
haired girl.
My dark-haired girl, upon thy lip
The dainty bee might wish to sip ;
For thy lip it is the rose, and thy teeth they
are pearl,
And diamond is the eye of my dark-haire-1
girl !
POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER.
My dark-haired girl, I've promised thee,
And thou thy faith hast given to me,
And oh, I would not change for the crown
of an earl
The pride of being loved by my dark-hair'd
girl!
KORAN'S LAMENT.
OH, I think I must follow my CujtMa-mar
chree,
For I can't break the spell of his words
so enthralling :
Closer the tendrils around my heart
creep
I dream all the day, and at night 1 can't
tileep,
For I hear a sad voice that is calling me
calling
" Oh Nor&h, my darling, come over the sea !"
For my bi ive and my fond one is over the
sta,
He fought for " the cause" and the
troubles came o'er him ;
He fled for his life when the king lost
the day,
He fled for his life and he took mine
away ;
For 'tis death here without him: I, dying,
deplore him,
Ob ! life of my bosom ! my Cushla-ma-
chree !
THE SILENT FAREWELL.
IN silence we parted, for neither could speak,
But the tremulous lip and the fast-fading
cheek
To both were betraying what neither could
tell-
How deep was the pang of that silent fare-
well !
There are signs ah ! the slightest that
love understands,
In the meeting of eyes in the parting of
hands- -
In the quick-breathing sighs that of deep
passion tell :
Oh, such were the signs of our silent farewell !
There's a language more glowing love
teaches the tongue
Than poet e'er dream'd, or than minstrel
e'er sung,
But oh, far beyond all such language could
tell,
The love that was told in that silent farewell !
'TWAS THE DAY OF THE FEAST.
[When the annual tribute of the flag of Waterloo to the
crown of England was made to William the Fourth, a few
hours before his Majesty'* lamented death, the King on re-
ceiving the banner, pressed it to his heart, saying, " It was a
glorious day for England ;" and expressed a wish he might
survive the day, that the Duke of Wellington's commemoration
fete of the victory of Waterloo might take place. A dying
monarch receiving the banner commemorative of a national
conquest, and wishing at the same time that his death might
not disturb the triumphal banquet, is at once so heroic and
poetic, that it naturally suggests a poum.]
TWAS the day of the feast in the chieftain's
hall,
'Twas the day he had seen the foeman fall,
'Twas the day that his country's valor stood
'Gainst steel and fire and the tide of blood :
And the day was mark'd by his country
well
For they gave him broad valleys, the hill
and the dell,
And they ask'd, as a tribute, the hero should
bring
The flag of the foe to the foot of the king.
'Twas the day of the feast in the chieftain's
hall,
And the banner was brought at the chief-
tain's call,
And he went in his glory the tribute to bring,
To lay at the foot of the brave old king :
But the hall of the king was in silence and
grief,
And smiles, as of old, did not greet the chief.
For he came on the angel of victory's wing,
While the angel of death was awaiting the
king.
198
POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVE R.
The chieftain he knelt by the couch of the
king;
"I know," said the monarch, "the tribute
you bring,
Give me the banner, ere life depart ;"
And he press'd the flag to his fainting heart.
" It is joy, e'en in death," cried the monarch,
" to say
That my country hath known such a glorious
day !
Heaven grant I may live till the midnight's
fall,
That my chieftain may feast in his warrior
hall !"
WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?
"WHAT will you do, love, when I am going,
With white sail flowing,
The seas beyond?
What will you do, love, when waves Divide us,
And friends may chide us
For being fond ?"
"Though waves divide us, and friends be
chiding,
In faith abiding,
I'll still be true !
And I'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean,
In deep devotion
That's what I'll do !" '
" What would you do, love, if distant tidings
Thy fond confidings
Should undermine ?
And I, abiding 'neath sultry skies,
Should think other eyes
Were as bright as thine?"
" Oh, name it not ! though guilt and shame
Were on thy name,
I'd still be true :
But that heart of thine should another
share it
I could not bear it !
What would I do ?"
" What would you do, love, when home re-
turning,
With hopes high-burning,
With wealth for you,
If my bark, which bounded o'er foreign foam,
Should be lost near home
Ah ! what would you do ?"
" So thou wert spared I'd bless the morrow
In want and sorrow,
That left me you ;
And I'd welcome thee from the wasting bil
low,
This heart thy pillow-
That's what I'd do !"
WHO ARE YOU?
["There are very impudent people in London,' 11 said a
country cousin of mine hi 1837. "As I walked down the
Strand, a fellow stared at me and shouted, 'Who are yon?'
Five minutes after another passing me, cried, ' Flare np'
but a civil gentleman, close to his heels, politely asked, ' How
is your mother ?' '
This mere trifle is almost unintelligible now, but when first
published was so effective and popular, as illustrating genteelly
the slang cries of the street, that it was honored by French
a.nd Italian versions from the sparkling pen of the renowned
" Father Prout," in Bentley's Miscellany.}
" WHO are you ? who are you ?
Little boy that's running after
Everybody, up and down,
Mingling sighing with your laughter ?"
" I am Cupid, lady Belle ;
I am Cupid, and no other."
" Little boy, then pry thee tell
How is Venus ? Hole's your mother f
Little boy, little boy,
I desire you tell me true,
Cupid oh, you're altered so,
No wonder I cry, Who are you ?
" Who are you ? who are you ?
Little boy, where is your bow ?
You bad a bow, my little boy "
" So had you, ma'am long ago."
" Little boy, where is your torch ?"
" Madam, I have given it up :
Torches are no use at all
Hearts will never now flare up"
" Naughty boy, naughty boy,
Such words as these I never knew ;
Cupid oh, you're altered so,
No wonder I say, Who are you .*'*
THE POEMS OE GERALD GRIFEIN.
FHE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.
AN IRISH LEGEND.
THE joy-bells are ringing
In gay Malahide,
The fresh wind is singing
Along the sea-side ;
The maids are assembling
O
With garlands of flowers,
A.nd the harpstrings are trembling
In all the glad bowers.
Swell, swell the gay measure 1
Roll trumpet and drum !
'Mid greetings of pleasure
In splendor they come !
The chancel is ready,
The portal stands wide
For the lord and the lady,
The bridegroom and bride.
What years, ere the latter,
Of earthly delight
The future shall scatter
O'er them in its flight !
What blissful caresses
Shall Fortune bestow,
fire those dark-flowing tresses
Fall while as the snow !
Before the high altar
Young Maud stands array'd;
With accents that falter
Her promise is made
From father and mother
Forever to part,
For him and no other
To treasure her heart.
The words are repeated,
The bridal is done,
The rite is completed
The two, they are one ;
The vow, it is spoken
All pure from the heart,
That must not be broken
Till life shall depart
Hark ! 'mid the gay clangor
That compass'd their car,
Loud accents, in anger
*Come mingling afar!
The foe's on the bordei,
His weapons resound
Where the lines in disorder
Unguarded are found.
As wakes the good shepherd,
The watchful and bold,
When the ounce or the leopard
Is seen in the fold ;
So rises already
The chief in his mail,
While the new-married lady
Looks fainting and pale.
" Son, husband, and brother,
Arise to the strife,
For sister and mother,
For children and wife !
O'er hill and o'er hollow,
O'er mountain and plain,
Up, true mm, and follow !
Let dastards remain !"
Fan-all I to the battle !
They form into line
The shields, how they rattle !
The spears, ho\v they shine t
200
THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN.
Soon, soon shall the foeman
His treachery rue
On, burgher and yeoman,
To die, or to do !
The eve is declining
In ione Malahide,
The maidens are twining
O
Gay wreaths for the bride ;
She marks them unheeding
Her heart is afar,
Where the clansmen are bleeding
For her in the war.
Hark ! loud from the mountain,
'Tis Victory's cry !
O'er woodland and fountain
It rings to the sky !
The foe has retreated !
He flies to the shore ;
The spoiler's defeated
The combat is o'er !
With foreheads unruffled
The conquerors come
But why have they muflk-d
The lance and the drum ?
What form do they carry
Aloft on his shield ?
And where does he tarry,
The lord of the field ?
Ye saw him at morning,
How gallant and gay 1
In bridal adorning,
The star of the day :
Now weep for the lover
His triumph is sped,
His hope, it is over !
The chieftain is dead !
But, oh for the maiden
Who mourns for that chief,
With heart overladen
Ard rending with grief!
She sinks on the meadow
fn one morning-tide,
A wife and a widow,
A maid and a bride !
Ye maidens attending,
Forbear to condole !
Your comfort is rending
O
The depths of her soul.
True true, 'twas a story
For ages of pride ;
He died in his glory
But, oh, h' has died !
The war-cloak she raises
All mournfully now,
And steadfastly gazes
Upon the cold brow.
That glance may forever
Unalter'd remain,
But the bridegroom will never
Return it again.
The dead-bells are tolling
In sad Malahide,
The death-wail is rolling
Along the sea-side ;
The crowds, heavy hearted,
Withdraw from the green,
For the sun had departed
That brighten'd the scene !
Even yet in that valley,
Though years have roll'd by,
When through the wild sally
The sea-breezes sigh,
The peasant, with sorrow,
Beholds in the shade,
The tomb where the morrow
Saw Hussy convey'd.
How scant was the warning,
How briefly reveal'd,
Before on that morning
Death's chalice was fill'd !
The hero who drunk it
There moulders in gloom,
And the form of Maud Flunket
Weeps over his tomb.
The stranger who wanders
Along the lone vale,
Still sighs while he ponders
On that heavy tale :
" Thus passes each pleasure
That earth can supply
Thus joy has its measure
We live but to die 1"
THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN.
Jo}
HAKK! HARK! THE SOFT BUGLE.
HARK ! hark ! the soil bugle sounds over the
wood,
And thrills in the silence of even,
Till faint, and more faint, in the far solitude,
It dies on the portals of heaven !
But echo springs up, from her home in the
rock,
And seizes the perishing strain ;
And sends th<? gay challenge, with shadowy
mock,
From mountain to mountain again !
And again !
From mountain to mountain again.
Oh, thus let my love, like a sound of delight,
Be around thee while shines the glad
day,
And leave thee, unpain'd, in the silence of
night,
And die like sweet music away.
While hope, with her warm light, thy glan-
cing eye tills,
Oh, say " Like that echoing strain,
Though the sound of his love has died over
the hills,
It will waken in heaven again."
And again !
It will waken in heaven again.
A SOLDIER A SOLDIER TO-NIGHT
IS OUR GUEST.
FAN, fan the gay hearth, and fling back the
barr'd door,
Strew, strew the fresh rushes around on our
floor,
&nd blithe be the welcome in every breast
For a soldier a soldier to-night is our
gUCHt.
All honor to him who, when danger afar
Had lighted for ruin his ominous star,
Left pleasure, and country, and kindred
behind,
And sped to the shock on the wings of the
wind.
If you value the blessings that shine at our
hearth
The wife's smiling welcome, the infant's sweet
mirth
While they charm us at eve, let us think
upon those
Who have bought with their blood oui
domestic repose.
Then share with the soldier your hearth and
your home,
And warm be your greeting whene'er he
shall come ;
Let love light a welcome in every breast
For a soldier a soldier to-night is our guett
AILEEN AROON.
WHEN like the early rose,
Aileen aroon !
Beauty in childhood blows,
Aileen aroon !
When like a diadem,
Buds blush around the stem,
Which is the fairest gem ?
Aileen aioon !
Is it the laughing eye ?
Aileen aroon !
Is it the timid sigh ?
Aileen aroon !
Is it the tender tone,
Soft as the string'd harp's moan *
Oh, it is truth alone,
Aileen aroon !
When, like the rising day,
Aileen aroon !
Love sends his early ray,
Aileen aroon !
What makes his dawning glow
Changeless through joy or woe ?
Only the constant know,
Aileen aroon !
'I know a valley fair,
Aileen aroon !
I knew a cottage there,
Aileen aroon !
302
THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN.
Far in that valley's shade
I knew a gentle maid,
Flower of the hazel glade,
Aileen aroon !
Who in the song so sweet,
Aileen aroon !
Who in the dance so sweet,
Aileen aroon !
Dear were her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy,
Aileen aroon !
Were she no longer true,
Aileen aroon !
What should her lover do ?
Aileen aroon !
Fly with his broken chain
Far o'er the sounding main,
Never to love again,
Aileen aroon !
Youth must with time decay,
Aileen aroon !
Beauty must fade away,
Aileen aroon !
astles are sack'd in war,
Chieftains are scatter'd far,
Truth is a fixed star,
Aileen aroon !
KNOW YE
NOT THAT
RIVER. 1
LOVELY
AIE " Roy's wife of Aldivalloch."
KNOW ye not that lovely river ?
Know ye not that smiling river ?
Whose gentle flood,
By cliff and wood,
With wildering sound goes winding ever.
Oh ! often yet with feeling strong,
On that dear stream my memory ponders,
And still I prize its murmuring song,
For by my childhood's home it wanders.
Know ye not, &c.
There's music in each wind that flows
Within our native woodland breathing ;
There's beauty in each flower that blows
Around our native woodland wreathing.
The memory of the brightest joy 3
In childhood's happy morn that found us,
Is dearer than the richest toys
The present vainly sheds around us.
Know ye not, &c.
Oh, sister ! when 'mid doubts and fears,
That haunt life's onward journey ever,
I turn to those departed years,
And that beloved and lonely river ;
With sinking mind and bosom riven,
And heart with lonely anguish aching ;
It needs my long-taught hope in heaven
To keep this weary heart from breaking !
Know ye not, &c.
1 These verses were written at the request of hip tit tor. who
wrote to him from America for new wordr- for the old Scotch
tlr of Roy'e wife of Aldivalloch
'TIS, IT IS THE SHANNON'S STREAM
'Tis, it is the Shannon's stream
Srightly glancing, brightly glancing
See, oh, see the ruddy beam
Upon its waters dancing !
Thus return'd from travel vain,
Years of exile, years of pain,
To see old Shannon's face again,
Oh, the bliss entrancing !
Hail our own majestic stream,
Flowing ever, flowing ever,
Silent in the morning beam,
Our own beloved river !
Fling thy rocky portals wide,
Western ocean, western ocean ;
Bend ye hills, on either side,
In solemn, deep devotion;
While before the rising gales
On his heaving surface sails
Half the wealth of Erin's vales,
With undulating motion.
Hail, our own beloved stream,
Flowing ever, flowing ever,
Silent in the morning beam,
Our own majestic river !
THE POEMS OF GERALD (JU1KFIN,
On thy bosom deep :unl wide,
Noble river, lordly river,
Royal navies sate might ride,
Green Erin's lovely river.
Proud nj)on thy banks to dwell,
Let me ring Ambition's knell,
Lured by hope's illusive spell
Again to wander, never.
Hail, our ov/n romantic stream,
Flowing ever, flowing ever,
Bilent in the morning beam,
Our own majestic river !
Let me from thy pla,id course,
Gentle river, mighty river,
Draw such truth of silent force
As sophist uttered never.
Thus, like thee, unchanging still,
With tranquil breast and order'd will,
My heaven-appointed course fulfil,
Undeviating ever !
Hail, our own majestic stream,
Flowing ever, flowing ever,
Silent in the morning beam,
Our own delightful river !
LOVE MY LOVE IN THE MORNING.
I IOVE my love in the morning,
For she like morn is fair
Her blushing cheek, its crimson streak,
Its clouds her golden hair.
Her glance, its beam, so soft and kind ;
Her tears, its dewy showers ;
And her voice, the tender whispering wind
That stirs the early bowers.
i love my love in tin* morning,
I love my love at noon,
For she is bright as the lord of light,
Yet mild as autumn's moon :
Her beauty is my bosom's sun,
ITer faith my fostering shade,
And I will love my darling one,
Till even the sun shall fade.
I low my love in the morning,
I love my love at even ;
Her smile's soft play is like the ray
That lights tin- western heaven:
I loved her when the sun was high,
I loved her when he rose;
But best of all when evening's sigh
Was murmuring at its close.
ORANGE AND GREEN.
" Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease-
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er chilli increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light.
Thy various tints unite.
And form in heaven's eight
One arch of peace I"
THOMAS Moon
THE night was falling dreary
In merry Bandon town,
When in his cottage, weary,
An Orangeman lay down.
The summer sun in splendor
Had set upon the vale,
And shouts of " No surrender!"
Arose upon the gale.
Beside the waters, laving
The feet of aged trees.
The Orange banners waving,
Flew boldly in the breeze
In mighty chorus meeting,
A hundred voices join,
And life and drum were beating
The n<it(le of the Boyne.
Ha! toward his cottage nieing,
What form is speedy now,
From yonder thicket flying,
With blood upon his brow !
"Hide hide me, worthy stranger!
Thc'igh green my color be,
And in the day of danger
May Heaven remember theo !
" In yonder vale contending,
Alone against that rrew,
My life and limbs defending,
An Orangeman I slew.
Bark ! hear thai fearful warning
There's death in everv tone
204
THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN.
Oh, save my life to morning,
And Heaven pi'olong your own !"
The Orange heart was melted,
In pity to the Green ;
He heard the tale, and felt it,
His very soul within.
"Dread not that angry warning,
Though death be in its tone
I'll save your life till morning,
Or I will lose my own."
Now, round his lowly dwelling
The augry torrent press'd,
A hundred voices swelling,
The Orangeman address'd
** Arise, arise, and follow
The chase along the plain !
In yonder stony hollow
Your only son is slain !"
With rising shouts they gather
Upon the track amain,
And leave the childless father
Aghast with sudden pain.
He seeks the righted stranger
o o
In covert where he lay
" Arise !" he said, " all danger
Is gone and past away !
" I had a son one only,
One loved as my life,
Thy hand has left me lonely
In that accursed strife.
I pledged my word to save thee,
Until the storm should cease ;
I keep the pledge I gave thee
Arise, and go in peace !"
The stranger soon departed
From that unhappy vale ;
The father, broken-hearted,
Lay brooding o'er that tale.
Full twenty summers after
To silver turn'd his beard ;
And yet the sound of laughtej
From him was never heard.
The night was falling dreary,
In men y Wexford town,
When in his cabin, weary,
A peasant laid him down.
And many a voice was singing
Along the summer vale,
And Wexford town was ringing
With shouts of " Granua Uile. w
Beside the waters laving
The feet of aged trees,
The green flag, gayly waving,
Was spread against the breeze ;
In mighty chorus meeting,
Loud voices fill'd the town,
And fife and drum were beating,
" Down, Orangemen, lie down P*
Hark ! 'mid the stirring clangor,
That woke the echoes there,
Loud voices, high in anger,
Rise on the evening air.
Like billows of the ocean,
He sees them hurry on
And, 'mid the wild commotion.
An Orangeman alone.
"My hair," he said, "is hoary,
And feeble is my hand,
And I could tell a story
Would shame your cruel band.
Full twenty years and over
Have changed my heart and brow,
And I am grown a lover
Of peace and concord now.
" It was not thus I greeted
Your brother of the Green,
When, fainting and d&fcated,
I freely took him iu,
I pledged my word feo save him
From vengeance /Uehing on ;
o o *
I kept the pledge I gave him,
Though he had kill'd my son.'*
That aged peasant heard him,
And knew him as he stood ;
Remembrance kindly stirr'd him,
And tender gratitude.
With gushing *ears of pleasure
He pierced the listening train
I'm here to pay the measure
Of kindness back again !"
T1IK I'OK.MS OF GERALD GRIFFIN.
205
Upon his bosom falling,
That old man's tears came down,
Deep memory recalling
That cot and fatal town.
" The hand that would offend thee
My being first shall end
I'm living to defend thee,
My savior and my friend P*
He said, and, slowly turning,
Address'd the wondering crowd ;
With fervent spirit burning,
He told the tale aloud.
X<w press'd the warm beholders,
Their aged foe to greet ;
They raised him on their shoulders,
And chair'd him through the street.
As he had saved that stranger
From peril scowling dim,
So in his day of danger
Did Heaven remember him.
By joyous crowds attended,
'The worthy pair were seen,
And their flags that day were blended
Of Orange and of Green.
SLEEP THAT LIKE THE COUCHED
DOVE.
SLEEP, that like the couched dove,
Broods o'er the weary eye,
Dreams that with soft heavings move
The heart of memory
Labor's guerdon, golden rest,
Wrap thee in its downy vest ;
Fall like comfort on thy brain,
And S'IIIL^ the hush-song to thy pain 1
Far from thee be startling fears,
And dreams the guilty dream;
No banshee scare thy drowsy ears
With her ill-omen'd scream.
But tones of fairy minstrelsy
Float like the ghosts of sound o'er thee,
Soft as the chapel's distant bell,
And lull thee to a sweet farewell.
Ye, for whom the a>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, <fcc.
Galloglach and Kern, hurry down to the
sea
There the hungry Raven's beak is gaping
for a prey ;
Farrah ! to the onset ! Farrah ! to the
shore !
Feast him with the pirate's flesh, the bird of
gloom and gore !
Hurry down, hurry down !
Hurry down, &c.
Hurry, for the slaves of Bel are mustering
to meet ye ;
Hurry by the beaten cliff, the Nordman
longs to greet yo ;
212
POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN.
Hurry n^m the mountain ! hurry, hurry
from the plain !
Welcome him, and never let him leave our
land again !
Hurry down, hurry down !
Hurry down, &c.
On the land a sulky wolf, and in the sea a
shark,
Hew the ruffian spoiler down, and burn his
gory bark !
Slayer of the unresisting ! ravager profane !
Leave the White sea-tyrant's limbs to
moulder on the plain.
Hurry down, hurry down !
Hurry down, &c.
MY SPIRIT IS OF PENSIVE MOULD.
MY spirit is of pensive mould,
I cannot laugh as once of old,
When sporting o'er some woodland scene,
A child I trod the dewy green.
I cannot sing my merry lay,
As in that past unconscious day ;
For time has laid existence bare,
And shown me sorrow lurking there.
I would I were the lonely breeze
That mourns among the leafless trees,
That I might sigh from morn till night
O'er vanish'd peace and lost delight.
I would I were the heavy shower
That falls in spring on leaf arid bower,
That I might weep the livelong day
For erring man and hope's d^cay :
For all the woe beneath the sun,
For all the wrong to virtue done,
For every soul to falsehood gain'd,
For every heart by evil ptain'd :
For man by man in durance held,
For early dreams of joy dispell'd,
For all the hope the world awakes
In youthful he?vrts, and after breaks.
But still, though hate, and fraud, and strife
Have stain'd the shining web of life,
Sweet Hope the glowing woof renews,
In all its old, enchanting hues.
Flow on, flow on, thou shining stream !
Beyond life's dark and changeful dream.
There is a hope, there is a joy,
This faithless world can ne'er destroy.
Sigh on, sigh on, 'ye gentle winds ,
For stainless hearts and faithful mind*
There is a bliss abiding true,
That shall not pass and die like you.
Shine on, shine on, thou glorious sun i
When Day his latest course has run,
On sinless hearts shall rise a light
That ne'er shall set in gloomy night
IMPROMPTU.
ON SEEING AN IRIS FORMED BY THE SPRAY OF
THE OCEAN AT MILTOWN MALBAY.
On, sun-color'd breaker! when gazing on
thee
I think of the Eastern story,
How beauty arose from the foam of the sea
A creature of light and of glory.
But, hark ! a hoarse answer is sent from the
wave,
" No Venus was never my daughter
To golden-hair'd Iris her being I gave,
Behold where she shines o'er the water."
FRIENDSHIP.
A WEARY time hath pass'd since last we
parted ;
Thy gentle eye was fill'd with sorrow, and
I did not speak, but press'd thy trembling
hand,
Even in that hour of rapture, broken hearted.
I have not seen thee since for thou art
changed;
There sits a coldness on thy iip and brow
POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN.
213
The look, the tone, the smile, are alter'd
now,
And all about, within thee, quite estranged.
I have not seen thee since although per-
chance,
Among the heartless and the vain, on me
All coldly courteous lights thy lovely glance.
Yet art thou happier ? Oh, if such may be
The love that Friendship vows give me
again
My heart, my days of peace, my lute, and
listening plain.
FAME.
WHY hast thou lured me on, fond muse, to
quit
The path of plain dull worldly sense, and be
A wanderer through the realms of thought
with thee ;
While hearts that never knew thy visitings
sweet,
< 'old souls that mock thy quiet melancholy,
Win their bright way up Fortune's glitter-
ing wheel ;
And we sit lingering here in darkness still,
Scorn'd by the bustling sons of wealth and
folly ?
Yet still thou whisperest in mine ear, " The
day
The day may be at hand when thou and I
(The season of expectant pain gone by)
Shall tread to Joy's bright porch a smiling
way,
And rising, not as once with hurried wincr,
To purer skies aspire, and hail a lovelier
spring."
WRITTEN IN ADARE IN 1820.
I LOOK'D upon a dark and sullen sea
Over whose slumbering wave the night's
mists hung,
Till from the morn's gray breast a fresh
wind sprung
And sought its brightening bosom joyously ;
Then nYd the mi>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 liiip<iM*il>l<->. 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 <le fllle ast an feu qui <16vore,
I>*Mr <lo DODOe est cent foil pis encor*."
What, take their toy from convent belles?
Make Russia yield the Dardanelles !
Filch his good rifle from a " Suliot--,"
Or drag her " Romeo" from a " Juliet ! "
Make an attempt to take Gibraltar,
Or try the old corn laws to alter !
This seemed to them, and eke to js,
" Most wasteful and ridiculous."
Long did the " chapter " sit in state,
And on this point deliberate ;
The junior members of the senate
Set their fair faces quite again' it ;
Refuse to yield a point so tender,
And urge the motto No surrender.
The elder nuns feel no great scruple
In parting with the charming puj-il ;
And as each grave affair of state runs
Most on the verdict of the matron*,
Small odds, I ween, and poor the cl.anc
Of keeping the dear bird from Nantz.
Nor in my surmise am I far out
For by their vote off goes the parrot.
&los ebfl 17ojafle.
En ce terns la, a small canal-boat,
Called by most chroniclers the " Talbot,"
(TALBOT, a name well known in France !)
Travelled between Nevers and Nan-tz.
Vert-Vert took shipping in this craft,
'Tis not said whether fore or aft ;
But in a book as old as Massinger's
We find a statement of the passengers ;
These were -two Gascons and a piper,
A sexton (a notorious swiper),
A brace of children, and a nurse ;
But what was infinitely worse,
A dashing Cyprian ; while by her
Sat a most jolly-looking friar. 1
For a poor bird brought up in purity
'Twas a sad augur for futurity
To meet, just free from his indentures,
And in the first of his adventures,
Such company as formed his hansel,
Two rogues ! a friar ! ! and a damsel ! ! !
Birds the above were of a feather ;
But to Vert-Vert 'twas altogether
Such a strange aggregate of scandals
As to be met but among Vandals ;
* " Una nourrlce, an moine, deux Gueon* ;
Poar un enfant qui tort du monal4r
C'i-talt eohoir en dlgne* compaction*."
224
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
Rude was their talk, bereft of polish,
And calculated to demolish
All the fine notions and good-breeding
Taught by the nuns in their sweet Eden.
No Billingsgate surpassed the nurse's,
And all the rest indulged in curses;
E;ir hath not heard such vulgar gab in
The nautic cell of any cabin.
Silent and sad, the pensive bird,
Shocked at their guilt, said not a word. 1
Now he "of orders gray," accosting
The parrot green, who seemed quite lost in
The contemplation of man's wickedness.
And the bright river's gliding liquidness,
*' Tip us a stave (quoth Tuck), my darling,
Ain't you a parrot or a starling?
If you don't talk, by the holy poker, '
I'll give that neck of yours a choker!"
Scared by this threat from his propriety,
Our pilgrim thinking with sobriety,
That if he did not speak they'd make him,
Answered the friar, PAX SIT TECUM !
Here our reporter marks down after
Poll's maiden-speech "loud roars of laughter;"
And sure enough the bird so affable
Could hardly use a phrase more laughable.
Talking of such, there are some rum ones
That oft amuse the House of Commons:
And since we lost " Sir Joseph Yorke"
We've got great " Fearyus " fresh from Cork,
A fellow honest, droll, and funny,
Who would not sell for love or money
His native land : nor, like vile Daniel,
Fawn on Lord Althorp like a spaniel ;
Flatter the mob, while the old fox
Keeps an eye to the begging-box.
Now 'tis a shame that such brave fellows,
When they blow "agitation's" bellows,
Should only meet with heartless scoffers,
While cunning Daniel fills his coffers.
But Kerrymen will e'er be apter
At the conclusion of the chapter,
While others bear the battle's brunt,
To reap the spoil and fob the blunt.
1 This canal-boat, it would seem, was not a very refined or
fashionable conveyance; it rather remindeth of Horace's voyacc
to Brundusium, and of that line so applicable to the parrot's com-
pany
"Repletum nantis, cauponibus, atque malisnis."
O. Y.
This is an episode concerning
The parrot's want of worldly learning,
In squandering his tropes and figures
On a vile crew of heartless niggers.
OO
The "house'' heard once with more decorum
Phil. Howard on "the Roman forum."*
Poll's brief address met lots of cavillers ;
Badgered by all his fellow-travellers,
He tried to mend a speech so ominous
By striking up with * Dixrr DOMINTJS ! "
But louder shouts of laughter follow,
This last roar beats the former hollow,
And shows that it was bad economy
To give a stave from Deuteronomy.
Posed, not abashed, the bird refused to
Indulge a scene he was not used to;
And, pondering on this strange reception,
"There must," he thought, " be some deceptioi
In the nuns' views of things rhetorical,
~
And sister Rose is not an oracle.
True wit, perhaps, lies not in 'matins,'
Nor is their school a school of Athens."
Thus in this villanous receptacle
The simple bird at once grew skeptical.
Doubts lead to hell. The arch-deceiver
Soon made of Poll an unbeliever ;
And mixing thus in bad society,
He took French leave of all his piety.
His austere maxims soon he mollified,
And all his old opinions qualified ;
For he had learned to substitute
For pious lore things more astute ;
Nor was his conduct unimpeachable,
For youth, alas ! is but too teachable ;
And in the progress of his madness
Soon he had reached the depths of badness.
Such were his curses, such his evil
Practices, that no ancient devil, *
Plunged to the chin when burning hot
Into a holy water-pot,
Could so blaspheme, or fire a volley
Of oaths so drear and melancholy.
9 See ''Mirror of Parliament" for this ingenious person's oiaidoa
speech on Joe Hume's motion to alter and enlarge the old HOUM
of Commons. " Sir, the Romans (A laugh) / say tJie Romant
(loud laughter) never altered their Forum' 1 '' (roars of ditto), but
Ileaven soon granted whut Joe Hume desired, and the old rookerj
was burnt shortly after.
1 " HientAt il scut Jurer et mougreer
Micux qu'un vieux diable au fond d'un benitier."
I'OK.MS OF KKANCIS M.MIo.NV.
225
Must the bright blossoms, ripe and ruddy,
And the fair fruits of early study,
Thus in tneir summer season crossed.
Meet a sad blight a killing frost ?
Must that vile demon, Moloch, oust
H-aven from a young heart's holocaust? 1
nd the glad hope of life's young promise
Thus in the dawn of youth ebb from us?
Such is, alas ! the sad and last trophy
Of the young rake's supreme catastrophe ;
For of what use are learning's laurels
When a young man is without morals ?
Bereft of virtue, and grown heinous,
What signifies a brilliant genius ?
Tis but a case for wail and mourning,
Tis but a brand fit for the burning !
Meantime the river wafts the barge,
Fraught with its miscellaneous charge,
Smoothly upon its broad expanse,
Up to the very quay of Nantz ;
Fondlv within the convent bowers
4
The sisters calculate the hours,
Chiding the breezes for their tardiness,
And, in the height of their fool-hardiness,
Picturing the bird as fancy painted
Lovely, reserved, polite, and sainted
Fit "Ursuline." And thin, I trow, meant
Enriched with every endowment !
Sadly, alas ! these nuns anointed
Will find their fancy disappointed ;
When, to meet all those hopes they drew on,
They'll find a regular DON JUAN !
JEbe atofull JDi'scoberfe.
Scarce in the port was this small craft
On its arrival telegraphed,
When, from the boat home to transfer him,
Came the nuns' portress, " sister Jerome."
Well did the parrot recognize
The walk demure and downcast eyes ;
Nor aught such saintly guidance relished
A bird by worldly arts embellished ;
Such was his taste for profane gayety,
He'd rather much go with the laity.
Fast to the bark he clung; but plucked
thence,
" Ftnt-ll qu'nlnsl 1'exemple sWuctonr
Da del au diablo emporte an jeun* cnr f
He showed dire symptoms of reluctance,
And, scandalizing each beholder,
Bit the nun's cheek, and eke her shoulder!*
Thus a black eagle once, 'tis said,
Bore off the struggling Ganymede. 1
Thus was Vert-Vert, heart-sick and weary,
Brought to the heavenly monastery.
The bell and tidings both were tolled,
And the nuns crowded, young and old,
To feast their eyes with joy uncommon on
This wondrous talkative phenomenon.
Round the bright stranger, so amazing
And so renowned, the sisters gazing,
Praised the green glow which a warm latitude
Gave to his neck, and liked his attitude.
Some by his gorgeous tail are smitten.
Some by his beak so beauteous bitten !
And none e'er dreamt of dole or harm in
A Uird so brilliant and so charming.
Shade of Spurzheim ! and thou, Lavater,
Or Gall, of " bumps" the great creator !
Can ye explain how our young hero,
With all the vices of a Nero,
Seemed such a model of good-breeding,
Thus quite astray the convent leading?
Where on his head appeared, I ask from ye,
The "nob" indicative of blasphemy?
Methinks 'twould puzzle your ability
To fi nd his organ of scurrility.
Meantime the abbess, to "draw out"
A bird so modest and devout,
With soothing air and tongue caressing
The " pilgrim of the Loire " addressing,
Broached the most edifying topics,
To "start" this native of the tropics;
When, to their scandal and amaze, he
Broke forth " Morbleu! those nuns are crazy. f*
(Showing how well he learnt his task on
The packet-boat from that vile Gascon !)
" Fie ! brother poll !" with zeal outbursting,
Exclaimed the abbess, dame Augustin ;
But all the lady's sage rebukes
Brief answer got from poll '' Gadzooks 1"
Nay, 'tis supposed, he nuttered, too,
A word folks write with W.
* Ix>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<llm
Jupiter In Ganymede flavo" !!>
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*<le tnatlens, etc., etc
For their first banquetings this plan adopt
Cull the most tender leaves in ull the wood,
And let them, ere upon the worms they're
dropped,
Be minced for their young teeth, and diligently
chopped.
XVII.
Passed the first week, an epoch will b^irin,
A crisis which maun all thy care eno-aee :
J
For then the little asp will cast his skin.
Such change of raiment marks each separate
stage
Of childhood, youthhood, manhood, and
old age :
A gentle sleep gives token when he means
To doff his coat for seemlier equipage ;
Another and another supervenes,
And then he is, I trow, no longer in his teen*.
XVIII.
Until that period, it importeth much,
That no ungentle hand, with contact rude,
Visit the shelves. Let the delightful touch
Of Italy's fair daughters fair and good!
Administer alone to that young brood.
Mark how yon maiden's breast with pity
yearns,
Tending her charge with fond solicitude,
Hers be the blessing she so richly earns !
Soon may she see her own wee brood of bonny
bairns !
XIX.
Foliage, fresh gathered for immediate use,
Be the green pasture of thy silken sheep,
For when ferments the vegetable juice,
They loathe the leaves, and from th' un
tasted heap
With disappointment languishingly creep.
Hie to the forest, evening, noon, an^d morn ;
Of brimming baskets quick succession keep
Let the green grove for them be freely shorn,
And smiling Plenty void her well-replenished
horn.
xx.
Pleasant the murmurs of their mouths to
hear,
While as they ply the plentiful repast,
The dainty leaves demolished, disappear
One after one. A fresh supply is c;tst
That, like the former, vanisheth as faL
230
POEMS OF FRANCIS MATIONY.
But, cautious of repletion (well yclept
The fatal fount of sickness), cease at last ;
Fling no more food, their fodder intercept,
And be it laid aside, and for their supper kept.
XXI.
To gaze upon the dew-drop's glittering gem,
T' inhale the moisture of the morning air,
Is pleasantness to us; 'tis death to them.
Shepherd, of dank humidity beware,
Moisture maun vitiate the freshest fare ;'
Cull not the leaves at the first hour of prime,
While yet the sun his arrows through the
ail-
Shoots horizontal. Tarry till he climb
Half his meridian height: then is thy harvest-
time.
XXII.
There be two sisters of the mulberry race,*
One of complexion dark and olive hue ;
Of taller figure and of fairer face,
The other wins and captivates the view
And to maturity grows quicker too.
Oft characters with color correspond ;
Nathless the silkworm neither will eschew,
He is of both immoderately fond
Still he doth dearly love the gently blooming
blonde.
XXIII.
With milder juice and more nutritious milk
She feedeth him, though delicate and pale ;
Nurtured by her he spins a finer silk,
And her young sucklings, vigorous and
hale,
Aye o'er her sister's progeny prevail.
Her paler charms more appetite beget,
On which the creepers greedily regale :
She bears the bell in foreign lands ; and yet
Our brown Italian maids prefer the dark bru-
nette. 3
XXIV.
The dark brunette, more bountiful of leaves,
With less refinement more profusion shows;
But often such redundancy deceives.
1 Pabula semper
Sieca legant, milldque fluant aspergine sylvas.
* Est bicolor morus, bombyx veseetur utr,1qne
Nigrn albensve fuat, etc., etc.
Tbi 1 worm will always prefer to nibble the white mulberry-tree,
nd will quit the black for it readily.
1 Uunmvls Ansoniis laudetur nigra puellis.
What though the ripened berry ruddier
glows
Upon these tufted branches than on those ?
Due is the preference to the paler plant :
Then her to rear thy tender nurslings choose,
Her to thy little orphans' wishes grant,
Nor use the darker leaves unless the white be
scant.
xxv.
OVID has told a tender tale of THISBE,
Who found her lifeless lover lying pale
Under a spreading mulberry. Let this be
The merit and the moral of that tale.
Sweet is thy song, in sooth, love's nightift-
gale!
But hadst thou known that, nourished from
that tree,
Love's artisans would spin their tissue frail,
Thou never wouldst of so much misery
Have laid the scene beneath a spreading mul
berry.
XXVI.
Now should a failure of the mulberry crop
Send famine to the threshold of thy door
Do not despair : but, climbing to the top
Of the tall elm, or kindred sycamore,
Young budding germs with searching eye
explore.
Practise a pious fraud upon thy flock,
With false supplies and counterfeited store ;
Thus for a while their little stomachs mock,
Until thou canst provide of leaves a genuine stock.
XXVII.
But ne'er a simple village maiden ask
To climb on trees, 4 for her was never meant
The rude exposure of such uncouth task ;
Lest while she tries the perilous ascent,
On pure and hospitable thoughts intent,
A wicked faun, that lurks behind some bush,
Peep out with upward eye rude, insolent !
Oh, vile and desperate hardihood ! But, hush !
Nor let such matters move the bashful Muse to
blush.
4 The good bishop's eHllantry is herein displayed to tv.
tage:
Nee robora dura
Ascendat permitte in sylvis innnba virgo;
Ast operum patiens anus, et cui durior annis
Sit cutis (ingratw facilis jactura senectol),
Munere fungatur tali. Ne forte 1 quis alia
Egressus sylvd satyrorum e gente procaci
Suspioiat, tenerteqno pudor notet on puel!.
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
2:5 1
XXVIII.
The maiden's ministry it is to keep
Incessant vigil o'er the silkworm fold,
Supply fresh fodder to the nibbling sheep,
Cleanse and remove the remnants of the old,
Guard against influence of damp or cold,
And ever and anon collect them :ill
In close divan : and ere their food is doled,
Wash out with wine each stable and each stall,
Lest foul disease the flock through feculence be-
fall.
XXIX.
Changes will oft come o'er their outward form,
And each transition needs thy anxious cares :
Four times they cast their skin. The spinner-
worm
Four soft successive suits of velvet wears ;
Nature each pliant envelope prepares.
But how can they, in previous clothing pent,
Get riddance of that shas^v robe of theirs ?
OO*
They keep a three-days' fast. When by that
Lent
<>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 _ . . *
<firtfunteri Stole forth unbid
For that red-breast bird ;-
And the feeling crept,
For a Warrior wept ;
And the silence kept
Found no fitting word.
But 7 mused alone '
^ or * tnou g nt f one
Whora I well had known
T .. ,
In my earlier days,
Of a gentle mind,
Of soul refined,
Of deserts designed
For the Palm of Praise.
Y * 8t f esn '. e And well would it seem
of Lyre. A
u Tliat o'er Life's dark stream,
o- ^
hasy task for him
In his flight of Fame,
Was the Skyward Path
< )'er the billow's wrath,
That for Genius hath
Ever been the same.
mnentye
birde.
e And I saw him soar
flyKht acroM .
ye bu-ennie. From the morning shore,
While his fresh wings bore
Him athwart the tide,
Soon with powers unspent
As he forward went,
His wings he had bent
On the sought-for side
A neweob- g u t, while thus he flew,
feet calleth
his eye from Lo ! a vision new
yemalne - . , . , .
cbaunce. C/aught his wayward view
With a semblance fair,
And that new-found wooer
Could, alas! allure
From his pathway sure
The bright child of air.
instability For he turned aside,
of purpose a .
fatali evyii And adown the tid^
morall of
Father
humble
ballade.
For a brief hour plied
His yet unspent force.
And to gain that goal
Gave the powers of soul
Which, unwasted, whole,
Had achieved his course.
A bright Spirit, young,
Unwept, unsung,
Sank thus among
Not a record left,
Of renown bereft,
By thy cruel theft,
DELUSIVE DREAM !
L'ENVOY TO W. H. AINSWORTH, ESQ.
I1ILOMK. AUTHOR OF TIIB ADMIRABLE " CRIOHTOW," 8UB8EQ01
OlIBONICLKR OF "JACK 8IIKPPABU,"
which he
wrotte by
Thus sadly I thought
Al that bird unsought
' J ' lie remembrance brou-ht
Of thy bright day;
And I penned full soon
This Dirge, wliile the moon
On the broad Garonne
Shed a wintry ray.
236
POEMS OF FRANCIS M^HONY.
THE LEGEND OF ARETHUSA.
To THE RIGHT HONORABLE ARETHUSA M R G N.
A SHEPHERDESS of Arcadie,
In the days hight olden,
Fed her white flock close to the sea ;
'Twas the age called golden.
That age of gold ! yet naught availed
To save from rudeness,
To keep unsullied unassailed
Such gentle goodness.
The calm composure of H life
Till then uncheckered,
What rude attempt befell ? 'tis rife
In Ovid's record.
Poor shrinking maid despairing, left
Without reliance ;
Of brother's, father's aid bereft,
She called on Dian's.
" Queen of the spotless ! quick, decree
The boon I ask you !
To die ere I dishonored be !
Speed to my rescue."
Sudden beneath her footsteps oped
The daisied meadow ;
The passionate arms that wildly groped,
Grasped but a shadow.
Forth from the soil where sank absorbed
That crystal virgin,
Gushed a bright brook pure, undisturbed
With pebbly margin.
And onward to the sea-shore sped,
Its course fulfilling ;
Till the ^Egean's briny bed
Took the bright rill in.
When lo ! was wrought for aye a theme
Of special wonder ;
Fresh and untainted ran that stream
The salt seas under.
Proof against every wave's attempt
To interfuse it;
From briny mixture still exempt,
It flowed pellucid.
And thus it kept for many a mile
Its pathway single;
Current, in which nor gall nor guile
Could ever mingle.
And all day long with onward march
The streamlet glided ;
And when night came, Diana's torch
The wanderer guided ;
Till unto thee, sweet Sicily,
From doubt and danger,
From land and ocean's terrors free,
She led the stranger ;
And there gushed forth, the pride and vaunt
Of Syracusa,
The bright, time-honored, glorious fount
Of Arethusa.
O ladye, such be thy career,
Such be thy guidance ;
From every earthly foe and fear
Such be thy riddance!
Safe from the tainted evil tongue
Of toes insidious ;
Brineless the bitter waves among
Of " friends" perfidious.
Such be thy life live on, live on !
Nor couldst thou choose a
Name more appropriate than thine own,.
Fair Arethusa !
THE LADYE OF LEE.
THERE'S a being bright, whose beams
Light my days and gild my dreams,
Till my life all sunshine seems 'tis the ladye
of Lee.
Oh ! the joy that Beauty brings,
While her merry laughter rings,
And her voice of silver sings how she loves but
There's a grace in every limb,
There's a charm in every whim,
And the diamond cannot dim the dazzling ol
her e'e.
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
237
tlere's a light amid
the lustre of her lid,
That from the crowd is hid and only I can see.
Tis the glance by which is shown
That she loves but me aloue ;
That she is all mine own this ladye of Lee.
Then say, c;m it be wrong,
If the burden of my song
Be. how fondly I'll belong to this ladye of Lee !
LIFE, A BUBBLE.
A BIRD'S-EYE VIKW THKREOF.
DOWN comes rain drop, bubble follows;
On the house-top one by one
Flock the synagogue of swallows,
Met to vote that autumn's gone.
There are hundreds of them sitting,
Met to vote in unison ;
They resolve on general flitting.
' I'm for Athens off," says one.
" Every year my place is filled in
Plinth of pillared Parthenon,
Where a ball has struck the building,
Shut from Turk's besieging gun."
*' As for me, I've got my chamber
O'er a Smyrna cotfee-shop,
"* v hcre his beadroll, made of amber,
Hadji counts, and sips a drop."
" I prefer Palmyra's scantlings,
Architraves of lone Baalbec,
Perched on which I feed rny bantlings
As they ope their bonnie beak."
While the last, to tell her plan, says,
'' On the second cataract
I've a statue of old Ramses,
And his neck is nicely cracked."
JBlarnen Songs.
I.
JACK BELLEW'S SONG
AIH u 0A, weep for tto hour /"
OH! the inline shed a te-ir
When the cruel auctioneer,
With a hammer in his hand, to sweet Blarney
came !
Lady Jeffery's ghost
Left the Stygian coast,
And shrieked the live-long night for her grand-
son's shame.
The Vandal's hammer fell,
And we know full well
Who bought the castle furniture and fixtures, Ol
And took off in a cart
('Twas enough to break one's heart !)
All the statues made of lead, and the pictures,
0!
You're the man I mean, hight
Sir Thomas Deane, knight,
Whom the people have no reason to thank at all
But for you those things so old
Sure would never have been sold,
Nor the fox be looking out from the banquet-hall.
Oh, ye pulled at such a rate
At every wainscoting and grate,
Determined the old house to sack and garble,
0!
That you didn't leave a splinter,
To keep out the could winter,
Except a limestone chimney-piece of marble, 0!
And there the place was left
Where bold King Charles the Twelfth
Hung, before his portrait went upon a journey, 0!
Och ! the family's itch
For going to law was sitch,
That they bound him long before to an attorney,
0!
But still the magic stone
(Blessings on it!) is not flown,
To which a debt of gratitude Pat Lard tier owes:
Kiss that block, if you're a dunce,
And you'll emulate at once
The genius who to fame by dint of blarney row
238
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHON*.
II.
FRIAR O'MEARA'S SONG.
CANTILENA OMKARICA.
WHY then, sure it was made by a learned owl,
The " rule " by which I beg,
Forbidding to eat of the tender fowl
That hangs on yonder peg.
But, rot it ! no matter :
For here on a platter
Sweet Margaret brings
A food fit for kings ;
And a meat
Clean and neat
That's an egg!
Sweet maid,
She brings me an egg newly laid !
A.ud to fast I need ne'er be afraid,
For 'tis Peg
That can find me an egg.
Three different ways there are of eating them ;
First boiled, then fried with salt,
n 't there's a particular way of treating them,
Where many a. cook's at fault :
For with parsley and flour
'Tis in Margaret's power
To make up a dish,
Neither meat, fowl, nor fish ;
But in Paris they call 't
A neat
Omelette.
Sweet girl !
In truth, as in Latin, her name is a pearl,
When she gets
Me a platter of nice omelettes.
Och ! 'tis all in my eye, and a joke,
n o call fasting a sorrowful yoke ;
Sure, of Dublin-bay herrings a keg,
And an egg,
Is enough for all sensible folk !
Success to the fragrant turf-smoke,
That curls round the pan on the fire;
While the sweet yellow yolk
From the egg-shells is broke
In that pan,
Who can,
If he have but the heart of a man,
Not feel the soft flame of desire,
When it burns to a clinker the heart of a friar I
III.
TERRY CALLAGHAN'S SONG;
BEING A rUTA AND TRUE ACCOUNT OF THE BTORUIKG Of BLAH
NET OA8TLB, BY THE UNITED FOKOE8 OF CROMWELL, IBJITO5
AND FAIRFAX, EN 1623.
AIR " fm akin to Vie Cattaghan*.'"
BLARNEY Castle, my darlint !
Sure you're nothing at all but a stone
Wrapped in ivy a nest for all varmint,
Since the ould Lord Clancarty is gone.
Och ! 'tis you that was once strong and aincient,
And ye kep all the Sassenachs down,
While fighting them battles that aint yet
Forgotten by martial renown.
Blarney Castle, etc.
Bad luck to that robber, ould Crommill !
That plundered our beautiful fort ;
We'll never forgive him, though some will- -
Saxons ! such as George Knapp and his > >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</ let in cAarfrV"
RAIN best doth nourish
Earth's pride, the budding vine !
Grapes best will flourish
On which the dewdrops shine.
Then why should water meet with scorn,
Or why its claim to praise resign ?
When from that bounteous soun-e is born
The vine ! the vine ! the vine!
Rain best disposes
Earth for each blossom and each bud ;
True, we are told by Moses,
Once it brought on " a flood :"
But while that flood did all immerse,
All save old Noah's holy line,
Pray read the chapter and the verse
The vine is there! the vine!
Wine by water-carriage
Round the globe is best conveyed ;
Then why disparage
A path for old Bacchus made?
When iu our ducks the cargo lands
Which foreign merchants here d*
The wine's red empire wide expands
The vine ! the vine ! the vine !
Kain makes the miller
\V..rk his glad wheel the livelong d.iy
Kain brings the siller,
And drives dull care away :
For without rain lie lark-* the stream.
And fain o'er watery cups must pine;
248
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
But when it rains, he courts, I deem,
Th ' vibe ! the vine ! the vine ! '
Though all good judges
Water's worth now understand,
Mark yon chiel who drudges
With buckets in each hand ;
He toils with water through the town,
Until he spies a certain " sign,"
Where entering, r.ll his labor done,
He drains thy juice, vine !
But pure water singing
Dries full soon the poet's tongue ;
So crown all by bringing
A draught drawn from the bung
Of yonder cask, that wine contains
Of Loire's good vintage or the Rhine,
Queen of whose teeming margin reigns
The vine! the vine! the vine!
POPULAR BALLAD ON THE BATTLE
OF LEPANTO.
LET us sing how the boast of the Saracen host
In the gulf of Lepanto was scattered,
When each knight of St. John's from his cannon
O
of bronze
Wifn grape-shot their argosies battered.
Oh ! we taught the Turks then that of Europe
the men
Could defy every infidel menace
And that still o'er the main float the galleys of
Spain,
And the red-lion standard of Venice !
Quick we made the foe skulk, as we blazed at
each hulk,
While they left us a splinter to fire at;
And the rest of them fled o'er the waters, blood
red
With the gore of the Ottoman pirate ;
And our navy gave chase to the infidel race,
Nor allowed them a moment to rally ;
1 This i!ea, containing an apparent paradox, has been frequent-
ly worked up in the quaint writing; of the middle ages. There is
MI old Jesuits' riddle, which I letirnt among other wise saws at their
colleges, from which it will appear that this Miller is a regular
Joe.
Q. "Suave bibo vinuin quoties mini suppetit unda;
Undaque si desit, quid bibo?"
It. "Tristis aquiitn I"
And we forced them at length to acknowledga
our strength
In the trench, in the field, in the gallt y !
Then our men gave a shout, and the ocean-
throughout
Heard of Christendom's triumph with rapture.
Galeottes eighty-nine of the enemy's line
To our swift-sailing ships fell a capture :
And I firmly maintain that the number of slain
To at least sixty thousand amounted ;
To be sure 'twas sad work if the life of a Turk
For a moment were worth being counted.
We may well feel elate ; though I'm sorry to.
state,
That albeit by the myriad we've slain '*m,
Still, the sons of the Cross have to weep for the
loss
Of six thousand who fell by the Paynim
Full atonement was due for each man that they
slew,
And a hecatomb paid for each hero :
But could all that we'd kill give a son to Castile,.
Or to Malta a brave cavalhero ?
St. Mark for the slain intercedes not in vain
There's a mass at each altar in Venice ;
And the saints we implore for the banner they
bore
Are Our Lady, St. George, and St. Denis.
For the brave while we grieve, in our heart*
they shall live,
In our mouths shall their praise be incessant;
And again and again we will boast of the men
Who have humbled the pride of the Crescent-
THE THREE-COLORED FLAb.
(A PROSECUTED SONG.)
COMRADES, around this humble board,
Here's to our banner's by-gone splendor..
There may be treason in that word
All Europe may the proof afford
All France be the offender;
But drink the toast
That gladdens most,
Fires the vuiuiii' heart and cheers the old
POEMS OF FRANCIS .\I.\llo.\Y.
" May France once more
Her tri-color
Blessed with new life behold !
List to my secret. That old flag
Under my bed of straw is hidden,
Sacred to glory ! War-worn rag !
Thee no informer thence shall drag,
Nor dastard spy say 'tis forbidden.
France, I can vouch,
Will, from its couch,
The dormant symbol yet unfold,
And wave once more
Her tri-color
Through Europe, uncontrolled!
For every drop of blood we spent,
Did not that flag give value plenty!
Were not^our children as they went,
Jocund, to join the warrior's tent,
Soldiers at ten, heroes at twenty ?
FRANCS ! who were then
Your noblemen ?
Not they of parchment-must and mould 1
But they who bore
Your tri-color
Through Europe, uncontrolled!
Leipsk hath seen our eagle fall,
Drunk with renown, worn out with glory
But, with the emblem of old Gaul
Crowning our standard, we'll recall
The brightest days of Valmy's story!
With terror pale
Shall despots quail,
When in their ear the tale is told,
Of France once more
Her tri-color
Preparing to unfold !
Trust not the laioless ruffian chiel,
Worse than the vilest monarch he!
Down with the dungeon and Bastile 1
But let our country never kneel
To that grim idol, Anarchy !
Strength shall appear
On our frontier
France shall be Liberty's stronghold!
Then earth once more
The tri-color
With bh'xsin'jt shall behold!
O my old flag! that liest hid,
There where my sword and musket lie
Banner, come forth ! for U-ais unbi.J
Are filling fast a warrior's lid,
Which thoii ali'ii.- canst dry.
A soldier's gri'-t'
Shall find relief,
A veteran's heart shall be consoled
France shall once more
Her tri-color
Triumphantly unfold/
MALBROUCK.
MALBROUCK the prince of commanders,
Is gone to the war in Flanders ;
His fame is like Alexander's ;
But when will he come hoin [tor*
Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or
Perhaps he may come at Easter.
Egad ! he had better make haste, or
We fear he may never come. [<<r_
For " Trinity Feast" is over,
And has brought no news from Dover ;
And Easter is past, moreover ;
And Malbrouck still delays. [ter
Milady in her watch-tower
Spends many a pensive hour,
Not well knowing why or how her
Dear lord from England stays. [fv
While sitting quite forlorr in
That tower, she spies returning
A page clad in deep mourning,
With fainting steps and slow.
[ter.
" page, prithee, come faster ;
What news do you bring of your master?
I fear there is soni'- disaster,
Your looks arc so full of woe." [ter*
"The news I bring, fair lady,"
With sorrowful accent said he,
"Is one yon are not ready
So soon, alas! to hear,
But since to speak I'm hurried, 1 '
Added this page, quite flurried,
44 Malbrouck is dead and buried !
(And here he shod a tear.)
[far.
-250
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHOXY.
" He's dead ! he's dead as a herring !
For I beheld his ' herring?
And four officers transferring
His corpse away from the field. [ter.
One officer carried his sabre,
And he carried it not without labor,
Much envying his next neighbor,
Who only bore a shield. \ter.
The third was helmet-bearer
That helmet which on its wearer
Filled all who saw with terror,
And covered a hero's brains. \ter.
Now, having got so far, I
Find that (by the Lord Harry !)
Tbe/owr^ is left nothing to carry;
So there the thing remains." \ter.
TBE OBSEQUIES OF DAVIP THE
PAINTER.
FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.
THE pass is barred ! " Fall back !" cries the guard ;
" cross not the French frontier ! "
As with solemn tread, of the exiled dead the
funeral drew near.
For the sentinelle hath noticed well what no
plume, no pall can hide,
That yon hearse contains the sad remains of a
banished regicide!
44 But pity take, for his glory's sake," said his
children to the guard ;
~"Let his noble art plead on his part let a grave
be his reward !
France knew his name in her hour of fame, nor
the aid of his pencil scorned ;
Let his passport be the memory of the triumphs
he adorned ! "
**That corpse can't pass! 'tis my duty, alas!"
said the frontier sentinelle.
*' But pity take, for his country's sake, and his
clay do not repel
From its kindred earth, from the land of his
birth ! " cried the mourners, in their turn.
Oh 1 give to France the inheritance of her
painter's funeral urn :
His pencil traced, on the Alpine waste of the
pathless Mont Bernard,
Napoleon's course on the snow-white horse!
let a grave be his reward !
For he loved this land ay, his dying hand to
paint her fame he'd lend her :
Let her passport be the memory of his native
country's splendor ! "
"Ye cannot pass," said the guard, "alas! (for
tears bedimmed his eyes)
Though France may count to pass that mount
a glorious enterprise."
" Then pity take, for fair Freedom's sake," cried
the mourners once again :
" Her favorite was Leonidas, with his band of
Spartan men ;
Did not his art to them impart, life's breath,
that France might see
What a patriot few in the gap could do at old
Thermopylae ?
Oft by that sight for the coming fight was the
youthful bosom fired :
Let his passport be the memory of the valor he
inspired !''
" Ye cannot pass." " Soldier, alas I a dismal
boon we crave
Say, is there not some lonely spot where his
friends may dig a grave ?
Oh! pity take, for that hero's sake whom he
gloried to portray
With crown and palm at Notre Dame on his
coronation -day."
Amid that band the withered hand of an aged
pontiff rose,
And blessing shed on the conqueror's head, for-
giving his own woes :
He drew that scene nor dreamt, I ween, that
yet a little while,
And the hero's doom would be a tomb far off in
a lonely isle !
" I am charged, alas ! not to let you pass," said
the sorrowing sentinelle ;
" His destiny must also be a foreign grave ! "
"Tis well!
Hard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a
place of rest,
And to bear away his banished clay from the land
that he loved best.
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
861
Bullet us hence ! Sail recompense for the lustre
that he cast,
Blending the rays of modern days with the glo-
ries of the past !
Our sons will read with shame this deed (unless
iny mind doth en)
And a future age make pilgrimage to the painter's
sepulchre! "
TO PROSTRATE ITALY.
FILICAIA.
HAST thou not been the nations' queen, fair Italy !
though now
Chance gives to them the diadem that once adorn-
ed thy brow ?
Toe beautiful for tyrant's rule, too proud for
handmaid's duty
Would thou hadst less of loveliness, or strength
as well as beauty !
The fatal light of beauty bright with fell attrac-
tion shone,
Fatal to thee, for tyrants be the lovers thou hast
won !
That forehead fair is doomed to wear its shame's
degrading proof,
And slavery's print in damning tint stamped by
a despot's houf !
Were strength and power, maiden ! thy aower,
soon should that robber-band,
That prowls unbid thy vines amid, fly scourged
from off that land ;
Nor wouldst thou fear yon foreigner, nor be con-
demned to see
Drink in the flow of classic Po barbarian cav-
alry.
Climate of art! thy sons depart to gild a Van-
dal's throne ;
To battle led, their blood is shed in contests not
their own ;
Mixed with yon horde, go draw thy sword, nor
ask what cause 'tis for :
Thy lot is cast slave to the hist! conquered or
conqueror !
ODE T<> 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 <v Im [
Light through my dying chamber beams,
But hope comes not, nor healing bairn.
Kind villagers ! God bless your shed !
Hark! 'tis for prayer the evening bell
Oh, stay! and near my dying bed,
Maiden, for me your rosary tell !
When leaves shall strew the waterfall
In the sad close of autumn drear,
Say, "The sick youth is freed from all
The pangs and woe he suffered here."
So may ye speak of him that's gone ;
But when your belfry tolls my knell,
Pray for the soul of that lost one
Maiden, for me your rosary tell !
Oh! pity Aer, in sable robe,
Who to my grassy grave will come :
Nor seek a hidden wound to probe
She was my l>v ! point out my tomb ;
Tell her my life should have been hers
Twas but H day ! God's will ! 'tis well
But weep with her, kind villagrr-1
Maiden, for me your rosary tell !
256
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
THE FRENCH FIDDLER'S LAMENTATION.
Mv poor dog ! here ! of yesterday's festival-cake
Eat the poor remains in sorrow;
For when next a repast you and I shall make,
It must be on brown bread, which, for charity's
sake,
Your master must beg or borrow.
Of these strangers the presence and pride in
France
Is to me a perfect riddle;
They have conquered, no doubt, by some fatal
chance
.For they haughtily said, "You must play us a
dance \ "
I refused and they broke my fiddle !
Of our village the orchestra, crushed at one stroke,
By that savage insult perished !
7 Twas then that our pride felt the strangers' yoke,
When the insolent hand of a foreigner broke
What our hearts so dearly cherished.
For whenever our youth heard it merrily sound,
A flood of gladness shedding,
At the dance on the green they were sure to be
found ;
While its music assembled the neighbors around
To the village maiden's wedd;ng.
By the priest of the parish its note was pro-
nounced
To be innocent " after service ;"
And gaylv the wooden-shoed peasantry bounced
*On the bright Sabbath-day, as they danced unde-
nounced
By pope, or bonze, or dervis.
How dismally slow will the Sabbath now run,
Without fiddle, or flute, or tabor
How sad is the harvest when music there's
none
How sad is the vintage sans fiddle begun !
Dismal and tuneless labor !
In that fiddle a solace for grief we had got;
'Twas of peace the best preceptor ;
For its sound made all quarrels subside on the
spot,
And its bow went much farther to soothe our
hard lot
Than the crosier or the sceptre.
But a truce to my grief! for an insult so base
A new pulse in my heart hath awoken !
That affront I'll revenge on their insolent race ;
Gird a sword on 7ny thigh let a musket replace
The fiddle their hand has broken.
My friends, if I fall, my old corpse in the crowd
Of slaughtered martyrs viewing,
Shall say, while they wrap my cold limbs in a
shroud,
'Twas not his fault if some a barbarian allowed
To dance in our countrv's ruin !
CONSOLATION
ADDRESSED BY LAMARTINK TO HIS FEIEND AND
MANGEL, BANI8UED FKOM PuBTUUAL.
IF your bosom beats high, if your pulse quick- 1
grows,
When in visions ye fancy the wreath of the Muse,
There's the path to renown there's the path to
repose
Ye must choose! ye must choose !
mm
ManoSl, thus the destiny rules thy career,
And thy life's web is woven with glory and woe ;
Thou wert nursed on the lap of the Muse, ami
thy tear
Shall unceasingly flow.
Oh, my friend ! do not envy the vulgar their joys,
Nor the pleasures to which their low nature is
prone;
For a nobler ambition our leisure employs
Oh, the lyre is our own !
And the future is ours ! for in ages to come,
The admirers of genius an altar will raise
To the poet ; and Fame, till her trumpet is dumb,
Will re-echo our praise.
Poet ! Glory awaits thee ; her temple is thine;
But there's one who keeps vigil, if entrance you
claim
'Tis MISFORTUNE ! she sits in the porch of the
shrine,
The pale portress of Fame.
Saw not Greece an old man, like a pilgrim ar-
rayed,
With his tale of old Troy, and a staff in his hand,
1'oKMS OF FRANCIS MA11"\\.
J-.7
Beg his bread at the door of each hut, as he
strayea
Through his own classic land ?
And because be had loved, though unwisely, yet
well;
Mark what was the boon by bright beauty be-
stowed
Blush, Italy, blush ! for yon maniac's cell
It was Tasso's abode.
Hand in hand Woe and Genius must walk here
below,
And the chalice of bitterness, mixed for mankind,
Must be quaffed by us all ; but its waters o'er-
flow
For the noble of mind.
Then the heave of thy heart's indignation keep
down ;
Be the voice of lament never wrung from thy
pride ;
Leave to others the weakness of grief; take re-
nown
With endurance allied.
Lei there banish far off and proscribe (for they
can)
Saddened Portugal's son from his dear native
plains ;
But no tyrant can place the free soul under ban,
Or the spirit in chains.
No ! the frenzy of faction, though hateful, though
strong,
From the banks of the Tagus can't banish thy
fame :
Still the halls of old Lisbon shall ring with thy
song
And resound with thy name.
When Dante's attainder his townsmen repealed
When the sons stamped the deeds of their sires
with abhorrence,
They summoned reluctant Ravenna to yield
Back his fame to his Florence.
And with both hands uplifted Love's bard ere he
breathed
His last sigh, far away from his kindred and
home :
To the Scythians his ashes hath left, but be-
queathed
All his glory to Rome.
THE DOG OF THE TIIREK DAYS.
A BALLAD, SKPTKMBKR, 1831.
WITH gentle tread, with uncovered head,
Pass by the Louvre-gate,
Where buried lie the " men of JULT ! "
And flowers are flung by the passers-by,
And the dog howls desolate.
That dog had fought
In the fierce onslaught
Had rushed with his master on :
And both fought well ;
But the master fell
And behold the surviving one!
By his lifeless clay,
Shaggy and gray,
His fdlow-warrior stood :
Nor moved beyond,
But mingled, fond,
Big tears with his master's blood.
Vigil he keeps
By those green heaps,
That tell where heroes be :
No passer-by
Can attract his eye,
For he knows " it is not HB ! "
At the dawn, when dew
Wets the garlands new
That are hung in this place of mourning,
He will start to meet
The coming feet
Of HIM whom he dreamt returning.
On the grave's wood-cross
When the chaplets toss,
By the blasts of midnight shaken,
How he howleth ! Hark '
From that dwelling dark
The slain he would fain awaken.
When the snow comes fast
On the chilly blast,
Blanching the bleak churchyard,
\Vith limbs outspread
On the dismal bed
Of his liege, he still keeps guard.
258
TOEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
Oft in the night,
With main and might,
He strives to raise the stone
Short respite takes
" If master wakes,
He'll call me " then sleeps on.
Of bayonet-blades,
Of barricades,
And guns, he dreameth most ;
Starts from his dream,
And then would seem
To eye a bleeding ghost.
He'll linger there
In sad despair,
And die on his master's grave.
. His name ? 'Tis known
To the dead alone
He's the dog of the nameless brave !
Give a tear to the dead,
And give some bread
To the dog of the Louvre gate !
Where buried lie the men of July,
Ani flowers are flung by the passers-by,
And the dog howls desolate.
THE MISTLETOE,
A TYPE OF THE HEAVEN-BORN.
I.
A PROPHET sat by the Temple gate,
And he spake each passer-by
In thrilling tone with word of weight,
And fire in his rolling eye.
" Pause thee, believing Jew !
Nor move one step beyond,
Until thy heart hath pondered
The mystery of this wand"
And a rod from his robe he drew
'Twas a withered bough torn long ago
From the trunk on which it grew,
BT. the branch long torn showed a bud new
born
That had blossomed there anew.
'Twas JESSE'S rod !
And the bud was the birth of GOD.
n.
A priest of Egypt sat meanwhile
Under a lofty palm,
And gazing on his native Nile,
As in a mirror calm,
He saw a lowly Lotus plant
Pale orphan of the flood.
And well did th' aged hierophant
Mark the mysterious bud :
For he fitly thought, as he saw it float
O'er the waste of waters wild,
That the symbol told of the cradle boat
Of the wondrous Hebrew child.
Nor was that bark-like Lotus dumb
Of a mightier infant yet to come,
Whose graven skiff in hieroglyph
Marks obelisk and catacomb.
in.
A Greek sat on Colonna's cape,
In his lofty thoughts alone,
And a volume lay on Plato's lap,
For he was that lonely one.
And oft as the sage gazed o'er the page
His forehead radiant grew ;
For in Wisdom's womb of the Word to coine*.
The vision blessed his view.
He broached that theme in the Academe,
In the teachful olive grove ;
And a chosen few that secret knew
'In the Porch's dim alcove.
IV.
A Sibyl sat in Cumse's cave
'Twas the hour of infant Rome
And vigil kept, and warning gave
Of the holy one to come.
'Twas she who had culled the hallowed braucn,,
And sat at the silent helm,
When jEneas, sire of Rome, would launch
His bark o'er Hades' realm.
And now she poured her vestal soul
Through many a bright illumined scroll;
By priest and sage of an after-age
Conned in the lofty capitol.
\.
A Druid stood in the dark oak wood
Of a distant northern land,
And he seemed to hold a sickle of gold
In the grasp of his withered hand ;
And slowly moved around the girth
Of an aged oak, to see
POEMS OF FKANCls MAIU'NY.
If a blessed plant of wondrous birth
Had clung to the old o;ik tree.
And anon be knelt, and from his belt
Unloosened his golden bliide,
Thee rose and culled the MISTLETOE
Under the woodland shade.
VI.
blessed bough ! meet emblem thou
Of all dark Egypt knew,
Of all foretold to the wise of old,
To Roman, Greek, and Jew.
And long God grant, time-honored plant,
May we behold thee hung
In cottage small, as in baron's hall,
Banner and shield among.
Thus fitly rule the mirth of Yule
Aloft in thy place of pride;
Still usher forth in each land of the north
The solemn Christmas tide.
SHOOTING STARS.
ND . '.hey say that a star presides
Over life " " 'Tis" a truth, my son !
Its secrets from men the firmament hides,
But tells tofcome favored one."
" Shepherd ! they say that a link unbroken
Connects our fate with some favorite star ;
What may yon shooting light betoken,
That falls, falls, and is quenched afar?''
' The death of a mortal, my son, who held
In his banqueting- hall high revel;
And his music was sweet, and his wine excelled,
Life's path seemed long and level :
No sign was given, no word was spoken,
13 is pleasure death comes to mar."
' lint what does yon milder light betoken,
That falls, falls, and is quenched afar > "
- Tis tne knell of beauty ! it marks the close
< M' a pure and gentle maiden ;
And her cheek was warm with its bridal rose,
And her brow with its bride- wreath laden :
The thousand hopes young love had woken
Lie crushed, and her dream is past."
" But what c*n yon rapid light betoken,
That falls, falls, and is quenched so fast?"
* 'Tis the emblem, my son, of quick decay !
'Tis a rich lord's child newly born :
The cradle that holds his inanimate clay,
Gold, purple, and silk adorn ;
The panders pr.-pared through life to haunt him
Must seek some one else in his room."
" Look, now ! what means yon dismal phantom
That falls, falls, and is lost in gl:x>m ?
" There, son ! I see the guilty thought
Of a haughty statesman fail,
Who the poor man's comforts sterr.ly sough \
To plunder or curtail.
His former sycophants have cursed
Their idol's base endeavor."
" But watch the light that now has burst,
Falls, falls, and is quenched forever 1"
" What a loss, my son, was there !
Where shall hunger now seek relief!
The poor, who are gleaners elsewhere,
Could reap in Aw field full sheaf!
On the evening he died, his door
Was thronged with a weeping crowd."
" Look, shepherd ! there's one star more
That falls, and is quenched in a cloud."
"'Tis a monarch's star? Do thou preserve
Thy innocence, my child !
Nor from thy course appointed swerve,
But there shine calm and mild.
Of thy star, if the sterile ray
For no useful purpose shone,
At thy death, 'See that star,' they'd say ;
'It falls 1 falls! is past and gone! ' "
A PANEGYRIC ON GEESE (1810).
I HATE to sing your hackneyed birds
So, doves and swans, a truce !
Your nests have been too often stinod
My hero shall be in a word
A goose.
The nightingale, or else " bulbul,**
By Tommy Moore let loose,
Is grown intolerably dull
/ from the feathered nation cull
A gOOM
Can roasted Philomel a liver
Fit for a pic
260
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
Fat pies that on the Rhine's sweet river
Fair Strasburg bakes. Pray who's the giver ?
A goose !
An ortolan is good to eat,
A partridge is of use ;
But they are scarce whereas you meet
At Paris, ay, in every street,
A goose !
When tired of war the Greeks became,
They pitched Troy to the deuce ;
Ulysses, then, was not to blame
For teaching them the noble " game
Of goose."
May Jupiter and Bonaparte,
Of thunder less profuse,
Suffer their eagles to depart,
Encourage peace, and take to heart
A goose.
ODE TO TIME.
IF my mind's independence one day I'm to sell,
If with Vice in her pestilent haunts I'm to
dwell
Then in mercy, I pray thee, O TIME !
Ere that day of disgrace and dishonor comes on,
Let my life be cut short ! better, better be gone
Than live here on the wages of crime.
But if yet I'm to kindle a flame in the soul
Of the noble and free if my voice can console,
In the day of despondency, some
If I'm destined to plead in the poor man's de-
fence
If my writings can force from the national sense
An enactment of joy for his home:*
Time ! retard thy departure ! and linger awhile
Let m^ " songs" still awake of my mother the
smile
Of my sister the joy, as she sings.
dut, GLORY and VIRTUE ! your care I engage ;
When I'm old when my head shall be silvered
with age,
Come and shelter my brow with your wings !
Mahony alluJas to O'Connell's conduct on the Poor Law for
Lrland.
THE GARRET OF BERANGER.
On ! it was here that Love his gifts bestowed
On youth's wild age !
Gladly once more I seek ray youth's abode,
In pilgrimage :
Here my young mistress with her poet dared
Reckless to dwell :
She was sixteen, I twenty, and we shared
This attic cell.
Yes, 'twas a garret ! be it known to all
Here was Love's shrine ;
There read, in charcoal traced along the wall,
Th' unfinished line
Here was the board where kindred hearts would
blend
The Jew can tell
How oft 1 pawned my watch, to feast a fricn.l
In attic cell !
Oh ! my Lisette's fair form could I recall
With fairy wand ;
There she would blind the window with aer
shawl
Bashful, yet fond.
What though from whom she got her dress I've
since
Learnt but too well,
Still in those days I envied not a prince
In attic cell !
Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst,
'Mid the bright bowls :
Yes, it was here Marengo's triumph first
Kindled our souls.
Bronze cannon roared ; France with redoubled
might
Felt her heart swell.
Proudly we drank our consul's health that night
In attic cell !
Dreams of my joyful youth ! I'd frteiy give,
Ere my life's close,
All the dull days Fm destined yet to live,
For one of those.
Where shall I now find raptures that were felt,
Joys that befell,
And hopes that dawned at tweity, when I dwelt
In attic cell ?
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIOXY.
POLITICAL ECONOMY OF THE GYPSIES.
SONS of witchcraft ! tribe of thieves !
Whom the villager believes
To deal with Satan,
Tell us your customs and your rules :
Whence came ye to this land of fools,
On whom ye fatten ?
" Whence do we come ? Whence comes the swal-
low?
Where does our home lie ? Try to follow
The wild bird's flight,
Speeding from winter's rude approach :
Such home is ours. Who dare encroach
Upon our right ?
Prince we have none, nor gypsy throne,
Nor magistrate nor priest we own,
Nor tax nor claim ;
Blithesome, we wander reckless, free,
And happy two days out of three :
Who'll say the same ?
Away with church-enactments dismal!
We have no liturgy baptismal
When we are born ,
Save the dance under greenwood tree,
And the glad sound of revelry
With pipe and horn.
At our first entrance on this globe,
W T here Falsehood walks in varied robe,
Caprice, and whims,
Sophist or bigot, heed ye this !
The swathing-bands of prejudice
Bound not our limbs.
Well do we ken the vulgar mind,
Ever to Truth and Candor blind,
But led by Cunning;
What rogue can tolerate a brother ?
(;v|sies contend with priests, each other
In tricks outrunning.
Your ' towered cities' please us not ;
But give us some secluded spot,
Far from the millions :
Far from the busy haunts of men,
Ki>e for the night, in shady glen,
Our dark pavilions.
Soon we are off; for we can see
Nor pleasure nor philosophy
In fixed dwelling.
Ours is a life the life of clowns,
Or drones who vegetate in towns,
Far, far excelling!
Paddock and park, fence and inclosure,
We scale with ease and with composure :
'Tis quite delightful !
Such is our empire's mystic charm,
We are the owners of each farm,
More than the rightful.
Great is the folly of the wise,
If on relations he relies,
Or trusts in men;
' Welcome !' they say, to babes born newly,
But when your life is eked out duly,
'Good evening!' then
None among us seeks to illude
By empty boast of brotherhood,
Or false affection ;
Give, when we die, our souls to God,
Our body to the grassy sod,
Or ' for dissection.'
Your noblemen may talk of vassals,
Proud of their trappings and their tassels ;
But never heed them :
Our's is the life of perfect bliss
Freedom is man's best joy, and this
Is PERFECT FREEDOM !"
THE GOD OF BERANGER.
THKRK'S a God whom the poet in silence adore*,
But molests not his throne with iraportuna
prayer ;
For he knows that the evil he sees and abhors,
There is blessing to balance and balm to re-
pair.
But the plan of the Deity beams in the bowl,
And the eyelid of beauty reveals his design :
Oh ! the goblet in hand, I abandon my soul
To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and
wine.
262
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
A.t the door of my dwelling the children of want
Ever find the full welcome its roof can afford.
While the dreams of the rich pain and poverty
haunt,
Peace awaits on my pillow, and joy at my
board.
Let the god of the court other votaries seek
No ! the idol of sycophants never was mine ;
But I worship the God of the lowly and meek,
In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and
wine.
1 have seen die a captive, of courtiers bereft,
Him, the sound of whose fame through our
hemisphere rings ;
I have marked both his rise and his fall : he has
left
The imprint of his heel on the forehead of
kings.
Oh, ye monarchs of Europe ! ye crawled round
his throne
Ye, who now claim our homage, then knelt at
his shrine ;
But I never adored him, but turned me alone
To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and
wine.
The Russians have dwelt in the home of the
Frank ;
In our halls from their mantles they've shaken
the frost ;
Of their war-boots our Louvre has echoed the
clank,
As they pa&sed, in barbarian astonishment lost.
O'er the ruins of France, take, England ! take
pride !
Yet a similar downfall, proud land ! may be
thine ;
But the poet of freedom still, still will confide
In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and
wine.
This planet is doomed, by the priesthood's decree,
To deserved dissolution one day, my friends!
Lo! the hurricane gathers, the bolt is set free,
And the thunder on wings of destruction de-
scends.
Of thy trumpet, archangel, delay not the blast ;
Wake the dead in the graves where their
ashes reoline :
While the poet, unmoved, puts his trust to the
last
In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and
wine.
But away with the nightmare of gloomy fore-
thought !
Let the ghoul Superstition creep back to its
den ;
Oh ! this fair goodly globe, filled with plenty,
was wrought
By a bountiful hand, for the children of mea.
Let me take the full scope of my years as they
roll,
Let me bask in the sun's pleasant rays while
they siiine ;
Then, with goblet in hand, I'll abandon my soul
To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and
wine.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF P. J. DK
BERANGER.
PARIS! gorgeous abode of the gay! Paris!
haunt of despair!
There befell in thy bosom one day an occur
rence most weighty,
At the house of a tailor, my grandfather, under
whose care
I was nursed, in the year of our Lord seven-
teen hundred and eighty.
By no token, 'tis true, did my cradle announce
a young Horace
And the omens were such as might well lead
astray the unwary ;
But with utter amazement one morning my
grandfather, Maurice,
Saw his grandchild reclining asleep in the
arms of a fairy.
And this fairy so handsome
Assumed an appearance so striking,
And for me seemed to take such a liking,
That he knew not what gift he should offer
the dame for my ransom.
Had he previously studied thy Legends, rare
Crofty Croker !
He'd have learnt how to act from thy pages
('tis there that the charm is),
But my guardian's first impulse was rather to
look for the poker,
To rescue his beautiful boy from her hands
vi et armis.
I'OK.MS (F FUANCIS MAHONY
363
Yet he paused in his plan, and adopted a milder
suggestion,
For her attitude, calm and unterrlfied, made
him respect her.
o h thought it was best to be civil, and fairly
to question,
Concerning my prospects in life, the benevo-
lent spectre.
And the fairy, prophetical,
Read my destiny's book in a minute,
With all the particulars in it :
-And its outline she drew with exactitude most
geometrical.
'"His career sball be mingled with pleasure,
though checkered with pain,
And some bright sunny hours shall succeed to
a rigorous winter:
fJee him first a gar$on at a hostelry then, with
disdain
See him spurn that vile craft, and apprentice
himself to a printer.
As n poor university-clerk view him next at his
desk ;
>lart that flash I 1 he will have a most nar-
row escape from the lightning:
But behold after sundry adventures, some bold,
some grotesque,
The horizon clears up, and his prospects appear
to be brightening."
Anc the fairy, caressing
The infant, foretold that, ere long,
He would warble unrivalled in soug ;
All France in the homage which Paris had
paid acquiescing.
44 Yes, the muse has adopted the boy ! Ou his
brow see the laurel !
In his hand 'tis Anacreon's cup! with the
<h'eek he has drank it.
Mark the high-miuded tone of his songs, and
their exquisite moral,
Giving joy to the cottage, and heightening the
blaze of the banquet.
Now the future grows dark see the spectacle
France has become!
'Mid the wreck of his country, the poet, un-
daunted and proud,
Beraiipcr tells us in n note, that In curly life IIP hl well nigh
peris-bed by the electric fluid in n thunder-Sturm. The name is re-
lated of Luther, when at the university. The flash which, In Lu-
iber'i ca.-*-. rbnnged Uic Minimi Into a monk. In Biranger's con-
Terted the tailor noose into a swan.
To the public complaints shall give utterance :
slaves may be dumb,
But he'll ring in the hearing of despots defiance
aloud !"
And the fairy addressing
My grandfather, somewhat astonished,
So mildly my guardian admonished,
That he wept while he vanished away with
smile and a blessing.
MEDITATIONS IN A WINE-CELLAR.
BY THE JESUIT VANIKKE.
" Intrmlnxit tne in cellam vinariam." Song of Solomon, cap
IL v. 4. (Vulgate Version.)
I'VE taught thus far a vineyard how tx> plant,
Wielded the pruning-hook and plied the
hoe,
And trod the grape; now, Father Bacchus,
grant
Entrance to where, in many a goodly row,
You keep your treasures safely lodged below
Well have I earned the privilege I ask ;
Then proudly down the cellar-steps I go :
Fain would I terminate my tuneful ta^k,
Pondering before each pipe, communing with
each cask.
Hail, horrors, hail ! Welcome, Cimmerian cel-
lar !
Of liquid bullion inexhausted mine!
Cumean cave ! no sibyl thy indweller :
Sole Pythoness, the witchery of wine!
Pleased I explore this sanctuary of thine,
A humble votary, whom venturous feet
Have brought into thy subterranean shrine .
Its mysteries I reverently greet,
Pacing these solemn vaults in contemplation
sweet.
Armed with a lantern though the poet walks,
Who dares upon those silent halls intrude,
He coineth not a pupil of GUT FAUX,
O'er treasonable practices to brood
Within this deep and awful solitude;
Albeit LOYOLA claims him for a son,
Yet, with the kindliest sympathies imbued
For every human tiling heaven *hiti's upon,
Nauirht in his bosom beat* but love and l>.-ni<on.
264
POEMS OF FRANCIS MALLOXY.
He knows nor cares not what be other men's
Notions concerning orthodox belief;
Others may seek theology in " DENS,"
He in this grot would rather take a leaf
From Wisdom's book, and of existence brief
Learn not to waste in empty jars the span.
If jars there must-be in this vale of grief,
Let them be full ones; let the flowing can
Reign umpire of disputes, uniting man with man.
'Twere better thus than in collegiate hall,
Where wrangling pedants and dull ponder-
ous tomes
Build up Divinity's dark arsenal,
Grope in the gloom with controversial
gnomes
Geneva's gospel still at war with Rome's :
Better to bury discord and dissent
In the calm cellar's peaceful catacombs,
Than on dogmatic bickerings intent,
1'oison the pleasing hours for man's enjoyment
meant.
Doth yonder cask of BURGUNDY repine
That some prefer his brother of BORDEAUX ?
Is old GARUMNA jealous of the RHINE ?
Gaul, of the grape Germanic vineyards grow?
Doth XERES deem bright LACHRYMA his
foe?
On the calm banks that fringe the blue MO-
SELLE,
On LEMAN'S margin, ou the plains of Po,
Pure from one common sky these dewdrops
fell
Hast thou preserved the juice in purity ? "Tis
well !
Lessons of love, and light, and liberty,
Lurk in these wooden volumes. Free-
dom's code
Lies there and pity's charter. Poetry
And genius make their favorite abode
In double range of goodly puncheons
stowed ;
Whence welling up freely, as from a fount,
The flood of fancy in all time has flowed,
Gushing with more exuberance, I count,
Than from Pierian sprang on Greece's fabled
mount.
School of Athenian eloquence ! did not
Demosthenes, half-tonsured, love to pass
Winters in such preparatory grot,
His topics there in fit array to cla--,
And stores of wit and argument amass f
O
Hath not another Greek of late arisen,
Whose eloquence partaketh of the glass,
Whose nose and tropes with rival radiancv
glisten,
And unto whom the Peers night after night
must listen ?
Say not that wine hath bred dissensions
wars;
Charge not the grape, calumnious, with the
blame
Of murdered Clytus. Lapithae, Centaurs,
Drunkards of every age, will aye defame
The innocent vine to palliate their shame.
Thyrsus, magic wand ! thou mak'st appear
Man in his own true colors vice proclaim.
Its infamy sin its foul figure rear,
Like the recumbent toad touched by Ithuriel's-
spear !
A savage may the glorious sun revile, 1
And shoot his arrows at the god of day;
Th' ungrateful ^Ethiop on thy banks, O Nile f
With barbarous shout and insult may repay
Apollo for his vivifying ray,
Unheeded by the god, whose fiery team
Prances along the sky's immortal way ;
While from his brow, flood-like, the bounte-
ous beam
Bursts on the stupid slaves who gracelessly blas-
pheme.
That savage outcry some attempt to ape,
Loading old Bacchus with absurd abuse ;
But, pitying them, the father of the grape,
And conscious of their intellect obtuse,
Tells them to go (for answer) to the juice ^
Meantime the god, whom fools would fain an-
noy,
Rides on a cask, and, of his wine profuse,
1 Le Nil a vu sur ses rivagos
Leg noirs habitans des doserts
Insulter, par de cris sanvages,
L'astre brillant <le 1'univers.
Cris impuissans! fureurs bizarresl
Tandis que ces monstres tmrbares
1'oussent d'inutiles clameiirs,
Le Dieu, poursuivant sa carrii-ro,
Verso des torrens de luintere
Sur ses obscurs blasphemntears.
jsfranc de
POEMS OK FRANCIS M.MloNY.
Sends up to earth the flood without
Whence round the general globe circles the cup
of joy.
Hard was thy fate, much-injured HYLAS ! whom
The roguish Naiads of the fount entrapped;
Thine was, in sooth, a melancholy doom
In liquid robes for wintry wardrobe wrap-
ped,
And " in Elysium" of spring- water " lapped !"
Better if hither thou hadst been enticed,
Where casks abound and generous wine is
tapped ;
Thou wouldst not feel as now, thy limbs all
iced,
But deem thyself in truth blessed and impara-
dised.
A Roman king the second of the series
NUMA, who reigned upon Mount PALATINE,
Possessed a private grotto called Eyeries ;
Where, being in the legislative line,
He kept an oracle men deemed divine.
What nymph it was from whom his " law " he
got
None ever knew; but jars, that smelt of
wine,
Ilave lat.vly been discovered in a grot
Of that JSyerian vale. Was this the nyrnph ?
God wot.
Here would I dwell ! Oblivious ! ' aye shut
out
Passions and pangs that plague the human
heart,
Content to range this goodly grot throughout,
Loath, like the lotus-eater, to depart,
Deeming this cave of joy the genuine mart;
CELLAR, though dark and dreary, yet I weeu
Depot of brightest intellect thou ;irt.
Calm reservoir of sentiment serene !
Miscellany of mind' wit's GLORIOUS MAGAZINE.
LINES ON A MOTH-EATEN BOOK.
FROM THE LATIN OF BEZA.
THK soldier soothes in his behalf
Bellona, with a victim calf;
1 "QuittoM ce lieu oil ma raison s'onlvrc." R
Th- farmer's fold victims '.\Ii mst
Ceres must have her holocaust :
And shall the bard alone ret;
A votive offering to his nui>c,
Proving the only uncompliant,
Unmindful, and ungrateful client?
What gift, what sacrifice select,
May best betoken his respect?
Stay, let me think O, happy notion !
What can denote more true devotion,
What victim gave more pleasing odor,
Than yon small grub, yon wee corruder,
Of sluggish gait, of shape uncouth,
With Jacobin destructive tooth ?
Ho, creeper ! thy last hour is come ;
Be thou the muses' hecatomb! 1
With whining tricks think not to gull us:
Have I not caught thee in Catullus,
Converting into thy vile marrow
His matchless ditty on " the Sparrow ! "
Of late, thy stomach had been partial
To sundry tit-bits out of Martial ;
Nay, I have traced thee, insect kecn-tvuu !
Through the fourth book of Maro's "^Kncic
On vulgar French couldst not thou fallen.
And curb thy appetite for Latin ?
Or, if thou wouldst take Latin from us,
Why not devour Duns Scot and Thomas?
Might not the "Digest" and "Decretals"
Have served thee, varlet, for thy victuals f
Victim! come forth ! crawl from thy nuok !
Fit altar be this injured book ;
Caitiff! 'tis vain slvlv to simulate
Torpor and death ; thee this shall immolate
This penknife, fitting guillotine
To shed a bookworm's blood obscene '.
Nor can the poet better mark his
Zeal for the muse than on thy carcass.
The deed is done ! the insect Goth
Unmourned (save by maternal moth),
Slain without mercy or remorse,
Lies there, a melancholy corse.
The page he had profaned 'tis meet
Should be the robber's winding-sheet;
While for the deed the muse decrees u
Wreath of her brightest bays to BK/. v.
* Quart, Hck, tome T PrinUr't
2G6
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
THE FOUNTAIN OF ST. NAZARO.
FKOM THE LATIN OF SANN'AZAR.
THE HE'S a fount at the foot of Pausilipe's hill,
Springing up on our bay's sunny margin,
And the mariner loveth his vessel to fill
At this fount, of which I am the guardian.
""Tis the gem of my villa, the neighborhood's
boast,
And with pleasure and pride I preserve it;
Fur alone it wells out, while the vine-covered
coast
In the summer lies panting and fervid.
When the plains are all parched, a^d the rivers
run low,
Then a festival comes I love dearly :
Here, with goblet in hand, my devotion I show
To the day of my birth that comes yearly.
''Tis the feast of my patron, NAZARO the Saint ;
Nor for aught that fond name would I barter :
To this fount I have fixed that fond name, to ac-
quaint
All mankind with my love for the martyr.
He's the tutelar genius of me and of mine,
And to honor the saints is my motto :
Unto him I devoted this well, and a shrine
Unto him I have built in the grotto.
There his altar devoutly with shells I have
decked
I have decked it with crystal and coral ;
And have strewed all the pavement with branches
select
Of the myrtle, the pine, and the laurel.
By the brink of this well will I banquet the day
Of my birth, on its yearly recurring;
Then at eve, when the bonny breeze wrinkles the
bay,
And the leaves of the citron are stirring,
Beneath my calm dwelling before I repair,
To the Father of mercy addressing,
In a spirit of thankfulness, gratitude's prayer,
I'll invoke on his creatures a blessing.
And long may the groves of Pausilipe shade
By this fount, holy martyr, thy client :
Thus long may he bless thee for bountiful aid,
And remain on thy bounty reliant.
To thy shrine shall the maids of Parthenope
bring
Lighted tapers, in yearly procession ;
While the pilgrim hereafter shall visit this spring
7*0 partake of the Saint's intercession.
PETRARCA'S DREAM.
(AFTER THE DEATH OF LAURA.)
SHE has not quite forgotten me; her shade
My pillow still doth haunt,
A nightly visitant,
To soothe the sorrows that herself had made :
And thus that spirit blessed,
Shedding sweet influence o'er my hour of rest,
Hath healed my woes, and all my love repaid.
Last night, with holy calm,
She stood before my view,
And from her bosom drew
A wreath of laurel and a branch of pairs :
And said, "To comfort thee,
O child of Italy !
From my immortal home,
Petrarca, I am come," etc., etc.
ON SOLAR ECLIPSES.
(A NEW THEORY.)
For the use of the London University.
ALL heaven, I swear by Styx that rolls
Its dark flood round the land of souls !
Shall play this day at "Blind man's bull'.
Come, make arrangements on the spot;
Prepare the 'kerchief, draw the lot
So Jove commands ! Enough !
Lot fell on SOL : the stars were struck
At such an instance of ill luck.
Then Luna forward came,
And bound with gentle, modest hand,
O'er his bright brow the muslin band ;
Hence mortals learned the game.
1'OEMS OF FKANV1S M.MK'NV
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT.
A BALLAD.
THJRU'S a legend that's told of a gypsy who
dwelt
In the land where the Pyramids be ;
Aud her robe was embroidered with stars, and
her belt
With devices, right wondrous to see :
And she lived in the days when our Lord was a
child
On his mother's immaculate breast;
When he fled from his foes when to Egypt
exiled,
He went down with St. Joseph the blessed.
This Egyptian held converse with rnagic, me-
thinks,
And the future was given to her gaze;
For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinx
On her threshold kept vigil always.
She was pensive and ever alone, nor was seen
In the haunts of the dissolute crowd ;
But communed with the ghosts of the Pharaohs,
I ween,
Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud.
And there carne an old man from the desert one
day,
With a maid on a mule, by that road ;
And a child on her bosom reclined and the way
Led them straight to the gypsy's abode:
And they seemed to have travelled a wearisome
path,
From their home many, many a league
From a tyrant's pursuit, from an enemy's wrath,
Spent with toil, and o'ercome with fatigue.
Aud the gypsy came forth from her dwelling,
.11 nl prayed
That the pilgrims would rest them a \\hile;
And she offered her couch to that delicate maid,
Who had come many, many a mile;*
And siie fondled the babe with affection's caress,
And she begged the old man would repose ;
* Here the stranger," she said, "ever finds free
access,
And the wanderer balra for his woes."
H n her guests from the glare of the noonday
t-li" led
To a seat iu her grotto so cool ;
Where she spread them a banquet of fruit* and
a shed,
With a manger, was found for the mule ;
With the wine of the palm-tree, with the date-
newly culled,
All the toil of the road she beguiled,
And with song in a language mysterious she
lulled
On her bosom the wayfaring child.
When the gypsy anon in her Ethiop hand
Placed the infant's diminutive palm,
Oh, 'twas fearful to see how the features she
scanned
Of the babe in his slumber so calm.
Well she note<l each mark and each furrow thai
crossed
O'er the tracings of destiny's line :
" WHENCE CAME YE?'' she cried, in astonishmen
lost,
"Foit THIS CHILD IS OF LINEAGE DIVINE !"
"From the village of Nazareth," Joseph replied,
" Where we dwelt in the land of the Jew ;
We have fled from a tyrant, whose garment
dyed
In the gore of the children he slew.
We were told to remain till an angel's com-
mand
Should appoint us the hour to return ;
But till then we inhabit the foreigner's land,
And in Egypt we make our sojourn."
"Then ye tarry with rne !" cried the gypsy ii.
jy
" And ye make of ray dwelling your home :
Many years have I prayed that the Israelite
boy
(Blessed hope of the Gentiles!) would come."
An<l she kissed both the feet of the infant, and
kn.-lt.
And adored him at once; then a smile
Lit the face of his mother, who cheerfully dwelt
With her host on the banks of the Nile.
268
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
THE VEIL. AN ORIENTAL DIALOGUE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.
"Have you prayed to-night, D^sdemona ?" SHAKKSPKARK.
THE SISTEK.
WHAT has happened, my brothers ? Your spirit
to-day
Some secret sorrow damps:
There's a cloud on your brow. What has hap-
pened ? oh, say !
For your eyeballs glare out with a sinister ray,
Like the light of funeral lamps.
The blades of your poniards are half-unsheathed
In your zone and ye frown on me !
There's a woe untold, there's a pang unbreathed,
In your bosom, my brothers three!
ELDEST BROTHER.
Gulnara. make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn,
To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn ?
THE SISTER.
Ae I came, O my brothers ! at noon from the
bath-
As I came it was noon my lords
And your sister had then, as she constantly hath,
Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the
path
Is beset by these foreign hordes.
But the weight of the noonday's sultry hour
Near the mosque was so oppressive,
That forgetting a moment the eye of the
Giaour
I yielded to heat excessive.
SECOND BROTHER.
Gulnara, make answer ! Whom, then, hast thou
seen,
In a turban of white, and a caftan of green ?
THE SISTER.
Nay, he might have been there; but I muffled
me so,
He could scarce have seen my figure.
But why to your sister thus dark do you grow ?
What words to yourselves do yo mutter thus
low,
Of "blood," and "an intriguer?"
Oh ! ye cannot of murder bring down the red
guilt
On your souls, my brothers, surely !
Though I fear from your hand that I see ji. the
hilc,
And the hints you give obscurely.
THIRD BROTHZk.
Gulnara! this evening when sank clic red suu,
Hast thou marked how like blood in descending
it shone ?
Mercy ! Allah ! three daggers ! have pity ! oh,
spare !
See ! I cling to your knees repenting !
Kind brothers, forgive me ! for mercy, forbear !
Be appeased at the voice of a sister's despair,
For your mother's sake relenting.
God ! must I die ? They are deaf to my cries
Their sister's life-blood shedding:
They have stabbed me again and I faint o'e*
my eyes
A VEIL OF DEATH is spreading !
ELDEST BROTHER.
Guluara, farewell ! take that veil ; 'tis the gift
Of thy brothers a veil thou wilt never lit'tl
THE BRIDE OF THE CYMBALEER.
A BALLAD FROM VICTOR HUGO.
" My liege, the Duke of Brittany.
Has summoned his vassals ail,
The list is a lengthy litany !
Nor 'mong them shall ye meet any
But lords of land and hall.
Barons, who dwell in donjon-keep,
And mail-clad count and peer,
Whose fief is fenced with fosse deep*
But none excel in soldiership
My own loved cymbalcer.
Clashing his cymbals forth he went,
With a bold and gallant bearing;
Sure for a captain he was meant,
TORMS OF FRANCIS MAIK'NY
209
To judge from bis accoutrement,
And the cloth of gold li'-'s wearing.
But in ray soul since then I feel
A fear, in secret creeping ;
And to Saint Bridget oft I kneel,
That she may recommend his weal
To his guardian angel's keeping
I've begged our abbot, Bernard ine,
His prayers not to relax ;
And, to procure him aid divine,
I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine
Three pounds of virgin wax,
Our Lady of Loretto knows
The pilgrimage I vowed :
To wenr the scollop I propose,
If health and safety from the foes
My Lover it allowed.
No letter (fond affection's gage !)
From him could I require,
The pain of absence to assuage
A vassal-maid can have no page,
A liegeman has no squire.
This day will witness, with the duke's
My cyrabaleer's return :
Gladness and pride beam in my looks,
Delay my heart impatient brooks,
All meaner thoughts I spurn.
Back from the battle-field elate,
His banner brings each peer;
Come, let us see, at the ancient gate,
The martial triumph pass in state,
And the duke and my cymbaleer.
We'll see from the rampart-walls of Nautz
What an air his horse assumes;
His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance,
And on his head unceasing dance,
In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes!
!>(- ijuiek, my sisters! dress in haste!
Come, see him bear the bell,
With laurels decked, with true-love graced;
While in his bold hand, fitly placed,
The bounding cymbals swell !
ark well the mantle that he'll wear,
Embroidered by his bride :
Admire his burnished helmet's glare,
O'ershadowed by the dark horse- hair
That waves in jet folds wide '
The gypsy (spiteful wench !) foretold
With voice like a viper hissing
(Though I had crossed her palm with gold),
That from the ranks a spirit bold
Would be to day found missing.
But I have prayed so hard, I trust
Her words may prove untrue ;
Though in her cave the hag accursed
Muttered u Prepare thee for the loorst ?"
With a face of ghastly hue.
My joy her spells shall not prev.-nt.
Hark ! I can hear the drums !
And ladies fair from silken tent
Peep forth, and every eye is bent
On the cavalcade that comes
Pikemen, dividing on both flanks,
Open the pageantry ;
Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks,
And silk-robed barons lead the ranks.
The pink of gallantry.
In scarfs of gold, the priests admire ;
The heralds on white steeds;
Armorial pride decks their attire,
Worn in remembrance of a sire
Famed for heroic deeds.
Feared by the Paynim's dark divan,
The Templars next advance ;
Then the brave bowmen of Lausanne,
Foremost to stand in battle's van,
Against the foes of France.
Next comes the duke with radiant brow.
Girt with bis cavaliers ;
Round his triumphant banner bow
Those of the foe. Look, sisters, now !
Now come the oymbaleers !"
She spoke with searching eye survey.' i
Their ranks then pale, aghast,
Sunk in the crowd! Death came in aid
'Twas mercy to that gentle maid:
Tlie cymbalecrs had pawd .'
270
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAUONY
THE MILITARY PROFESSION
IN FRANCE.
OH, the pleasant life a soldier leads !
Let the lawyer count his fees,
Let old women tell their beads,
Let each booby squire breed cattle, if he please.
Far better 'tis, I think,
To make love, fight, and drink.
Odds boddekin !
Such life makes a man to a god akin.
Do we enter any town ?
The portcullis is let down,
And the joy-bells are rung by municipal author-
ity ;
The gates are opened wide,
And the city-keys presented us beside,
Merely to recognize our vast superiority.
The married citizens, 'tis ten to one,
Would wish us fairly gone;
But we stay while it suits our good pleasure.
Then each eve, at the rising of the moon,
The fiddler strikes up a merry tune,
We meet a buxom partner full soon,
And we foot it to a military measure.
[ Chorus of drums.
When our garrison at last gets " the route,"
Who can adequately tell
The regret of the fair all the city throughout,
And the tone with which they bid us ''fare-
well ? "
Their tears would make a flood -a perfect river :
And, to soothe her despair,
Each disconsolate maid entreats of us to give her,
Ere we go, a single lock of our hair.
Alas ! it is not often
That my heart can soften
Rosponsive to the feelings of the fair.
[ Chorus of drums
On a march, when our gallant divisions
In the country make a halt,
Think not that we limit our provisions
To Paddy's fare, " potatoes and salt."
Could such beggarly cheer
Ever answer a French grenadier?
No ! we send a dragoon guard
To each neighboring farmyard,
To collect the choicest pickings
Turkeys, sucking-pigs, and chickens.
For why should mere rustic rapscallions
Fatten on such tit-bits,
Better suited to the spits
Of our hungry and valorous battalions '
But, oh ! at our return
To our dear native France,
Each village in its turn,
With music, and wine, and merry dance,
Forth on our joyful passage comes ;
And the pulse of each heart beats time to the
drums.
[ Chorus of drums.
Oh, the merry life a soldier leads !
TIME AND LOVE.
OLD TIME is a pilgrim with onward course
He journeys for months, for years ;
But the trav'ller to-day must halt perforce
Behold, a broad river appears !
"Pass me over," Time cried ; "Oh ! tarry not,
For I count each hour with my glass ;'
Ye, whose skiff is moored to yon pleasant spot
Young maidens, old TIME come pass!"
Many maids saw with pity, upon the bank,
The old man with his glass in grief;
Their kindness, he said, he would ever thank,
If they'd row him across in their skiff.
While some wanted LOVE to unmoor the bark,
One wiser in thought sublime :
" Oft shipwrecks occur," was the maid's remark,
" When seeking to pass old TIME ! "
From the strand the small skiff LOVE pushed
afloat
lie crossed to the pilgrim's side,
And taking old TIME in his well-trimmed boat,
Dipped his oars in the flowing tide.
Sweetly he sung as he worked at the oar,
And this was his merry song
'You see, young maidens who crowd the shore,
IIow with LOVE Time passes along ?"
But soon the poor boy of his task grew tired,
As he often had been before ;
And faint from his toil, for mercy desired
Father TIME to take up the oar.
POEMS OF 1-UANC1S MAllnNY
271
In lr'/ ,nrn grown tuneful, the pilgrim old
With ihe paddles resumed the lay ;
-Hv he changed it and sung, " Young maids,
Behold
Hotv with TJUE Love passes away !"
PETRARCA'S ADDRESS
TO THB SUMMER HAUNT OF LAURA.
SWEET fountain of Vaucluse !
The virgin freshness of whose crystal bed
The ladye, idol of my soul ! hath led
Within thy wave her fairy bath to choose !
And thou, O favorite tree !
Whose branches she loved best
To shade her hour of rest
Her own dear native land's green mulberry!
Uoses, whose earliest bud
To her sweet bosom lent
Fragrance and ornament!
Zephyrs, who fan the murmuring flood !
Cool grove, sequestered grot !
Here in this lovely spot
I pour my last sad lay, where first her love I
wooed.
If soon my earthly woes
Must slumber in the tomb,
And if my life's sad doom
Must so in sorrow close !
.Where yonder willow grows
Close by the margin lay
My cold and lifeless clay,
That unrequited love may find repose !
Seek thou thy native realm,
My soul ! and when the fear
* Of dissolution near,
And doubts shall overwhelm,
A ray of comfort round
My dying couch shall hover,
If some kind hand will cover
My miserable bones in yonder hallowed ground !
But still alive for her
Oft may my ashes greet
The sound of coming feet !
And Laura's tread gladden ray sepulchre!
Relenting on my grave,
My mi>tre*s may, perchance,
With one kind pitying glan.-.-
Honor the dust of her devoted slave.
Then may she intercede,
With prayer and sigh, for one
^ ho, hem:.- forever gone,
Of mercy stands in need ;
And while for me hnr rosary -h- i,-||>,
May her uplifted eyes
Win pardon from the skies,
While angels through her veil behold the tear
that swells!
Visions of love ! ye dwell
In memory still enshrined.
Here, as she once reclined,
A shower of blossoms on her bosom fell '.
And while th' enamored tree
From all its branches thus
Rained odoriferous,
She sat, unconscious, all humility.
Mixed with her golden hair, those blossoms sweet
Like pearls on amber seemed ;
Some their allegiance deemed
Due to her floating robe and lovely feet :
Others, disporting, took
Their course adown the brook :
Others aloft, wafted in airy sport,
Seemed to proclaim, ''To-day Love holds hi*
merry court ! "
I've gazed upon thee, jewel beyond price !
Till from my inmost soul
This secret whisper stole
"Of Earth no child art thou, daughter of Para-
dise ! "
Such sway thy beauty held
O'er the enraptured sense,
And such the influence
Of winning smile and form unparalleled !
And I would marvel then
"How came I here, and when,
Wafted by magic wand,
Earth's narrow joys beyond ? "
Oh, I shall ever count
Mj happiest days spent here b '.his roinant c
fount!
272
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
THE PORCH OF HELL.
(DANTE.)
"Seeft we tfie patl) traced bye tlje torattj of (Got) for
sfnfitll mortals ?
>f Hie reprobate tl)fs fs tlje sjate, tljese are tlje
portals,
jfor siune niitJ crime from tfie bt'rtl) of tinue
t fit's (GulpI) infernal.
Ofitest! let al! ?J$ope on tfifs tljcesljolu stop! 1)ere
refgns Despau Hternal."
I HEAD with tears these characters tears shed
on man's behalf;
Sach word seemed fraught with painful thought,
the lost soul's epitaph.
Turning dismayed, "0 mystic shade!" I cried,
"my kindly Mentor,
Of comfort, say, can no sweet ray these dark
dominions enter? "
* My son!" replied the ghostly guide, "this is
the dark abode
Of the guilty dead alone they tread hell's mel-
ancholy road.
Brace up thy nerves! this hour deserves that
Mind should have control,
And bid avaunt fears that would haunt the clay-
imprisoned soul.
Mine be the task, when thou shall ask, each mys-
tery to solve ;
Aaon for us dark Erebus back shall its gates re-
volve
Hell shall disclose its deepest woes, each punish-
ment, each pang,
Saint hath revealed, or eye beheld, or flame-
tongued prophet sang."
Gates were unrolled of iron mould a dismal
dungeon yawned!
We passed we stood 'twas hell we viewed
eternity had dawned !
Space on our sight burst infinite echoes were
heard remote;
Shrieks loud and drear startled our ear, ami
stripes incessant smote.
Onward we went. The firmament was starless
o'er our head,
Spectres swept by inquiringly clapping their
hands thev flee 1
Borne on the blast strange whispers passed ; and
ever and anon
Athwart the plain, like hurricane, God's ven-
geance would come on !
Then sounds, breathed low, of gentler woe soft
on our hearing stole ;
Captives so meek fain would I seek to comfort
and console :
" Oh, let us pause and learn the cause of so much
grief, and why
Saddens the air of their despair the unavailing
sigh!"
" My son ! Heaven grants them utterance in
plaintive notes of woe ;
In tears their grief may find relief, but hence
they never go.
Fools ! they believed that if they lived blameless
and vice eschewed, '
God would dispense with excellence, and give
beatitude.
They died ! but naught of virtue brought to win
their Maker's praise ;
No deeds of worth the page set forth thatchron
icled their days.
Fixed is their doom eternal gloom ! to mourn
for what is past,
And weep aloud amid that crowd witb whom
their lot is cast.
One fate they share with spirits fair, who, when
rebellion shook
God's holy roof, remained aloof, nor part what-
ever tookj
Drew not the sword against their Lord, nor yet
upheld his throne:
Could God for this make perfect bliss theirs when
the fight was won ?
The world knows not their dreary lot, nor can
assuage their pangs,
Or cure the curse of fell remorse, or blunt the
tiger's fangs.
Mercy disdains to loose their chains the hour
of grace has been !
Son ! let that class unheeded pass unwept
though not unseen."
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
273
A TRUE BALLAD,
CONTAINING TUB PLIOIIT OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, WITH THI
LOBS OP BIB SWORD, III8 HAT. AND IMPERIAL BATON, BESIDES A
WOUND IN THE HEAD ; THE GOOD LUCK OF TUB PRUSSIANS IN
OETTINO HOLD OF BIB VALUABLES. IN DIAMONDS AND OTHER
PROPERTY; ANP LASTLY, THE IIAPI-Y ENTRY OF BIS MAJESTY,
LOUIS DIX-UUIT, INTO PARIS.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF NICODEMU8 LKKMIL.
TUNE " On Linden when."
WHEN Bonaparte, overcome,
Fled from the sound of Prussian drum,
Aghast, discomfited, and dumb,
Wrapped in his roquelaure,
To wealth and power he bade adieu
Affairs were looking Prussic blue:
In emblematic tatters flew
The glorious tricolor.
What once had seemed fixed as a rock
Had now received a fatal shock,
And he himself had got a knock
From a Cossack on the head.
Gjne was his hat, lost was his hope;
The hand, that once had smote the Pope,
Had even dropped its telescope
In the hurry as he fled.
Old Blucher's' corps a capture made
Of his mantle, sabre, and cockade ;
Which in " Rag Fair" would, "from the trade,"
No doubt a trifle fetch.
But though the Prussians ('tis confessed)
Of all his wardrobe got the best
(Besides the military chest),
Himself they could not catch.
He's gone somewhere beyond the seas,
To expiate his rogueries :
King Louis in the Tuileries
Has recommenced to reign.
Gladness pervades the allied camps,
And naught the public triumph damps;
But every house is lit with lamps,
E'en in each broken pane.
Paris is one vast scene of joy ;
And all her citizens employ
Their throats in shouting Vive le roi!
Amid the roar of cannon.
Oh ! when they saw the " blanc drapeau "
Once more displayed, they shouted no
You could have heard them from the Po,
Or from the banks of Shannon.
Gadzooks ! it was, upon my fay,
An European holiday ;
And the land laughed, and all were gay,
Except the sans culottes.
You'd see the people playing cards,
And gay grisettes and dragoon guard*
Dancing along the boulevards
Of brandy there were lots.
Now, Bonaparte and Murat,
My worthy heroes ! after that,
I'd like to know what you'll be at
I think you must feel nervous.
Perhaps you are not so besotted
As to be cutting the "carotid"
But there's the horsepond ! there, odd rot it !
From such an end preserve us !
THE WINECUP BESPOKEN.
FHOM THE ITALIAN OF CLAUDIO TOLOMEI.
AIR" One bumper at pm-ting."
GREAT Vulcan ! your dark smoky palace,
With these ingots of silver, I seek ;
And 1 beg you will make me a chalice*,
Like the cup you once forged for the Greek.
Let no deeds of Bellona "the bloody"
Emblazon this goblet of mine ;
But a garland of grapes, ripe and ruddy,
In sculpture around it entwine.
The festoon (which you'll gracefully model)
Is, remember, but part of the whole ;
Lest, perchance, it might enter your noddle
To diminish the size of the bowl.
For though dearly what's deemed ornamental,
And of art the bright symbols, I prize;
Still I cling with a fondness parental
Hound a cup of th* true good old size.
274
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
Let me have neither sun, moon, nor planet,
Nor the Bear," nor " the Twins," nor " the
Goat :"
Yet its use to each eye that may scan it,
Let a glance at its emblems denote.
Then away with Minerva and Venus !
Not a rush for them both do I care ;
But let jolly old Father Silenus,
Astride on his jackass, be there !
Let a dance of gay satyrs, in cadence
Disporting, be seen 'mid the fruit ;
A.nd let Pan to a group of young maidens
Teach a new vintage-lay on his flute ;
Cupid, too, hand in hand with Bathyllus,
May purple his feet in the foatn :
Long may last the red joys they distil us !
Though Love spread his winglets to roam !
VILLAGE SONG.
HUSBANDS, they tell me, gold hath won
More than aught else beside:
Gold I have none ; can I find one
To take me for his bride ?
Yet who knows
How the wind blows
. Or who can say
I'll not find one to-day ?
I can embroider, I can sew
A husband I could aid ;
I have no dowry to bestow
Must I remain a maid ?
Yet who knows
How the wind blows
Or who can say
I'll not find one to-day ?
A simple maid I've been too long
A husband I would find ;
But then to ask no! that were wrong;
So I must be resigned.
Yet who knows
How the wind blows
Or who can say
I'll not find one to-day ?
THE VISION OF PETRARCA.
A FORM I saw with secret awe nor ken I what
it warns ;
Pure as the snow, a gentle doe it seemed with
silver horns.
Erect she stood, close by a wood between two
running streams ;
And brightly shone the morning sun upon that
land of dreams.
The pictured hind fancy designed glowing with
love and hope ;
Graceful she stepped, but distant kept, like the
timid antelope ;
Playful, yet coy with secret joy her image
filled my soul ;
And o'er the sense soft influence of sweet obliv-
ion stole.
Gold I beheld and emerald on the collar that
she wore ;
Words too but theirs were characters of legen-
dary lore :
" Caesar's fcecree liatlj maUe me free; anU tijrougl) Iji*
solemn cl)ar0e,
aSutoucbetJ b men o'ev Ijfll anD flleu K toauUer Ijere
at large."
The sun had now with radiant brow climbed his
meridian throne,
Yet still mine eye untiringly gazed on that lovely
one.
A voice was heard quick disappeared my dream.
The spell was broken.
Then came distress to the consciousness of life
I had awoken.
A VENETIAN BARCAROLLE.
" PRITHEE, young fisherman, come over-
Hither thy light bark bring ;
Row to this bank, and try recover
My treasure 'tis a ring!"
The fisher-boy of Como's lake
His bonny boat soon brought her,
And promised for her beauty's sake
To search beneath the water.
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAUONY.
275
" I'll give thee," said the ladye fair,
"One hundred sequins bright,
If to my villa thou wilt bear,
Fisher, that ring to-night."
44 A hundred sequins I'll refuse
When I shall come at eve :
But there is something, if you choose,
Lady, that you can give ! "
The ring was found beneath the flood ;
Nor need my lay record
What was that lady's gratitude,
What was that youth's reward.
ODE TO THE WIG OF FATHER BOSCO-
VICH,
T11B CKLKItKATlVU A8TKONOMBK.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF JULIUS CAESAR CORDAKA.
WITH awe I look on that peruke,
Where Learning is a lodger,
And think, whene'er I see that hair
Which now you wear, 'some ladye fair
Had worn it once, dear Roger !
On empty skull most beautiful
Appeared, no doubt, those locks,
Once the bright grace of pretty face ;
Now far more proud to be allowed
To deck thy u knowledge-box."
Condemned to pass before the glass
Whole hours each ble&sed morning,
'Twas desperate long, with curling-long
And tortoise-shell, to have a belle
Thee frizzing and adorning.
Bright ringlets set as in a net,
To catch us men like fishes !
Your every lock concealed a stock
Of female wares love's pensive cares,
Vain dreams, and futile wishes!
That chevelure has caused, I'm sure,
Full many a lover's quarrel ;
Then it was decked with flowers select
And myrtle-sprig : but now a wio,
'Tis circled with a laurel !
Wli.-ri! troli and new at first they givw,
Of whims, and tricks, and fancies,
Those locks at best were but a nest :
Their being spread on learned head
Vastly their worth enhances
From flowers exempt, uncouth, unkempt
Matted, entangled, thick !
Mourn not the loss of curl or gloss
'Tis infra dig. THOU ART THE wio
OF ROGER BOSCOVICH !
THE INTRUDER.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MENZIX1.
THERE'S a goat in the vineyard ! an unbidden
guest
He comes here to devour and to trample ;
If he keep not aloof, I must make, I protest,
Of the trespassing rogue an example.
Let this stone, which I fling at his ignorant head,
Deep impressed in his skull leave its moral
That a four-footed beast 'mid the vines should
not tread,
Nor attempt with great Bacchus to quarrel.
Should the god on his car, to which tigers are
yoked,
Chance to pass and espy such a scandal,
Quick he'd mark his displeasure most justly
provoked
At the sight of this four-footed Vandal.
To encounter his wrath, or be found on his path,
In the spring when his godship is sober,
Silly goat ! would be rash and you fear not the
lash
Of the god in the month of October.
In each bunch, thus profaned by an insolent
tooth,
There has perished a goblet of nectar ;
Fitting vengeance will follow those gamboU
uncouth,
For the grape has a jealous protector.
On the altar of Bacchus a victim must bleed,
To avert a more serious disaster ;
Lest the ire of the deity visit the deed
Of the goat on his negligent master.
276
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY
A SERENADE.
BY VITTOHELLI.
L*AI,E to-night is the disk of the moon, and of
azure unmixed
Is the bonny blue sky it lies on ;
And silent the stream-let, and hushed is the
zephyr, and fixed
Is each star in the calm horizon ;
And the hamlet is lulled to repose, and all na-
ture is still
How soft, how mild her slumbers!
And naught but the nightingale's note is awake,
and the thrill
Of his sweetly plaintive numbers.
His song wakes an echo ! it comes from the
neighboring grove
Love's sweet responsive anthem !
Lady ! list to the vocalist ! Dost thou not envy
his love,
And the joys his mate will grant him ?
Oh, smile on thy lover to-night! let a transient
hope
Ease the heart with sorrow laden :
From yon balcony wave the fond signal a mo-
ment and ope
Thy casement, fairest maiden.
THE REPENTANCE OF PETRARCA.
BRIGHT days of sunny youth, irrevocable years,
Period of manhood's prime!
O'er thee I shed sad but unprofitable tears
Lapse of returnless time.
ObJ I have cast away, like so much worthless
dross,
Hours of most precious ore
Blessed hours I could have coined for heaven,
your loss
Forever I'll deplore !
Contrite I kneel, God inscrutable, to thee,
High heaven's immortal King!
Thou gavest me a soul that to thy bosom free
Might soar on seraph wing :
My mind with gifts and grace thy bounty had
endowed
To cherish Thee alone
Those gifts I have abused, this heart I have
allowed
Its Maker to disown.
But from his wanderings reclaimed, with full,
with throbbing heart
Thy truant has returned :
Oh ! be the idol and the hour that led him to
depart
From Thee, forever mourned.
If I have dwelt remote, if I have loved the tents
of guilt
To thy fond arms restored,
Here let me die ! On whom can my eternal
hopes be built,
SAVE UPON THEE, O LORD !
of
Horace, in one small volume, shows us what it it
To blend together every kind of talent;
Ti|a bazaar for all sorts of commodities,
To suit the grave, the sad, the brave, the gallant :
He deals in songs and "sermons," whims and odditie
I'.y turns is philosophic and pot-valiant,
And not unfrequently with sarcasm slaughters
The vulgar insolence of coxcomb authors.
ODE I. To MEC^ENAS.
" Mfcnas ! atavis edite regibus," etc.
Mr FRIEND and PATRON, in whose veins runneth
right royal blood,
Give but to some the HIPPODROME, the car, the
prancing stud,
Clouds of Olympic dust then mark what ecstasy
of soul
Their bosom feels, as the rapt wheels glowing
have grazed the goal.
Talk not to them of diadem or sceptre, save the
whip
A branch of palm can raise them to the GODS'
companionship.
And there be some, my friend, for whom the
crowd's applause is food,
Who pine without the hollow shout of ROME'S
mad multitude ;
Others, whose giant greediness whole provinces
would drain
Their sole pursuit to gorge and glut huge gran-
aries with grain.
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
277
Yon homely hind, calmly resigned his narrow
farm to plod,
Seek not with ASIA'S wealth to wean from his
paternal sod :
\ e can't prevail ! no varnished tale that simple
swain will urge,
In galley built of CYPRUS oak, to plough th'
Ki; KAN surge.
Your merchant-mariner, who sighs for fields and
quiet home,
While o'er the main the hurricane howls round
his path of foam,
Will make, I trow, full many a vow, the deep
for aye t' eschew.
He lands what then? Pelf prompts again
his ship 's afloat anew !
Soft Leisure hath its votaries, whose bliss it is to
bask
In summer's ray the live-long day, quaffing a
mellow flask
Under the green-wood tree, or where, but newly
born as yet,
Religion guards the cradle of the infant rivulet.
Some love the camp, the horseman's tramp, the
clarion's voice ; aghast
Pale mothers hear the trumpeter, and loathe the
murderous blast.
Lo! under wintry skies his game the Hunter
still pursues;
And, while his bonny bride with tears her lonely
bed bedews,
He for his antlered foe looks out, or tracks the
forest whence
Broke the wild boar, whose daring tusk levelled
the fragile fence.
THEE the pursuits of learning claim a claim the
gods allow ;
Thine is the ivy coronal that decks the scholar's
brow:
ME in the woods' deep solitudes the Nymphs a
client count,
The dancing FAUN on the green lawn, the NAIAD
of the fount.
For me her lute (sweet attribute!) let POLVHYM-
NIA sweep ;
For me, oh 1 let the flageolet breathe from Eu
TERPE'S lip;
Give but to me of poesy the lyric wreath, and
'then
Th' immortal halls of bliss won't hokl a prouder
denizen.
ODE II.
- Jam satis terrls nivis stquc <lir Grandinls," etc.
SINCE JOVK decreed in storms to vent
The winter of his discontent,
Thundering o'er ROME impenitent
With red right hand,
The flood-gates of the firmament,
Have drenched the land !
Terror hath seized the minds of men,
Who deemed the days had come again
When PROTEUS led, up mount and glen,
And verdant lawn,
Of teeming ocean's darksome den
The monstrous spawn.
When PYRRHA saw the ringdove's nest
Harbor a strange unbidden guest,
And, by the deluge dispossessed
Of glade and grove
Deers down the tide, with antlered crest,
Affrighted drove.
WE saw the yellow TIBER, sped
Back to his Tuscan fountain-head,
O'erwhelm the sacred and the dead
In one fell doom,
And VESTA'S pile in ruins spread,
And NUMA'S tomb.
breaming of days that once had been,
lie deemed that wild disastrous scene
Might soothe his ILLA, injured queen !
And comfort give her,
Reckless though JOVK should intervene,
Uxorious river !
Our sons will ask, why men of ROIIK-
Drew against kindred, friends, and hum
Swords that a Persian hecatomb
Might best imbue
278
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONt.
Sons, by their fathers' feuds become
Feeble and few !
Whom can our country call in aid ?
Where must the patriot's vow be paid ?
With orisons shall vestal maid
Fatigue the skies ?
Or will not VESTA'S frown upbraid
Her votaries ?
Augur APOLLO ! shall we kneel
To THEE, and for our commonweal
With humbled consciousness appeal?
Oh, quell the storm !
Come, though a silver vapor veil
Thy radiant form !
Will VENUS from Mount ERYX stoop,
And to our succor hie, with troop
Of laughing GRACES, and a group
Of Cupids round her ?
Or comest THOU with wild war-whoop,
Dread MARS ! our FOUNDER ?
Whose voice so long bade peace avaunt ;
Whose war-dogs still for slaughter pant ;
The tented field thy chosen haunt,
Thy child the ROMAN,
Fierce legioner, whose visage gaunt
Scowls on the foeman.
Or hath young HERMES, MAIA'S son,
The graceful guise and form put ou
Of thee, AUGUSTUS ? and begun
(Celestial stranger !)
To wear the name which THOU hast won
" CAESAR'S AVENGER ?"
Blessed be the days of thy sojourn,
Distant the hour when ROME shall mourn
The fatal sight of thy return
To Heaven again,
Forced by a guilty age to spurn
The haunts of men.
Rathei remain, beloved, adored,
Since ROME, reliant on thy sword,
To thee of JULIUS hath restored
The rich reversion ;
Baffle ASSYRIA'S hovering horde,
And smite the PERSIAN!
ODE T II. To THE SHIP BEARING VIRGIL TO
GREECE.
"Blc te diva potens," etc.
MAT Love's own planet guide thee o'er tb.
wave!
Brightly aloft
HELEN'S star-brother's twinkling,
And jjEoLus chain all his children, save
A west-wind soft
Thy liquid pathway wrinkling,
Galley ! to whom we trust, on thy parole,
Our VIRGIL mark
Thou bear him in thy bosom
Safe to the land of GREECE ; for half my soul,
gallant bark !
Were lost if I should lose him.
A breast of bronze full sure, and ribs of oak,
Where his who first
Defied the tempest-demon ;
Dared in a fragile skiff the blast provoke,
And boldly burst
Forth on the deep a Seaman !
Whom no conflicting hurricanes could daunt,
Nor BOREAS chill,
Nor weeping HYADS sadden,
E'en on yon gulf, whose lord, the loud LEVANT,
Can calm at will,
Or to wild frenzy madden.
What dismal form must Death put on for him
Whose cold eye mocks
The dark deep's huge indwellers !
Who calm athwart the billows sees the grim
CERAUNIAN rocks,
Of wail and woe tale-tellers !
Though Providence poured out its ocean -flood,
Whose broad expanse
Might land from land dissever,
Careering o'er the waters, Man withstood
Jove's ordinance
With impious endeavor.
The human breast, with bold aspirings fraught,
Throbs thus unawed,
Untamed, and unquiescent,
Fire from the skies a son of Japbet brought,
And, fatal fraud!
Made earth a guilty present.
Scarce was the spark snatched from the bright
abode.
i -HI-IMS
KI:ANCIS MAIIONV.
279
When round us straight
A ghastly phalanx thickened
Fever anil Palsy ; and grim Death, who strode
With tardy gait
Far ofl, his coining quickened.
Wafted on oaring art's fictitious plume,
Tltr; Cretan rose,
And wjved his wizard pinions ;
Downwards Alcides pierced the realms of gloom,
Wnere darkly flows
Styx, through the dead's dominions.
Naught is beyond our reach, beyond our scope,
And Heaven's high laws
Still fail to keep us under;
How can our unreposing malice hope
Respite or pause
From Jove's avenging thunder?
ODE IV.
" Solvitur acris h yeina," etc.
Now Winter melts beneath
Spring's genial breath,
And Zephyr
Back to the water yields
The stranded bark back to the fields
The stabled heifer
And the gay rural scene
The shepherd's foot can wean,
Forth from his homely hearth, to tread the
meadows green.
Now Venus loves to group
Her merry troop
Of maidens,
Who, while the moon peeps out,
Dance with the Graces round about
Their queen in cadence;
While far, 'mid fire and noise,
Vulcan his forge employs,
Where Cyclops grim aloft their ponderous sledges
poise.
Now maids, with myrtle-bough,
Garland their brow
Each forehead
Shining with flow'rets decked ;
A'hile the glad earth, by frost unchecked,
Buds out all florid ;
Now let the knife devote,
In some still grove remote,
A victim-lamb to Faun ; or, should he list, a
goat.
Death, with impartial foot,
Knocks at the hut;
The lowly
As the most princely gate.
favored friend ! on life's brief date
To count were folly ;
Soon shall, in vapors dark,
Quenched be thy vital spark,
And thou, a silent ghost, for Pluto's land em-
bark?
Where at no gay repast,
By dice's cast
King chosen,
Wine-laws shalt thou enforce,
But weep o'er joy and love's warm source
Forever frozen ;
And tender Lydia lost,
Of all the town the toast,
Who then, when thou art gone, will fire al 1
bosoms most !
ODE V. PYRRHA'S INCONSTANCY.
"Qnis multd gracilfs to pner In rosA," etc.
PYRRHA, who now, mayhap,
Pours on thy perfumed lap
With rosy wreath, fair youth, his fond addresses !
Within thy charming grot,
For whom, in gay love-knot,
Playfully dost thou bind thy yellow tresses ?
So simple in thy neatness !
Alas ! that so much sweetness
Should prelude prove to disillusion painful !
He shall bewail too late
His sadly altered fate,
Chilled by thy mien, repellant and disdainful
Who now, to fondness prone,
Deeming thee all his own,
Revels in golden dreams of favors boundless;
So bright thy beauty glows,
280
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
Still fascinating those
Who've yet to learn all trust in thee is ground-
less.
I the false light forswear,
A shipwrecked mariner,
Who hangs the painted story of his suffering
Aloft o'er Neptune's shrine ;
There shall I hang up mine,
And of my dripping robes the votive offering!
ODE VI.
14 8eriberis Vario," etc.
AGRIPPA ! seek a loftier bard ; nor ask
Horace to twine in songs
The double wreath, due to a victor's casque
From land and ocean : such Homeric task
To Varius belongs.
Our lowly lyre no fitting music hath,
And in despair dismisses
The epic splendors of " Achilles' wrath,"
Or the " dread line of Pelops," or the " path
Of billow-borne Ulysses."
The record of the deeds at Actium wrought
So far transcends our talent
Vain were the wish ! wild the presumptuous
thought !
To sing how Caesar, how Agrippa, fought
Both foremost 'mid the gallant !
The God of War in adamantine mail ;
Merion, gaunt and grim ;
Pallas in aid ; while Troy's battalions quail,
Scared by the lance of Diorned . . . must fail
To figure in our hymn.
Ours is the banquet-song's light-hearted strain,
Roses our only laurel,
The progress of a love-suit our campaign,
Our only scars the gashes that remain
When romping lovers quarrel.
ODE VII. To MUNATIUS PLANCCS.
" Laudabunt alii claram Rbodon." 1
RHODES, Ephesus, or Mitylene,
Or Thessaly's fair valley,
Or Corinth, placed two gulfs atween,
Delphi, or Thebes, suggest the scene
Where some would choose to dally;
Others in praise of Athens launch,
And poets lyric
Grace, with Minerva's olive branch
Their panegyric.
To Juno's city some would roam
Argos of steeds productive ;
In rich Mycenae make their home,
Or find Larissa pleasantsome,
Or Sparta deem seductive ;
Me Tibur's grove charms more than all
The brook's bright bosom,
And o'er loud Anio's waterfall
Fruit-trees in blossom.
Plancus! do blasts forever sweep
Athwart the welkin rancored ?
Friend ! do the clouds forever wep ?
Then cheer thee, and thy sorrows deep
Drown in a flowing 1 tankard :
Whether " the camp ! the field ! the sword 1
Be still thy motto,
Or Tibur to thy choice afford
A sheltered grotto.
When Teucer from his father's frown
For exile 'parted,
Wreathing his brow with poplar crown^
In wine he bade his comrades drown
Their woes light-hearted ;
And thus he cried, Whate'er betide,
Hope shall not leave me:
The home a father hath denied
Let Fortune give me!
Who doubts or dreads if Teucer load ?
Hath not Apollo
A new-found Salamis decreed,
Old Fatherland shall supersede?
Then fearless follow.
Ye who could bear ten years your shai*
Of toil and slaughter,
Drink ! for our sail to-morrow's gale
O
Wafts o'er the water.
I'M KM S UK FRANCIS MA1IOXY.
281
ODE VIII.
"Lydla, die peroinnes," etc.
ENCHANTING Lydia! prithee,
By all the gods that see tliee,
] 'ray tell me this Must Sybaris
Perish, enamored with thee ?
Lo ! wrapped as in a trance, he
Whose hardy youth could fancy
Each manly teat, dreads dust and heat,
All through thy necromancy I
Why rides he never, tell us,
Accoutred like his fellows,
For curb and whip, and horsemanship,
And martial bearing zealous?
Why hangs he back, deraurrent
To breast the Tiber's current,
From wrestlers' oil, as from the coil
Of poisonous snake, abhorrent?
No more with iron rigor
Rude armor-marks disfigure
His pliant limbs, but languor dims
His eye and wastes his vigor.
Gone is the youth's ambition
To give the lance emission,
Or hurl adroit the circling quoit
IE gallant competition.
And his embowered retreat is
Like where the Son of Thetis
Lurked undivulged, while he indulged
A mother's soft entreaties,
Robed as a Grecian girl,
Lest soldier-like apparel
Might raise a flame, and his kindling frame
Through the ranks of slaughter whirl.
ODE IX.
14 Viilea lit nlli'i stct ntve cnnitldom
Socrate," u-.
SEE how the winter blanches
Soracte's giant brow !
Hear how the forest-branches
Groat, for the weight of snow !
While the fixed ice impanels
Rivers within their channels.
Out with the frost! expel her!
Pile up the fuel-block.
And from thy hoary cellar
Produce a Sabine crock :
O Thaliarck I remember
It count a fourth December.
Give to the gods the guidance
Of earth's arrangements. List !
The blasts at their high biddance
From the vexed deep desist,
Nor 'mid the cypress riot ;
And the old elms are quiet.
Enjoy, without foreboding,
Life as the moments run ;
Away with Care corroding,
Youth of my soul! nor shun
Love, for whose smile thou'rt suited ;
And 'mid the dancers foot it.
While youth's hour lasts, beguile it ;
Follow the field, the camp,
Each manly sport, till twilight
Brings on the vesper-lamp ;
Then let thy loved one lisp her
Fond feelings in a whisper.
Or in a nook hide furtive,
Till by her laugh betrayed,
And drawn, with struggle sportive^
Forth from her ambuscade ;
Bracelet or ring th' offender
In forfeit sweet surrender !
ODB X. HVMN TO MERCI-RT.
" Mercurt fecundo Nepo* Atlantis." et.
PERSUASIVE Hermes! Afric's son !
Who scarce had human lift- begun-
Amid our rude forefathers shone
With arts instructive,
And man to new refinement won
With grace seductive.
Hi raid of JOVE, and of his court,
The lyre's inventor and support,
Genius! that can at will resort
To glorious cunning;
282
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHOXY.
Both gods and men in furtive sport
And wit outrunning!
You, when a child the woods amid,
Apollo's kine drew off and hid ;
And when the god with menace bid
The spoil deliver,
forced him to smile for, while he chid,
You stole his quiver !
The night old Priam sorrowing went,
With gold through many a Grecian tent,
And many a foeman's watchfire, bent
To ransom Hector,
In YOU he found a provident
Guide and protector.
Where bloom Elysium's groves beyond
Death's portals and the Stygian pond,
You guide the ghosts with golden wand,
Whose special charm is
That Jove and Pluto both are fond
Alike of Hermes !
ODE XI. AD LEUCONOEN.
"Tu ne quaesieris," etc.
LOVK, mine ! seek not to grope
Through the dark windings of Chaldean witchery,
To learn your horoscope,
Or mine, from vile adepts in fraud aud treachery,
My Leuconoe ! shun
Those sons of Babylon.
Far better 'twere to wait,
Calmly resigned, the destined hour's maturity,
Whether our life's brief date
This winter close, or, through a long futurity,
For us the sea still roar
Oo von Tvrrenean shore.
Let Wisdom fill the cup ;
Vain hopes of lengthened days and years felici-
tous
Folly may treasure up ;
Ours be the day that passeth unsolicitous
Of what the next may bring.
Time flieth as we sing!
ODE XII. A PKAYER FOR AUGUSTUS.
" Quem virum ant beroa.'-
Am " Sublime was the warning."
NAME Clio, the man ! or the god for whose
sake
The lyre, or the clarion, loud echoes shall wake
On thy favorite hill, or in Helicon's grove ?
Whence forests have followed the wizard of Thrace,
When rivers enraptured suspended their race,
When the ears were vouchsafed to the obdurate
oak,
And the blasts of mount Haemus bowed down to
the yoke
Of the magical minestrel, grandson of JOVE.
First to Him raise the song! whose parental con-
trol
Men and gods feel alike ; whom the waves, as
they roll
Whom the earth, and the stars, and the seasons
obey,
Unapproached in his godhead ; majestic alone,
Though Pallas may stand on the steps of his
throne,
Though huntress Diana may challenge a shrine,
And worship be due to the god of the vine,
And to archer Apollo, bright giver of day.
Shall we next sing Alcides? or Leda's twin-
lights
Him the Horseman, or him whom the Cestus
delights ?
Both shining aloft, by the seaman adored ;
(For he kens that their rising the clouds can
dispel,
Dash the foam from the rock, and the hurricane
quell.)
Of Romulus next shall the claim be allowed ?
Of Numa the peaceful ? of Tarquin the proud ?
Of Cato, whose fall hath ennobled his sword I
Shall Scaurus, shall Regulus fruitlessly crave
Honour due ? shall the Consul, who prodigal gn\ e
His life-blood on Cannae's disastrous plain ?
Camillus? or he whom a king could not tempt ?
Stern Poverty's children, unfashioned, unkempt.
The fame of Marcellus grows yet in the shade,
But the meteor of Julius beams over his head,
Like the moon that outshines all the stars in
her train !
POKMS OF KKA.NVis M.\il)NV.
Great Deity, guardian of men ! unto whom
We commend, in Augustus, the fortunes of Rome,
REIGN FOR EVER! but guard his subordinate
throne.
Be it Iiis of the Parthian each inroad to check ;
Of the Indian, in triumph, to trample the neck ;
To rule all the nations of earth ; be it JOVE'S
To exterminate guilt from the god's hallowed
groves,
Be the bolt and the chariot of thunder THINE
own !
ODK XIII. THE POET'S JEALOUSY.
"Qunm tu, Lydia, Telephi
Cervicem roseara," etc.
LYDIA, when you tauntingly
Talk of Telephus, praising him
For his beauty, vauntingly
Far beyond me raising him,
Sis rosy neck, and arms of alabaster,
My rage I scarce can master !
Pale and faint with dizziness,
All my features presently
Paint my soul's uneasiness;
Tears, big tears, incessantly
-Stea. down my cheeks, and tell in what fierce
fashion
My bosom burns with passion.
'Sdeath ! to trace the evidence
Of your gay deceitfulness,
Mid the cup's improvidence,
'Mid the feast's forgctfulness,
To trace, where lips and ivory shoulders pay
for it,
The kiss of your young favorite !
Deem not vainly credulous,
Such wild transports durable,
Or that fond and sedulous
Love is thus procurable :
Though Venus drench the kiss with her quint-
essence,
Its nectar Time soon lessens.
But where meet (thrice fortunate !)
Kindred hearts and suitable,
Strife comes ne'er importunate,
Love remains immutable ;
On to the close they glide, 'mid scenes Elysian,
Through life's delightful vision !
ODE XIV. To THE VESSEL OK THE STATE.
AN ALLKGORY.
AD KKXPUBLICAM.
WHAT fresh perdition urges,
Galley ! thy darksome track,
Once more upon the surges?
Hie to the haven bark !
Doth not the lightning show thce
Thou hast got none to row thee 1
Is not thy mainmast shattered ?
Hath not the boisterous south
Thy yards and rigging scattered?
In dishabille uncouth,
How canst thou hope to weather
The storms that round thee gather ?
Rent are the sails that decked thee ;
Deaf are thy gods become,
Though summoned to protect thee,
Though sued to save thee from
Ihe fate thou most abhorrest,
Proud daughter of the forest !
Thy vanity would vaunt us,
Yon richly pictured poop
Pine-timbers from the Pontus;
Fear lest, in one fell swoop,
Paint, pride, and pine-trees hollow,
The scoffing whirlpool swallow !
I've watched thee, sad and pensive,
Source of my recent caiv< !
Oh, wisely apprehensive,
Venture not unawares
Where Greece spreads out her seas,
Begemmed with Cyclades!
ODE XV. THE SEA-GOD'S WARNING TO PARIC.
" Pastor cum traheret," etc.
As the Shepherd of Troy, wafting over the deer>
Sad Perfidy's freightage, bore Helen along,
Old Nercus uprose, hushed the breezes to sleep,
And the secrets of doom thus revealed in hit
song.
A'n ! homeward thou bringest, with omen of
dre.-id,
284
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
One whom Greece will reclaim ! for her
millions have sworn
Not to rest till they tear the false bride from
thy bed,
Or till Priam's old throne their revenge over-
turn.
See the struggle ! how foam covers horsemen
and steeds !
See thy Ilion consigned to the bloodiest of
sieges !
Mark, arrayed in her helmet, Minerva, who
speeds
To prepare for the battle her car and her
aegis!
Too fondly thou deemest that Venus will vouch
For a life which thou spendest in trimming
thy curls,
Or, in tuning, reclined on an indolent couch,
An effeminate lyre to an audience of girls.
Though awhile in voluptuous pastime employed,
Far away from the contest, the truant of lust
Vlay baffle the bowman, and Ajax avoid,
Thy adulterous ringlets are doomed to the
dust I
Seo'st thou him of Ithica, scourge of thy race ?
Gallant Teucer of Salatnis ? Nestor the wise ?
Row, urging his car on thy cowardly trace,
Swift Sthenelus poises his lance as he flies?
Swift Sthenelus, Diomed's brave charioteer,
Accomplished in combat like Merion the
Cretan,
Fierce, towering aloft see his master appear,
Of a breed that in battle has never been beaten.
A^hom thou, like a fawn, when a wolf in the
valley
The delicate pasture compels him to leave,
Wilt fly, faint and breathless though flight
may not tally
With all thy beloved heard thee boast to
achieve.
Achilles, retired in his angry pavilion,
Shall cause a short respite to Troy and her
games ;
Yet a few winters more, and the turrets of Ilion
Must sink 'mid the roar o e retributive flames !
ODE XVI. THE SATIRIST'S RECANTATION.
PALINODIA Al> TYNDARIDKH.
BLESSED with a charming mother, yet,
Thou still more fascinating daughter !
Prythee rny vile lampoons forget
Give to the flames the libel let
The satire sink in Adria's water !
Not Cybele's most solemn rites,
Cymbals of brass and spells of magic ;
Apollo's priest, 'mid Delphic flights ;
Or Bacchanal, 'mid fierce delights,
Presents a scene more tragic
Than Anger, when it rules the soul.
Nor fire nor sword can then surmount her
Nor the vexed elements control,
Though Jove himself, from pole to pole,
Thundering rush down to the encounter.
Prometheus forced to graft, of old,
Upon our stock a foreign scion,
Mixed up if we be truly told
With some brute particles, our mould
Anger he gathered from the lion.
Anger destroyed Thyestes' race,
O'erwhelmecl his house in ruin thorough,.
And many a lofty city's trace
Caused a proud foeman to efface,
Ploughing the site with hostile furrow.
Oh, be appeased ! 'twas rage, in sooth,
First woke my song's satiric tenor ;
In wild and unreflecting youth,
Anger inspired the deed uncouth ;
But, pardon that foul misdemeanor.
Lady ! I swear my recreant lays
Henceforth to rectify and alter
To change my tones from blame to praise,
Should your rekindling friendship raise
The spirits of a sad defaulter !
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
283
ODE XVII. Ax INVITATION TO HORACE'S
VILLA
AD TT.NDARIIIKM.
OFT for the hill where ranges
My Sabine flock,
Swift-footed Faun exchange!
Arcadia's rock,
And, tempering summer's ray, forbids
Untoward rain to harm my kids.
And there in happy vagrance,
Roams the she-goat.
Lured by marital fragrance,
Through dells remote ;
Of each wild herb and shrub partakes,
Nor fears the coil of lurking snakes.
No prowling wolves alarm her ;
Safe from their gripe
While Faun, immortal charmer !
Attunes his pipe,
\nd down the vale and o'er the hills
Cstica's every echo fills.
The Gods, their bard caressing,
With kindness treat :
They've filled my house with blcssing-
My country-seat,
Where Plenty voids her loaded horn,
Vair Tyndaris, pray come adorn !
From Sirius in the zenith,
From summer's glare,
Come, where the valley screeucth,
Come, warble there
<5ongs of the hero, for whose love
Penelope aud Circe strove.
Nor shall the cup be wanting,
So harmless then,
To grace that hour enchanting
In shady glen.
Nor shall the jnice our calm disturb !
Nor aught our sweet emotions curb !
Fear not, my fair one! Cyrus
Shall not intrude,
Nor worry thee desirous
Of solitude,
Nor rend thy innocent robe, nor tear
The garland from thy flowing hair.
ODE XVIII.
" Nullam, Vare, MCI* vtte priiu MverU rU>rra," ir.
SINCE at Tivoli, Varus, you've fixed upon planting
Round your villa enchanting,
Of all trees, my friend ! let the Vine be the
first.
On no other condition will Jove lend assistance
To keep at a distance
Chagrin, and the cares that accompany thirst.
No one talks after wine about "battles" or
" famine ;"
But, if you examine,
The praises of love and good living are rife.
Though once the Centaurs, 'raid potations toe
ample,
Left a tragic example
Of a banquet dishonored by bloodshed and strife,
Far removed be such doings from us ! Let the
Thracians,
Amid their libations,
Confound all the limits of right and of wrong;
I never will join in their orgies unholy
I never will sully
The rites that to ivy-crowned Bacchus belong.
Let Cybele silence her priesthood, and calm her
Brass cymbals and clamor ;
Away with such outbursts, uproarious and vain !
Displays often followed by Insolence mulish,
And Confidence foolish,
To be seen through and through, like this glas:
that I drain.
ODE XIX. DK GLVCERA.
" Mtlcr Bteva Cupldlnutn," etc.
LOVK'S unrelenting Quci-n.
With Bacchus Theban maid! thy wayward
child
Whene'er I try to wean,
My heart, from vain amours and follies wild,
Is sure to interwin-.
Kindling within my breast some passion unfor-
eett.
23;
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY.
Glycera's dazzling glance,
That with voluptuous light my vision dims
The graces that enhance
The Parian marble of her snow-white limbs,
Have left my heart no chance
Against her winning wiles and playful petulance.
Say not that Venus dwells
In distant Cyprus, for she fills my breast,
And from that shrine expels
All other themes : my lyre, by love possessed,
No more with war-notes swells,
Nor sings of Parthian shaft, nor scythian slaugh-
ter tells.
Come hither, slaves ! and pile
An altar of green turf, and incense burn ;
Strew magic vervain, while
I pour libations from a golden urn :
These rites may reconcile
The goddess of fierce love, who yet may deign
to smile.
ODE XX. " POT-LUCK " WITH HORACE.
AD M^BCEXATEM.
SINCE thou, Maecenas, nothing loath,
Under the bard's roof-tree,
Canst drink rough wine of Sabine growth,
Here stands a jar for thee !
The Grecian delf I sealed myself,
That year the theatre broke forth,
In tribute to thy sterling worth,
When Rome's glad shout the welkin rent,
Along the Tiber ran.
And rose again, by Echo sent,
Back from Mount Vatican ;
When with delight, Roman Knight !
Etruria heard her oldest flood
Do homage to her noblest blood.
Wines of Falernian vintage, friend,
Thy princely cellar stock;
Bethink thee, should'st thou condescend
To share a poet's crock,
Its modest shape, Cajeta's grape
Hath never tinged, nor Formia's hill
Deigned with a purple flood to fill.
ODE XXI. To THE RISING GENERATION or
ROME.
AJ> PUBEM BOMANA-M.
WORSHIP Diana, young daughters of Italy !
Youths! sing Apollo both children of Jove :
Honor Latona, their mother, who mightily
Triumphed of old in the Thunderer's love.
Maids ! sing the Huntress, whose haunts are the
highlands,
Who treads, in a buskin of silvery sheen,
Each forest-crowned summit through Greece and
her highlands,
From dark Erymanthus to Cragus the green.
From Tempo's fair valley, by Phoebus frequented,
To Delos his birthplace the light quiver hung
From his shoulders the lyre that Jais brother in-
vented
Be each shrine by our .youth and each attri-
bute sung.
May your prayers to the regions of light find ad-
mittance
On Caesar's behalf; and the Deity urge
To drive from our land to the Persians and
Britons,
Of Famine the curse ! of Bellona the scourge !
ODE XXII.
AD ABISTHJM FTT80UM.
ARISTIUS ! if thou canst secure
A conscience calm, with morals pure,
Look upwards for defence! abjure
All meaner craft
The bow and quiver of the Moor,
And poisoned shaft.
What though thy perilous path lie traced
O'er burning Afric's boundless waste. . . .
Of rugged Caucasus the guest,
Or doom'd to travel
Where fabulous rivers of the East
Their course unravel !. . . .
Under nay Sabine woodland shade,
Musing upon my Grecian maid,
Unconsciously of late I strayed
Through glen and meadow,
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
When, lo! a ravenous wolf, afraid,
Fled from my shadow.
No monster of such magnitude
Lurks iu the depth of Daunia's wood,
Or roams through Lybia unsubdued
The land to curse
Land of a fearful lion-brood
The withered nurse.
Waft me away to deserts wild,
Where vegetation never smiled,
Where sunshine never ouce beguiled
The dreary day,
But winters upon winters piled
For aye delay.
Place me beneath the torrid zone,
Where man to dwell was never known,
I'd cherish still one thought alone,
Maid of my choice !
The smile of thy sweet lip the tone
Of thy sweet voice !
ODE XXIIL A REMONSTRANCE TO CHLOK THE
BASHFUL.
" Vitas binnuleo," etc.
WHY wilt thou, Chloe, fly me thus?
The yearling kid
Is not more shy and timorous,
Our woods amid,
Seeking her dam o'er glen and hill,
AVhile all her frame vain terrors thrill.
Should a green lizard chance to stir
Beneath the bush
Should Zephyr through the mountain-fif
Disporting gush
With sudden fright behold her start,
With trembling kuees and throbbing heart.
And canst thou think me, maiden fair !
A tiger grim?
A Lybian lion, bent to tear
Thee limb by limb?
Still canst thou haunt thy mother's shade,
Ki|e for a husband, blooming maid ?
ODE XXIV. To VIRGIL. A CONSOLATORY
ADDRESS.
AD VIEOIUUM. DCTLBT (JtTWCTIIJl MOETXM.
WHY check the full outburst of sorrow ? Why
blush
To weep for the friend we adored!
Raise the voice of lament ! let the swollen tear
gush !
Bemoan thee, Melpomene, loudly ! nor hush
The sound of thy lute's liquid chord !
For low lies Quinctilius, tranced in that sleep
That issue hath none, nor sequel.
Let Candor, with all her white sisterhood, weep
Truth, Meekness, and Justice, his memory keep
For when shall they find his equal ?
Though the wise and the good may bewail him,
yet none
O'er his clay sheds the tear more truly
Than you, beloved Virgil! You deemed him
your own :
You mourn his companionship. 'Twas but a
loan,
Which the gods have withdrawn unduly.
Yet not though Eurydice's lover had left
Thee a legacy, friend, of his song !
Couldst thou warm the cold image of life-bliKxi
bereft,
Or force death, who robbed thee, to render the
theft,
Or bring back his shade from the throng,
Which Mercury guides with imperative wand.
To the banks of the fatal ferry.
Tis hard to endure ; but 'tis wrong to despotic :
For patience may deaden the blow, though be-
yond
Thy power, my friend, to parry.
ODE XXVI. FRIENDSHIP AND POKTRT THE
BEST ANTIDOTES TO SORROW.
MUSIS AM1CUS. AXKO AB TT. C. MDCCXXX.
Ant 14 Fill UM bumper /nir."
SADNESS I who live
Devoted to the Muwi,
288
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY.
To the wild wind give,
To waft where'er it chooses ;
Deiguing not to care
What savage chief be chosen
To reign beneath " the Bear,"
O'er the fields forever frozen.
Let Tiridates rue
The march of Roman legions,
While I my path pursue
Through poesy's calm regions
Bidding the Muse, who drinks
From the fountains unpolluted,
To weave with flowery links
A wreath, to Friendship suited,
For gentle Lamia's brow.
Muse melodious ! sweetly
Echo his praise; for thou
Alone canst praise him fitly.
For him thy Lesbian shell
With strings refurnish newly,
And let thy sisters swell
The jocund chorus duly.
Sadness I who live devoted, etc.
ODE XX\ 7 I1. A BANQUET-SCENE.
SENTIMENT.
TOAST AND
AD 8ODALES.
To make a weapon of joy's cup, my friends,
Is a vile Thracian custom ;
Shame on such practices ! they mar the ends
O f calm and kindly Bacchus. Bloodshed tends
To sadden and disgust him.
Here, 'mid the bowls, what business hath the
sword ?
Come, sheathe yon Persian dagger ;
Let the bright lamp shine on a quiet board ;
Recline in peace these hours we can't afford
For brawling, sound, and swagger.
Say, shall your chairman fill his cup, and drain
Of brimming bowls another?
Then, first, a TOAST his mandate shall obtain;
He'll know the nymph whose witcheries enchain
The fair Mrgilla's brother
What ! silent thus ? Dost fear to name aloud
The girl of thy aft'ection ?
Youth! let thy choice be candidly avowed;
Thou hast a delicate taste, and art allowed
Some talent for selection.
Yet, if the loud confession thou wilt shun,
To my safe ear discover
Thy cherished secret. . . . Ah, thou art undone !
What! she? How little such a heartless one
Deserves so fond a lover !
What fiend, what Thracian witch, deaf to re-
morse,
Hath brewed thy dire love-potion !
Scarce could the hero of the winged horse
O
Effect thy rescue, or to free thee force
That dragon of the ocean !
ODE XXIX. THE SAGE TURNED SOLDIER.
AD ICCItTM.
AIB " One bumper at purling."
THK trophies of war, and the plunder,
Have fired a philosopher's breast
So, Icdus, you march ('mid the wonder
Of all) for Arabia the blessed.
Full sure, when 'tis told to the Persian,
That you have abandoned your home,
He'll feel the full force of coercion,
And strike to the banners of Rome !
What chief shall you vanquish and fettei ?
What captive shall call you her lord ?
How soon may the maiden forget her
Betrothed, hewn down by your sword ?
What stripling has fancy appointed,
From all that their palaces hold,
To serve you with ringlets anointed,
And hand you the goblet of gold ?
His arts to your pastime contribute,
His foreign accomplishments show,
And, taught by his parent, exhibit
His dexterous use of the bow.
Who doubts that the Tiber, in cholei,
May, bursting all barriers and burs,
Flow back to its source, when a scholai
Deserts to the standard of Mars?
1'OKMS <'F I- K AVIS MMloNY.
289
you, tlie reserved and the pr.idrnt,
Whom Socrates hoped to engage,
Can merge in the soldier the student,
And mar thus an embryo s-ttftt
Bid the visions of science to vanish,
And barter yon erudite hoard
Of volumes from Greece for a Spanish
Cuirass, and the pen for a sword I
ODE XXX. THE DEDICATION OP GLYCERA'S
CHAPKL.
AD VKNKUKM.
AIR" The Boyne water*
O VKNUS! Queen of Cyprus isle,
Of Paphos and of Gnidus,
Hie from thy favorite haunts awhile,
And make abode amid us ;
Glycera's altar for thee smokes,
With frankincense sweet-smelling
Thee, while the charming maid invokes,
Hie to her lovely dwelling!
Let yor. bright Boy, whose hand hath grasped
Love s blazing torch, precede thee,
While gliding on, with zone unclasped,
The sister Graces lead thee :
Nor be thy Nymph-attendants missed :
Nor can it harm thy court, if
Hebe the youthful swell thy list,
With Mercury the sportive.
ODE XXXI. THE DEDICATION OF APOLLO'S
TEMPLE.
AD APOLLI.NEil.- ANNO Alt IT. 0. DCOXTVL
AIR " Lesbia hath a beaming eye."
WHEN the bard in worship, low
Bends before his liege Apollo,
While the red libations flow
From the goblet's golden hollow,
Can ye guess his orison ?
Can it be for " grain " he asketh
Mellow grain, that in the sun
O'r Sardinia's bosom baskotb f
No, no! The fattest herd of kinc
That o'er Calabrian pasture ranges
The wealth of India's richest mine
The ivory of the distant Ganges?
No these be not the poet's dream
Nor acres broad to main at large in,
Where lazy Liris, silent stream,
Slow undermine! the meadow's margin.
The landlord of a wide domain
May gather his Campanian vintage,
The venturous trader count his gain
I covet not his rich percentage ;
When for the merchandise he sold
He gets the balance he relied on,
Pleased let him toast, in cups of gold,
" Free intercourse with Tyre and Sidon : '
Each year upon the watery waste,
Let him provoke the fierce Atlantic
Four separate times ... I have no taste
For speculation so gigantic.
The gods are kind, the gain superb ;
But, haply, I can feast in quiet
On salad of some homely herb,
On frugal fruit and olive diet.
On, let Latona's son but please
To guarantee me health's enjoyment!
The goods he gave the faculties
Of which he claims the full employment;
Let me live on to good old age.
No deed of shame my pillow haunting,
Calm to the last, the closing stage
Of life : nor let the lyre be wanting.
ODE XXXII. AN OCCASIONAL PRELUDE o-
THK POET ro HIS SONGS.
" Dear harp ofir.y country."
THEV have called for a lay that for ages abi
ding,
Bids Echo its music through years to prolong ;
Then wake, Latin lyre ! Since ray country
pride in
Thy wild native harmony, wake to my song.
290
POEMS OF FRANCIS. MAHONY.
Twas Alcjcus, a minstrel of Greece, who first
married
The tones of the voice to the thrill of the
chord ;
O*er the waves of the sea the loved symbol he
carried,
Nor relinquished the lyre though he wielded
the sword.
Gay Bacchus, the Muses, with Cupid he chanted
The boy who accompanies Venus the fair
And he told o'er again how for Lyca he panted,
With her bonny black eyes and her dark
flowing hair.
'Tis the pride of Apollo he glories to rank it,
Amid his bright attributes, foremost of all :
Tis the solace of life ! Even Jove to his bauquet
Invites thee ! lyre ! ever wake to my call.
ODE XXX IV. THE POET'S CONVERSION.
AD 8EIFSUM.
I, WHOM the Gods had found a client,
Rarely with pious rites compliant,
At Unbelief disposed to nibble,
And pleased with every sophist quibble
I, who had deemed great Jove a phantom,
Now own my errors, and RECANT 'em!
Have I not lived of late to witness,
Athwart a sky of passing brightness,
The God, upon his car of thunder,
Cleave the calm elements asunder?
And, through the firmament careering,
Level his bolts with aim unerring?
Then trembled Earth with sudden shiver;
Then quaked with fear each mount and river;
Stunned at the blow, Hell reeled a minute,
With all the darksome caves within it;
And Atlas seemed as he would totter
Beneath his load of land and water !
Yes ! of a God I hail the guidance ;
The proud are humble at his biddance ;
Fortune, his handmaid, now uplifting
Monarchs, and now the sceptre shifting,
With equal proof HIS power evinces,
Whether she raise or ruin Princes.
ODE XXXV. AN ADDIIESS TO FORTUNE.
AD FORTUNAM.
FORTUNE, whose pillared temple crowns
Cape Autium's jutting cliff,
Whose smiles confer success, whose frowna
Can change our triumphs brief
To funerals for life both lie at
The mercy of thy sovereign fiat.
THEE, Goddess ! in his fervent prayers,
Fondly the frugal farmer courts;
The mariner, before he dares
Unmoor his bark, to THEE resorts
That thy kind favor may continue,
To bless his voyage to Bithynia.
Rude Dacia's clans, wild Scythia's hordes
Abroad at home all worship THEE!
And mothers of barbarian Lords,
And purpled tyrants, bend the knee
Before thy shrine, Maid ! who seemest
To rule mankind with power supremest.
Lest THOU their statue's pillared pride
Dash to the dust with scornful foot
Lest Tumult, bent on regicide,
Their ancient dynasty uproot ;
When maddened crowds, with Fiends to lead
'em,
Wreck empires in the name of freedom !
THEE stern Necessity leads on,
Loaded with attributes of awe !
And grasping, grim automaton,
Bronze wedges in his iron claw,
Prepared with sledge to drive the bolt in,.
And seal it fast with lead that's molten.
Thee Hope adores. In snow-white vest,
Fidelity (though seldom found)
Clings to her liege, and loves him best,
When dangers threat and ills surround ;
Prizing him poor, despoiled, imprisoned,
More than with gold and gems bedizened.
Not so the fickle crowd ! Not so
The purchased Beauty, sure to fly
Where all our boon companions go,
Soon as the cask of joy runs dry:
Round us the Spring and Summer brought en>-~
They leave us at the close of Autumn !
POEMS OF M;.\NCIS M AIIOVV.
21)1
THE 1'KAYKR.
Goddess! defend, from dole ami harm,
Caesar, who speeds to Britain's camp !
And waft, of Rome's glad youth, the swarm
Safe to where first Apollo's lamp
Shines in the East the bravu whose fate is
To war upon thy banks, Euphrates!
Oh I let our country's tears expunge
From history's page those years abhorred,
When Roman hands could reckless plunge,
Deep in a brother's heart, the sword ;
When Guilt stalked forth, with aspect hideous,
With every crime and deed perfidious;
When Sacrilege and Frenzy urged
To violate each hallowed fane.
Oh ! that our falchions were reforged,
And purified from sin and shame ;
Then turned against th' Assyrian foernan
Baptized in exploits truly Roman !
OUE XXX VI A WELCOME TO NUMIDA.
AD PLOTTDM MUM1UAJC.
Burn frankincense ! blow fife
A merry note ! and quick devote
A victim to the knife,
To thank the guardian powers
Who led from Spain home once again
This gallant friend of ours.
Dear to us all ; yet one
Can fairly boast his friendship most :
Oh, him he doats upon !
The gentle Larnia, whom,
Long used to share each schoolday care,
He loved in boyhood's bloom.
One day on both conferred
The garb of men this day, again
Let a " white chalk" record.
Then send the wine-jar round,
And blithely keep the "Salian" step
With many a mirthful bound.
( hn: XXXVII. TIIK I)I.KKAT OK Cu-;oi'.\TUA.
A JOYITI. I'.VU.A!)
Now, comrades, drink
Full bumpers, undiluted!
Now, dancers, link
Firm hands, and freely foot it!
Now let the priests,
Mindful of Numa's ritual,
Spread victim-feasts,
And keep the rites habitual !
Till now, 't was wrong
T' unlock th' ancestral cellar,
Where dormant long
Bacchus remained a dweller;
While Egypt's queen
Vowed to erase (fond woman !)
Rome's walls, and e'en
The very name of Roman !
Girt with a band
Of craven-hearted minions,
Her march she planned
Through Caesar's broad dominions!
With visions sweet
Of coming conquest flattered ;
When, lo ! her fleet
Agrippa fired and scattered !
While Caesar left
Nor time nor space to rally ;
Of all bereft
All, save a single galley
Fain to escape
When fate and friends forsook her,
Of Egypt's grape
She quaffed the maddening liquor :
And turned her back
On Italy's fair region ;
When soars the hawk
So flies the timid pigeon ;
So flics the ha iv,
Pursued by Scythia's hunter,
O'er fallows bare,
Athwart the snows of winter.
The die was cast,
And chains she knew t' await her ;
292
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY.
Queen to the last,
'She spurned the focman's fetter;
Nor shelter sought
In hidden harbors meanly;
Nor feared the thought
Of death but met it queenly !
Untaught to bend,
Calm 'mid a tottering palace
'Mid scenes that rend
Weak woman's bosom, callous
Her arm could grasp
The writhing snake ; nor waver,
While of the as*p
It drank the venomed slaver!
Grim Death unawed
She hailed with secret rapture,
Glad to defraud
Rome's galleys of a capture !
And, haughty dame,
Scorning to live, the agent
Of regal shame,
To grace a Roman pageant !
ODE XXXVIII. LAST ODE OF BOOK THE
FIRST.
AD MINISTKtJM. DIRECTIONS FOE SUTPEB.
SLAVE ! for my feast, in humble grot
Let Persia's pomps be all forgot ;
With twining garlands worry not
Thy weary fingers,
Nor heed in what secluded spot
The last rose lingers.
Let but a modest myrtle-wreath,
In graceful guise, our temples sheathe
Nor thou nor I aught else herewith
Can want, I'm thinking,
Cupbearer thou ; and I, beneath
The wine-tree drinking.
LIB. II.
ODE I. To POLLIO ON ins MKIHTA
TED HISTORY.
JJ> O. ASINIUM POLLIONEM.
THE story of our civil wars,
Through all the changes that befell us,
To chronicle thy pen prepares,
Dating the record from Metellus ;
Of parties and of chiefs thy page
Will paint the leagues, the plans, the forces ;
Follow them through each varied stage,
And trace the warfare to its sources.
And thou wilt tell of swords still wet
With unatoned-for blood : historian,
Bethink thee of thy risk ! . . . ere yet
Of Clio thou awake the clarion.
Think of the tact which Rome requires
In one who would such deeds unfold he/
Know that thy tread is upon fires
Which still beneath the ashes smoulder.
Of Tragedy the weeping Muse
Awhile in thee may mourn a truant.
Whom varnished fiction vainly woos,
Of stern realities pursuant :
But finish thy laborious task,
Our annals write with care and candor ;
Then don the buskin and the mask,
And tread through scenes of tragic grandeur
Star of the stage ! to thee the Law
Looks for her mildest, best expounder
Thee the rapt senate hears with awe,
Wielding the bolts of patriot thunder
Thee Glory found beneath the tent,
When from a desert wild and horrid,
Dalmatia back in triumph sent
Her conqueror, with laurelled forehead !
But, hark ! methinks the martial horn
Gives prelude to thy coming story ;
In fancy's ear shrill trumpets warn
Of battle-fields, hard fought and gory :
Fancy hath conjured up the scene,
And phantom warriors crowd beside her
The squadron dight in dazzling sheen
The startled steed th' affrighted rider !
Hark to the shouts that echo loud
From mio-htv chieftains, shadowed giirnly !
I'OKMS <>F FKAVIS MAIIONV.
293
While blood and dust each hero shroud,
Costume of slaughter not unseemly:
Vainly ye struggle, vanquished brave!
Doomed to see fortune still desert ye,
Till all the world lies prostrate, save
Unconquered Gate's savage virtue !
Juno, who loveth Afric most,
And each dread tutelary godhead,
Who guards her black barbaric coast,
Lybia with Roman gore have flooded :
While warring thus the sons of those
Whose prowess could of old subject her,
Glutting the grudge of ancient foes,
Fell but to glad Jognrtha'a spectre!
Where be the distant land but drank
Our Latium's noblest blood in torrents ?
Sad sepulchres, where'er it sank,
Bear witness to each foul occurrence.
Rude barbarous tribes have learned to scoff,
Sure to exult at our undoing;
Persia hath heard with joy, far off,
The sound of Rome's gigantic ruin !
Point out the gulf on ocean's verge
The stream remote, along whose channels
ilath not been heard the mournful dir^e
That rose throughout our murderous annals-
Show me the sea without its tide
Of blood upon the suit'ace blushing
Show me the shore with blood undyed
From Roman veins profusely gushing.
But, Muse! a truce to themes like these
Let us strike up some jocund carol ;
Nor pipe with old Simonides
Dull solemn strains, morosely moral :
Teach me a new, a livelier stave
And that we may the better chant it,
Hie with me to the mystic cave,
<Jrut,lo of song! by Bacchus haunted.
LtB. II.
ODK II. THOUGHTS ON BULLION AND
THK CCI;I:I:NCV.
All CRI8ITM BALLUSTICK.
MY Sal I ust, say, in days of dearth,
Win! is the laxy in^ot woith,
Deep in the bowels of the earth
Allowed to settle,
-s a temperate use send forth
The shining met a! '.
Blessings on him whose bounteous hoard
A brother's ruined house restored
Spreading anew the orphan's board,
With can- paternal :
Murena's fame aloft hath soared
On wings eternal !
Canst thou command thy lust for gold f
Then art thou richer, friend, fourfold,
Than if thy nod the marts controlled
Where chiefest trade is
The Carthages both " new " and "old,"
The Nile and Cadiz.
Mark yon hydropic sufferer, still
Indulging in the draughts that fill
His bloated frame, insatiate, till
Dath end the cickiy;
Unless the latent fount of ill
Be dried up quickly.
Heed not the vulgar tale that I
"He counts calm hours and happy A
Who from the throne of Cyrus sways
The Persian sceptre :"
Wisdom corrects the ill-used phrase-
And stern preceptor
Happy alone proclaimeth them,
Who with uudazzled eye contemn
The pile of gold, the glittering gem,
The bribe unholy
Palm, laurel-wreath, and diadem.
Be theirs theirs solelv !
LIB. II. OUK III. A HIIMII.Y ox DE.VTII
AU Q. I'LLLH'M.
THKK, whether Pain assail
Or Pleasure pamjier,
Deliius whiehe'er prevail
Keep thou ihy temper ;
I'hwed to boisterous j.pys, that t:c'er
(.'an save thee from the sepulch
Death Mnit.-s the slave I
Whose soul ropineth.
And him who on the green,
Calm sage, iv.lineth,
294
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY.
Keeping from grief's intrusion far
Blithe holiday with festal jar.
Where giant fir, sun-proof,
With poplar blendeth,
And high o'er head a roof
Of boughs extendeth ;
While onward runs the crooked rill,
Brisk fugitive, with murmur shrill.
Bring wine, here, on the grass !
Bring perfumes hither !
Bring roses which, alas!
Too quickly wither
Ere of our days the spring-tide ebb,
While the dark sisters weave our web.
Soon should the fatal shear
Cut life's frail fibre
Broad lands, sweet Villa near
The yellow Tiber,
With all thy chattels rich and rare,
Must travel to a thankless heir.
Be thou the nobly born,
Spoiled child of Fortune-
Be thou the wretch forlorn,
Whom wants importune
By sufferance thou art here at most,
Till death shall claim his holocaust.
All to the same dark bourne
Plod on together
Lots from the same dread urn
Leap forth and, whether
Our's be the first or last, Hell's wave
Yawns for the exiles of the grave.
LIB. II. ODE IV. CLASSICAL LOVE MATCHES.
"Ne sit ancillse tibi amor pndori," etc.
"When the heart of a tnan is oppressed with care,
The mist is dispelled if a woman appear;
Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly,
Eaises his spirits and ohnrms his ear."
CAPTAIN MAcnEATn.
O DEEM not thy love for a captive maid
Doth, Phoceus, the heart of a Roman degrade!
Like the noble Achilles, 'tis simply, simply,
With a "Briseis" thou sharcst thy bed.
Ajax of Telamon did the same,
Felt in his bosom a Phrygian flame!
Taught to contemn none, King Agamemnon
Fond of a Trojan slave became.
Such was the rule with the Greeks of old,
When they had conquered the foe's stronghold
When gallant Hector Troy's protector
Falling, the knell of Ilion tolled.
Why deem her origin vile and base ?
Canst thou her pedigree fairly tracej
Yellow-haired Phyllis, slave tho' she be, still is
The last, perhaps, of a royal race.
Birth to demeanor will sure respond
Phyllis is faithful, Phyllis is fbnj :
Gold cannot buy her then why a^ny her
A rank the basely born beyond ?
Phyllis hath limbs divinely wrought,
Features and figure without a fault . . .
Do not feel jealous, friend, when a fellow's
Fortieth year forbids the thought!
LIB. II. ODE VI. THE ATTRACTIONS OF
TIHUK AND TARENTUM.
"Septiuii, Gades," etc.
SEPTIMIUS, pledged with me to roam
Far as the fierce IBERIAN'S home,
Where men abide not yet o'ercorae
By Roman legions,
And MAURITANIAN billows foam
Barbaric regions !
TIBUR ! sweet colony of Greece !
There let my devious wanderings cease ;
There would I wait old age in peace,
There calmly dwelling,
A truce to war! a long release
O
From "colonelling! "
Whence to go forth should Fate ordain.
Galesus, gentle flood! thy plain
Speckled with sheep might yet remain
For heaven to grant us ;
Land that once knew the halcyon reign
Of Kino- Phalantus.
1'oKMS
FRANCIS MALIGN Y.
295
Spot of all earth most dear to me!
Teeming with sweets! the Attic 1
O'er Mouut Hymettus ranging free,
Finds not such .honey
Nor basks the Capuan olive-tree
In soil more sunny.
There lingering Spring is longest found :
E'en Winter's breath is mild ; and round
Delicious Aulon grapes abound,
In mellow cluster !
Such as Falernum's richest ground
Can larely muster.
Romantic towers ! thrice happy scene !
There might our days glide on serene ;
Till thon bedew with tears, I ween,
Of love sincerest,
The dust of him who om;e had been
Thy friend, the Lyrist !
LIB. II.
ODE VII. A FELLOW-SOLDIER WEL-
COMED FKOM EXILE.
"Osfc tnucuin," etc.
FRIEND of my soul ! with whom arrayed
I stood in the ranks of peril,
When Brutus at Philippi made
That effort wild and sterile . .
Who hath reopened Rome to thee,
Her temples and her forum ;
Beckoning the child of Italy
Back to the clime that bore h'm ?
Thou, my earliest comrade ! say,
Pompey, was I thy teacher
To baulk old Time, and drown the and
Deep in a flowing pitcher?
Think of the hours we thus consumed,
While Syria's richest odors,
Lavish of fragrancy, perfumed
The locks of two marauders.
r
With thee I shared Philippics rout,
Though I, methinks, ran faster;
Leaving behind 'twas wrong, no doubt
My SHIELD in the disaster:
KYn Fortitude that day broke down ;
And the rude lot-man taught her
To hide her brow's diminished frown
Low amid lu-aps of .slaughter-
But Mercury, who kindly watched
Me 'mid that struggle deadhy
Stooped from a cloud, and quickly snatched
His client from the medley.
While thee, alas ! the ebbing flood
Of war relentless swallowed,
Replunging tht-e 'mid seas of blood ;
And years of tempest followed.
Then slay to Jove the victim calf,
Due to the God ; and weary,
Under my bower of laurels quaff
A wine-cup blithe and merry.
Here, while thy war-worn limbs repose.
'Mid peaceful scenes sojourning,
Spare not the wine. . .'twas kept. . .it flow*
To welcome thy returning.
Come, with oblivious bowls dispel
Grief, care, and disappointment!
Freely from yon capacious shell
Shed, shed the balmy ointment!
Who for the genial banquet weaves
Gay garlands, gathered newly ;
Fresh with the srarden's greenest leaves.
Or twined with myrtle duly?
Whom sball the dice's cast "WINE-KINO "
Elect, by Venus guided ?
Quick, let my roof with wild mirth ring-
Blame not my joy, nor chide it !
Madly each bacchanalian feat
I mean to-day to rival,
For, oh ! 'tis sweet thus . . . i iifs TO ORECT
So DKAR A FRIEND'S ARRIVAL!
Liu. II. Oi.:, VIII. Tn K
or
IX BABWKB.
BAKINE! if, for caeh untruth,
Some blemish left a mark uncouth,
With lo-s of beauty and of youth,
Or Heaven should alter
The whiiene>s of a single t.-nth
O fair defaulter!
29C
POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY.
Then might I trust thy words. But them
1 >ost triumph o'er each broken vow ;
Falsehood would seem to give thy brow
Increased effulgence :
Men still admire and gods allow
Thee fresh indulgence.
O
Swear by thy mother's funeral urn
Swear by the stars that nightly burr
(Seeming in silent awe to mouru
O'er such, deception)
Swear by each Deity in turn,
From Jove to Neptune ;
Venus and all her Nymphs would jt
With smiles thy perjury abet
Cupid would laugh Go on ' an'l 1*1
Fresh courage nerve thee :
Still on his bloodstained wheel he'll whet
His darts to serve thee !
Fast as they grow, our youths enchain,
Fresh followers in beauty's train :
While they who loved thee first would
Charming deceiver,
Within thy threshold stiil remain,
And love, forever !
Their sons from thee all mothers hide ;
All thought of thee stern fathers chide ;
Thy shadow haunts the new-made bride-
And fears dishearten her,
Lest thou inveigle from lier side
Her life's young partner.
THE POEMS OF DENIS F. McOAKTHY.
THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENT) AX.
NOTWITHSTANDING the manypointsof interest, topographical
as well as historical, which the old ' Legend of St. Brendan"
possesses, it ts somewhat difllcult to find any satisfactory
account of it even in works expressly devoted to the early
legendary lore of Christian Ireland. Dr. Lanigan, in his Eccle-
siastical History, has a passing allusion to it, but it is a con-
UMupmous one; although, from all that appears, he does not
Been) to have possessed a fuller acquaintance with its details
than might be Cleaned from Colgan's incidental description of
the Stint's visit to Arran, previous to his setting out on his
great expedition.
Colgin, in the passage referred to, promised to give a ""'ill
account of this famous voyage when treating of St. Brendan's
Festivalon the 10th May. This promise I believe he fulfilled,
but unfortunately the portion of his great work, "Acta Sanc-
torum Eternise," which contains this, in common with much
other interesting matter, has never been published. The rare
and valualle. folio, which is so well known, includes only the
lives of tluse Irish saints whose festivals occur before the
end of Manh. In the public libraries both of England and
Ireland MS. copies of the Latin legend may be met with, but
not so frequ^itly as in those on the Continent: the Bi!/!io-
theque impcfcile at Paris alone containing, probably, a greater
number than ill the libraries of the three kingdoms put to-
gether. In the old library close to St. Patrick's Cathedral,
Dublin, foumhd by the Primate Marsh, there is a MS. com-
monly, but incorrectly, called the "Codex Kilkeniensis," 1
which, along wih the lives of many other early Irish suiuis,
contains a life f St. Brendan, which is, however, unfortu-
nately, imperfect, The same library possesses a copy of '.!:e
"Nova Legcnda Vngliie," compiled by Joannes Capgravius,
and published in luti. This also contains a life of St. Brendan,
but carelessly audinaceunitely abridged, after the manner of
this writer. The "Legcnda Aurea" of Jacobus de Voragine,
that famous repertory of legends so popular in the thirteenth
and succeeding ceUuries, makes no mention of the Irish
'Ulysses. Of this wok. it is stated by Brunei, in his "Manuel
d'i Libraire," that, pevious to the year 1500, no less than
',ty-four editions md appeared, and that up to that period
it had been translatedthirty times into foreign languages. -
The " Golden Legend*' of Caxton, printed by Wynkin de
VVorde at Westminstei in 1483, which might be thought a
mere translation of the '\,egenda Aurea" of Jacobus de Vora-
cine just referred to, contains, however, many additional
;,ils, the most interejng of which, perhaps, is the one
devoted to St. Brendan. *h e fine copy of this rare and vulua
1 Dr. Reeve* considers that " (yiex Armaehanns" Is mure lik.-
Its correct designation. Sea UU tjjtion of Adainnan'v Life tit
.umliu," Preface, p. jtxvl., note I. \
-' A very excellent edition of till rare book has been recently pub
lis'.ied by Dr. Tli. Urnexe, UfcfMtAtO the King of Saxony il
IrOO.) It contains many additioiml Vend* not to br found in n
mil ^ork. There tl aUo a French t\ n Utlon by M G. H. in ..
BO>>< ed j Charles (JoMelin. t'HtJai^x
ble book in the Grcnville Collection at the British MnEeun.
had the pleasure of examining a few years ago, and of making
a transcript therefrom of the "Lyfe of Saint Brandon." which
I subsequently published In the "Dublin University Maga-
zine," vol. xxxix. p. 5oU, where it is to be found in all it-
original quaint ness.
Until very lately, no Irish version of the Legend, which on
many accounts ought to be the most valuable, was available.
A transcript of a copy, however, has been recently procured
for the library of the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin ; but aa it
remains unedited and untranslated. UP advantages to the gen-
eral student are but slight. The Legend, which lias thus been
somewhat neglected in the country where it originated, has,
however, attracted the notice of a distinguished French archae-
ologist, M. Achille Jubinal, who has published the Latin
original, as well as two early Romance versions of it, under
the following title : " La Legende Latine de S. Brandaiuoi*
avec tine traduction en prose et en podsie Romanes." Paris,
1836.
The Legend which concerns St. Brendan, says M. Achille
Jubinal, in his Preface to the above scarce e;;:1 inter
little tract, " is, without doubt, if we may judge by the multi-
tude of narratives founded upon it which still exist, one ol
those that were most widely diffused in the Middle Ages.
This kind of monkish Odyssey Is to be found, in fact, in most
of the old European dialects; and, thanks to the marvels of
which it Is the subject, it must have obtained an Immense
popularity with our ancestors, and with the inhabitants of the
British Isles generally a people that have at all time* been
the playmates of ti. teftn.* 1
In the Bibliothdque Imp6riale at Paris there are to be found
no less than eleven MSS. of the original Latin legend, the
dates of which vary from the eleventh to the fourteenth cen-
tury. In the old French and Romance dialects copies both in
prose and verse are abundant in the various public libraries of
France, while versions in the Irish. Dutch, German, Italian.
Spanish, and Portuguese lamjuau'--- are found scattered through
the public and private libraries of colleges and convents all
over the Continent.
The Spaniards and Portuguese, down nearly to the middle
of the eighteenth -in to have considered the
legend a true narrative, and on several occasions fitted oat
flotillas for the purpose of ascertaining the exact locality of
tin- ishads supposed to have ) d by St. Brendan.
The first expedition, says M. Achille Jubinal. which had
this object in view was that of Fernando de Troya and Fer-
nando Alvarez In 1536. It was not followed, as may well be
imagined, by any successful result ; but this did not discount/.-
the partisans of the singular illusion which had drawn these
two men to seek for the unknown island, since, somewhat
later. Dr. Herman Perez de Grado fitted out a little annameol
destined for the same discovery. This new attempt wa* not
iii"i.- fortunate than the preceding. In fine, a third cxpc<i.
confided to the renowned mariners Fray Lorenzo Pinrdo and
Gaspard Perez de Acosta, departed from the por.
298
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTm .
which had witnessed the disappointment of the previous un-
dertakings, hut did not obtain any greater success. It is
probable, after this, that the zeal of the Spaniards chilled con-
siderably; for during a century there was no further attempt
to discover the position of this island. But in 1731, Don Juan
de Mur, Governor of the Canaries, confided a ship to Gaspard
Dominguez, which departed from the port of Santa Cruz, and
returned after many months, without having discovered any-
thing. From that time no further expedition has been at-
tempted. It was, however, a popular belief in Spain for a
long time, that the Isle of St. Brendan, which was called \>y
them San Borondon, had served as an asylum for King Rod-
erick against the Moors, and that this monarch dwelt there in
an impenetrable fortress ; and finally, that it was divided into
seven opulent cities ; that it had an archbishop, six bishops,
seaports, large rivers, and that, as might be supposed, the in-
habitants were good Christians, loaded with riches and all the
other gifts of fortune.
The Portuguese were not behind the Spaniards in the vivid-
cess of their imagination. They were for a long period firmly
persuaded that the Isle of St. Brendan was the asylum of King
Don Sebastian ; and when they beheld the Indies for the first
time, they were convinced they had at length discovered the
long sought for Island of St. Brendan. 1
The well-known story of Madoc, which seems like a lay ver-
ion of the Legend of St. Brendan, is familiar to all from the
fine poem of Southey, of which that prince is thrc hero. A
till earlier Welsh tradition is mentioned by Southey, in his
notes to the same poem, of the " Gwerdonnau Llion." or Green
Islands of the Ocean, in search of which the enchanter Merlin
mailed in his house of glass, and from which expedith n he
never returned.
The optical causes which produce the fata Morgana, in the
Straits of Messina may have something to do with these vari-
ous apparitions, as familiar now to the Tonga Islanders of the
South Pacific, as of old time to the more sympathizing and
credulous inhabitants of Spain, of Portugal, and of Ireland.*
To return to the voyage of St. Brendan, the main incidento
of which appear to be neither impossible nor improbable.
These have been carefully abridged by the late Rev. Caesar
Otway in one of his very pleasing "Sketch-books of Irish
Scenery." The passage may serve as a sufficient explanation
of tne use I have made of the Legend in the composition of |
the following poem :
"We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous
voyage of his cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and
obtaining an account from him of the happy isles he had landed
on in the far west, determined, under the strong desire of
winning heathen souls to Christ, to undertake a voyage of dis-
covery himself. And, aware that all along the western coast
of Ireland there were many traditions respecting the existence
of a western land, he proceeded to the Islands of Arran, and
there remained for some time, holding communication with
the venerable St. Enda, and obtaining from him much infor-
mation on what his mind was bent. There can be little doubt
that he proceeded northward along the coast of Mayo, and
made inquiry, among its bays and islands, of the remnants of
the Tuatha Danaan people, that once were so expert in naval
affairs, and who acquired from the Milesians, or Scots, that
overcame them, the character of being magicians, for their
superior knowledge. At Inniskea, then, and Innisgloria,
Brendan set up his cross ; and, in after-times, in his honor
were erected those curious remains that still exist. Having
prosecuted his inquiries with all diligence, Brendan returned
to his native Kerry; and from a bay sheltered by the lofty
mountain that is now known by his name, he set sail for the
Atlantic land; and, directing his course toward the south-
west, in order to meet the summer solstice, or what we would
cull tne tropic, after a long and rough voyage, his little bark
being well provisioned, he came to summer seas, where he was
carried along, without the aid of sail or oar, for many a long
day. This, it is to be presumed, was the great gulf-stream,
and which brought his vessel to shore somewhere about the
Virginian capes, or where the American coast tends eastward,
and forms the New England States. Here landing, he and his
companions marched steadily into the interior for fifteen days,
and then came to a large river, flowing from east to west : this,
evidently, was the river Ohio. And this the holy adventurer
was about to cross, when he was accosted by a person of noble
presence but whether a real or visionary man does not ap-
pear who told him he had gone far enough ; that further dis-
coveries were reserved for other men, who would, in due time,
come and Christianize all that pleasant land. The above, when
tested by common sense, clearly shows that Brendan landed
on a continent, and went a good way into the interior, met a
great river running in a different direction from those he
heretofore crossed ; and here, from the difficulty of transit, or
want of provisions, or deterred by increasing difficulties, he
turned back, and, no doubt, in a dream he saw some such
vision which embodied his own previous thought and satis
fled him that it was expedient for him to return home. It is
said he remained seven years away, and returned to set up a
college of three thousand monks, at Clonfert, and he then
died in the odor of sanctity." Csesar Otway's Sketches in
Errls and Tyrawley, note, pp. 98, 99.
According to Colgan, St. Brendan set out on his voyage in
545. Dr. Lanigan, however (Ecclesiastical Hist., vol. ii. p. 35),
considers that it must have commenced some years earlier, is
it is naturil to suppose that Brendan was, at the t.'me of un-
dertaking such a perilous work, in the vigor of his age, and
not sixty years old, as he was in the year 545.
I may a'ld, in conclusion, that the " Paradisns Avhm"
mentioned in Capgrave's version, and so picturesquely elabo-
rated by Caxton in " The Golden Legende," seemed tome a
tempting opportunity of describing the more remarkable
spec? mens of American Ornithology. This I have attempted
in t^ic fifth part of the poem.
1 Preface to " La Legende Latine de S. Brandaine," pp. 17, 18.
1 See the carious account of the Island of Bolotoo in the notes to
ttomhey'i " Tale of Paraguay."
PART I.
THE VOCATION.
i.
J.TA !* mother of my heart and iiin-d
My nourisher my fosterer m T friend,
Wbe taught me first, to God's gieat will re-
signed,
I>',' ( 'cry his shining altar-steps GO bend.
1 The following curious account of St. la is to be foun J in
Colgan's " A eta Sanctorum:"
" St. Ita \TSS of the princely family of th< Desii, or Nandesi,
in the now comfy of Waterford. By the livine command she
established the convent of Cluain-Credhnl, in that portion of
Hy-Conaill whim constitutes the presets barony of Connello,
in" the county 01' Limerick. When Brenlan was a mere infant,
he was placed unctei her care, and rtnained witii her five
years, after which period he was led twny by Bishop Ercus,
in order to receive from him the moresolid instruction neces-
sary for his advancing years. Bren.an retained always the
greatest respect and afifeeuon for hisfoster-mother ; and he is
represented, after his seven years'voyage, amusing St Ita
with an account of his ad.vautnres i> the ocean. He, however,
was not the only person rta.-ed b the bcnevol ont abbess of
Cluain-Credhuil; her own repb&v. Pulcherius, had also this
enviable advantage. The mann<" of his birth, as described
in Colgan, is so curious, thai itis worth transcribing. His
lather's name was Beoanus ; hewas a skilful artificer, and of
an honorable family in Connagat; hnt, being compelled to
fly into exile, he came into ttuneigMu. rr\co(? of St. Ita. She,
hearing of his professional sSll, aru\ b-vlng anxio-js to make
some addition to the buildin* of hti c invent, requested Him
POKMS DF DKMS F. .M.CAUTIIV.
290
Who poured his word upon my soul like balm,
And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints,
And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm,
And all the sacred knowledge of the saints.
n.
Who but to thee, my mother, should bo told,
Of all the wonders I have seen afar?
Islands more green, and suns of brighter gold
Thau this dear land, or yonder bla/ing
star;
Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops,
And seas that dimple with eteru.il smiles ;
Of airs from heaven that fan the golden
crops,
O'er the great ocean, 'mid the blessed
isles !
in.
Thou know-est, O my mother ! how to thee,
The blessed Ercus led me when a boy,
And how within thine arms and at thy knee
I learned the lore that death cannot de-
stroy ;
And how I parted hence with bitter tears,
And felt when turning from thy friendly
door,
In the reality of ripening years,
My paradise of childhood was no more.
IV.
I wept but not with sin such tear-drops flow ;
I sighed for earthly tilings with heaven
entwine ;
to undertake the work. lie consented, on the conditions cf
receiving Nessa, the sister of the saint, as his wife, and also
some land on which to settle. St. Ita acquiesced in the pro-
position, and gave him her sister Nessa to wife ; and he, with
great assiduity, applied himself to erect the buildings in the
monastery of the saint. It happened, after a time, that in
battle, whither he had followed a certain chieftain. Bcoanus
was killed; and his head, being cut off, was carried away a
great distance. St. Ita was, of course, very much grieved at
this occurrence, particularly as she had promised her brother-
in-law that he would have a son, which promise was unful-
filled, as his wife had been sterile up to this time. St. Iin
went to the field of battle, and found the mutilated body of
Beoanus, but, of course, without the head. She however,
prayed that it might be shown to her, and the head, through
the divine power. Hew through the air, and stopped where the
Ixit'.y lay before her; and the Lord, at the entreaty of his
handmaid, made the head adhere to the body as perfectly no
if it had never been cut off, except that a slight mark of the
wound remained : and the space of one hour having ]>.!--'!
he rose alive, saluting the servant of the Lord, and returning
thnnks to God. After the return of Beoanus, his wife con-
ci-ivcd, and she brought forth a son, as St. Ita had promisee!.
Thi- ;<nn was Pnlcherius, and he remained with the *:iint
intil he reached his twentieth year." Colgan's Ada Sancto-
rum. r> 'is.
Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow,
And love, though human, is almost divin--
The heart that loves not knows not how to
pray;
That eye can never smile that ne\ er weeps;
'Tis through our si<4hs Hope's kindling sun-
O 1 O
beams play,
And through our tears the bow of Promise
peeps.
V.
I grew to manhood by the western wave,
Among the mighty mountains on the shore ;
My bed the rock within some natural cave,
My food, whate'er the seas or seasons bore ;
My occupation, morn and noon and night :
The only dream my hasty slumbers gave,
Wu-s Time's unheeding, unreturning flight,
And the great world that lies beyond the
irrave.
VI.
And thus, where'er I went, all things to me
Assumed the one deep color of my mind ;
Great Nature's prayer rose from the mur-
muring sea,
And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind.
The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a
tear,
Like penitents, grew purified and bright,
And, bravely struggling through earth's at-
mosphere,
Passed to the regions of eternal light.
O O
VII.
I loved to watch the clouds, now dark and
dun,
In long procession and funereal Tine,
Pass with slow pace across the glorious snn,
Like hooded monks before a dazzling
shrine.
And now with gentler beauty as they rolled
Along the a/.ure vault in gladsome May,
(learning pure white, and edged with broi-
dered gold,
Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day.
VIII.
And then I saw the mighty sea expand
Like Time's unmeasured and nnlat homed
wa
One with its tide-marks on the ridgy .\-ind,
The other with its line nf weedy gra\<-;
300
POKMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIIY.
And as beyond the outstretched wave of
Time
The eye of Faith a brighter land may
meet,
So did I dream of some more sunny clime
Beyond the waste of waters at my feet :
IX.
Some clime where man, unknowing and un-
known,
For God's refreshing Word still gasps and
faints ;
Or happier rather some Elysian zone,
Made for the habitation of His saints ;
Where Nature's love the sweat of labor
spares,
Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends,
Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest
bears,
And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters
bends.
x.
The thought grew stronger with my growing
days,
Even like to manhood's strengthening mind
and limb,
And often now amid the purple haze
That evening breathed upon the horizon's
rim
Methought, as there I sought my wished-for
home,
1 could descry amid the waters green,
Full many a diamond shrine and golden
dome,
And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen.
XI.
And then I longed with impotent desire,
Even for the bow whereby the Python
bled,
T iiat I might send one dart of living fire
Into that land, before the vision fled;
And thus at length fix thy enchanted shore,
Ily-Brnsftil 1 Eden of the western wave !
1 Hy-Brasail, or the Enchanted Island, which was supposed
to be visible from the western coast of Ireland every seven
years. The ballad of Gerald Griffin, and the frequent allusion
to this subject in works recently published, render it unneces-
sary to give any more particular description of it in this
place. Among the several modes of disenchanting this island,
and others subject to similar eccentric disappearances, re-
sorted to by our ancestors, that of fire seems to have been the
one most frequently attempted, and the only one which was
That thou again wouldst fade away no more.
Buried and lost within thy azure grave.
XII.
But angels came and whispered as I dreamt,
"This is no phantom of a frenzied brain
God shows this land from time to time to
tempt
Some daring mariner across the main :
By thee the mighty venture must be made,
By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be
won!
Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid !"
I woke, and kneeling cried, " His will be
done !"
PART II.
ARA OF THE SAINTS.'
i.
HEARING how blessed Enda 8 lived apart,
Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor,
And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart,
Lay all the isles of that remotest shore ;
And how he had collected in his mind
All that was known to man of the Old Sea,*
I left the Hill of Miracles 5 behind,
And sailed from out the shallow sandy
attended with any success ; as not only was the island of In-
nisbofin, off the coast of Conncmara, fixed in its present posi-
tion by means of a few sparks of lighted turf falling upon it,
but the still more celebrated Hy-BrasoU itself seems to havs
met with the same disaster, if we are to credit a very matter-
of-fact and circumstantial account, which may be seen in
Ilardiinan's "Irish Minstrelsy." vol. i. p. 3(i9. Shooting a
fiery arrow was one of the means resorted to for bringing the
disenchanting element into connection with Hy-Brasail; it
was certainly the most elegant method, if not the most suc-
cessful.
2 "From the number of holy men and women formerly inhab-
iting Arran, it received the name of Ara-na-naomh, or ' Ara of
the Saints.' " Colgau, Acta Sanctorum, p. 710, n. 18.
3 " St. Enda, or Encleus, was the first abbot of Arran ; it was
in the year 540, according to Colgan, that Brendan paid him
the visit described in the text." Ibid., p. 714.
* "The Atlantic was anciently called Shan-arragh, or the
Old Sea." Sketches in Erris and Tyrawley, p. 51.
6 It is not mentioned from what place Brendan proceeded on
this visit to Arran. It is extremely probable that it was from
Ardfert, five miles northwest of Traiee, where he had before
this period established a monastery, and where a portion of
his church (one of the most beautiful ruins in Kerry) still re-
mains to this day. According to Sir James Ware (vol. i. p.
518), Ardfert signifies " a wonderful place on an eminence,"
or, as some interpret it, " The Hill of Miracies."
8 Traiee was anciently written Traleigh, i. e. " the strand of
the river Leigh," which is a small stream that empties itself
at the bottom of Traiee Bay.
1'oF.MS OF DKNIS F. M, ( 'AKTII V.
801
ii.
Betwixt the Samphire Isles' swam my light
skiff,
And like an arrow tlew through Fenor
Sound,*
Swept by the pleasant strand,' and the tall
cliff
Whereon the pale rose amethysts are
found, 4
Hounded Moyferta's rocky point,* and
crossed
The mouth of stream-streaked Erin's might-
iest tide,
Whose troubled waves break o'er the City
lost,
Chafed by the marble turrets that they
hide.*
in.
Beneath Ibriekan's hills, moory and tame, T
And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and
dark,"
I sailed along. The white-faced otter came,*
And gazed in wonder on my floating bark.
The soaring gannet 10 perched upon my mast,
And the proud bird that flies but o'er the
sea, 11
Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna
passed
Upon the branch of some life-giving tree."
1 Islands in the Bay t,' ".Yalee.
Between Fenit Islj.-id and the mainland.
" The strand of PaJ/yheigh is, in fine weather, a very pleas-
ant ride." Smith's Kerry, p. 208.
The Amethyst Cliffs, near Kerry Head. Very fine ame-
thysts have been found among these cliffs. Smith describes
their colors as being of various degrees and shades of purple :
some approach to a violet, and others to a pale rose-color.
p. 405.
Kerry Head, or Cape Lane, terminates the southern ex-
tremity of tho barony Moyferta, now called Moyarta, In the
county of Clare.
"It is said that the mouth of the Shannon is the site of
a lest city, and that its towers, and spires, and turrets, acting
as breakers against the tlde-W,er, occasion the roughness of
this part of the estuary." Hail''. Ireland, vol. iii. p. 438. For
ft story founded on thin legtn-j, tee Part IV. of the " Voyage
of St. Brendan," p. IflO.
7 The barony of Ibrickar, Jn the county of Clare.
1 Kiiniskerry Island, half a mile from the shore. There are
ome curious natural caves here.
The white-faced otter, called by the Irish Dobhar-ehu, is
occasionally seen off the western coast of Connaught. Martin,
in hi* " Description of the Western Isles," says that " seamen
n-cribe jjrcat virtue to its skin; for they say that It is fortu-
nate in battle, and that victory is always on its side." p. 159.
' " Here the gannet soars high into the sky. to espy his prey
in the sea under him," Ac. O'Flaherty's West Connaught.
9. IS.
IV.
Leaving tin: awful cliffs of ( Vn-omr6e,
I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bears
The name of blessed Coemhan," who doth
show
Pity unto the storm-tossed seaman's
prayers :
Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbac's treach-
erous sound, 14
I reached the middle isle, whose citadel
Looks like a monarch from its throne around ;
And there I rested by St. Kt-nnerg's 'veil."
v.
Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy sound
That lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height, 1 *
And there, upon the shore, the Saint I found
Waiting my coming through the tan'y
night.
He led me to his home beside the wave,
Where, with his monks, the pious father
dwelled,
And to my listening ear he freely gave
The sacred knowledge that his bosom held.
VI.
When I proclaimed the project that I nursed,
How 'twas for this that I his blessing
sought,
An irrepressible cry of joy outburst
From his pure lips, that blessed me for
the thought.
11 " Birds found in the high cliffs and rocks of Arran, which
never fly but over the sea." Ibid., p. 18.
IJ " Here is the bird engendered by the sea, out of timber
long lying in the sea. Some call them clakes and soland geen,
some puffins, and others barnacles, because they referable
them. We call them ffirrinn." Ibid., p. 13. The Irish name
is cadan girinna.
i* " Saint Coemhan (Kevin) was brother to the celebrated
Saint Kevin, of Qlendaloiigh. The third island of Arrai.. Ii.
nisoirthir, or the Eastern Me, was also called Ara-Cocmhau,
in his honor. Hanliman says that he is the most famous
of the saints of Arran, and that he is believed to have often
abated storms, after having been piously invoked." Ibid.,
note, p. 87.
14 " Between the middle and eastern isle is ntalach-na-ftar
doc, or the ' Foal Sound.' ""Ibid., nott, p. W.
' This is a beautiful spring in the middle isle, dedicated to
Saint Kcnnerg, who, according to tradition, was daughter to
a king of Leinster. "Her well," says O'Flaherty, "Is there
in a rock, and never becomes drie." p. 8(1. The citadel al
ludod to is Dun-ConchabMr. It rivals Dun-.fnyut, ituated
In the great Island, both in masonry and extent. Ibid., p. 77
' "Bealach-na-haito (now called Gregory's Sound) takes It*
name from IHnn-AUf, an elevated part of the great Islaml."
'tote, p. 98.
302
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAllTlIY
He said that he, too, had in visions strayed
Over the untracked ocean's billowy foam ;
Bid me have hope that God would give me
aid,
And bring
home.
me safe back to my native i
VII.
Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land, 1
Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous
tales
How, for the children of his love, the hand
Of the Omnipotent Father never fails
How his own sister, standing by the side
Of the great sea, which bore no human
bark,
Spread her light cloak upon the conscious
tide,
And sailed thereon securely as an ark."
VIII.
And how the winds become the willing
slaves
Of those who labor in the work of God ;
And how Scothinus walked upon the waves,
Which seemed to him the meadow's ver-
dant sod. 1
1 The surface of Arran is covered over with large flat slabs
of stone. Hardiman says that the " Marble Islands" would
not be a bad name for the Arran Isles generally.
9 "This sister was St. Fanchea, who, going with three fe-
male companions to visit her brother Enda, who was then in
Rome, came to the seaside ; and not finding a vessel to carry
them over, spread her cloak upon the sea, and passed over
upon it to the desired port of Britain. During the voyage,
the hem of the cloak sank a little beneath the waves, in con-
sequence of one of her companions having brought a brazen
vessel with her from the convent, contrary to the expressed
command of the saint. Upon her throwing it from her into
the sea, the sinking hem rose up on a level with the rest of
the cioak." Colgan's Acta Sanctorum, p. 2.
1 " St. Scothinus, by fasting and other penitential observ-
ances, had so purified his body, that he had the privilege of
walking upon the sea with dry feet, and going upon it whither
he pleased, without using any ship or vessel whatsoever. In
his Life it is mentioned that, upon one occasion, while he was
thus walking over to Britain, a ship approached him, in which
was the Bishop St. Barra,who beholding the man of God Sco-
thinus, and recognizing him, inquired wherefore he walked
upon the sea ? Scothinus replied, that it was a flowery field
on which he walked, and immediately extending his hand to
the water, he plucked from the middle of the ocean a handful
of rosy flowers, which, as a proof of his assertion, he flung in-
to the bosom of the blessed bishop. The bishop, on the
other hand, to prove that he was justified in making such an
inquiry, drew a fish from the sea and threw it to St. Scothinus,
and each, magnifying God for his miracles, went on his sepa-
rate way." Colgan's Acta Sanctorum, p. 10, chap. v. vi.
4 " This island (Ara-mhor) was inhabited by infidels out of
Corcomroe, the next adjacent country in the county of Clare,
when St. Enna (Enda) got it by the donation of Eugus. King
How he himself came hither with his flock,
To teach the infidels from Corcomroe ;*
Upon the floating breast of the hard rock,
Which lay upon the glistening sands be-
low.'
But not alone of miracles and joys
Would Enda speak he told me of his
dream ;
When blessed Kieran went to Clon-mac-nois,
To found the sacred churches by the
stream
How he had wept to see the angels flee
Away from Arran, as a place accui-st ;
And men tear up the island-shading tree,
Out of the soil from which it sprung at
first. 8
x.
At length I tore me from the good man's
sight,
And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth took my
lone way,
of Munster, anno Christi circiter 480." O'Flaherty's Wt-Jt
ConnaugM, p. 79. These " infidels" were headed by a chief,
Corbanus, about whom the following curious story is told by
Colgan. Being in possession of Arran previous to the arrival
of St. Endan, he surrendered it to him with very bad grace,
and was not perfectly convinced of his right to the island un-
til after the occurrence of the following miracle. For, wish-
ing to test how far St. Enda was protected by the celestial
powers, he prepared a large barrel, which he filled with corn-
seed, and leaving it on the shore of the mainland, he said to-
himself, 'If Enda be a favorite of heaven, this corn, which he
so much requires, will be carried over to him in a miraculous
manner.' Wonderful to relate, the event occurred precisely
as he anticipated ; for the angel of God, taking the barrel*
drew it through the sea, and the track of the barrel still re-
mains in perpetual serenity amid the turbulence of the sur-
rounding water." Ibid., chap. xvi. p. 770.
4 " When St. Enda obtained the grant of Arran from his
brother-in-law, Engus MacNatfraich, for the purpose of erect-
ing a monastery thereon, he proceeded with his disciples to-
the sea-shore, in order to pass over to Arran. There being
no vessel at that place, and the saint not wishing to lose time,
he ordered eight of his monks to raise a great stone, which
lay upon the shore, and to place it in the water, and a favora-
ble breeze springing up, they were wafted over the sea on
this stone, in perfect safety, to Arran." Ibid., chap. xiv.
p. 707.
" When St. Kieran, with many pious followers, was about
leaving Arran, to found the monastery of Clonmacnoise, up-
on the Shannon, St. Enda had many visions, in one of which
he saw all the angels who had hitherto been the guardians of
that island departing from it in a great crowd. In another,
he saw a mighty tree growing in the midst of Arran, with its
branches extending all round to the sea, and many men came
and dug up the tree by the roots, and it was borne with them
through the air, and replanted by the banks of the river Shan-
non, where it grew to a still larger size." Ibid., chap, xxviii.
p. 710. According to Ussher, St. Kieran left Arran in the
year '>'.!.
1'OK.MS <)K DKXIS I-'. .M, CA1JTHY.
Which, in the- sunny morning's golden light,
Shone like the burning hike of Lassara-, 1
Now 'neath hea\cn's frown and now, be-
ne.ith its smile
Borne on tlie tide, or driven before tin-
gale ;
And as I passed MacPara's sacred Isle,
Thrice bowed my ir.ast, and thrice let
down my sail.*
XI.
Westward of Arran, as I sailed away,
I saw the fairest sight eye can behold,
Hocks which, illumined by the morning's
ray,
Seemed like a glorious city built of gold.
Men moved along each sunny shining street,
Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke
to rise,
When lo ! the city vanished, and a fleet,
With snowy sails, rose on my ravished
eyes. 1
Thus having sought for knowledge and for
strength,
Foi the unheard-of voyage that I planned,
I left these myriad isles, and turned at length
Southward my bai'k, and sought my na-
tive land.
There I made all things ready, day by day,
The wicker boat, with ox-skins covered
o'er *
Chose the good monks companions of my
way, .
And waited for the wind to leave the
shore.
1 " There is some uncommonly fine pasture-land about
Moylough, and near it is a lake called Lough Lassane. or the'
Illuminated lake. This was celebrated as a place of religious
'rite, even in the time of Paganism ; and its waters are eaid,
e.'ory seventy years, to possess this luminous quality in ex-
cess; and then the people bring their children and entile to
be washed in its phosphoric waters, and they are considered to
have no chance of dying that year." Ciesar Otway's Tour
in Connavght, p. 103. Lough Lurgan was the ancient imiue
Of Oalway Bay.
' This is the island formerly called Crunch, Mhic Dars, liter-
ally, the stack, or rick (from its appearance in the ocean) of
MacDara, who is the patron saint of Moyru* parish. " The
th:it pass between Mason-head and this island." says
CVFlaherty, "have a custome to bow down their suils three
limes', in reverence to the saint." DfscripHon ofll-Iar Con-
na'<f/ht, p. 99.
Thusi! are the Skird Rocks, which are thus beautifully de-
scribed by O'Flaherty: "There is, wr-twrd of Arriui. in
ight of the next continent of Balynahynsy barony, SUerde. a
PA HI 111.
TIIK VOYAGE.
i.
AT length tiie day so long expected came,
When from the opening arms of that wild
bay,
Heneath the hill that bears my Inn:
name,*
Over the waves we took our untracked
way :
Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and ril!,
(lladly the waves played in its golden
light,
And the proud top of the majestic hill
Shone in the a/.ure air serene and bright.*
O
II.
Over the sea we new that sunny morn,
Not without natural tears and human
sighs;
For who can leave the land where he wa>
born,
And where, perchance, a buried mother
lies
Where all the friends of riper manhood
dwell,
And where the playmates of his childhood
sleep
Who can depart and breathe a cold farewell,
Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep ?
in.
Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles
On ocean's ch"ek, flew like a wanton bird;
wild island of hnge rocks, the receptacle of a deal of seals
thereon yearly slaughtered. These rocks sometimes appear
to be a great city far oil', full of houses, castles, towers, and
chimneys : sometimes full of blazing flames, smoak, and peo-
ple running to and fro. Another day yon would see nothing
but a number of ships, with their sails and riggings : then M>
many great stakes, or reeks of corn and turf; and this not
only on a fair, sun-"hiniiig day, whereby it might be thought
the reflection of the sunbeams, or the vapors arising about
it. had been the cause, but also on dark and cloudy days hap-
pening. There is another like number of rocks called Car-
rlgmeacan, on the same coast, whereon the like apparition!*
are seen. Bnt the enchanted island of O'Bra/ll is not .-.
visible, as those rocks are, nor these rocks ha\c ulway
apparitionc." //-Air Connauyfit, p. !9.
4 The vessel in which Brendan took his wonderful roymga
was made of wattles, over which were ox-skins stretched, aid
made water-proof with pitch and tallow. Boats of a similar
n >M- t ruction are used to this day among the islands of West
Coiinaiighi.
Brandon Hill.
Smith, In his "History of Kerry," says: "It Is a certain
tkcn of tine weather when its top Is visible." p. 194.
B04
POEMS OF DEXIS F. McCAllTHY.
And tlien the land, with all its hundred isles, \ When the round moon rests, like the sacred
Faded away, and yet we spoke no word.
Each silent tongue held converse with the
past,
Each moistened eye looked round the cir-
cling wave,
And, save the spot where stood our trem-
bling mast,
Saw all things hid within one mighty
grave.
We were alone, on the wide watery waste
Naught broke its bright monotony of blue,
Save where the breeze the flying billows
chased,
Or where the clouds their purple shadows
threw.
We were alone the pilgrims of the sea
One boundless azure desert round us
spread ;
No hope, no trust, no strength except in
THEE,
Father, who once the pilgrim-people led.
v.
And wl.en the bright-faced sun resigned his
o o
throne
Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the
night,
Who, with her pearly crown and starry zone,
Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery
light,
As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway,
And felt within our hearts her holier
power,
We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to
pray,
And hailed with vesper hymns the tran-
quil hour !
VI.
For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens ap-
peared
A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's
praise,
Such as no human architect has reared,
Where gems, and gold, and precious mar-
bles blaze.
Host,
Upon the azure altar of the skies ?
VII.
We breathed aloud the Christian's filial
prayer,
Which makes us brothers even with the
Lord ;
" Our Father," cried we, in the midnight
air,
" In heaven and earth be Thy great name
adored ;
May Thy bright kingdom, where the angels
are,
Replace this fleeting world, so dark and
dim."
And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious
star,
We sang the Virgin -Mother's vesper
hvmn :
VIII. '
" Hail, brightest star! that o'er life's tron
i O
bled sea
Shines pity down from heaven's elysian
blue !
Mother and maid, we fondly look to thee,
Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams
brightly through.
Star of the morning ! guide our youthful
days,
Shine on our infant steps in life's long
race ;
Star of the evening ! with thy tranquil
rays,
Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face.
IX.
"Hail, sacred maid! thou brighter, better
Eve,
Take from our eyes the blinding scales cl
sin ;
Within our hearts no selfish poison leave,
For thou the heavenly antidote canst
win.
O sacred Mother ! 'tis to thee we run
Poor children from this world's oppres-
sive strife ;
What earthly temple such a roof can boast? 'Ask all we need from thy immortal Son,
What flickering lamp with the rich star- 1 Who drank of death, that we might taste
light vies, ! of life.
POKMS OF DENIS F. McCAHTIIY.
30o
x.
"Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest, meekest
maid
Hail ! purest Pearl that Time's great sea
hath borne
May our white souks, in purity arrayed,
Shine as if they thy vestal-robes had worn ;
Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art
pure
Make safe the rugged pathway of our
lives,
And make us pass to joys that will endure
When the dark term of mortal life ar-
rives." 1
XI.
'Twas thus in hymns, and prayers, and holy
psalms,
Day tracking day, and night succeeding
night,
Now driven by tempests, now delayed by
calms,
Along the sea we winged our varied flight.
Oh ! how we longed and pined for sight of
land'
Oh ! how we sighed for the green pleasant
fields !
^Compared with the cold waves, the barest
strand
The bleakest rock a crop of comfort
yields.
XII.
Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale,
In search of rest, beneath the waves would
flee,
Like some poor wretch, who, when his
strength doth fail,
Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting
sea;
Then would the Brothers draw from mem-
ory's store
Some chapter of life's misery or bliss
Some trial that some saintly spirit bore
Or else some tale of passion such as this :
PART IV.
THE BURIED CITY.
i.
BESIDE that giant stream that foams and
swells
Betwixt Ily-Conaill and Moyarta's shore,
And guards the isle where good Senanus
dwells, 1
A gentle maiden dwelt, in days of yore.
She long has passed out of Time's aching
womb,
And breathes Eternity's favonian air ;
Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb,
And paints her glorious features as they
were :
u.
Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless
light,
Which never cloud nor earthly vapor
mars;
Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of
night
Black, but yet brightened by a thousand
stars;
Her tender form, moulded in modest grace,
Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved
apart ;
Heaven shone reflected in her angel face,
And God reposed within her virgin heart.
HI.
She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land,
Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw,
Sweet sunny hills, whose triple sumrniu
stand
One vast tiara over stream and shaw.
Almost in solitude the maiden grew,
And reached her early budding womnn'
prime ;
And all so noiselessly the swift time fle\v,
She knew not of the name or flight of
Time.
1 The three preceding stanzas arc a paraphrase of the beau-
tiful hymr. of the Catholic Church, " Ave, Marls Stella."
1 "The month of the Shannon Is grand, almost beyond con-
ception. Its inhabitants point to a part of the river, within
the headlands, over which the tides rush with extraordinary
rapidity and violence. They say it Is the site of a lost city,
long buried beneath the waves; and that it* tower*, and
lires, and turrets, acting as breakers against the tide-water,
occasion the roughness of this part of the estuary. The whole
city becomes visible on every seventh year, anil lias beea
often seen by the fluhcrnien Bailing over it ; but the M-ht tx>dea
ill-luck, for within a month after the Ill-rated Bailor I* n corpse.
The time of its appearance Is also rendered further dtsoatroai
by the loss of some boat or vessel, of whim, or Its crew, no
vestige is ever to be found." Hall's Irtlantt, vol. 111. p. 43U.
Inniscattcry Island,
306
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIIY.
IV.
And thus within her modest mountain nest,
This gentle maiden nestled like a dove,
Offering to God from her pure, innocent
breast
The sweet and silent incense of her love.
No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride
In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife.
Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified
The thousand trivial, common cares of life.
Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth,
Whose nature's woof was woven of good
and ill
Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of
truth,
But in a devious course, round many a
hill-
Now lingering through a valley of delight,
Where sweet flowers bloomed, and sum-
mer song-birds sung,
Now hurled along the dark tempestuous
night,
With gloomy, treeless mountains over-
hung.
VI.
He sought the soul of Beauty throughout
space,
Knowledge he tracked through many a
vanished age :
For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant
face,
And for the other, Learning's shrivelled
page.
If Beauty sent some fair apostle down,
Or Knowledge some great teacher of her
lore,
Bearing the wreath of rapture and the crown,
He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore.
VII.
Full many a time he spread his little sail,
How rough the river, or how dark the
skies,
Gave his light currach to the angry gale,
And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's
eyes.
As yet 'twas worship, more than human
love
That hopeless adoration that we pay
Unto some glorious planet throned above,
Though severed from its crystal sphere for
aye.
VIII.
But warmer love an easy conquest won,
The more he came to green Moyarta's
bowers ;
Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun,
In summer-time puts forth her myriad
flowers.
The yearnings of his heart vague, unde-
fined
Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams,
Took everlasting shape, and intertwined
Around this incarnation of his dreams.
IX.
Some strange fatality restrained his tongue
He spoke not of the love that filled his
breast :
The thread of hope, on which his whole life
hung,
Was far too weak to bear so strong a test.
He trusted to the future time or chance
His constant homage, and assiduous care ;
Preferred to dream and lengthen out his
trance,
Rather than wake to knowledge and de-
spair.
And thus she knew not, when the youth
would look
Upon some pictured chronicle of eld,
In every blazoned letter of the book
One fairest face was all that he beheld :
And where the limner, with consummate
art,
Drew flowing lines and quaint devices
rare,
The wildered youth, by looking from the
lie-art,
Saw naught but lustrous eyes and waving
hair.
XI.
He soon was startled from his dreams, for now
'Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call,
His life of life would take the vestal vow,
In one short month, within a convent's
wall.
POKMS OF DENIS F. McOAKTUf.
"307
Down in the tltvp, full many a fathom down,
A great and glorious city buried lies.
xv.
Not like those villages with rude-built w;ills,
That raised their humble roofs round
every coast,
But holding marble basilics and halls,
Such as imperial Rome iteli might boast.
There were the palace and the poor man's
home,
And upstart glitter and old-fashioned
gloom,
The spacious porch, the nicely rounded
dome,
The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb.
XVI.
There was the cromleach, with its circling
stones ;
There the green rath, and the round nar-
row tower ;
'Chere was the prison whence the captive's
groans
Had many a time moaned in the midnight
hour.
Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed,
Around the walls the sparkling waters
ran,
The golden chariot rolled along the road,
All, all was there except the face of man*
XVII.
The wondering youth had neither thought
nor word,
He felt alone the power and will to die ;
His little bark seemed like an outstretched
bird,
Floating along that city's azure sky.
It was not that lie was not bold and brave,
And yet he would have perished with
affright,
Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave,
Concealed the buried city from his sight.
XVIII.
He reached the shore : the rumor wa too
trur
Kthna, his Ethna, would 1"
He heard the tidings with a sickening fear,
But quickly had the sudden faintness
flown,
And vowed, though heaven or hell should
interfere,
Ethna his Ethna should be his alone !
XI L
He sought his boat, and snatched the feath-
ery oar
It was the first and brightest morn of
May;
The white-winged clouds that sought the
northern shore,
Seemed but love's guides, to point him out
the way.
The great old river heaved its mighty heart,
And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on,
As if of all his griefs it felt a part,
But knew they should be borne, and so
had none.
Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed,
Although the stream that that light bur-
^ c?
den bore
Was like the level path the angels made,
Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed
shore; '
.And from the rosy clouds the light airs
fanned,
And from the rich reflection that they
gave,
Like good Scothinus, had he reached his
hand,*
He might have plucked a garland from
the wave.
XIV.
And now the noon in purple splendor blazed,
The gorgeous clouds in slow procession
filed
The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes, and
gazed
Down through the waves on which the
blue heavens smiled :
What sudden fear his gasping breath doth
drown ?
What hidden wonder fires his startled
eyes?
Hcc note 2, p. 296.
>.-.- ii
303
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
In one brief month ; for which the maid
withdrew,
To seek for strength before His blessed
throne.
Was it the tire that on his bosom preyed,
Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred,
That made him vow to snatch the white-
veiled maid
Even from the very altar of her Lord !
XIX.
The first of June, that festival of flowers,
Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows
green !
And all the children of the spring-tide
showers
Rose from their grassy beds to hail their
Queen.
A song of joy, a prean of delight,
Rose from the myriad life in the tall
grass,
When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep
of night,
Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's
glass.
xx.
Ethna awoke a second, brighter dawn
Her mother's fondling voice breathed in
her ear :
Quick from her couch she started, as a fawn
Bounds from the heather when her dam
is near.
Each clasped the other in a long embrace
Each knew the other's heart did beat and
bleed
Each kissed the warm tears from the other's
face,
And gave the consolation she did need.
XXI.
Oh ! bitterest sacrifice the heai't can make
That of a mother of her darling child
That of a child, who, for the Saviour's sake,
Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle
smiled !
They who may think that God doth never
need
So great, so sad a sacrifice as this,
While they take glory in their easier creed,
Will feel and own the sacrifice it is.
XXII.
All is prepared the sisters in the choir
The mitred abbot on his crimson throne
The waxen tapers with their pallid fire
Poured o'er the sacred cup and altar-
stone
The upturned eyes, glistening with pious
tears
The censer's fragrant vapor floating o'er.
Now all is hushed, for, lo ! the maid appears,
Entering with solemn step the sacred door.
XXIII.
She moved as moves the moon, radiant and
pale,
Through the calm night, wrapped in a sil-
very cloud ;
The jewels of her dress shone through her
veil,
As shine the stars through their thin va-
porous shroud ;
The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid
Beneath their smooth white caskets arch-
ing o'er,
Which, by the trembling of each ivory lid,
Seemed conscious of the treasures that
they bore.
XXIT.
She reached the narrow porch and the tall
door,
Her trembling foot upon the sill was
placed
Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded
floor
Her cold hands chilled the bosom they
embraced.
Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a
book,
Bears many a deep-traced character of
pain ?
Who looks for pardon as the damned may
look
That ever pray, and know they pray in
vain.
XXV.
'Tis he, the wretched youth the Demon's
prey.
One sudden bound, and he is at her
side
I'OK.MS OF DKNIS F. M. CAUT1I V.
you
One piercing shriek, and she has swooned
away,
Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's
warm tide.
Horror and terror seized the startled crowd ;
Their sinewy hands are nerveless with af-
fright ;
When, as the wind bcareth a summer cloud,
The youth bears off the maiden from their
sight.
XXVI.
Close to the place the stream rushed roaring
by,
His little boat lay moored beneath the
bank,
Hid from the shore, and from the ga/er's
eye,
By waving reeds and water-willows dank.
Hither, with flying feet and glowing brow,
lie fled as quick as fancies in a dream
Placed the insensate maiden in the prow
Pushed from the shore, and gained the
open stream.
XXVII.
Scare, nad he left the river's foamy edge,
When sudden darkness fell on hill and
plain ;
The angry Sun, shocked at the sacrilege,
Fled from the heavens with all his golden
O
train ;
The stream rushed quicker, like a man
afeared ;
Down swept the storm and clove its breast
of green,
And though the calm and brightness reap-
peared,
The youth and maiden never more were
seen.
XXVIII.
Whether the current in its strong arms bore
Their bark to green Hy-BrasaiPs fairy
halls,
Oi whether, as is told along that shore,
They sunk within the buried city's walls ;
Whether through some Elysian clime they
stray,
Or o'er their whitened bones the river
rolls :
Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us pray
To God for peace and pardon to their souls.
XXIX.
Such was the brother's tale of earthly love
He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend
head :
For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above,
And sang the De Profundis for the dead.
A freshening breeze played on our moistened
cheeks,
The far horizon oped its walls of light,
And lo ! with purple hills and sunbright
peaks
A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened
sight.
PART V.
THE PARADISE OF BIRDS.
i.
IT was the fairest and the sweetest scene
The freshest, sunniest, smiling land '.hat
e'er
Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering
green
Unto the sea and stormed-vexed mariner :
No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred,
Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged
with ice,
Nor jagged rocks Nature's gray ruins
marred
The perfect features of that Paradise.
ii.
The verdant turf spreads from the crystal
marge
Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling
hill,
Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars lar<#',
All o'er the land the pleasant prospect till.
Unnumbered birds their glorious colors fling
Among the boughs that rustic in the
breeze,
As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing
And settled on the green o'erarching treea.
310
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
in.
Oh ! Ita, Ita ! 'tis a grievous wrong,
That man commits who, uninspired, pre-
sumes
To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song,
To paint the glorious tinting of their
plumes
Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems
Fling over golden thrones their diamond
rays
Bright, even as bright as those three mystic
gems
The angels bore thee in thy childhood's
O *
days. 1
IV.
There dwells the bird that to the farther west
Bears the sweet message of the coming
spring ;'
June's blushing roses paint his prophet
breast,
And summer skies gleam from his azure
wing.
While winter prowls around the neighbor-
ing seas,
The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest,
Then flies away, and leaves his favorite trees
Unto his brother of the graceful crest.'
v.
Birds that with us are clothed in modest
brown,
There wear a splendor words cannot ex-
press.
The sweet- voiced thrush beareth a golden
crown, 4
And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet
dress.*
There partial Nature fondles and illumes
The plainest offspring that her bosom
bears ;
The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,"
And the small wren a purple ruby wears.*
VI.
Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours,
Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment
stray,
Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as
flowers,
Come with the flowers, and with the flow-
ers decay.*
The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that
throws
From his blue neck the azure of the skies,
And his pale brother of the northern taows,
Bearing white plumes mirrored with bril-
liant eyes."
VII.
Oft, in the sunny mornings, have I seen
Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue,
Meeting in crowds upon the branches given,
And sweetly singing all the morning
through ; 10
And others, with their heads grayish and dark,
Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the eld
trees,
1 " Upon a certain occasion, when St. Ita was sleeping, she
eaw an angel approach her, and present her with three pre-
cious stones, at which she wondered exceedingly, until in-
formed by the angel that the three precious stones were types
of the blessed Trinity, by whom she would be always visited
and protected." Life of St. Ita, in Colgan, p. 66.
9 The -Blue Bird (Le rouge gorge bleu de Buffon). " The
pleasing manners and sociable disposition of this little bird
entitle him to particular notice. As one of the first messen-
gers of the spring, bringing the charming tidings to our very
doors, he bears his own recommendation along with him, and
meets with a hearty welcome from everybody." Wilson, and
Bonaparte's American Ornithology, vol. i. pp. 56, 57. His fa-
YOrite haunts are the cedar-trees of the Bermudas.
1 The Cedar Bird. " This bird wears a crest on the head,
which, when erected, gives it a gay and elegant appearance."
Ibid., vol. i. p. 109.
The Golden-crowned Thrush. " Sciurus Aurocapillw."
Ibid., vol. i. p. 238.
The Scarlet Tanagar. " Seen among the green leaves with
the light falling strongly on his plumage, he really appears
beautiful." Ibid., vol. i. p. 194. "Mr. Edwards calls it the
Scarlet Sparrow." Ibid., p. 196.
The Baltimore Oriole. " It has a variety of names, among
which are ' the golden robin,' and ' the fire-bird ; ' the latter
from the bright orange of its plumes, shining through the
green leaves like a flash of fire." Ibid., vol. i. p. 16.
7 The Ruby-crowned Wren. " This little bird visits us
early in the spring, from the south, and is generally found
among the maple blossoms about the beginning of April."
Ibid., vol. i. p. 831.
Peacock?. " Their brilliant plumes, which surpass in
beauty the fairest flowers, wither like them, and fall with
each succeeding ye&r."Buff'on.
The White Peacock of Sweden. " Although the plu-
mage of the white peacock is altogether of this color, the long
plumes of the train do yet retain, at their extremities, some
vestiges of the brilliant mirrors peculiar to the species. 1 ' Cn-
vier. These are the only birds not strictly American that I
have introduced into this description.
10 The Yellow Bird, or Goldfinch : its color is of a rich lemon
ehade. "On their first arrival in Pennsylvania, in February,
and until early in April, they frequently assemble in great
numbers on the same tree, and bask and dress themselves hi
the morning sun, singing in concert for half an hour together ;
the confused mingling of their notes forming a kind of har-
mony not at all unpleasant." Wilson and Bonaparte, vol. i.
p. 12.
POKMS OF DKNIS F. McCAKTIIV.
311
And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled
bark,
Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease. 1
vm.
And diamond-birds chirping their single
notes,
Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blos-
soms seen,
Xow floating brightly on with fiery throats,
Small-winged emeralds of golden green ;*
And other larger birds with orange cheeks,
A many-color-painted chattering crowd,
Prattling forever with their curved beaks,
And through the silent woods screaming
w O
aloud.*
IX.
Color and form may be conveyed in words,
But words are weak to tell the heavenly
strains
That from the throats of these celestial birds
Rang through the woods and o'er the
echoing plains :
There was the meadow-lark, with voice as
sweet,
But robed in richer raiment than our
own ; 4
And as the moon smiled on his green retreat,
The painted nightingale sang out alone.*
1 The Gold-winged Woodpecker. "His back and wings
arc of a dark amber-color ; upper part of the head an iron gray ;
checks, and part surrounding the eyes, of a fine cinnamon-
color. The sagacity of this bird in discovering, under a sound
bark, a hollow limb or trunk of a tree, is truly surprising. "
\Vitft<m and Itonaparte, vol. i. p. 45.
* Humming-birds. "The Jewels of Ornithology" " Leapt
of the winged vagrants of the sky." Wilson describes thit>
interesting bird in the following manner : " The Humming-
bird is extremely fond of tubular flowers, and I have often
stopped with pleasure to observe his manoeuvres among the
blossoms of the trumpet-flower. When arrived before a
thicket of those that are full-blown, he poises or suspends
himself on wing for the space of two or three seconds so stead-
ily, that his wings become invisible, or only like a mist, and
you can plainly distinguish the pupil of his eye looking
round with great quickness and circumspection. The glossy
golden green of his back, and the fur of his throat daxxling
in the sun. form altogether a most interesting appearance."
Zbid., p. 17:i. His only note is a single chirp, not louder than
that of a small cricket or grasshopper.
1 The Carolina Parrot." Out of 108 kinds of parrots enu-
merated by Europeans, this is the only species which may
be considered a native of the territory of the United States."
Ibid., vol. 1. p. 887.
4 "The Meadow-lark, though inferior in song to his Euro-
pean namesake, is superior to him in the richness of his plu-
mage." IMd., vol. i. p. 818.
"The Cardinal Grosbeak, or Red-bird, sometimes called
the Virginia Niirhtingale." 7Wd., vol. 1. p. 191.
Words cannot echo music's winged note,
One bird alone exhausts their utmost
power ;
'Tis that strange bird whose many-voice'd
throat
Mocks all his brethren of the woodland
bower
To whom, indeed, the gift of tongues is
given,
The musical rich tongues that fill tlir
grove,
Now like the lark dropping his notes from
heaven,
Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the
dove. 6
XI.
Oft have I seen him, scorning all control,
Winging his arrowy flight rapid ami
strong,
As if in search of his evanished soul,
Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song ; T
And as I wandered on, and upward gazed,
Half lost in admiration, half in fear,
I left the brothers wondering and amazed,
Thinking that all the choir of heaven was
near.
xn.
Was it a revelation or a dream ?
That these bright birds as angels once
o o
did dwell
In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme,
Half sinned with him, and with him part-
ly fell ;
The Mocking-bird (Turdus Poiyglottu*)."Hl volte it
full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every undu-
lation, from the clear, mellow tones of the woo<l-thrn-li '>
the savage scream of the eagle." /M</., vol. i. p. i;s. "So
perfect are. his imitations, that he many times decei\c* the
sportsman, and sends him in search of birds that are not
within miles of him. but whose notes lie exactly imitates.
Kven birds themselves ai> often imposed on by this admira-
ble mimic, and are decoyed I>T thu funciftil mils of their
or dive with precipitation into :>.< depth* of thicket*, at the
scream of what they suppose to be the c|wirrow-hawk." Ibid^
vol. i. p. Kill.
' His expanded wlncrfl and tail glistening with white, and
the buoyant gayety of his action, arrest the eye. and hio sontf
most Irresistibly docs the ear, as he sweep* round v i;h en-
thusiastic ecstasy. He mounts and descends as hi* song
swells or dies away; and, as Mr. Bart rain has beautifully ex-
pressed It, "He bounds aloft with the celerity of an am
if to recover or recall his very soul, expired in the last eleva-
ted strain." 7WU., vol. I. p. 16U.
312
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
That in this lesser paradise they stray,
Float through its air, and glide its sti-eams
along,
And that the strains they sing each happy
day
Rise up to God like morn and even song. 1
PART VI.
THE PROMISED LAND.
As on this world the young man turns his
eyes,
When forced to try the dark sea of the
grave,
Thus did we gaze upon that paradise,
Fading, as we were borne across the wave.
And as a brighter world dawns by degrees
Upon Eternity's serenest strand,
Thus having passed through dark and
gloomy seas,
At length we reached the long-sought
Promised Land.
ii.
The wind had died upon the ocean's breast,
When, like a silvery vein through the
dark ore,
A smooth, bright current, gliding to the
west,
Bore our light bark to that enchanted
shore.
It was a lovely plain spacious and fair,
And blessed with all delights that earth
can hold,
Celestial odors filled the fragrant air
That breathed around that green and
pleasant wold.
in.
There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor
rain,
Injure the smallest and most delicate
flower,
Nor fall of hail wound the fair, health fu*
plain,
Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's
shower.
That noble land is all with blossoms flowered r
Shed by the summer breezes as they pass - r
Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are
showered,
And flowers grow thicker in the fields than
grass. 8
IV.
Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high
and steep,
Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened
waves,
Nor hollow dells, where stagnant water?
sleep,
Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain
caves ;
Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies,
Nor on its level breast rests auo-ht un-
O
smooth ;
1 " ?oon after, as God would, they saw a fair island, full of
flowers, herbs, and trees, whereof they thanked God of his
good grace ; and anon they went on land, and when they had
gone long in this, they found a full fayre well, and thereby
flood a fair tree full of boughs, and on every bough sat a fayre
bird, and they sat so thick on the tree, that uneath any leaf of
the tree might be seen. The number of them was so great,
and they sung so merrilie, that it was an heavenlike noise to
hear. Whereupon S. Brandon kneeled down on his knees
and wept for joy, and made his praises devoutlie to our Lord
God, to know what these birds meant. And then anon one
of the birds flew from the tree to S. Brandon, and he, with
the flickering of his wings, made a full merrie noise like a fld-
lle, thai; him seemed he never heard so joyful a melodic.
And then St. Brandon commanded the foule to tell him the
cause why they sat so thick on the tree and sang so merrilie.
And then the foule said, Sometime we were angels in hea-
ven, but when our master, Lucifer, fell down into hell for his
high pride, and we fell with him for our offences, some higher
and some lower, after the quality of the trespass. And be-
cause our trespasse is but little, therefore our Lord hath sent
ns here, oat of all paine, in full great joy and mirthe, after his
pleasing, here to serve him on this tree in the oest manner
we can. The Sundaie is a dale of rest from all worldly occu
pation, and therefore, that daie all we be made as white at
any snow, for to praise our Lorde, in the best wise we may.
And then all the birds began to sing even song so merrilie,
that it was an heavenlie noise to hear ; aud after supper St.
Brandon and his fellows went to bed and slept well. And in
the morn they arose by times, and then these foulcs began
mattyns, prime, and hours, and all such service as Christian
men used to sing; and St. Brandon and his fellows abode
there seven weeks, until Trinity Sunday was passed." The
" Lyfe of St. Brandon" in the Golden Legend. Published by
Wynkyn de Wordc. 1483. Fol. 357.
The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are prin-
cipally founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the Latin
poem "De Phenice," ascribed to Lactantius. a literal transla-
tion of which is given in Wright's Essay on " St. Patrick's
Purgatory," p. 186. "This poem," says Mr. Wright, "is as
old as the earlier part of the eleventh century, and probablj
more ancient."
" Nullam herbam vidimus sine floribus et arborem nnllaro
sine fructibus ; et lapides illius pretiosse gemmae guilt."
Colgan's Ada Sanctorum, p. 721.
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAKTIIV.
313
A green, glad meadow under golden skies,
IHooming forever in perpetual youth.
v.
That glorious land stands higher o'er the
sea,
By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we
deem
The highest hills beneath the heavens to be.
There the bower glitters, and the green
woods gleam.
All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene,
The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's
own hand,
Cling to the trees that stand forever green,
Obedient to their Maker's first command.
VI.
Mimmer and winter are the woods the same,
Ilunor with bright fruits and leaves that
o o
never fade ;
Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame,
Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time shall
have decayed.
Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit,
As fabled by the northern sea-born men,
Gather her golden and immortal fruit,
That brings their youth back to the gods
again. 1
TO.
Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride,
Set round the deluged world the ocean-
flood,
When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful
tide,
This glorious land above the waters stood.
Such shall it be at last, even as at first,
Until the coming of the final doom,
When the dark chambers men's death-
homes shall burst,
And man shall rise to judgment from the
tomb.
VIII.
There, there is never enmity, nor rage,
Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath,
1 " ID the Scandinavian mythology, Bragl presided over elo-
qnence and poetry. His wife, named Id mm, had the care ot
certain apples which the gods tasted when they found them-
selves jjrow old, and which had the power of instantly n-tor-
Ing '.hem to yonth." Mallet's Northern AntitfviH**. p. U5.
Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit a-_ r <-,
Nor loss of vigor, nor the narrow death,
Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep,.
Nor painful exile from one's native soi-1,
Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep,
Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil
There, never falls the rain-cloud as with us,
Nor gapes the earth with the dry sum-
mer's thirst,
But liquid streams, wondrously curious,
Out of the ground with fresh, fair babblings
burst.
Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters
glide
Over the soil and through the sha<!\
bowers ;
Flowers fling their colored radiance o'er the
tide,
And the white streams their crystals o'er
the flowers.
x.
Such was the land for man's enjoyment
made
When from this troubled life his soul doth
wend :
Such was the land through which entranced
we strayed,
For fifteen days, nor reached its bound
nor end.
Onward we wandered in a blissful dream,
Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly
rest ;
Until at length we reached a :nighty stream,.
Whose broad, bright waves flowed from
the east to west.
XI.
We were about to cross its placid ti
When lo! an angel on our vision broke.
Clothed in white, upon the further side
He stood majestic, and thus sweetly
spoke :
"Father, return ! thy mission now is o'er;
God, who did call thee here, now bids
thee go.
Return in peace unto thy native shore,
And tell the mighty secrets thou dost
know.
314
POEMS OF DENIS F. McOARTUl.
XII.
" In after years, in God's own fitting time,
This pleasant land again shall reappear ;
And other men shall preach the truths sub-
lime
To the benighted people dwelling here.
But ere that hour, this land shall all be
made,
For mortal man, a fitting, natural home,
Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade,
And the strong rock stem the white tor-
rent's foam.
XIII.
'Seek thy own isle Christ's newly-bought
domain,
Which Nature with an emerald pencil
paints ;
b ch as it is, long, long shall it remain,
The school of truth, the college of the
* O
saints,
TAJ Accident's bower, the hermit's calm re-
treat,
'll\e stranger's home, the hospitable hearth,
The Bluine to which shall wander pilgrim
teefc
rom all the neighboring nations of the
eanb.
" But in the end upon that land shall fall
A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears,
When ruthless tyranny shall level all
The pious trophies of its earlier years :
Then shall this land prove thy poor country's
friend,
And shine, a second Eden, in the west ;
Then shall this shore its friendly arms ex-
tend,
And clasp the outcast exile to its breast."
xv.
He ceased, and vanished from our dazzled
sight,
While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly
o'er :
For us, again we winged our homeward
flight
O'er the gi-eat ocean to our native shore ;
And as a proof of God's protecting hand,
And of the wondrous tidings that we
bear,
The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land
Clings to the very garments that we wear. 1
"Nonne cognoscitis in oclore vestitnentornm nostrorutL
quod in Paradiso Domini iuimus? Colgau'syMa
rum, p. 722.
THE PILJuAK TOWERS OF IRELAND.
THE pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrous-
ly they stand
By the lakes and rushing rivers through the
valleys of our land ;
In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their
heads sublime,
These gray old pillar temples these con-
querors of time !
n.
Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing
and weak
The Roman's arch of triumph, and the tem-
ple of the Greek,
And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the
pointed Gothic spires,
All are gone, one by one, but the temples of
our sires !
in.
The column, with its capital, is level with
the dust,
And the proud halls of the mighty, and the
calm homes of the just ;
For the proudest works of man, as certainly
but slower,
Pass like the gi % ass at the sharp scythe of
the mower !
POEMS OF DENIS F. M< CAU THV.
315
IV.
But the grass grows again when in majesty
and mirth,
On the wing of the Spring, comes the god-
dess of the Earth :
But for man in this world no spring-tide e'er
returns
To the labors of his hands or the ashes of
his urns !
v.
Two favorites hath Time the pyramids of
Nile,
And the old mystic temples of our own dear
isle;
As the breeze o'er the seas, where the hal-
cyon has its nest,
Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the tem-
ples of the West !
VI.
The names of their founders have vanished
in the gloom,
Like the dry branch in the fire or the body
ir the tomb ;
Bat to-day, in the ray, their shadows still
they cast
These temples of forgotten gods these relics
of the past !
VII.
Around these walls have wandered the Bri-
ton and the Dane
The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of
Spain
Phoanician and Milesian, and the plundering
Norman Peers
And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the
chiefs of later years !
VIII.
How many different rites have these gray
old temples known !
To the mind what dreams are written in
these chronicles of stone !
What terror and what error, what gleams
of love and truth,
Have flashed from these walls since the
world was in its youth !
IX.
Here blax.cd the sacred fire, and when the
sun was gone,
As a star from afar to the traveller it shone ;
And the warm blood of the victim have
these gray old temples drunk,
And the death-son;.' 1 of the Druid and the
matin of the Monk.
x.
Here was placed the holy chalice that held
the sacred wine,
And the gold cross from the altar, and the
relics from the shrine,
And the mitre, shining brighter with its dia-
monds than the East,
And the crozier of the Pontiff and the vest-
ments of the Priest !
XI.
Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the
vesper-bell,
Where the fugitive found shelter, became
the hermit's cell ;
And hope hung out its symbol to the inno-
cent and good,
For the Cross o'er the moss of the pointed
summit stood !
XII.
There may it stand forever, while this sym-
bol doth impart
To the mind one glorious vision, or one
proud throb to the heart ;
While the breast nendeth rest may these
gray old temples last,
Bright prophets of the future, as preachers
of the past !
THE LAY MISSIONER.
HAD I a wish 'twere this: that II*
would make
My heart as strong to imitate as love,
That half its weakness it could leave, and
take
Some spirit's strength, by which to soar
above ;
A lordly eagle mated with a dove
316
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
Strong will and warm affection, these be
mine:
Without the one no dreams has fancy
wove,
Without the other soon these dreams de-
cline,
Weak children of the heart, which fade away
and pine !
Strong have I been in love, if not in will ;
Affections crowd and people all the past,
And now, even now, they come and haunt
me still,
Even from the graves where once my
hopes were cast.
But not with spectral features, all aghast,
Come they to fright me ; no, with smiles
and tears,
And winding arms, and breasts that beat
O /
as fast
As once they beat in boyhood's opening
years,
Come the departed shades, whose steps my
rapt soul hears.
Youth has passed by, its first warm flush
is o'er,
And now 'tis nearly noon ; yet unsubdued
My heart still kneels and worships, as of
yore,
Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and
Good!
Valley and mountain, sky and stream and
wood,
And that fair miracle, the human face,
And human nature in its sunniest mood,
Freed from the' shade of all things low
and base,
These in my heart still hold their old accus-
tomed place.
'Tis not with pride, but gratitude, I tell
How beats my heart with all its youthful
glow,
How one kind act doth make my bosom
swell,
And Jown my cheeks the sweet, warm,
glad tears flow.
Enough of self, enough of me you know,
Kind reader; but if thou wouldst further
wend
With me this wilderness of weak words'
through,
Let me depict, before the journey end,
One whom methinks thou'lt love my bro-
ther and my friend.
Ah ! wondrous is the lot of him who
stands
A Christian Priest, within a Christian
fane,
And binds with pure and consecrated
hands,
Round earth and heaven, a festal, flowery
chain ;
Even as between the blue arch and the main-
A circling western ring of golden light
Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain
Of April makes the cloud and clay xinite,
Thus links the Priest of God the dark world
and the bright.
All are not priests, yet priestly duties may,
And should be all men's : as a common
sight
We view the brightness of a summers day,
And think 'tis but its duty to be bright ;
But should a genial beam of warming
light
Suddenly break from out a wintry sky,
With gratitude we own a new delight,
Quick beats the heart, and brighter beams
the eye,
And as a boon we hail the splendor from on
high.
'Tis so with men, with those of them at
least
Whose hearts by. icy doubts are chilled and
torn :
They think the virtues of a Christian
Priest
Something professional, put on and worn
Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn ;
But should a friend or act or teach as he,
Then is the mind of all its doublings
shorn,
The unexpected goodness that they see
Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced
and free !
One have I known, and haply yet I know,
A youth by baser passions undefiled.
IN) K.MS ()F DKNIS F. McCAKTIlV.
317
Lit by tlio light of genius, and the glow
Which iv. il it-eling leaves where once it
smiled ;
Firm as a man, yet tender as a child ;
Armed at all points by fantasy and
thought,
To face the true or soar amid the wild ;
By love and labor, as a good man ought,
Ueady to pay the price by which dear truth
is bought !
'Tis not with cold advice or stern rebuke,
With formal precept, or with face demure,
But with the unconscious eloquence of
look,
Where shines the heart, so loving and so
pure:
*Tis these, with constant goodness, that
allure
All hearts to love and imitate his worth.
Beside him weaker natures feel secure,
Even as the flower beside the oak peeps
forth,
Safe, though the rain descends, and blows
the biting North !
Such ife my friend, and such I fain would be,
Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving,
Correct, not cold, nor uncontrolled, though
free,
But proof to all the lures that round us
}>'ay,
Even as the sun, that on his azure way
Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien
(Though blushing clouds, like sirens, woo
his stay),
Higher and higher through the pure serene,
Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him
from the scene.
SUMMER LONGINGS.
La* irnnnna* Kloridas
De Abril y Mayo.
CAI.DERON.
An ! my in-art is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May
Waiting for the pleasant rambles,
Where the fragrant h:i\vth<>ni brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,
Scent the dewy way :
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May
Longing to escape from study,
To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the thousand charms belonging
To the sumine.V; day:
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing
Longing for the May.
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that dead or dying
All the winter lay :
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.
Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May
Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows ;
Where in laughing and in sobbing
Glide the streams away :
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.
Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May
Spring goes by with wasted warniii
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings;
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away :
Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May ! '
A LA. MM XT.
Ya CKta Llama ie cl.-ma.
Ya caduca c-tc cdltlclo,
Ya e deamaya u*ta Flor.
THE dream is over,
The vision has llown ;
1 Set to made by the late lamented Earl
318
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
Dead leaves are lying
Where roses have blown ;
Withered and strown
Are the hopes I cherished,
All hath perished
But grief alone.
My heart was a garden
Where fresh leaves grew ;
Flowers there were many,
And weeds a few ;
Cold winds blew,
And the frosts came thither,
For flowers will wither,
And weeds renew !
Youth's bright palace
Is overthrown,
With its diamond sceptre
And golden throne ;
As a time-worn stone
Its turrets are humbled,
All hath crumbled
But grief alone !
Whither, oh ! whither
Plave fled away
The dreams and hopes
Of my early day ?
Ruined and gray
Are the towers I builded ;
And the beams that gilded
Ah i where are they ?
Once this world
Was fresh and bright,
With its golden noon
And its starry night ;
Glad and light,
By mountain and river,
Have I blessed the Giver
With hushed delisrht.
O
These were the days
Of story and song,
When Hope had a meaning
And Faith was strong.
" Life will be long,
And lit with love's gleamings :"
Such were my dreamings,
But, ah ! how wrong !
Youth's illusions,
One by one,
Have passed like clouds
That the sun looked on.
While morning shone,
How purple their fringes !
How ashy their tinges
When that was gone !
Darkness that cometh
Ere morn has fled
Boughs that wither
Ere fruits are shed
Death-bells instead
Of a bridal's pealings
Such are my feelings,
Since hope is dead !
Sad is the knowledge
That cometh with years
Bitter the tree
That is watered with tears ;
Truth appears,
With his wise predictions,
Then vanish the fictions
Of boyhood's years.
As fire-flies fade
When the nights are damp-
As meteors are quenched
In a stagnant swamp
Thus Charlemagne's camp,
Where the paladins rally,
And the Diamond Valley,
And Wonderful Lamp,
And all the wonders
Of Ganges and Nile,
And Haroun's rambles,
And Crusoe's isle,
And Princes who smile
On the Genii's daughters
' Neath the Orient waters
Full many a mile,
And all that the pen
Of Fancy can write,
Must vanish
In manhood's misty light
Squire and knight,
And damosel's glances,
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIIY.
Sunny romances
So pure and bright !
These have vanished,
And what remains ?
Life's budding garlands
Have turned to chains
Its beams and rains
Feed but docks and thistles,
And sorrow whistles
O'er desert plains !
The dove will fly
From a ruined nest
Love will not dwell
In a troubled breast
The heart has no zest
To sweeten life's dolor
If Love, the Consoler,
Be not its guest !
The dream is over,
The vision has flown ;
Dead leaves are lying
Where roses have blown ;
Withered and strown
Are the hopes I cherished
All hath perished
But grief alone ! '
THE CLAN OF MAcCAURA. 1
! BRIGHT are the names of the chieftains
and sages,
That shine like the stars through the dark-
ness of ain's,
O '
Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of
story,
There forever to live in the sunshine of
glory-
Heroes of history, phantoms of fable,
Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's
Round Table
O ! bnt they all a new lustre could borrow
From the glory that hangs round the name
of MacCaura !
1 Set to music by the Earl of Belfast. Translated Into
French by M. le Chevalier dc Chatelaln.
1 MauCurthy MacCartha (the correct way of gpcllin;; the
name in Knmrni characters) is pronounced iu- Iri-li. MacCaura,
tin- th or dotted t having in that language the soft sound or A.
Thy waves, Man /.an ares, wash many a shrine,
And proud arc the castles that frown oYr
the Rhine,
And stately the mansions whose pinnacles*
glance
Through the elms of old England and vine-
yards of France ;
Many have fallen, and many will fall
Good men and brave men have dwelt in
them all
But as ood and as bra-ve men, in gladness
and sorrow,
Have dwelt in the halls of the princely Mac-
Caura !
Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank
By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted
Frank,
And your ancestors wandered, obscure and
unknown,
By the smooth Guadalquiver, and sunny
Garonne
Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled
The name of a Doge in her proud " Book of
Gold ;"
When her glory was all to come on like the
morrow,
There were chieftains and kings of the clan
of MacCaura !
Proud should thy heart beat, descendant ol
Heber, 4
Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebrc.
Like them are the halls of thy forefathers
shattered,
Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces
scattered.
Their fire is extinguished your flag long
unfurled
But how proud were ye both in the dawn ol
the world !
And should both fade away, oh! what heart
would not sorrow
O'er the lowers of the Guebre the name ol
MaoCaurm !
1 Mnntmortnrti and Medina are respectively at the head of
the French aial Spanish noliility. The flr-' ted In
Venice in 7IHI. Voltaire considered the families \\ !i<>-e name-
were inscribed in The Itaokqf (fold at the founding of ihe
city, as entitled to the first place ID European nobility.
Bnrk' Commonert.
* The M:ii-r:iitliy's trnee their origin to Heber Fionn, tin-
elne-t son urMilesiiii-, King of Spain, throu-h Oilioll oliura.
Kinir (.!' Mun-ter, in the third century. - Shrinu qf t)u 6Wv
THIS UOIND TOWEM.
320
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
What a moment of glory to cherish and
dream on,
When far o'er the sea came the ships of
Heremon,
With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patri-
cians,
To free Inis-Fail from the spells of magicians !
Oh ! reason had these for their quaking and
pallor,
For what magic can equal the strong sword
of valor ?
Better than spells are the axe and the arrow,
When wielded or flung by the hand of Mac-
Caura. 1
From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in
his pride
O'er Desmond's gieeri valleys and rivers so
wide,
From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents
and rills
That are leaping forever down Brandon's
brown hills ;
The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear,
The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of
Glancare
From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks
of the Barrow
All owned the proud sway of the princely
MacCaura !
In the house of M'odchuart," by princes sur-
rounded,
How noble his step when the trumpet was
sounded,
And his clansmen bore proudly his broad
shield before him,
And hung it on high in that bright palace
o'er him ;
On the left of the monarch the chieftain was
seated,
And happy was he whom his proud glances
greeted.
J Heremon and Ir were also the sons of Milesius. The peo-
ple who were in possession of the country when the Milesians
invaded it, were the Tnatha cle Danaans, so called, says Keat-
tng, " from their skill in necromancy, of whom some were so
famous as to be called Rods."
a The house of Miodcfiuart was an apartment in the palace
\f Tara, where the provincial kings met for the despatch of
public business, at the Feis (pronounced as one syllable), or
parliament of Tara, which assembled then once in every three
years the ceremony alluded to is described in detail by Keat-
ing. See Petrie'fi "Tara."
' Mid rnonarchs and chiefs at the great Feia
of Tara
Oh ! none was to rival the princely Mac-
Caura !
To the halls of the Red Branch, when con-
quest was o'er,
The champions their rich spoils of victory
bore, 8
And the sword of the Briton, the shield of
the Dane,
Flashed bright as the sun on tli6 walls of
Eamhain
There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war,
From the peaks of the Alps and the waves
of the Loire ; 4
But no knight ever bore from the hills of
Ivaragh
The breastplate or axe of a conquered Mac
Caura !
In chasing the red-deer what step was the
fleetest,
In singing the love-song what ?oice vas tie
sweetest
What breast was the foremost in couniug
the danger
What door was the widest to shelter the
stranger
In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest,
In revel the gayest, in council the gravest
A hunter to-day, and a victor to-morrow?
Oh ! who but a chief of the princely Mac-
Caura !
But oh ! proud MacCaura, what anguish to
touch on
The one fatal stain of thy princely es-
cutcheon
In thy story's bright garden the one spot of
bleakness
Through ao-es of valor the one hour of weak-
o o
ness !
Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred
and royal
* The house.'Of the Red Branch was situated in the stately
palace of Eamhain (or Emania), in Ulster ; here the spoils taken
from the foreign foe were hung up, and the chieftains who
won them were called Knight? of the Red Branch.
4 Dathy was killed at the Alps by lightning, and Niall (hia
uncle and predecessor), by an arrow fired from the opposite
side of the river by one of his own generals as he sat in his
tent on the banks of the Loire in France.
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
321
Tlion to kneel to the Norman and swear to
be loyal !
Oh ! a long night of horror, and outrage,
ami sorrow
Have we wept for thy treason, base Diar-
mid MacCaura !
O ! why, ere you thus to the foreigner pan-
dered,
Did you not bravely call round your Emer-
ald standard
The chiefs of your house of Lough Lcne and
Clan Awley,
O'Donogh, Mac-Patrick, O'Driscoll, Mac-
Awlcy,
O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dun-
kerroti,
And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardin-
teran ?
As the sling sends the stone, or the bent
bow the arrow,
Every chief would have come at the call of
MacCaura !
Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in
woe '
Thy life to the Butler thy crown to the foe
Thy castles dismantled and strewn on the
sod
And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys
of God !
No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed
Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft
heather spread
Nor the clairseclCs sweet notes now in
mirth, now in sorrow
All, all have gone by but the name of Mac-
Caura !
MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by,
But its name cannot fade, and its fame can-
not die
Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves
shine 8
Around no green forests or castles of thine
1 Dinrmid MacCarthy, Kin<; of Dt-Kinoncl, and Daniel O'Bri-
ei:, K'ng of Thomond. were the llrbt of the Irich princes to
wear fealty to Henry II.
* The Arigideen means the little eilvur stn-ain, and AUo,
the echoing river. By these rivers and m^nv others in the
eouth of Ireland, cattle* were erected and moiia-ti-rir- found-
%d l>v the Mao''srthvs.
Though the shrines that you founded no in
cense doth hallow,
Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing
Allo f
One treasure thou keepest one hope for the
morrow
True hearts yet beat of the clan of Mac-
Caura !
DEVOTION.
WHEN I wander by the ocean,
When I view its wild commotion,
Then the spirit of devotion
Cometh near;
But it tills my brain and bosom,
Like a fear !
I fear its booming thunder,
Its terror and its wonder,
Its icy waves that sunder
Heart from heart ;
And the white host that lies under
Makes me start !
Its clashing and its clangor
Proclaim the Godhead's anger
I shudder, and with languor
Turn away ;
No joyance fills my bosom
For that day !
When I wander through the valleys,
When the evening zephyr dallies
And the light expiring rallies,
In the stream,
That spirit comes and glads me
Like a dream.
Tin- blue smoke upward curling,
The silver streamlet purling,
The meadow wild-flowers furling
Their leaflets to repose
All woo me from the world
And its woes !
The evening bell that bringcth
A truce to toil ontringeth,
No sweetest lir<l that singeth
Half so sweet.
322
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
Not even the lark that springeth
From my feet !
Then see I God beside me,
The sheltering trees that hide me,
The mountains that divide me
From the sea,
All prove how kind a Father
He can be.
Beneath the sweet moon shining
The cattle are reclining,
No murmur of repining
Soundeth sad ;
All feel the present Godhead !
And are glad !
With mute, unvoiced confessings,
To the Giver of all blessings
I kneel, and with caressings
Press the sod,
And thank my Lord and Father,
And my God !
OVER THE SEA.
SAD eyes, why are ye steadfastly gazing
Over the sea?
Is it the flock of the Ocean-shepherd grazing
Like lambs on the lea ?
Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing
Allureth ye ?
Sad heart, why art thou tremblingly beating,
What troubleth thee ?
There where the waves from the fathomless
water come greeting,
Wild with their glee !
Or rush from the rocks like a routed battal-
ion retreating,
Over the sea !
Sad feet, why are ye constantly straying
Down by the sea ?
There where the winds in the sandy harbor
are playing,
Childlike and free,
What is the charm, whose potent enchant-
ment obeying,
There chaineth ye ?
Oh! sweet is the dawn and bright are the
colors it glows in !
Yet not to me !
To the beauty of God's bright creation my
bosom is frozen !
Naught can I see !
Since she has departed the dear one, the
loved one, the chosen,
Over the sea !
Pleasant it was when the billows did strug-
gle and wrestle,
Pleasant to see !
Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the
sea-birds nestle,
When near to thee !
Naught can I now behold but the track of
thy vessel
Over the sea !
Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant
sunlight cheereth,
The summer shall be :
Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich-
robes it weareth,
Vainly for me !
No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel
appeareth
Over the sea !
Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, moth-
erly bringeth
Flowers to the bee !
Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously,
lovingly flingeth
Fruits on the tree !
Shall be winter, when homeward returning,,
thy swift vessel wingeth
Over the sea !
HOME PREFERENCE.
On ! had I the wings of a bird,
To soar through the blue, sunny sky,
By what breeze would my pinions be stim-d ?
To what beautiful land would I fly ?
Would the gorgeous East allure,
With the light of its golden eves,
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
323
Where the tall, green palm over isles of balm,
Waves with its feathery leaves?
Ah ! no ! no ! no !
I heed not its tempting glare ;
In vain 'would I roam from my island
home,
For skies more fair.
Would I seek a southern sea,
Italia's shore beside,
Where the clustering grape from tree to tree
Hangs in its rosy pride ?
My truant heart, be still,
For I long have sighed to stray
Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's
bowers,
By the shores of its southern bay.
But no ! no ! no !
Though bright be its sparkling seas,
I never would roam from my island
home
For charms like these !
Would I seek that land so bright,
Where the Spanish maiden roves,
With a heart of love and an eye of light,
Through her native citron groves ?
Oh ! sweet would it be to rest
In the midst of the olive vales,
Where the orange blooms, and the rose per-
fumes
The breath of the balmy gales !
But no ! no ! no !
Though sweet be its wooing air !
I never would roam from my island
home
To scenes, though fair !
Would I pass from pole to pole ?
Would I seek the western skies,
Where the giant rivers roll,
And the mighty mountains rise ?
. Or those treacherous isles that lie
In the midst of the sunny deeps,
Where the cocoa stands on the glistening
sands,
\nd the dread tornado sweeps ?
Ah ! no ! no ! no !
They have no charms for me;
I never would roam from my island
home,
Though poor it be !
Poor ! oh ! 'tis rich in all
That flows from Nature's hand
Rich in the emerald wall
That guards its emerald land !
Are Italy's fields more green ?
Do they teem with a richer store
Than the bright, green breast of the isle of
the West,
And its wild, luxuriant shore ?
Ah ! no ! no ! no !
Upon it Heaven doth smile.
Oh ! I never would roam from my na-
tive home,
My own dear isle ! '
THE FIRESIDE.
I HAVE tasted all life's pleasures, I have
snatched at all its joys,
The dance's merry measures and the revel's
festive noise ;
Though wit flashed bright the livelong night,
and flowed the ruby tide,
I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own.
fireside !
In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across
the ocean's breast,
In search of some bright earthly star, some
happy isle of rest ;
I little thought the bliss I sought, in roam-
ing far and wide,
Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own
fireside !
How sweet to turn at evening's close from
all our cares away,
And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly
passing <lay !
The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sis-
ter or of bride,
All fairy ground doth make around one's
own fireside !
" My Lord" would never condescend to honor
my poor hearth ;
" His grace" would scorn a host or friend of
mere plebeian birth ;
> Translated Intc French by M. le Chevalier d Chatelaln
324
POEMS OF DENIS F. AlcCARTH\.
And yet the lords of human kind, whom
man has deified,
Forever meet in converse sweet around my
fireside !
The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage
his lore repeats,
The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the
chief his warlike feats ;
Though far away may be their clay, and
gone their earthly pride,
Each godlike mind in books enshrined still
haunts my fireside.
Oh ! let me glance a moment through the
o o
coming crowd of years,
Their triumphs or their failures, their sun-
shine or their tears,
How poor or great may be my fate, I care
not what betide,
So peace and love but hallow thce, my own
fireside !
Still let me hold the vision close, and closer
to my sight ;
Still, still in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing
its flight :
C* *
Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream
may yield from out its tide,
A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet
fireside ! '
THE VALE OF SHANGANAH.
WHEN I have knelt in the temple of Duty,
Worshipping honor, and valor, and beauty
When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance,
I have fought the good fight on the field of
existence ;
When a home I have won in the conflict of
labor,
With truth for my armor and thought for
my sabre,
Be that home a calm home where my old
age may rally,
A home fall of peace in this sweet, pleasant
valley !
1 Set to music by Mr. J. Hirst of Shelby, Yorkshire. Trans-
lated into French by M. le Chevalier de Chatelaiu
Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan-
gun ah !
Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan-
ganah !
May the accents of love', like the drop-
pings of manna,
Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of
Shanganah !
Fair is this isle this dear child of the ocean,
Nurtured with more than a mother's de-
votion ;
For, see ! in what rich robes has Nature
arrayed her,
From the waves of the west to the cliffs of
Ben Edar,'
By Glengariff 's lone islets Killarney's weird
water,
So lovely was each, that then matchless ]
thought her ;
But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-
scented alley,
Less wild but more fair is this soft, verdant.
valley !
Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan-
. . ganah !
Greenest of vaies is the Vale of Shan-
ganah !
No wide-spreading prairie no Indian
savannah,
So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shan-
gunah !
How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye
reposes
On the picture of beauty this valley discloses,
From that margin of silver whereon the blue
water
Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean-foam's
daughter !
To where, with the red clouds of mornincr
' O
combining,
The tall "Golden Spears" 3 o'er the moun-
tains are shining,
With the hue of their heather, as sunlight
advances,
Like purple flags furled round the staffs of
the lances !
4 Ben Edar is the Irish name of the Hill of Ho-.vth.
1 The Sugar Loaf Mountains, Co. Wicklow, according to
some antiquaries, were called in Irish " The Golden Spears.''
I'OK.MS OF DKMS F. .M.CA1ITIIY.
3-25
Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan-
ganah !
Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan-
gunah !
No lands far away by the calm Susque-
hannah,
So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shan-
ganah !
But here, even here, the lone heart were be-
nighted,
No beauty could reach it, if love did not
light it ;
'Tis this makes the earth, oh ! what mortal
can doubt it ?
A garden with ft, but a desert without it !
With the loved one, whose feelings instinct-
ively teach her
That goodness of heart makes the beauty of
feature,
How glad through this vale would I float
down life's river,
Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the
Giver !
Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan-
giinah !
Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan-
gun ah !
M<iy the accents of love, like the drop-
pings of manna,
Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of
Shanganah ! '
THE WINDOW.
AT my window, late and early,
In the sunshine and the rain,
When the jocund beams of morning
Come to \vake me from my napping,
With their golden fingers tapping
At my window-pane :
From my troubled slumbers flitting
From my dreamings fond and vain
From the fever intermitting,
Up I start, and take my sitting
At my window-pane :
Through the morning, through the noontide,
Fettered l>y a diamond chain,
Through the early hours of evening,
When the stars begin to tremble,
As their shining ranks assemble
O'er the a/.ure plain :
When the thousand lamps are blazing
Through the street ami lane
Mimic stars of man's upraising
Still I linger, fondly ga/.ing
From my window-pane !
For, amid the crowds, slow passing,
Surging like the main,
Like a sunbeam among shadows,
Through the storm-swept cloudy masses,.
Sometimes one bright being passes
'Neath my window-pane :
Thus a moment's joy I borrow
From a day of pain.
See, she comes ! but, bitter sorrow !
Not until the slow to-morrow
Will she come again.
1 Tht Vateof Xhangiinah (or more usually called ShAnffanagh)
lien to the so-iMi of Killincy Hill, nt-ar Dalkey, Co. Dublin
ADVANCE. 1
"There is nothing stationary in space even the fixed sun
move."
Coano*.
GOD bade the Sun with golden step sublime
Advance !
He whispered in the listening ear of Time,.
Advance ! '
He bade the guiding spirits of the Stars,.
With lightning speed, in silver-shining cars,
Along the bright floor of his azure hall
Advance !
Suns, Stars, and Time, obey the voice, and all
Advance !
The River, at its bubbling fountain, cries
Advance !
The Clouds proclaim, like heralds through
the skies,
Ad \ance !
Throughout the world the mighty Master's
laws
Allow not one brief moment's idle pause.
* Thin poem haa been admirably translated into Fix-neb
'v M. !< Chevalier de ChatHain. See the inter'
yp-riineii!' of hi* " Bcuilli's de :laie," appended
to the third editioi of hi* " Fable* de day." London.
326
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
The Earth is full of life, the swelling seeds
Advance !
And summer hours, like flowery harnessed
steeds,
Advance !
To Man's most wondrous hand the same
voice cried,
Advance !
Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tide
Advance !
Go draw the marble from its secret bed,
And make the cedar bend its giant head;
Let domes and columns through the won-
dering air
Advance !
The world, O Man ! is thine. But wouldst
thou share
Advance !
Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke,
Advance !
From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke,
" Advance !
" Go track the comet in its wheeling race,
And drag the lightning from its hiding-place ;
From out the night of ignorance and fears,
O O f
Advance !
For love and hope, borne by the coming years,
Advance !"
All heard, and some obeyed the great com-
mand,
Advance !
It passed along from listening land to land,
Advance !
The strong grew stronger, and the weak
grew strong,
As passed the war-cry of the World along
Awake, ye nations, know your powers and
rights
Advance !
Through hope and work to freedom's new
delights
Advance !
Knowledge came down and waved her steady
torch,
Advance !
Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch,
Advance !
As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak,
The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the
Greek,
The painted Briton caught the winged word,
Advance !
And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird,
Advance !
Oh ! Ireland oh ! my country, wilt thou not
Advance ?
Wilt thou not share the world's progressive
lot?
Advance !
Must seasons change, and countless years
roll on,
And thou remain a darksome Ajalon, 1
And never see the crescent moon of hope
Advance ?
' Tis time thine heart and eye had wider SCOJK,
Advance !
Dear brothers, wake ! look up ! be firm ! be
strong !
Advance !
From out the starless night of fraud and wrong
Advance !
The chains have fallen from off" thy wasted
hands,
And every man a seeming freed man stands.
But ah ! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells :
Advance !
Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles
Advance !
Advance ! thou must advance or perish now :
Advance !
Advance ! Why live with wasted heart and
brow?
Advance !
Advance ! or sink at once into the grave ; -
Be bravely free, or artfully a slave !
Why fret thy master, if thou mus* have one ':
Advance !
" Advance three steps, the glor ous work is
done" 2
Advance !
The first is COURAGE 'tis a giant stride !
Advance !
1 "Move not, O Sun, towards Gabaon, nor thou, O Moon,
toward the Valley of Ajalon." Josue, ix. 12.
" Trois pas en avant, c'est fait." VICTOR 11 coo.
POEMS OF DENIS F. MoCAKTIIY.
\Vith bounding step up freedom's rugged bide
Advance !
KNOWLEDGE will lead you to the dazzling
heights ;
TOLERANCE wiil teach and guard your bro-
ther's rights.
Faint not ! for thce a pitying Future waits :
Advance !
Be wise, be just : with will as fixed as Fate's,
Advance !
THE EMIGRANTS.
PART I.
" On ! come, my mother, come away, across
the sea-green water ;
Oh ! come with me, and come with him, the
husband of thy daughter;
Oh ! come with us, and come with them, the
sister and the brother,
Who, prattling, clime thine aged knees, and
call thy daughter mother.
** Oh ! come, and leave this land of death
this isle of desolation
This speck upon the sunbright face of God's
sublime creation ;
Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most
malign hath risen,
When labor seeks the poorhouse, and inno-
cence the prison.
" 'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the
husky wheat is bending ;
'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better
time is sending ;
'Tis true, the island's aged face looks hap-
pier and younger,
But in the best of days we've known the
sickness and the hunger.
" When health breathed out in every breeze,
too oft we've known the fever
Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand
of the bereaver ;
Too well remember many a time the mourn-
ful task that brought him,
When freshness fanned the summer air, and
cooled the glow of autumn.
" But then the trial, though severe, still tea-
tified our patience,
We bowed with mingled hope and fear to
God's wise dispensations ;
We felt the gloomiest time was both a pro-
mise and a warning,
Just as the darkest hour of night is herald
of the morning.
" But now through all the black expanse no
hopeful morning breaketh
No bird of promise in our hearts the glad-
some song awaketh ;
No far-off gleams of good light up the hills
of expectation
Naught but the gloom that might precede
the world's annihilation.
"So, mother, turn thine aged feet, and let
our children lead 'em
Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty
and to freedom ;
Forgetting naught of all the past, yet all the
past forgiving :
Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly
unto the living.
"They tell us, they who read and think of
Ireland's ancient story,
How once its Emerald Flag flung out a sun-
burst's fleeting glory ;
Oh ! if that sun will pierce no more the dark
clouds that efface it,
Fly where the rising stars of heaven com-
mingle to replace it.
" So, come, my mother, come away, across
the sea-green water ;
Oh ! come with us, and come with him, the
husband of thy daughter ;
Oh! come with us, and come with them, the
sister and the brother,
Who, prattling, climb thine age"d knees, an-1
call thy daughter mother."
PART II.
" An ! go, my children, go away obey this
inspiration ;
Go with the mantling hopes of henltb and
youthful expectation ;
328
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and
plough the expectant prairies ;
Go, in the sacred name of God, and the
blessed Virgin Mary's.
" But though I feel how sharp the pang from
thee and thine to sever,
To look upon these darling ones the last time
and forever;
Yet in this sad and dark old land, by deso-
lation haunted,
My heart has struck its roots too deep ever
to be transplanted.
"A thousand fibres still have life, although
the trunk is dying
They twine around the yet green grave
where thy father's bones are lying :
Ah ! from that sad and sweet embrace no
soil on earth can loose 'em,
Though golden harvests gleam on its breast,
and golden sands in its bosom.
" Others are twined around the stone, where
ivy blossoms smother
The crumbling lines that trace thy names,
my father and my mother !
God's blessing be upon their souls God
grant, my old heart prayeth,
Their names be written in the Book whose
writing ne'er decayeth.
" Alas ! my prayers would never wann with-
in those great cold buildings,
Those grand cathedral churches, with their
marbles and their gildings ;
Far fitter than the proudest dome that would
hang in splendor o'er me,
Is the simple chapel's whitewashed walls,
where my people knelt before me.
" No doubt it is a glorious land to which you
now are going,
Like that which God bestowed of old, with
milk and honey flowing ;
Rut where are the blessed saints of God,
whose lives of his Law remind me,
Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columbkille, in the
land I'd leave behind me ?
"So leave rne here, my children, with my
old ways and old notions
Leave me here in peace, with my memoriei
and devotions :
Leave me in sight of your father's grave ; and
as the heavens allied us,
Let not, since we were joined in life, even
the grave divide us.
" There's not a week but I can hear how you
prosper better and better,
For the mighty fire-ships over the sea will
bring the expected letter ;
And if I need aught for my simple wants,
my food or my winter firing,
Thou'lt gladly spare from thy growing store,
a little for my requiring
" So, go, my children, go away obey this
inspiration ;
Go with the mantling hopes of health and
youthful expectation ;
Go clear the forests, climb the hills, and
plough the expectant prairies ;
Go, in the sacred name of God, and the
blessed Virgin Mary's."
Da lei si move ciascun mio pensiero,
Perche 1'anima ha preso qualitate
l)i sua bulla persona.
DANTK.
FIRST loved, last loved, best loved of all
I've loved !
Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my man-
hood's light,
Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've
moved
Full many a year along life's darksome
night !
Thou wert my star, serenely shining
bright
Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists
obscure ;
Thou wert the power that kept my spirit
white,
My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and
pure.
Thine was the light from Heaven that ever
must endure.
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAUTIIY.
329
Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap,
No chance or change can break our mu-
tual ties ;
My heart lies spread before thee like a map,
Here roll the tides, and there the moun-
tains rise ;
Here dangers frown, and there hope's
streamlet flies,
And golden promontories cleave the main ;
And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes,
And saw the thought thou couldst not all
restrain,
A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain !
Dearest and best, 1 dedicate to thee,
From this hour forth, my hopes, my
dreams, my cares,
All that I am, and all I e'er may be,
Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin,
white hairs ;
Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares
Sweet saint shalt guard me as with an-
gel's wings ;
To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful
prayers,
The evening hymns, the thoughts that mid-
night brings,
The worship that like fire out of the warm
heart springs.
Thou wilt be with me through the strug-
gling day,
Thou wilt be with me through the pen-
sive night,
Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away
Some sad mischance may snatch you from
my sight.
In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight,
In every thought thy form shall bear a part,
In every dream thy memory shall unite,
Bride of my soul, and partner of my heart !
Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart !
Am I deceived ? and do I pine and faint
For worth that only dwells in heaven
above ?
Ah ! if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint,
Then thou art not the Ethna that I love :
If thou art not as gentle as the dove,
A^nd good as thou art beautiful, the tooth
Of venomed serpents will not deadlier
prove
Than that dark revelation : but, in sooth,
Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name
is Tfiuxu. 1
WINGS FOR HOME.
MY heart hath taken wings for home ;
Away ! away ! it cannot stay.
My heart hath taken wings for home,
Nor all that's best of Greece or Rome
Can stop its sway.
My heart hath taken wings for home,
Away !
My heart hath taken wings for home,
O Swallow, Swallow, lead the way I
O, little bird, fly north with me,
I have a home beside the sea
Where thou canst sing and play ;
My heart hath taken wings for home,
Away!
My heart hath taken wings for home,
But thou, O little bird, wilt stay ;
Thou hast thy little ones with thee hero,
Thy mate floats with thee through the clear
Italian depths of day;
My heart hath taken wings for home,
Away !
My heart hath taken wings for home,
Away! away! it cannot stay.
One spring from Brunelleschi's dome,
To Venice by the Adrian ibam,
Then westward be my way.
My heart hath taken wings for home,
Away !
TO AN INFANT.
LEAP, little feet ; leap up, oh leap !
With bounding life, be bol.l and brave;
The time may come when ye must creep,
Even to a grave !
JSthna, or Althna, in Irish ri^nltlc* Truth. The mothci nf
St. Colnmbkllle bore this beautiful name. See "Adamnan'*
Life of St. Columba," edited by the Kcv. I> thf
Irish Archieologtcal and Celtic Society, p. 8.
330
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAUTIIY.
Laugh, little lips, in dreamless sleep,
Sweet eyes, smile sweet, the angels hear ;
The time may come when ye must weep,
No angel near !
Look, little soul, from out thy gate ;
Look out and seek thy one true friend :
Ah me ! to think that thou must wait
Till life shall end !
Beat, little heart, within thy breast ;
Beat fond and fast, oh flesh-caged dove,
And when the bars are broke, thy nest
Be heaven above !
HOME-SICKNESS.
TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN'.
I.
MY native bay, for many a year
I've loved thee with a trembling fear,
Lest thou, though dear, and very dear,
And beauteous as a vision,
Shouldst have some rival far away
Some matchless wonder of a bay
Whose sparkling waters ever play
'Neath azure skies elysian.
u.
1 Tis love, me thought, blind love that pours
The rippling magic round these shores
For whatsoever love adores
Becomes what love desireth :
'Tis ignorance of aught beside
That throws enchantment o'er the tide
And makes my heart respond with pride
To what mine eye admireth.
in.
And thus, unto our mutual loss,
Whene'er I paced the sloping moss
Of green Killiney, or across
The intervening waters
Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wen-d,
To see thy sinuous bosom bend,
Or view thine outstretched arms extend
To clasp thine islet daughters :
IV.
Then would this spectre of my fear
Beside me stand how calm and clear
Slept underneath the green waves, near
The tide-worn rocks' recesses ;
Or when they woke and leaped from land,
Like startled sea-nymphs, hand in hand
Seeking the southern silver strand
With floating emerald tresses :
v.
It lay o'er all, a moral mist ;
Even on the hills, when evening kissed
The granite peaks to amethyst,
I felt its fatal shadow :
It darkened o'er the brightest rills,
*It lowered upon the sunniest hills,
And hid the winged song that fills
The moorland and the meadow.
VI.
But now that I have been to view
All even nature's self can do,
And from Gaeta's arch of blue
Borne many a fond memento ;
And from each fair and famous scene,
Where beauty is, and power hath been,
Along the golden shores between
Misenum and Sorrento :
VII.
I can look proudly in thy face,
Fair daughter of a hardier race,
And feel thy winning, well-known grace,
Without my old misgiving ;
And as I kneel upon thy strand,
And kiss thy once unvalued hand,
Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land,
Where life is worth the living.
YOUTH AND AGE.
To give the blossom and the fruit
The soft warm air that wraps them round
Oil ! think how long the toilsome root
Must live and labor 'neath the ground.
n.
To send the river on its way,
With ever deepening strength and force,
Oh ! think how long 'twas let to play,
A happy streamlet, near its source.
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
331
SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER.
SUMMER is a glorious season
Warm, and bright, and pleasant ;
But the past is not a reason
To despise the present.
So while health can climb the mountain,
And the log lights up the hall,
There are sunny days in winter, after all !
ii.
Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us,
Maiden-like in charms ;
Summer, too, with all her promise,
Perished in our arms.
But the memory of the vanished,
Whom our hearts recall,
Maketh sunny days in winter, after all !
in.
True, there's scarce a flower that bloom eth,
All the best are dead ;
But the wall-flower still perfumeth
Yonder garden-bed.
And the arbutus pearl-blossomed
Hangs its coral ball
There are sunny days in winter, after all !
IV.
Summer trees are pretty very,
And I love them well ;
But this holly's glistening berry,
None of those excel.
While the fir can warm the landscape,
And the ivy clothes the wall,
There are sunny days in winter, after all !
v.
Sunny hours in every season
Wait the innocent
Those who taste with love and reason
What their God hath sent.
Those who neither soar too highly,
Nor too lowly fall,
Feel the sunny days of winter, after all !
VI.
Then, although our darling treasures
Vanish from the heart ;
Then, although our once-loved pleasures
One by one depart ;
Though the tomb looms in the distance,
And the mourning pall,
There is sunshine and no winter, after all !
DUTY.
As the hardy oat is growing,
Howsoe'er the wind may blow ;
As the untired stream is flowing,
Whether shines the sun or no:
Thus, though storm-winds rage about it,
Should the strong plant, Duty, grow ;
Thus, with beauty or without it,
Should the stream of being flow.
ORDER.
A WORD went forth upon Creation's day,
At which th<} void infinitude was filled
With life and light. Where horrid CIIAOH
reigned
In dark confusion, orbed ORDER rose.
And with the silent majesty of strength
Took up the sceptre of a thousand worlds,
And ruled by right divine the radiant realms.
Where all was blank vacuity, or worse,
Monstrous Disorder fair material Form
Rose wondering from the vacant wastes of
Space ;
And as each world beheld its sister world,
So calm, so beautiful, so full of light,
Walking in gladness through the halls of
heaven,
Like a fair daughter in her father's house
Its heart yearned towards her, and its trem-
bling feet
Turned in pursuit ; and its great, eager eyes
Followed her ever down the eternal day.
Round golden suns the silver planets rolled,
Round silver planets circled moons of pearl,
Round pearly moons, the roses of the sky
(Eve-crimsoned clouds) stood wondering, till
their cluvks
Grew pale with passion, and then dark with
pain ;
As sank the moons behind the unheeding
hills !
332
POEMS OF DEXIS F. McCARTHY.
THE FIRST OF THE ANGELS.
Husii ! hush! through the azure expanse of
the sky
Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh
and a sigh ;
And I rise from my writing, and look up
on high,
And I kneel for the first of God's angels is
nisjh !
o
II.
Oh ! how to describe what my rapt eyes
descry !
For the blue of the sky is the blue of his eye ;
And the white clouds, whose whiteness the
snow-flakes outvie,
Are the luminous pinions on which he doth
fly!
in.
And his garments of gold gleam at times
like the pyre
Of the west, when the sun in a blaze doth
expire ;
Now tinged like the orange now flaming
with fire !
Half the crimson of roses and purple of Tyre.
IV.
And his voice, on whose accents the angels
have hung
He himself a bright angel, immortal and
young
Scatters melody sweeter the green buds
among,
Than the poet e'er wrote, or the nightingale
sung.
v.
It comes on the balm-bearing breath of the
breeze,
And the odors that later will gladden the
bees,
With a life and a freshness united to these,
From, the rippling of waters and rustling of
trees.
VI.
Like a swan to its young o'er the glass of a
So to earth comes the angel, as graceful and
fond ;
While a bright beam of sunshine his mag-
ical wand
Strikes the fields at my feet, and the moun-
tains beyond.
VII.
They waken they start into life at a bound
Flowers climb the tall hillocks, and cover
the ground ;
With a nimbus of glory the mountains are
crowned,
As their rivulets rush to the ocean profound.
VIII.
There is life on the earth there is calm on
the sea,
And the rough waves are smoothed, and the
frozen are free ;
And they gambol and ramble like boys in
their glee,
Round the shell-shining strand on the grass-
bearing lea.
IX.
There is love for the young there is life lor
the old,
And wealth for the needy, and heat for th&
cold ;
For the dew scatters nightly its diamonds
untold,
And the snowdrop its silver the crocus it*
gold!
x.
God whose goodness and greatness we bless
and adore-
Be Thou praised for this angel the first of
the four
To whose charge Thou hast given the world's
uttermost shore,
To guide it, and guard it, till time is no more !
SPIRIT VOICES.
THERE are voices, spirit voices, sweetly
sounding everywhere,
At whose coming earth rejoices, and the
echoing realms of air,
POEMS OF DENIS F. McfAKTII V.
And their joy and jubilation pierce the near
and reach the far
From the rapid world's gyration to the
twinkling of the star.
n.
One, a potent voice uplifting, stops the white
cloud on its way,
As it drives with driftless drifting o'er the
vacant vault of day,
And in sounds of soft upbraiding calls it
down the void inane
To the gilding and the shading of the moun-
tain and the plain.
in.
Airy offspring of the fountains, to thy des-
tined duty sail
Seek it on the proudest mountains, seek it in
the humblest vale ;
Howsoever high thou fliest, howso deep it
bids thee go,
Be a beacon to the highest and a blessing to
the low.
IV.
When the sad earth, broken-hearted, hath
not even a tear to shed,
And her very soul seems parted for hei chil-
dren lying dead,
Send the streams with warmer pulses through
that frozen fount of fears,
And the sorrow that convulses, soothe and
soften down to tears.
v.
Bear the sunshine and the shadow, bear the
rain-drop and the snow,
Bear the night-dew to the meadow, and to
hope the promised bow,
Bear the moon, a moving mirror, for her
angel face and form,
And to guilt and wilful error, bear the light-
ning and the storm.
VI.
When thou thus hast done thy duty on the
earth and o'er the sea,
Bearing many a beam of beauty, ever bet-
tering what must be,
Thus reflecting heaven's pure splendor, and
concealing ruined clay,
Up to God thy spirit render, and dissolving,
pass away.
VII.
And with fond solicitation, speaks another
to the streams
Leave your airy isolation, quit the cloudy
land of dreams,
Break the lonely peak's attraction, burst the
solemn, silent glen,
Seek the living world of action, and the busy
haunts of men.
VIII.
Turn the mill-wheel with thy fingers, turn
the steam-wheel with thy breath,
With thy tide that never lingers, save the
dying fields from death ;
Let the swiftness of thy currents bear to man
the freight-filled ship,
And the crystal of thy torrents bring re-
freshment to his lip.
IX.
And when thou, O rapid river, thy eternal
home dost seek
When no more the willows quiver but to
touch thy passing check
When the groves no longer greet thec and
the shores no longer kiss
Let infinitude come meet thee on the verge
of the abyss.
x.
Other voices seek to win us low, sugges-
tive, like the rest
But the sweetest is within us, in the stillness
of the breast ;
Be it ours, with fond desiring, the same har-
vest to produce
As the cloud in its aspiring, and the river in
its use.
TRUTH IN SONG.
I CANNOT sing, I cannot write,
To show that I can write and sing-
334
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY.
I cannot for a cause so slight
Command my Ariel's dainty wing :
Not for the dreams of cultured youth,
Nor praises of the lettered throng.
Oh, no ! I string the pearls of song
But only on the chords of truth :
ii.
And when the precious pearls are strung,
What are their value but to deck
Some kindred forehead, or be hung
Around the whiteness of some neck ?
Some neck ? some forehead ? ah ! but one
Would win or haply wear the chain,
And now the fragments of the strain
Lie broken round me SHE is gone !
in.
Gone from my home some weary hours,
But never, never from my heart
Gone, like the memory of the showers
To flowers long-drooping, love, thou art :
O, truest friend O, best of wives
Come soon: my world, my queen, my
crown,
Then shall the pearls run ringing down
The love-twined chords of both our lives.
ALL FOOL'S DAY.
THE sun called a beautiful beam that was
playing
At the door of his golden-walled palace on
high;
And he bade him be off without any delay-
ing,
To a fast-fleeting cloud on the verge of the
sky:
' You will give him this letter," said roguish
Apollo,
(While a sly little twinkle contracted his
" With my royal regards ; and be sure that
you follow
Whatsoever his highness may send in re-
ply."
ii.
The beam heard the order, but being no-
novice,
Took it coolly, of course nor in this was
he wrong ;
But was forced (being a clerk in ApolloV
post-office)
To declare (what a bounce !) that he
wouldn't be long ;
So he went home and dressed gave his*
beai'd an elision
Put his scarlet coat on, Cicely edged with
gold lace ;
And thus being equipped, with a postman's
precision,
He prepared to set out on his nebulous race.
in.
Off he posted at last, but just outside the
portals
He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the
dark ; '
So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals,
Who, when sent on an errand, first go on
a lark.
But he broke from the bii'd reached the
cloud in a minute
Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained i
But the sun's correspondent, on looking
within it,
Found " Send the fool farther," was all it
contained.
IV.
The cloud, who was up to all mystification,
Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the
sun ;
And was ever too airy though lofty his
station
To spoil the least taste of the prospect of
fun ;
So he hemmed and he hawed took a roll of
pure vapor,
Which the light from the beam made
bright as could be,
(Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden-
edged paper),
And wrote a few words, superscribed " Tf
the Sea."
> "Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate ehiKS," &c.
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIIV.
335
v.
"My dear Beam," or "dear Ray," ('twas
thus coolly he hailed him),
" Pray take down to Neptune this letter
from me,
For the person you seek though I lately re-
galed him
Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the
sea."
So our Mercury hastened away through the
ether,
The bright face of Thetis to gladden and
greet ;
And he plunged in the water a few feet be-
neath her,
Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet.
VI.
To Neptune the letter was brought for in-
spection
But the god, though a deep one, was still
rather green /
So he took a few moments of steady reflection,
Ert he wholly made out what the missive
could mean:
Dut the date (it was "April the first") came to
save it
From all fear of mistake ; so he took pen
in hand,
And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, lie
gave it
To our travelled-tired friend, and said
" Bring it to Land."
VII.
To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely
received it,
When it sent it post-haste back again to
the Sea ;
The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it,
And sent it once more to the Land on the
lea ;
From the Land to the Lake from the Lakes
to the Fountains
From the Fountains and Streams to the
Hills' azure crest,
'Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the
mountains,
Sent it back to the Cloud in the now
golden west.
VIII.
He saw the whole trick, by the way he wa
greeted
By the Sun's laughing face, which all pur-
ple appears ;
Then amused, yet annoyed at the way he
was treated,
He first laughed at the joke, and then burst
into tears.
It is thus at this day of mistakes and sur-
prises,
When fools write on foolscap, and wear
it the while,
This gay saturnalia forever arises
'Mid the shower and sunshine, the tear
and the smile.
THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING.
KATHLEEX, my darling, I've dreamt such-
a dream !
'Tis as hopeful and bright as the Summer's
first beam :
1 dreamt that the World, like yourself
darling dear,
Had presented a son to the happy New
Year !
Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered
awhile,
But like thine was the joy, at her baby's
first smile,
When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hast-
ened to fling
Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE
SPUING.
ii.
O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements
all,
With their friendly regards, condescended
to call :
The rough rains of Winter like summer-dews
fell,
And the North-wind said, /ophyr-like " Is
the World well ?"
And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell
o'er tin- F.arth
God'a good ness to man in this mystical birth,
336
POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIIY.
For a Son of this World, and an heir to the
King
Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring !
in.
O Kathleen, methought, when the bright
babe was born,
More lovely than morning appeared the
bright morn ;
The birds sang more sweetly, the grabs
greener grew,
And with buds and with blossoms the old
trees looked new ;
And methought when the Priest of the Uni-
verse came
The Sun, in his vestments ol' glory and
flame
He was seen the warm rain-drops of April
to fling
On the brow of the babe, and baptize, him
The Spring !
IV.
O Kathleen, dear Kathleen ! what treasures
are piled
In the mines of the Past lor this wonderful
Child !
The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards,
Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards;
All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost
life and limb,
Without price, without peril, are offered to
him ;
And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its
sting,
As it offers its sweets to this beautiful
Spring 1
v.
Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things,
Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet
wings ;
How the lands of the world in co-mmunion
are brought,
And the slow march of speech is as rapid as
thought.
Think, think what an heir-loom the great
world will be,
With this wonderful wire 'neath the Earth
and the Sea ;
When the snows and the sunshine together
shall bring
All the wealth of the world to the feet ol
the Spring.
VI.
Kathleen, but think of the birth -gifts of
love,
That THE MASTER who lives in the GREAT
HOUSE above,
Prepares for the poor child that's born on
His land
Dear God ! they're the sweet flowers that
fall from Thy hand
The crocus, the primrose, the violet given
Awhile, to make Earth the reflection oi
Heaven ;
The brightness and lightness that round tho
world wins;
O
Are Thine, and are ours too, through thee,
happy Spring !
VII.
O Kathleen, dear Kathleen ! that dream is
gone by,
And I wake once again, but, thank God !
thoti art by ;
And the land that we love looks as bright
in the beam,
Just as it my sweet dream was not all out a
dream :
The spring-tide of Nature its blessing im-
parts
Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pube
through our hearts ;
Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we
cling,
And a brother we hail, when we welcome
the Spring.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK
GERMAN ANTHOLOGY.
FRIEDRICH SCHILLER.
fflie lag of the
VlYoe TOCO. Mortnoa plango. Folgura frango.
PREPARATION FOR FOUNDING THE BELL.
FIRMLY walPd within the soil
Stands the firebaked mould of clay.
Courage, comrades ! Now for toil !
For we cast TUB BELL to-day.
Sweat must trickle now
Down the burning brow,
If the work may boast of beauty :
Stlil 'tis Heaven must bless our duty.
A word of earnest exhortation
The serious task before us needs :
Beguiled by cheerful conversation,
How much more lightly toil proceeds 1
Then let us here, with best endeavor,
Weigh well what these our labors mean:
Contempt awaits that artist ever
Who plods through all, the mere machine;
But Thought makes Man to dust superior,
And he alone is thoughtful-soul'd
Who ponders in his heart's interior
Whatever shape his hand may mould.
Gather first the pine-tree wood,
Only be it wholly dry,
That the flame, with subtle flood,
Through the furnace-chink may fly.
Now the brass is in,
Add the alloy of tin,
That the ingredients may, while warm,
Take the essential fluid form.
OFFICES OF THE BELL.
What here in caverns by the power
Of fire our mastering fingers frame,
Hereafter fi'om the belfry tower
Will vindicate its makers' aim ;
'Twill speak to Man with voice unfailing
In latest years of after-days,
Will echo back the mourner's wailing,
Or move the heart to prayer and praise i
In many a varying cadence ringing,
The willing BELL will publish far
The fitful changes hourly springing
Beneath Man's ever-shifting star.
Surface-bubbles glittering palely
Show the mixture floweth well :
Mingle now the quick alkali ;
That will help to found the BELL.
Purified from scum
Must the mass become,
That the tone, escaping free,
Clear and deep and full may be.
THE BIRTH -DAY BELL.
For, with a peal of joyoiw clangor
It hails the infant boy, that in
The soft embrace of sleep and languor
Life's tiring travel doth begin.
1 1 is brighter lot and darker doom
Lie shrouded in the Future's womb.
Watch'd over by his tender mother,
His golden mornings chase each other;
Swift summers fly like javelins by.
338
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
The woman's yoke the stripling spurneth ;
He rushes wildly forth to roam
The wide world over, and returneth
When years have wheel'd a stranger
home.
Array' d in Beauty's magic might,
A vision from the Heaven that's o'ei him,
With conscious blush and eye of light,
The bashful virgin stands before him.
Then flies the youth his wonted sports,
For in his heart a nameless feeling
Is born ; the lonesome dell he courts,
And down his check the tears are stealing.
He hangs upon her silver tone,
He tracks with joy her very shadow,
And culls, to deck his lovely one,
The brightest flowers that gem the meadow.
Oh, golden time of Love's devotion,
When tenderest hopes and thrills have
birth,
When hearts are drunk with blest emotion,
And Heaven itself shines out on Earth !
Were thy sweet season ever vernal !
Were early Youth and Love eternal !
Ha ! the pipes appear embrown'd,
So this little staff I lower :
'Twill be time, I wis, to found,
If the fluid glaze it o'er.
Courage, comrades ! Move 1
Quick the mixture prove.
If the soft but well unite
With the rigid, all is right.
THE WEDDING -BELL.
For, where the Strong protects the Tender,
Where Might and Mildness join, they render
A sweet result, content insuring;
Let those then prove who make election,
That heart meets heart in blent affection,
Else Bliss is brief, and Grief enduring !
In the bride's rich ringlets brightly
SLines the flowery coronal,
As the BELL, now pealing lightly,
Bids her to the festal hall.
Fairest scene of Man's elysian
World ! thou closest life's short May :
With the zone and veil 1 the Vision
Melts in mist and fades for aye !
The rapture has fled,
Still the love has not perish'd ;
The blossom is dead,
But the fruit must be cherish'd.
The husband must out,
He must mix in the rout,
In the struggle and strife
And the clangor of life,
Must join in its jangle,
Must wrestle and wrangle,
O'erreaching, outrunning,
By force and by cunning,
That Fortune propitious
May smile on his wishes.
Then riches flow in to his uttermost wishes*;
His warehouses glitter with all that is pre-
cious ;
The storehouse, the mansion,
Soon call for expansion ;
And busied within is
The orderly matron,
The little ones' mother,"
Who is everywhere seen
As she rules like a queen,
The instructress of maidens
And curber of boys ;
And seldom she lingers
In plying her fingers,
But doubles the gains
By her prudence and pains,
And winds round the spindle the threads at
her leisure,
And fills odoriferous coffers with treasure,
And storeth her shimng receptacles full
Of snowy-white linen and pale-colored wool,
And blends with the Useful the Brilliant and
Pleasing,
And toils without ceasing.
And the father counts his possessions now,
As he paces his house's commanding terrace,
And he looks around with a satisfied brow
Mit dem Qurtel, mit dem Schleier,
Reiszt der schOne Wahn entzwei.
Schiller here alludes to that custom of antiquity according to
which the bridegroom unloosed the zone and removed the veil
of his betrothed. Among the ancients, to unbind the cesttu,
and to espouse, were expressions meaning the eame thing.
Hence the well-known line of Catullus
Quod possit zonam solvere virgineam.
1 Here, and In a few subsequent passages, Schiller oral!*
hie rhymes.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
On his pillar-like trees in rows unending,
And his barns and rooms that are filling
amain,
And his granaries under their burden bend-
ing,
And his wavy fields of golden graii ,
And speaks with exultation,
" Fast as the Earth's foundation,
Against all ill secure.
Long shall my house endure ! "
But ah ! with Destiny and Power
No human paction lasts an hour,
And Ruin rides a restless courser.
Good ! The chasm is guarded well ;
Now, my men ! commence to found ;
Yet, before ye run the BELL,
Breathe a prayer to Heaven around !
Wrench the stopple-cork !
GOD protect our work !
Smoking to the bow it flies,
While the flames around it rise.
THE FIRE-BELL.
Fire works for good with noble force
So long as Man controls its course ;
And all he rears of strong or slight
Is debtor to this heavenly might.
But dreadful is this heavenly might
When, bursting forth in dead of night,
Unloosed and raging, wide and wild
It ranges, Nature's chainless child !
Woe ! when oversweeping bar,
With a fury naught can stand,
Through the stifled streets afar
Rolls the monstrous volume-brand !
For the elements ever war
With the works of human hand.
From the cloud
Blessings gush ;
From the cloud
Torrents rush ;
From the cloud alike
Come the bolts that strike.
LARUM peals from lofty steeple
Rouse the people 1
Red, like blood,
Heaven is flashing !
How it shames the daylight's flood I
Hark ! what crashing
Down the streets !
Smoke ascends in volumes !
Skyward flares the flame in columns I
Through the tent-like lines of streets
Rapidly as wind it fleets !
Now the white air, waxing hotter,
Glows a furnace pillars totter
Rafters crackle casements rattle
Mothers fly
Children cry
Under ruins whimper cattle.
All is horror, noise, affright !
Bright as noontide glares the night !
Swung from hand to hand with zeal along
By the throng,
Speeds the pail. In bow-like form
Sprays the hissing water-shower,
But the madly-howling storm
Aids the flames with wrathful power ;
Round the shrivell'd fruit they curl :
Grappling with the granary-stores,
Now they blaze through roof and floors,
And with upward-dragging whirl,
Even as though they strove to bear
Earth herself aloft in air,
Shoot into the vaulted Void,
Giant-vast !
Hope is past :
Man submits to GOD'S decree,
And, all stunn'd and silently,
Sees his earthly All destroy'd 1
Burn'd a void
Is the Dwelling :
Winter winds its wailing dirge are knelling ;
In the skeleton window-pits
Horror sits,
And exposed to Heaven's wide woof
Lies the roof.
One glance only
On the lonely
Sepulchre of all his wealth below _
Doth the man bestow ;
Then turns to tread the world's broad path.
It matters not what wreck the wrath
Of fire hath bi ought on house and land,
One treasured blessing still he hath,
His Best Beloved beside him stand !
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Happily at length, and rightly,
I)oth it till the loamy frame :
Think ye will it come forth brightly ?
Will it yet fulfil our aim ?
If we fail to found ?
If the mould rebound ?
Ah I perchance, when least we deem,
Fortune may defeat our scheme.
In hope our work we now confide
To Earth's obscure but hallow'd bosom ;
Therein the sower, too, doth hide
The seed he hopes shall one day blossom,
If bounteous Heaven shall so decide.
But holiei', dearer Seed than this
We bury oft, with tears, in Earth,
And trust that from the Grave's abyss
'Twill bloom forth yet in brighter birth.
THE PASSING BELL.
Hollowly and slowly,
By the BELL'S disasti'ous tongue,
Is the melancholy
Knell of death and burial rang.
Heavily those muffled accents mourn
Some one journeying to the last dark bourne.
Ah ! it is the spouse, the dear one !
Ah ! it is that faithful mother !
She it is that thus is borne,
Sadly borne and rudely torn
By the sable Prince of Spectres
From her fondest of protectors
From the children forced to flee
Whom she bore him lovingly,
Whom she gazed on day and night
With a mother's deep delight.
Ah ! the house's bands, that held
Each to each, are doom'd to sever
She that there as mother dwell'd
Roams the Phantom-land forever.
Truest friend and best arranger !
Thou art gone, and gone for aye ;
And a loveless hireling stranger
O'er thine orphan'd ones will sway.
Till the* BELL shall cool and harden,
Labor's heat a while may cease ;
Like the wild-bird in the garden,
Each may play or take his ease.
Soon as twinkles Hesper,
Soon as chimes the Vesper,
All the workman's toils are o'er,
But the master frets the more.
Wandering through the lonely greenwood
Blithely hies the merry rover
Forward towards his humble hovel.
Bleating sheep are homeward wending,
And the herds of
Sleek and broad-brow'd cattle come with
Lowing warning
O ~
Each to fill its stall till morning.
Town ward rumbling
Reels the wagon,
Corn-o'erladen,
On whose sheaves
Shine the leaves
Of the Garland fair,
While the youthful band of reapers
To the dance repair.
Street and market now grow stiller :
Round the social hearth assembling,
Gayly crowd the house's inmates,
As the town-gate closes creaking ;
And the earth is
Robed in sable,
But the night, which wakes affright
In the souls of conscience-haunted men,
Troubles not the tranquil denizen,
For he knows the eye of Law unsleeping
Watch is keeping.
Blessed Order ! heaven-descended
Maiden ! Early did she band
Like with like, in union blended,
Social cities early plann'd ;
She the fiei'ce barbarian brought
From his forest-haunts of wildness;
She the peasant's hovel sought,
And redeem'd his mind to mildness,
And first wove that ever-dearest band,
Fond attachment to our Fatherland 1
Thousand hands in ceaseless moticu
All in mutual aid unite,
Every art with warm devotion
Eager to reveal its might.
All are bonded in affection ;
Each, rejoicing in his sphere,
Safe in Liberty's protection,
I'OKMS IJY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Laughs to scorn the scoffer's sneer.
Toil is polish'd Man's vocation :
Praises are the meed of Skill ;
Kings may vaunt their crown and station,
We will vaunt our Labor still.
Mildest Quiet !
Sweetest Concord !
Gently, gently
Hover over this our town !
Ne'er may that dark day be witness'd
When the dread exterminator!
Through our vales shall rush, destroying,
When that azure
Softly painted by the rays of
Sunset fair
Shall (oh, horror !) with the blaze of
Burning towns and hamlets glare !
Now, companions, break the mould,
For its end and use have ceased :
On the structure 'twill unfold
Soul and sight alike shall feast.
Swing the hammer! Swing I
Till the covering spring.
Shivered first the mould must lie
Ere the BELL may mount on high.
The Master's hand, what time he wills,
May break the mould ; but woe to ye
If, spreading far in fiery rills,
The glowing ore itself shall free !
With roar as when deep thunder crashes
It blindly blasts the house to ashes,
And as from Hell's abysmal deep
The death-tide rolls with lava-sweep.
Where lawless force is awless master
Stands naught of noble, naught sublime !
Where Freedom comes achieved by Crime
Her fruits are tumult and disaster.
THE TOCSIN, OR ALARM-BELL.
Woe ! when in cities smouldering long
The pent-up train explodes at length !
Woe ! when a vast and senseless throng
Shake off their chains by desperate
strength !
Then to thc*bcllrope rushes Riot,
And rings, and sounds the alarm afar,
And, destined but for tones of quiet,
The TOCSIN peals To War ! To W&r
" Equality and Liberty !"
They shout : the rabble seize on swords ;
And streets and halls 1 fill rapidly
With cutthroat gangs and ruffian horde*.
Then women change to wild hyenas,
And mingle cruelty with jest,
And o'er their prostrate foe are seen, as
With panther-teeth they tear his breast.
All holy shrines go trampled under :
The Wise and Good in horror flee ;
Life's shamefaced bands are ripped asunder,
And cloakk'ss Riot wantons free.
The lion roused by shout of stranger,
The tiger's talons, these appal
But worse, and charged with deadlier
danger,
Is reckless Man in Frenzy's thrall !
Woe, woe to those who attempt illuming
Eternal blindness by the rays
Of Truth ! they flame abroad, consuming
Surrounding nations in their blaze !
GOD hath given my soul delight !
Glancing like a star of gold,
From its shell, all pure and bright,
Comes the metal kernel roll'd.
Brim" and rim, it gleams
As when sunlight beams ;
And the armorial shield and crest
Tell that Art hath wrought its best.
In, in ! our task is done
In, in, companions every one !
By what name shall we now baptize the BELL?
CONCOKDIA will become it well :
For oft in concord shall its pealing loud
Assemble many a gay and many a solemn
crowd.
THE DESTINATION OF THE BELL.
And this henceforward be its duty,
For which 'twas framed at first in beauty :
1 Die Strao7.cn ftsUrn Men. die Ilatten. Schiller means pub-
lic Malls, a* the Town Hall, the Hall* of Justice. Ac.
* Brim IB the technical torm for the body of toe bell, or that
part upon which the clapper strikes.
342
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
High o'er this world of lowly labor
In Heaven's blue concave let it rise,
And heave aloft, the thunder's neighbor,
In commerce with the starry skies.
There let it chorus with the story
Of the resplendent planet-sphere,
Which nightly hymns its MAKER'S glory,
And guides the garland-crowned year.
Be all its powers devoted only
To things eternal and sublime,
As hour by hour it tracks the lonely
And forward-winging flight of Time !
To destiny an echo lending,
But never doom'd itself to feel,
Forever be it found attending
Each change of Life's revolving wheel ;
And as its tone, when tolling loudest,
Dies on the listener's ear away,
So let it teach that all that's proudest
In human might must thus decay !
Now attach the ropes now move,
Heave the BELL from this its prison,
Till it hath to Heaven above
And the realm of Sound arisen.
Heave it ! heave it ! There
Now it swings in air.
Joy to this our city may it presage !
PEACE attend its first harmonious messaere !
THE DIVER
A BALLAD.
** BARON or vassal, is any so bold
As to plunge in yon gulf, and follow
Through chamber and cave this beaker ol
gold,
Which already the waters whirlingly
swallow ?
Who retrieves the prize from the horrid
abyss
Shall keep it: the gold and the glory be
his !"
So spake the King, and incontinent flung
From the cliff that, gigantic and steep,
High over Charybdis's whirlpool hung,
A glittering wine-cup down in the deep ;
And again he ask'd, " Is there one so brave
As to plunge for the gold in the dangerous
wave ?"
And the knights and the knaves all answer-
less hear
The challenging words of the speaker ;
And some glance downward with looks of
fear,
And none are ambitious of winning the
beaker.
And a third time the King his question
urges
" Dares none, then, breast the menacing
surges ?"
But the silence lasts unbroken and long ;
When a Page, fair-featured and soft,
Steps forth from the shuddering vassal-
throng,
And his mantle and girdle already are
doff'd,
And the groups of nobles and damosels nigh,
Envisage the youth with a wondering eye.
He dreadlessly moves to the gaunt crag's
brow,
And measures the drear depth under ;
But the waters Charybdis had swallow 'd
she now
Regurgitates bellowing back in thunder ;
And the foam, with a stunning and horrible
sound,
Breaks its hoar way through the waves
around.
And it seethes and roars, it welters and boils,
As when water is shower'd upon fire ;
And skyward the spray agonizingly toils,
And flood over flood sweeps higher and
higher,
Upheaving, downrolling, tumultuously,
As though the abyss would bring forth a
young sea.
But the terrible turmoil at last is over ;
And down through the whirlpool's well
A yawning blackness ye may discover.
Profound as the passage to central Hell ;
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
343
And the waves, under many a struggle and
spasm,
Are suck'd in afresh by the gorge of the
chasm.
And now, ere the din rethunders, the youth
Invokes the Great Name of GOD ;
And blended shrieks of horror and ruth
Burst forth as he plunges headlong unawM :
And down he descends thro' the watery bed,
And the waves boom over his sinking head.
But though for a while they have ceased
their swell,
They roar in the hollows beneath,
And from mouth to mouth goes round the
farewell
" Brave-spirited youth, good-night in
death!"
And louder and louder the roarings grow,
While with trembling all eyes are directed
below.
Now, wert thou even, O monarch ! to fling
Thy crown in the angry abyss,
And exclaim, " Who recovers the crown
shall be king 1"
The guerdon were powerless to tempt me,
I wis ;
For what in Charybdis's caverns dwells
No chronicle penn'd of mortal tells.
Full many a vessel beyond repeal
Lies low in that gulf to-day,
And the shatter'd masts and the drifting
keel
Alone tell the tale of the swooper's prey.
But hark ! with a noise like the howling of
storms,
Again the wild water the surface deforms !
And it hisses and rages, it welters and boils,
As when water is spurted on fire,
And skyward the spray agonizingly toils,
Aiid wave over wave beats higher and
higher,
While the foam, with a stunning and horri-
ble sound,
Breaks its white way through the waters
around.
When lo ! ere as yet the billowy war
Loud-raging beneath is o'er,
An arm and a neck are distinguish'd afar,
And a swimmer is seen to make for the
shore,
And hardily buffeting surge and breaker,
He springs upon land with the golden beaker.
And lengthen'd and deep is the breath he
draws
As he hails the bright face of the sun ;
And a murmur goes round of delight and
applause
He lives ! he is safe ! he has conquer'd
and won !
He has master'd Charybdis's perilous wave !
He has rescued his life and his prize from
the grave !
Now, bearing the booty triumphantly,
At the foot of the throne he falls,
And he proffers his trophy on bended knee ;
And the King to his beautiful daughter
calls,
Who fills with red wine the golden cup,
While the gallant stripling again stands up.
" All hail to the King ! Rejoice, ye who
breathe
Wheresoever Earth's gales are driven !
For ghastly and drear is the region beneath ;
And let Man beware how he tempts high
Heaven !
Let him never essay to uncurtain to light
What destiny shrouds in horror and night !
"The maelstrom dragg'd me down in its
course ;
When, forth from the cleft of a rock,
A torrent outrush'd with tremendous force,
And met me anew with deadening shock ;
Arid I felt my brain swim and my senses i eel
As the double-flood whirl'd me round like a
wheel.
" But the GOD I had cried to answer'd me
When my destiny darkliest frown'd,
And He show'd me a reef of rocks in the sea,
Whereunto I clung, and there I found
On a coral jag th'j goblet of gold,
Which else to tro lowermost crypt had roll'd.
344
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
" And the gloom through measureless toises
under
Was all as a purple haze ;
And though sound was none in these realms
of wonder,
I shudder'd when under my shrinking gaze
That wilderness lay develop'd where wander
The dragon, and dog-fish, and sea-salamander.
" And I saw the huge kraken and magnified
snake,
And the thornback and ravening shark,
Their way through the dismal waters take ;
While the hammer-fish wallow'd below in
the dark,
And the river-horse rose from his lair be-
neath,
And grinn'd through the grate of his spiky
teeth.
" And there I hung, aghast and dismay'd,
Among skeleton larvae, the only
Soul conscious of life despairing of aid
In that vastness untrodden and lonely.
Not a human voice not an earthly sound
But silence, and water, and monsters around.
* Soon one of these monsters approach'd me,
and plied
His hundred feelers to drag
Me down through the darkness; when,
springing aside,
I abandon'd my hold of the coral crag,
And the maelstrom grasp'd me with arms of
strength,
And upwhirl'd and upbore me to daylight
at length."
Then spake to the Page the marvelling King,
" The golden cup is thine own,
But I promise thee further this jewell'd ring
That beams with a priceless hyacinth-stone,
Shouldst thou dive once more and discover
for me
The mysteries shrined in the cells of the
sea."
Now the King's fair daughter was touch'd
and grieved,
And she fell at her father's feet
" O father, enough what the youth has
achieved 1
Expose not his life anew, I entreat !
If this your heart's longing you cannot well
tame,
There are surely knights here who will rival
his fame."
But the King hurl'd downward the golden
cup,
And he spake as it sank in the wave,
" Now, shouldst thou a second time bring it
me up,
As my knight, and the bravest of all my
brave,
Thou shalt sit at my nuptial banquet, and she
Who pleads for thee thus thy wedded shall
be !"
Then the blood to the youth's hot temples
rushes,
And his eyes on the maiden are cast,
And he sees her at first overspread with
blushes,
And then growing pale and sinking aghast.
So, vowing to win so glorious a crown,
For Life or for Death he again plunges down.
The far-sounding din returns amain,
And the foam is alive as before,
And all eyes are bent downward. In vain r
in vain
The billows indeed re-dash and re-roar.
But while ages shall roll and those billow*
shall thunder,
That youth shall sleep under !
THE MAIDEN'S PLAINT.
THE forest-pines groan
The dim clouds are flitting
The Maiden is sitting
On the green shore alone.
The surges are broken with might, with
might,
And her sighs are pour'd on the desert Night,
And tears are troubling her eye.
" All, all is o'er :
The heart is destroyed
The world is a void
It can yield me no more.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
346
Then, Master of Life, take back thy boon :
I have tasted such bliss as is under the moon :
I have lived, I have loved I would die !"
Thy tears, O Forsaken !
Are gushing in vain ;
Thy wail shall not waken
The Buried again :
But all that is left for the desolate bosom,
The flower of whose Love has been blasted
in blossom,
Be granted to thee from on high !
Then pour like a river
Thy tears without number !
The Buried can never
Be wept from their slumber :
But the luxury dear to the Broken-hearted,
When the sweet enchantment of Love hath
departed,
Be thine the tear and the sigh 1
THE UNREALITIES.
AND dost thou faithlessly abandon me ?
Must thy chameleon phantasies depart?
Thy griefs, thy gladnesses, take wing and
flee
The bower they builded in this lonely
heart ?
O, Summer of Existence, golden, glowing !
Can naught avail to curb thine onward
motion ?
In vain ! The river of my years is flowing,
And soon shall mingle with the eternal
ocean.
Extinguish'd in dead darkness lies the sun,
That lighted up my shrivell'd world of
wonder ;
Those fairy bands Imagination spun
Around my heart have long been rent
asunder.
Gone, gone forever is the fine belief,
The all too generous trust in the Ideal :
\\\ my Divinities have died of grief,
And left me wedded to the Rude and Heal.
As clasp'd the enthusiastic Prince 1 of old
The lovely statue, stricken by its charms,
Until the marble, late so dead and cold,
Glow'd into throbbing life beneath hit
arms;
So fondly round enchanting Nature's form,
I too entwined my passionate arms, till,
press'd
In my embraces, she began to warm
And breathe and revel in my bounding
breast.
And, sympathizing with my virgin bliss,
The speechless things of Earth received a
tongue ;
They gave me back Affection's burning kiss,
And loved the Melody my bosom sung :
Then sparkled hues of Life on tree and flower,
Sweet music from the silver fountain
flow'd ;
All soulless images in that brief hour
The Echo of my Life divinely glow'd 1
How struggled all my feelings to extend
Themselves afar beyond their prisoning
bounds !
Oh, how I long'd to enter Life and blend
Me with its words and deeds, its shapes
and sounds !
This human theatre, how fair it beam'd
While yet the curtain hung before the
scene !
Uproll'd, how little then the arena seem'd !
That little how contemptible and mean !
How roam'd, imparadised in blest illusion,
With soul to which upsoaring Hope lent
pinions,
And heart as yet unchill'd by Care's intru-
sion,
How roam'd the stripling-lord through
his dominions !
Then Fancy bore him to the palest star
Pinnacled in the lofty ether dim :
Was naught so elevated, naught so fair,
But thither the Enchantress guided him t
1 Pygmalion.
346
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
With what rich reveries his brain was rife !
What adversary might withstand him
long?
How glanced and danced before the Car of
Life
The visions of his thought, a dazzling
throng !
For there was FORTUNE with her golden
crown,
There flitted LOVE with heart-bewitching
boon,
There glitter'd starry-diadem'd RENOWN,
And TRUTH, with radiance like the sun of
noon !
But ah ! ere half the journey yet was over,
That gorgeous escort wended separate
ways ;
All faithlessly forsook the pilgrim-rover,
And one by one evanish'd from his gaze.
Away inconstant-handed FORTUNE flew ;
And, while the thirst of knowledge burn'd
alway,
The dreary mists of Doubt arose and threw
Their shadow over TRUTH'S resplendent
ray.
I saw the sacred garland-crown of FAME
Around the common brow its glory shed :
The rapid Summer died, the Autumn came,
And LOVE, with all his necromancies, fled,
And ever lonelier and silenter
Grew the dark images of Life's poor dream,
Till scarcely o'er the dusky scenery there
The lamp of HOPE itself could cast a gleam.
And now, of all, Who, in my day of dolor,
Alone survives to clasp my willing hand ?
Who stands beside me still, my best con-
soler,
And lights my pathway to the Phantom-
strand ?
Thou, FRIENDSHIP ! stancher of our wounds
and sorrows,
From whom this lifelong pilgrimage of
pain
A balsam for its worst afllictions borrows ;
Thou whom I early sought, nor sought in
vain !
And thou whose labors by her light are
wrought,
Soother and soberer of the spirit's fever,
Who, shaping all things, ne'er destroyest
aught,
Calm OCCUPATION ! thou that weariest
never !
Whose efforts rear at last the mighty Mount
Of Life, though merely grain on grain
they lay.
And, slowly toiling, from the vast Account
Of Time strike minutes, days, and years
away.
THE WORDS OF REALITY.
I NAME you' Three Words which ought to
resound
In thunder from zone to zone :
But the world understands them not they
are found
In the depths of the heart alone.
That man must indeed be utterly base
In whose heart the Three Words no longei
find place.
First, MAN is FREE, is CREATED FREE,
Though born a manacled slave :
I abhor the abuses of Liberty
I hear how the populace rave,
But I never can dread, and I dare not dis-
dain,
The slave who stands up and shivers his
chain !
And, VIRTUE is NOT AN EMPTY NAME :
'Tis the paction of Man with his soul,
That, though balk'd of his worthiest earthly
aim,
He will still seek a heavenly goal ;
For, that to which worldling natures are
blind
Is a pillar of light for the childlike mind.
And, A GOD, AN IMMUTABLE WILL, EXISTS,
However Men waver and yield :
Beyond Space, beyond Time, and their dim-
ming mists,
The Ancient of Days is reveal'd ;
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
347
And while Time and the Universe haste to
decay,
Their unchangeable Author is Lord for aye !
Then, treasure those Words. They ought
to resound
In thunder from zone to zone ;
But the world will not teach thee their
force ; they are found
In the depths of the heart alone ;
Thou never, O Man ! canst be utterly base
While those Three Words in thy heart find
place !
THE WORDS OF DELUSION.
THREE Words are heard with the Good and
Blameless,
Three ruinous words and vain
Their sound is hollow their use is aimless
They cannot console and sustain.
Man's path is a path of thorns and troubles
So long as he chases these vagrant bubbles.
So long as he hopes that Triumph and
Treasure
Will yet be the guerdon of Worth :
Both are dealt out to Baseness in lavishest
measure ;
The Worthy possess not the earth
They are exiled spirits and strangers here,
And look for their home to a purer sphere.
So long as he dreams that On day-made
creatures
The noonbeams of Truth will shine :
No mortal may lift up the veil from her
features ;
On earth we but guess and opine :
We prison her vainly in pompous words :
She is not our handmaid she is the Lord's.
So long as he sighs for a Golden Era,
When Good will be victress o'er III :
The triumph of Good is an idiot's chimera ;
She never can combat nor will :
The Foe must contend and o'ermaster, till,
cloy'd
By destruction, he perishes, self-destroy'-!.
Then, Man ! through Life's labyrinths wind-
ing and darken'd,
Take, dare to take, Faith as thy clue !
THAT WHICH KV i: .\ \:\ KH SAW, TO WHICH EAB
NEVER UEARKEN'D,
THAT, THAT is THE BEAUTEOUS AND TRUE 1
It is not without let the foe 1 seek it there
It is in thine own bosom and heart the
Perfect, the Good, and the Fair !'
THE COURSE OF TIME.
TIME is threefold triple three :
First and Midst and Last ;
Was and Is and Yet-To-Be ;
Future Present Past.
Lightning-swift, the Is is gone
The Yet-To-Be crawls with a snakelike slow-
ness on ;
Still stands the Was for aye its goal is won.
No fierce impatience, no entreating,
Can spur or wing the tardy Tarrier ;
No strength, no skill, can rear a barrier
Between Departure and the Fleeting :
No prayers, no tears, no magic spell,
Can ever move the Immovable.
Wouldst thou, fortunate and sage,
Terminate Life's Pilgrimage ?
Wouldst thou quit this mundane stage
Better, happier, worthier, wiser ?
Then, whate'er thine aim and end,
Take, Youth ! for thine adviser,
Not thy workiny-niate, The Slow ;
Oh, make not The Vanishing thy friend^
Or The Permanent thy foe!
HOPE.
THE Future is Man's immemorial hymn :
In vain runs the Present a-wasting ;
To a golden goal in the distance dim
In life, in death, he is hasting.
The world grows old, and young, and old,
But the ancient story still bears to be told.
1 The classical reader need hardly oe Informed that th pt
IheU In thi!' line are from Plato.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Hope smiles on the Boy from the hour of
his birth :
To the Youth it gives bliss without limit ;
It gleams for Old Age as a star on earth,
And the darkness of Death cannot dim it.
Its rays will gild even fathomless gloom,
When the Pilgrim of Life lies down in the
tomb.
Never deem it a Shibboleth phrase of the
crowd,
Never call it the dream of a rhymer ;
The instinct of Nature proclaims it aloud
WE AEE DESTINED FOK SOMETHING SUB-
LIMEE.
This truth, which the Witness within reveals,
The purest worshipper deepliest feels.
SPIRITS EVERYWHERE.
A MANY a summer is dead and buried
Since over this flood I last was ferried ;
And then, as now, the Noon lay bright
On strand, and water, and castled height.
Beside me then in this bark sat nearest
Two companions the best and dearest ;
One was a gentle and thoughtful sire,
The other a youth with a soul of fire.
One, outworn by Care and Illness,
Sought the grave of the Just in stillness
The other's shroud was the bloody rain
And thunder-smoke of the battle plain.
Yet still, when memory's necromancy
Robes the Past in the hues of Fancy,
Me dreameth I hear and see the Twain,
With talk and smiles at my side again !
Even the grave is a bond of union ;
Spirit and spirit best hold communion !
Seen through Faith, by the Inward Eye,
It is after Life they are truly nigh !
Then, ferryman, take this coin, I pray thee r
Thrice thy fare 1 cheerfully pay thee ;
For, though thou seest them not, there stand
Anear me Two from the Phantom-land I
SPRING ROSES.
GREEN-LEAFY Whitsuntide was come,
To gladden many a Christian home :
Spake then King Engelbert " A fitter
Time than this we scarce shall see
For tournament and revelrie :
Ho ! to horse, each valiant Ritter !"
Gay banners wave above the walls,
The herald's trumpet loudly calls,
And beauteous eyes rain radiant glances !
And of all the knights can none
Match the Monarch's gallant son,
In the headlong shock of lances !
Till, at the close, a Stranger came,
Japan-black iron cased his frame ;
In his air was somewhat kingly :
Well I guess, that stalwart knight
Yet will overcome in fight
All the hosts of Europe singly.
As he flings his gage to earth
You hear no more the sound of mirth,
All shrink back, as dreading danger ;
The Prince alone defies the worst
Alas ! in vain ! He falls, unhorsed :
Sole victor bides the Sable Stranger !
Boots now no longer steed or lance :
"Light up thehall! a dance! adance!
Anon a dazzling throng assembles ;
And then and there that DarkUnscann'd
Asks the Royal Maiden's hand,
Whilk she gives, albeit it trembles.
And as they dance the Dark and Fair-
In the Maiden's breast and hair
Every golden clasp uncloses,
And, to and fro that way and this
Drops dimm'd each pearl and amethyss
Drop dead the shrivell'd yello v roses.
POKMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
349
But who makes merriest at the feast?
Not he who furnish'd it at least !
Sad is he for son and daughter!
Fears that reason cannot bind
Chase each other through his mind,
Swift and dark as midnight water !
So pale both youth and maiden were !
Whereon the Guest, affecting care,
Spake, " Blushful wine will mend your
color,"
Fill'd he then a beaker up,
And they they drank ; but oh ! that
cup
Proved in sooth a draught of dolor !
Their eyelids droop, and neither speaks ;
They kiss their father ; and their cheeks,
Pale before, wax white and shrunken :
Momently their death draws nigher,
lie, the while, their wretched sire,
Gazing on them, terror-drunken !
"Spai'e these! Take me/" he shriek'd,
and pressed
The stone-cold corpses to his breast ;
When, to that heart-smitten father
Spake the Guest, with iron voice,
"Autumn spoils are not my choice;
Roses in the Spring I gather !"
THE CASTLE OVER THE SEA.
** SAWEST thou the castle that beetles over
The wine-dark sea ?
The rosy sunset clouds do hover
Above it so goldenly !
" It hath a leaning as though it would bend to
The waves below ;
It hath a longing as though to ascend to
The skies in their gorgeous glow."
" Well saw I the castle that beetles over
The wine-dark sea;
And a pall of watery clouds did cover
Its battlements gloomsomely."
"The winds and the moonlit waves were
singing
A choral song ?
And the brilliant castle-hall was ringing
With melody all night long ?"
" The winds and the moonless waves wert
sleeping
In stillness all ;
But many voices of woe and weeping
Rose out from the castle-hall."
" And sawest thou not step forth so lightly
The King and the Queen,
Their festal dresses bespangled brightly,
Their crowns of a dazzling sheeu ?
" And by their side a resplendent vision,
A virgin fair,
The glorious child of some clime elysian
With starry gems in her hair ?"
" Well saw I the twain by the wine-dark
water
Walk slower and slower ;
They were clad in weeds, and their vir-
gin daughter
Was found at their side no more."
DURAND OF BLONDEN.
Tow AKDS the lofty walls of Balbi, lo ! Durand
of Blonde n hies;
Thousand songs are in his bosom ; Love and
Pleasure light his eyes.
There, he dreams, his own true maiden,
beauteous as the evening star,
Leaning o'er her turret-lattice, waiu to hear
her knight's guitar.
In the linden-shaded courtyard soon Durand
begins his lay.
But his eyes glance vainly upward ; there
they meet no answering ray.
Flowers are blooming in the lattice, rich of
odor, fair to see,
But the fairest flower of any, Ladj Blauca,
where is she ?
350
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Ah ! while yet he chants the ditty, draws a
mourner near and speaks
" She is dead, is dead forever, whom Durand
of Blonden seeks !"
Ana the knight replies not, breathes not;
darkness gathers round his brain :
He is dead, is dead forever, and the mourn-
ers weep the twain.
In the darken'd castle-chapel burn a many
tapers bright :
There the lifeless maiden lies, with whitest
wreaths and ribands di^ht.
O
There .... But lo ! a mighty marvel ! She
hath oped her eyes of blue !
All are lost in joy and wonder ! Lady Blanca
lives anew !
Dreams and visions flit before her, as she
asks of those anear,
" Heard I not my lover singing ! Is Durand
of Blonden here ?"
Yes, O Lady, thou hast heard him ; he has
died for thy dear sake !
He could wake his tranced mistress: him
shall none forever wake !
He is in a realm of glory, but as yet he
weets not where ;
He but seeks the Lady Blanca: dwells she
not already there ?
Till he finds her must he wander to and fro,
as one bereaven,
Ever calling, "Blanca! Blanca!" through
the desert halls of Heaven.
LIFE IS THE DESERT AND THE SOLITUDE.
WHENCE this fever ?
Whence this burning
Love and Longing ?
Ah! forever,
Ever turning,
Ever thronging
Towards the Distance,
Roams each fonder
Yearning yonder,
There, where wander
Golden stars in blest existence I
Thence what fragrant
Airs are blowing !
What rich vagrant
Music flowing !
Angel voices,
Tones wherein the
Heart rejoices,
Call from thence from Earth to win the 1
How yearns and burns for evermore
My heart for thee, thou blessed shore !
And shall I never see thy fairy
Bowers and palace-gardens near ?
Will no enchanted skiff so airy,
Sail from thee to seek me here ?
Oh ! undeveloped Land,
Whereto I fain would flee,
What mighty hand shall break each band
That keeps my soul from thee ?
In vain I pine and sigh
To trace thy dells and streams :
They gleam but by the spectral sky
That lights my shifting dreams.
Ah ! what fair form, flitting through yon
green glades,
Dazes mine eye? Spirit, oh! rive my
chain !
Woe is my soul ! Swiftly the vision fades,
And I start up waking to weep in vain !
Hence this fever ;
Hence this burning
Love and Longing:
Hence forever,
Ever turning,
Ever thronging,
Towards the Distance,
Roams each fonder
Yearning yonder,
There, where wander
Golden stars in blest existence I
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
351
LIGHT AND
THE gayest lot beneath
By Grief is shaded :
Pale Evening sees the wreath
Of Morning faded.
Pain slays, or Pleasure cloys ;
All mortal morrows
But waken hollow joys
Or lasting sorrows.
Hope yesternoon was bright,
Earth beam'd with beauty ;
But soon came conquering Night
' And claim'd his booty.
Life's billows, as they roll,
Would fain look sunward ;
But ever must the soul
Drift darkly onward.
The sun forsakes the sky,
Sad stars are sovereigns,
Long shadows mount on high
And darkness governs.
So Love deserts his throne,
Weary of reigning !
Ah ! would he but rule on
Young and unwaning !
Pain slays, or Pleasure cloys,
And all onr morrows
But waken hollow joys
Or lasting sorrows.
Justinus
THE MIDNIGHT BELL.
HARK ! through the midnight lonely
How tolls the convent-bell !
But ah ! no summer-breeze awakes the
sound ;
The beating of the heavy hammer only
Is author of the melancholy knell
That startles the dull car for miles
around.
How such a bell resembles
The drooping poet's hetrt !
Thereon must Misery's hammer drearily
jar,
Ere the deep melody that shrinks and
trembles
Within its daedal chambers can impart
Its tale unto the listless world afar.
And, woe is me ! too often
Hath such a bell alone,
At such an hour, with such disastrous
tongue,
Power to disarm the heart's despair, and
soften
Its chords to music ; even as now its tone
Inspires me with the lay I thus have sung.
THE WANDERER'S CHANT.
MAY sparkle for others
Henceforward this wine !
Adieu, beloved brothers
And sisters of mine,
My boyhood's green valleys,
My fathers' gray halls !
Where Liberty rallies
My destiny calls.
The sun never stands,
Never slackens his motion ;
He travels all lands
Till he sinks in the ocean ;
The stars cannot rest ;
The wild winds have no pillow,
And the shore from its breast
Ever flings the blue billow.
So Man in the harness
Of Fortune must roam,
And far in the Farness
Look out for his home ;
Unresting and errant,
West, East, South, and North,
The liker his parent,
The weariless Earth .
552
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Though he hears not the words of
The language he loves,
He kens the blithe birds of
His Fatherland's groves :
Old voices are singing
From river and rill,
And flow'rets are springing
To welcome him still.
And Beauty's dear tresses
Are lovely to view,
And Friendship still blesses
The soul of the True :
And love, too, so garlands
The wanderer's dome,
That the farthest of far lands
To him is a home.
NOT AT HOME.
41 One grand cause of this uneasiness is, that Man is not at
*me." GODWIN, Thoughts on Man.
MY spirit, alas, knoweth no rest 1
I lay under Heaven's blue dome,
One day, in the summer beam,
By the Mummel-zee in the forest,
And dream'd a dream
Of my Home
My Home, the Home of my Father!
Shone glory within and without ;
Shone bright in its garden bowers
Such fruits as the Angels gather,
And gold-hued flowers
All about !
Alas ! the illusion soon vanish'd.
I awoke. There were clouds in the sky.
My tears began to flow.
My quiet of soul was banish'd ;
I felt as though
I could die !
And still with a heart ever swelling
With yearnings, and still with years
Overdark'd by a desolate lot,
I seek for my Father's Dwelling,
And see it not
For my tears !
HOPE.
OH ! maiden of heavenly birth,
Than rubies and gold more precious,
Who earnest of old upon Earth,
To solace the human species !
As fair as the morn that uncloses
Her gates in a region sunny,
Thou openest lips of roses
And utterest words of honey.
When Innocence forth at the portals
Of Sorrow and Sin was driven,
For sake of afflicted mortals
Thou leftest thy home in Heaven,
To mitigate Anguish and Trouble,
The monstrous brood of Crime,
And restore us the prospects noble
That were lost in the olden time.
Tranquillity never-ending
And Happiness move in thy train :
Where Might is with Might contending,
And labor and tumult reign,
Thou succorest those that are toiling,
Ere yet all their force hath departed ;
And pourest thy balsam of oil in
The wounds of the Broken-hearted.
Thou lendest new strength to the warrior
When battle is round him and peril ;
Thou formest the husbandman's barrier
'Gainst Grief, when his fields are sterile
From the sun and the bright Spring show
ers,
From the winds and the gentle dew,
Thou gatherest sweets for the flowers
And growth for the meads anew.
When armies of sorrows come swooping,
And Reason is captive to Sadness,
Thou raisest the soul that was drooping,
And givest it spirit and gladness ;
The powers Despair had degraded
Thou snatchest from dreary decay,
And all that was shrunken and faded
Reblooms in the light of thy ray.
POK.MS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
When the Sick on his couch lies faintest
Thou deadenest half of his dolors,
For still as he suffers thou paintest
The Future in rainbow colors :
By thee are his visions verrailion'd ;
Thou thronest his soul in a palace,
In which, under purple pavilion'd,
He quaffs Immortality's chalice.
Down into the mine's black hollows,
Where the slave is dreeing his doom,
A ray from thy lamp ever follows
His footsteps throughout the gloom.
And the wretch condemn'd in the galleys
To swink at the ponderous oar,
Revived by thy whisperings, rallies,
And thinks on his labors no more.
O goddess ! the gales of whose breath
Are the heralds of Life when we languish,
And who dashest the potion of Death
From the lips of the martyr to Anguish :
No earthly event is so tragic
But thou winnest good from it still,
And the lightning-like might of thy magic
Is conq\;eror over all ill !
Karl hnrocfe.
O MARIA, REGINA MISERICORDI.E I
THERE lived a Knight long years ago,
Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless.
Of GOD above, or Hell below,
He took no thought, but, undismay'd,
Pursued his course of wickedness.
His heart was rock ; he never pray'd
To be forgiven for all his treasons ;
He only said, at certain seasons,
" O MARY, Queen of Mercy ! "
Years roll'd, and found him still the same,
Still draining Pleasure's poison-bowl ;
Yet felt he now and then some shame ;
The torment of the Undying Worm
At whiles woke in bis trembling soul ;
And then, though powerless to reform,
Would he, in hope to appease that sternest
Avenger, cry, and more in earnest,
" O MARY, Queen of Mercy !"
At last Youth's riotous time was gone,
And loathing now came after Sin.
With locks yet brown he felt as one
Grown gray at heart ; and oft with tears,
He tried, but all in vain, to win
From the dark desert of his years
One flower of hope ; yet, morn and e'ening,
He still cried, but with deeper meaning,
" O MARY, Queen of Mercy ! "
A happier mind, a holier mood,
A purer spirit, ruled him now ;
No more in thrall to flesh and blood,
He took a pilgrim-staff in hand,
And, under a religious vow,
TravelPd his way to Pommerland :
There enter'd he an humble cloister,
Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister,
" O MARY, Queen of Mercy ! "
Here, shorn and cowl'd, he laid his cares
Aside, and wrought for GOD alone.
Albeit he sang no choral prayers,
Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn,
He mortified his flesh to stone :
For him no penance was too stern ;
And often pray'd he on his lonely
Cell-couch at night, but still said only,
" O MARY, Queen of Mercy ! "
And thus he lived long, long; and, when
GOD'S angels call'd him, thus he died.
Confession made he none to men,
Yet, when they anointed him with oil.
He seem'd already glorified,
His penances, his tears, his toil,
Were past ; and now, with passionate sigh-
ing,
Praise thus broke from his lips while dying
" O MARY, Queen of Mercy ! "
They buried him with mass and song
Aneath a little knoll so green ;
But, lo ! a wonder-sight ! Ere long
854
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Rose, blooming, from that verdant
mound,
The fairest lily ever seen ;
And, on its petal-edges round,
Relieving their translucent whiteness,
Did shine these words in gold-hued bright-
ness,
" O MARY, Queen of Mercy ! "
And, would GOD'S angels give thee power,
Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold
The fibres of this holy flower
Upspringing from the dead man's heart
In tremulous threads of light and gold ;
Then Avouldst thou choose the better
part I 1
And thenceforth flee Sin's foul sugges-
tions ;
Thy sole response to mocking questions,
" O MARY, Queen of Mercy ! "
Johitnn (gluts
LOVE -DITTY.
MY love, my winged love, is like the swallow,
Which in Autumn flies from home,
But, when balmy Spring again is come,
And soft airs and sunshine follow,
Returneth newly,
And gladdens her old haunts till after
bowery July,
My slumbrous love is like the winter-smitten
Tree, whereon Decay doth feed,
Till the drooping dells and forests read
What the hand of May hath written
Against their sadness ;
And then, behold ! it wakens up to life
and gladness !
' Lake, x. 42.
My love, my flitting love, is like the shadow
All day long on path or wall :
Let but Evening's dim-gray curtains fall,
And the sunlight leave the meadow,
And, self-invited,
It wanders through all bowers where
Beauty's lamps are lighted.
(ftmmutel (Sdbler.
CHARLEMAGNE AND THE BRIDGE OF
MOONBEAMS.
[" Many traditions are extant of the fondness of Charle-
magne for the neighborhood of Langewinkel. Nay, it i
firmly believed that this affection survived his death ; and that
even now, at certain seasons of the year, his spirit loves to
wake from its slumber of ages, and revisit it still " SNOWK'*
Legends of the Rhine, vol. ii.]
BEAUTEOUS is it in the Summer-night, and
calm along the Rhine,
And like molten silver shines the light that
sleeps on wave and vine.
But a stately Figure standeth on the Silent
Hill alone,
Like the phantom of a Monarch looking
vainly for his throne !
Yes ! 'tis he the unforgotten Lord of this
beloved land !
'Tis the glorious Car'lus Magnus, with his
gleamy sword in hand,
And his crown enwreath'd with myrtle, and
his golden sceptre bright,
And his rich imperial purple vesture floating
on the night !
Since he dwell'd among his people, stormy
centuries have roll'd.
Thrones and kingdoms have departed, and
the world is waxing old :
Why leaveth he his house of rest ? Why
cometh he once more
From his marble tomb tc .van'ler here by
Lan^awinkel's shore?
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
:i5fl
Oh, fear ye not the Emperor ! he doth not
leave his tomb
As the herald of disaster to our land of
blight and bloom ;
He cometh not with blight or ban on castle,
field, or shrine,
But with overflowing blessings for the Vine-
yards of the Rhine !
As a bridge across the river lie the moon-
beams all the time,
They shine from Langawinkel unto ancient
Ingelheim ;
And along this Bridge of Moonbeams is the
Monarch seen to go,
And from thence he pours his blessings on
the royal flood below.
He blesses all the vineyards, he blesses vale
and plain,
The lakes and glades and orchards, and fields
of golden grain,
The lofty castle-turrets and the lowly cot-
tage-hearth ;
He blesses all, for over all he reign'd of yore
on earth ;
Then to each and all so lovingly he waves a
mute Farewell,
And returns to slumber softly in his tomb at
La Chapelle,
Till the Summer-time be come again, with
sun, and rain, and dew,
And the vineyards and the gai'dens woo him
back to them anew.
Theodore ftocrncr.
T1IE MINSTREL'S MOTHERLAND.
WIIEUE lies the minstrel's Motherland ?
Where Love is faith and Friendship duty,
Whsre Valor wins its meed from Beauty,
Where Man makes Truth, not Gold his
booty,
And Freedom bids the soul expand
There lay my Motherland !
Where Man makes Truth, not Gold hi
booty,
There was my Motherland !
How fares the minstrel's Motherland !
The land of oaks and sunlit waters
Is dark with woe, is red with slaughters;
Her bravest sons, her fairest daughters,
Are dead or live proscribed and bann'd
So fares my Motherland !
The land of oaks and sunlit waters
My cherish'd Motherland !
Why weeps the minstrel's Motherland ?
To see her sons,while tyrants trample
Her yellow fields and vineyards ample,
So coldly view the bright example
Long shown them by a faithful band
For this weeps Motherland !
Because they slight that high example
Weeps thus my Motherland !
What wants the minstrel's Motherland ?
To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming,
And see their German broadsword*
gleaming,
And spy their German standard stream-
ing,
Who spurn the Despot's haught command
This wants my Motherland !
To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming,
This wants my Motherland!
Whom calls the minstrel's Motherland?
Her saints and gods of ancient ages,
Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages,
To bless the war fair Freedom wages,
And speed her torch from hand to hand
These calls my Motherland !
Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages,
These calls my Motherland !
And hopes then still the minstrel's Land?
Yes ! Prostrate in her deep dejection,
She still dares hope swift resurrection !
She hopes in Heaven ami His protectioo
Who can redeem from Slavery's brand
This hopes my Motherland !
She hopes in GOD and Gor's prelection,
My suffering Motherland !
356
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
HOLINESS TO THE LORD.
THERE blooms a beautiful Flower ; it blooms
in a far-off land ;
Its life has a mystic meaning for few to un-
derstand.
Its leaves illumine the valley, its odor
scents the wood ;
And if evil men come near it they grow for
the moment good.
When the winds are tranced in slumber, the
rays of this luminous Flower
Shed glory more than earthly o'er lake and
hill and bower ;
The hut, the hall, the palace, yea, Earth's
forsakenest sod,
Shine out in the wondrous lustre that fills
the Heaven of GOD.
Three kings came once to a hostel, wherein
lay the Flower so rare :
A star shone over its roof, and they knelt
adoring there.
Whenever thou seest a damsel whose young
eyes dazzle and win,
Oh, pray that her heart may cherish this
Flower of Flowers within !
JttaMmamt.
THE GRAVE, THE GRAVE.
BLEST are the Dormant
In Death ! They repose
From Bondage and Torment,
From Passions and Woes,
From the yoke of the world and the snares
of the traitor:
The Grave, the Grave, is the true Liberator
Griefs chase one another
Around the Earth's dcme;
In the arms of the Mother 1
Alone is our home.
Woo Pleasure, ye triflers ! The Thoughtful
are wiser :
The Grave, the Grave, is their one Tranquil-
lizer !
Is the good man unfriended
On Life's ocean-path,
Where storms have expended
Their turbulent wrath ?
Are his labors requited by Slander and Ran-
cor ?
The Grave, the Grave, is his sure bower-
anchor !
To gaze on the faces
Of Lost ones anew,
To lock in embraces
The Loved and the True,
Were a rapture to make even Paradise
brighter :
The Grave, the Grave, is the great Reuniter !
Crown the corpse then with laurels,
The conqueror's wreath,
Make joyous with cai-ols
The Chamber of Death,
And welcome the Victor with cymbal and
psalter :
The Grave, the Grave, is the only Exalter !
lotolfpng wrn doethe.
THE MINSTREL.
" WHAT voice, what hai*p, are those we hear
Beyond the gate in chorus ?
Go, page ! the lay delights our ear,
We'll have it sung before us ! "
So speaks the king : the stripling flies.
He soon returns ; his master cries
" Bring in the hoary minstrel ! "
> Mother Earth.
1'oK.MS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
357
"Hail, princess mine ! Hail, noble knights !
All hail, enchanting dames !
What starry heaven ! What blinding lights !
Whose tongue may toll their imines?
In this bright hall, amid this bla/.c,
Close, close, mine eyes ! Ye may not gaze
On such stupendous glories ! "
The Minnesinger closed his eyes :
He struck his mighty lyre :
Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs,
And warriors felt on fire;
The king, enraptured by the strain,
Commanded that a golden chain
Be given the bard in guerdon.
" Not so ! Reserve thy chain, thy gold,
For those brave knights whose glances,
Fierce flashing through the battle bold,
Might shiver sharpest lances !
Bestow it on thy Treasurer there
The golden burden let him bear
With other glittering burdens.
" I sing as in the greenwood bush
The cageless wild-bird carols
The tones that from the full heart gush
Themselves are gold and laurels !
Yet, might I ask, then thus I ask,
Let one bright cup of wine in flask
Of glowing gold be brought me ! "
They set it down : he quaffs it all
" Oh ! draught of richest flavor !
Oh ! thrice divinely happy hall,
Where that is scarce a favor !
If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me,
And thank your GOD as I thank ye
For this delicious wine-cup ! "
THE ROSE.
ONCE a boy beheld a bright
Rose in dingle growing;
Far, far off it pleased his sight ;
Near he view'd it with delight :
Soil it seemed and glowing.
Lo ! the rose, the rose so bright,
Rose so brightly blowing !
Spake the boy, " I'll pluck thee, grand
I fuse nil wildly blowing."
Spake the rose, " I'll wound thy hand,
Thus the scheme thy wit hath plann'd
Deftly overthrow! MI;."
Oh! the rose, the r ami,
Kose so grandly glowing.
But the stripling plwk'd the red
Rose in glory growing,
And the thorn hi* .//<*/< Imtk bled,
And the rose's pride is fled,
And her beauty's f/oimj.
Woe ! the rose, the rose once red,
Rose once redly glowing.
A VOICE FROM THE INVISIBLE WORLD
HIGH o'er his mouldering castle walls
The warrior's phantom glides,
And loudly to the skiff it calls
That on the billow rides
" Behold ! these arms once vaunted might,
This heart beat wild and bold
Behold ! these ducal veins ran bright
O
With wine-red blood of old.
" The noon in storm, the eve in rest,
So sped my life's brief day.
What then ? Young bark on Ocean's breast^
Cleave thou thy destined way ! "
A SONG FROM THE COPTIC.
QUARRELS have long been in vogue among
sages ;
Still, though in many things wranglers and
rancorous.
AH the philosopher-scribes of all ages
Join, -and voce, on one point to anchor us.
Here is the gist of their mystified jm^i-s,
Here is the wisdom we pm-chiiM- with gold:
Children of Light, leave the world to it*
mulishness,
Things to their natures, and fools to ////>
foolishness ;
Berries were bitter in forests of <M.
358
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Hoary old Merlin, that great necromancer,
Made me, a student, a similar answer,
When I besought him for light and for
lore :
Toiler in vain ! leave Ike world to its mulish-
ness,
Things to their natures, and fools to their
foolishness ;
Granite was hard in the quarries of yore.
And on the ice-crested heights of Armenia,
And in the valleys of broad Abyssinia,
Still spake the Oracle just as before :
Wouldst tkou have peace, 'leave the world to
its mulishness,
Things to their natures, and fools to their
foolishness /
Beetles loere blind in the ages of yore.
ANOTHER COPTIC SONG.
Go ! but heed and understand
This my last and best command :
Turn thine Youth to such advantage
As that no reverse shall daunt Age.
Learn the serpent's wisdom early ;
And contemn what Time destroys;
Also, wouldst thou creep or climb,
Choose thy role, and choose in time,
Since the scales of Fortune rarely
Show a liberal equipoise.
Thou must either soar or stoop,
Fall or triumph, stand or droop ;
Thou must either serve or govern,
Must be slave, or must be sovereign ;
Must, in fine, be block or wedge,
Must be anvil or be sledge.
Jwdrich (iottlicb Jtloptocjt.
[One night, in 1748, KLOPSTOCK, was seated alone in his
room in the University at Leipsic. He was deeply immersed
In meditation on the Past and the Future. Suddenly a thought,
Isolated and dreary in its character, appears to have taken
possession of his mind. He fancied that some unknown in-
diridal had been reft by death of his nearest and dearest, of
all his friends and his beloved, and stood alone in the
world. Involuntarily his imagination called up and marshal
led before him the Appearances of the Departed.. They came,
a shrouded and shadowy group, and surrounded the Living
Man ; and then it was that the poet, as he earnestly contem-
plated them, found that he had suffered a forfeiture of his
proper identity ; for he himself was now that other Man, and
the Appearances he gazed on wore the forms and lineaments
of his own literary friends. The vision lasted but a brief
while, and when the spell was broken, KLOPSTOCK started as
from a dream ; but so vivid was the impression that remained
with him, that he ever afterward regarded what he had seen
as a kind of pictorial revelation, a prophetical figure-history
of his own destiny. We are now to fancy him over a flask of
wine with his fellow-student Johann Arnold Ebert. With
every glass their gayety grows wilder and wilder. Suddenly
KLOPSTOCK covers his face with his hands : the recollection
of his vision has intervened, and brings with it gloom and
anguish.]
TO EBERT.
EBERT, Ebert, my friend ! Here over the
dark-bright wine
A horrible phantasy masters me !
In vain thou showest me where the chalice-
glasses shine,
In vain thy words ring cheerily:
I must aside and weep if haply my weo.p-
ing may
Assuage this agony of distress.
Oh, tears ! in pity Nature blent you witli hu-
man clay,
To mitigate human wretchedness ;
For, were your fountain uplocked, and you
forbidden to flow,
Could Man sustain his sorrows an hour?
Then let me aside and weep : this thought
of dolor and woe
Struggles within me with giant power.
0, Ebert ! if all have perished, and under
shroud and pall
Lie still and voiceless in Death's abyss ;
If thou and 1 be the lone and withered sur-
vivors of all ?
Art not thou, also, speechless at this ?
Glazes not horror thine eye? Glares it not
blank without soul ?
So from mine, too, departed the light,
When first this harrowing phantom over the
purple bowl
Struck my spirit with thundermight.
Sudden as when a wanderer, hastening home
to the faces
That circle with smiles his joyous hearth,
To his blooming offspring and spouse, whom
already in thought he embraces,
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE WA.\<- AN
By the tempest-bolt is fell'd to the earth,
Death-stricken, so that his bones are blasted
to blackest ashes,
The while in triumph is heard to roll
The booming thunder through Heaven, so
suddenly flash'd, so flashes
This vision athwart my shuddering soul,
Deadening the might of mine arm, and dark-
ening the light of mine eyes,
And shrivelling the flesh of my heart with
despair.
Oh ! in the depth of the Night I saw the Death-
Pageant arise !
And Ebert ! the souls of our friends
were there.
Oh ! in the depths of the Night I saw the
Graves laid bare !
Around me tln'ong'd the immortal Band !
When gentle GISEKE'S eye no longer lustre
shall wear ;
When faithful CRAMER, lost to our land,
Shall moulder in dust ; when the words that
GAERTNER and RAJJNER have
spoken
Shall only be echo'd through years in dis-
tance ;
When every sweetly-sounding chord shall be
ruefully broken
In the noble GELLERT'S harmonious exist-
ence ;
\Vlicn his early companions of pleasure
young ROTHE, the social and bright,
Shall meet on the charnel chamber-floor,
And when from a longer exile 1 ingenious
SCIILEGEL shall write
To the cherish'd friends of his youth no
more;
When for SCHMIDT, the beloved and evan-
ished, these weariful eyes shall weep
No longer their wonted affectionate rain ;
When HAGEDORN at last in our Father's
bosom shall sleep ;
1 Schlegel, on quitting college, bad gone to Strchla, and
there established an academy, from whence he corresponded
with hla friends, the members of the Poetical club at Leipzig.
This residence of his at Strchla they were playfully wont to
designate his exile. By longer exile, Klopstock, of course,
Beans Death.
Oh, Ebcrt ! what then are We who remain ?
What but Woe-consecrated, whom here a
dreary doom
Has left to mourn for those that are gone ?
If then one of us should die (Behold how my
thought of gloom
Further and darklier hurries me on !)
If then, of us, one should die, and ONE alone
should survive
And oh, should that sad survivor be I
II' she, the unknown Beloved, with whom I
am destined to wive,
If she, too, under the mould should lie 1
If I be the Only, the Lonely, the earth's
companionless One,
Oh, answer ! Shalt thou, my undying soul,
For friendship created, shalt thou preserve
thy feeling and tone,
In the days that then may vacantly roll ?
Or shalt thou, in slumberful stupor, imagine
that Daylight is pass'd,
And the reign of Night has begun for thee ?
Haply ! but shouldst thou up start, oh, im-
mortal spirit, at last,
And feel all the weight of thy misery,
Wilt thou not, suffering spirit, in agony
shrickingly call
To the sepulchres where thy Sleepers are
" Oh ! ye graves of my Dead ! Ye tombs of
my dearest ones all !
Why are ye severed apart so far ?
Why not rather ingrouped in the blossomy
valleys yonder,
Or cluster'd in groves, or flower-crowu'd ?
Guide an expiring old man ! With faltering
feet will I wander
And plant upon every hallow'd mound
A cypress-tree, beneath whose yet undark-
cning shade
May rest my happier daughters and sons,
And oft through its boughs at night shall
stand before me portray'd
The effigies of my immortal ones !
Till, worn with weeping, I too shall finally
join those immortals ;
Then, oh 1 Grave, beside which I snail bo I
Grave over which I shall die! I call on
thee open thy portals,
And hide forever my tear* and me !"
360
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Horrible dream ! from which, as in chains, I
struggle to waken,
Terrible as the Judgment-hour,
And as Eternity solemn ! My spirit, appall'd
and shaken,
Can wrestle no longer against thy power.
THE BROTHER AND THE SISTER.
IN a winding dell, thick-sown with flowers,
Often play'd together, through the hours
Of the livelong sunny Summer's day,
Two most lovely children one a boy,
One a girl, a sister and a brother ;
And along with them did ever play
Innocence, and Gracefulness, and Joy.
Hei-e there stood an image of the
Mother
Of our Blessed Saviour, with her Child
In her arms, who always look'd and smiled
On the playmates. And their own
dear mother
One day told them, after they had play'd,
Who the smiling little Infant was ;
How He was the mighty GOD, who made
Sun, and Moon, and Earth, and the green
grass,
And themselves ; and, when she saw them
moved
With deep reverence, and their childish
mirth
Hush'd, she told them how this GOD had
loved
Little children when He dwell'd on Earth,
And that now in Heaven He loved them still.
And the little girl said, " I and brother
Both love GOD : will He love us, too,
mother ? "
And the mother said, " If you be good, He
will."
So upon another time, a bland,
Bright, soft, Summer-evening, as the fair
Children sat together hand in hand,
One said to the other ('twas the boy
To the girl), " Oh, if the dear GOD there
Would come down to us ! There's not a toy
In our house but I would give to Him."
And the girl said, " I would cull Him all
Pretty flowers." " And I would climb the
tall
Trees," the boy said, " till the day grew dim,
And would gather fruits for Him." And thus
Each sweet child did prattle to the other,
Till the sun sank low behind the hill,
And both, running, then sought out their
mother,
And cried out together, " Mother ! will
GOD come down some day and play with us ? w
Gently spake the mother in rebuke
Of their babble ; but it bore a deep
Meaning in the eternal Minute-book ;
For, one night, soon after, in her sleep,
She beheld the Infant-Saviour playing
With her children and she heard Him saying,
" How shall I requite you for the flowers
And the fruits you would have given
me ? Thee,
Brother, will I take along with me,
To my Father's many-mansion'd Home,
And will guide thee to luxuriant bowers,
Where bloom fruits unknown on Earth be-
neath ;
And to thee, my sister, will I come
On thy bridal-day, and with a wreath
Of celestial flowers adorn thy brow,
And will bless thy nuptials, so that thou
Shalt have children good and innocent even
As my Father's angels are in Heaven."
And the mother woke, and pray'd with tears,
" Oh, my GOD ! my Saviour ! spare my son !
Spare him to console my waning years,
If thou canst! If not, thy will be done ! w
And the will of GOD was done. The boy
Sicken'd soon and died. But, ere he died
Those about him saw his countenance
Lighted up with gloriousness and joy
Inexpressible ; for by his side
He beheld (rapt all the while in trance,
As his mother noticed) a young Child
Brighter than the sun and beauteous as
GOD Himself!
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
361
Year after year did pass,
And at length her twentieth Summer smiled
On the maiden with her wedding-day ;
But behold ! as she knelt down to pray
At the altar, heavenly radiance beam'd
Round her, and she saw, as though she
dream'd,
HIM, her childhood's Infant-Saviour, reaching
Her a wreath of brilliant flowers, with some
Dark ones intermix'd : a symbol, teaching
Her what hue the years that were to come
Should assume for her. And truly, she
Spent a life of peace and blessedness,
Mingled with such mild adversity
That she rather wish'd it more than less.
THE FIELD OP KUNNERSDORF. 1
DAY is exiled from the Land of Twilight ;
Leaf and flower are drooping in the wood,
And the stars, as on a dark-stain'd skylight,
Glass their ancient glory in the flood.
Let me here, where night-winds through the
yew sing,
Where the moon is chary of her beams,
Consecrate an hour to mournful musing
Over Man and Man's delirious dreams.
Pines and yews ! envelop me in deeper,
Dunner shadow, sombre as the grave,
While with moans, as of a troubled sleeper,
Gloomily above my head ye wave ;
Let mine eye look down from hence on yonder
Battle-plain, which Night in pity dulls ;
Let my sad imagination ponder
Over Kunnersdorf, that Place of Skulls !
Dost thou reillume those wastes, Summer?
Hast thou raised anew thy trampled bow-
ers ?
Will the wild bee come again a hummer
Here, within the houses of thy flowers ?
1 ffvnnertdor/, a village near Frankltort on the Oder, where
Frederick was defeated by the Russians, on the 12th of Au-
gust, 1790, In one of the bloodiest battles of modern times.
Can thy sunbeams light, thy mild rains water
This Aceldema, this human soil,
Since that dark day of redundant slaughter
When the blood of men flow'd here like
oil?
Ah, yes ! Nature, and thou, GOD of Nature,
Ye are ever bounteous ! Man alone,
Man it is whose frenzies desolate your
World, and make it in sad truth his own.
Here saw Frederick fall his bravest warriors :
Master of thy World, thou wert too great !
Heaven had need to establish curbing-bar-
riers
'Gainst thine inroads on the World of Fate.
Oh, could all thy coronals of splendor
Dupe thy memory of that ghastly day ?
Could the Graces, could the Muses' render
Smooth and bright a corse-o'ercover'd
way ?
No ! the accusing blood-beads ever trickle
Down each red leaf of thy chaplet-crown :
Men fell here as corn before the sickle,
Fell to aggrandize thy false renown !
Here the veteran dropp'd beside the spring
aid;
Here sank Strength and Symmetry in line :
Here crushed Hope and gasping Valor min-
gled ;
And, Destroyer, the wild work was thine !
Whence is then this destiny funereal ?
What this tide of Being's flow and ebb?
Why rends Death at will the fine material
Of Existence's divinest web ?
Vainly ask we ! Dim age calls to dim age ;
Answer, save an echo, cometh none :
Here stands Man, of Life-in-Death an image,
There, invisibly, the LIVING ONE 1
Storm-clouds lower and muster in the Dis-
tance ;
Girt with wrecks by sea and wrecks by
land,
Time, upon the far Shore of Existence,
Counts each wave-drop swallow'd by the
sand.
Generation chases generation,
Down-bow'd by the all-worn, t/won>
yoke :'
An allnsion to Frederick's literary pumnlts.
' The yoke which all wear. >ut none wear ouL
362
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
No cessation and no explication !
Birth I^ifeDeaih ! the Silence, Flash,
and Smoke.
Here, then, Frederick, formidable sovereign !
Here, in presence of these whiten'd bones,
Swear at length to cherish Peace, and govern
So that men may learn to reverence
thrones !
Oh, repudiate blood-bought fame, and
hearken
To the myriad witness-voiced Dead,
Ere the Sternness shall lay down, to darken
In the Silentness, thy crownless head ! '
Shudder at the dire phantasmagory
Of the slain, who perish'd here through
thee;
And abhor all future wreaths of glory
Gather' d from the baleful cypress-tree !
Lofty souls disdain or dread the laurel :
Hero is a mad exchange for Man :
Adders lurk in green spots : such the moral
Taught by History since her schools began.
Caesar slain, the victim of his trophies,
Bajazet expiring in his cage,
All the Caesars, all the sabre-Sophies, 1
Preach the self-same homily each age.
One drugg'd wine-cup dealt with Alexander,
And his satraps scarce had shared afresh
Half the empires of the World-commander,
Ere the charn el- worms had shared his flesh.
Though the rill roll down from Life's green
Mountain,
Bright through festal dells of youthful
days,
Soon the water of that glancing fountain
In the vale of years must moult its rays.
Vor dcm Ernste, der dein Hanpt, entfflretet,
In die Stille niederlcgen wird.
Before to the Solemn who thy head, nnprinccd, in the Stilly
beneath lay shall, viz., Before the [coming of the] solemn
[hour] which shall lay thy head, stripped of its royalty, in the
till [ness of the grave.] I have adhered to the metonymy,
ve that I have chosen to make der Ernste represent Death
himself rather than the time of death ; the Sternness, there-
fore, is Death, and the Silcntness the grave.
Sophi, a title of the Khan of Persia.
By this scymitar
That lew the Sophy aud a Persian prince,
A Ad won three fields of Sultan Solyman.
Mtrch. of Yen. Act. 11. tc. .
There the pilgrim on the bridge that, bound-
ing
Life's domain, frontiers the wold of Death,
Startled, for the first time hears resounding
From Eternity, a voice that saith,
ALL WHICH IS NOT PURE SHALL MELT AND
WITHER.
Lo ! THE DESOLATOR'S ARM is BARE,
AND WHERE MAN is, TRUTH SHALL TRACK
HIM THITHER,
BE HE CURTAIN'D ROUND WITH GLOOM OK
GLARE.'
dnridt CflhrisfogJi gocltg.
THE AGED LANDMAN'S ADVICE TO HIS
SON.
On ! cherish Faith and Truth, tiU Death
Shall claim thy forfeit clay,
And wander not one finger's breadth
From GOD'S appointed way ;
So shall thy pilgrim pathway be
O'er flowers that brightly bloom ;
So shalt thou, rich in hope and free
From terror face the tomb ;
Then wilt thou handle spade and scythe,
With joyous heart and soul ;
Thy water-jug shall make thee blithe
As brimming purple bowl.
All things but work the sinner woe,
For, do his worst or best,
The devil drives him to and fro,
And never lets him rest.
Him glads no Spring, no sky outroll'd,
No mellow, yellow field ;
His one sole good and god is gold ;
His heart is warp'd and steel'd ;
The winds that blow, the streams that flow
Affright the craven slave ;
Peace flies him, and he does not know
Rest even in his grave !
1 WAS NICDT REIN 1ST, WIKD IN NACHT VERSCIIW1NDEN ;
DEB VEKUESTEKS HAND IST AUSGESTRECKT ;
UNO DIB WAHBHEIT WIRD DEN MENSCHEN FINDEN,
OB IHN DUNKEL ODER GtiANZ VER8TECKT !
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
363
For lie when spectral midnight reigns,
Must burst each coffin-band,
And as a pitch-black dog in chains
Before his house-door stand.
The spinners, who with wheel on arm
Belated home repair,
Will quake, and cross themselves from harm
To see the monster there ;
And every spinning crone of this
Terrific sight will tell,
And wish the villain in the abyss
And fire of hottest hell.
Old Grimes was all his life a hound,
A genuine devil's brand ;
He counter-plough'd his neighbors' ground ;
And robb'd them of their land :
Now, fire-clad, see him plough with toil
The same land everywhere,
Upturning all night long the soil,
With white-hot burning share :
Himself like blazing straw-sheaf burns
Behind the glowing plough ;
And so he burns and so upturns,
Till Morning bares her bi'ow.
The bailie who, without remorse,
Shot stags and fleeced the poor,
With one grim dog, on fiery horse,
Hunts nightly o'er the moor;
Oft, as a rugged-coated bear,
He climbs a gnarled pole ;
Oft, as a goat, must leave his lair,
And through the hamlet stroll.
The riot-loving priest who cramm'd
His chests with ill-got gold,
Still haunts the chancel, black and damn'd,
Each night when twelve has toll'd ;
He howls aloud with dismal yells,
That startle aisle and fanes,
Or in the vestry darkly tells
His church-accursed gains.
The squire who drank and gamed pell-mell
The helpless widow's all,
Now driven along by blasts from Hell,
Goes coach'd to Satan's ball ;
His blue frock, dipp'd in Hell's foul font,
With sulphur-flames is lined ;
One devil holds the reins in front,
Two devils ride behind.
Then, Son ! be just and true till Death
Shall claim thy forfeit clay;
And wander not one finger's breadth
From GOD'S rcvealdd way.
3o shall warm tears bedew in showers
The grass above thy head,
And lilies and all odorous flowers
O'erarch thy last low bed.
AND THEN NO MORE.
I SAW her once, one little while, and then no
more :
'Twas Eden's light on Earth awhile, and
then no more.
Amid the throng she pass'd along the mea-
dow-floor :
Spring seem'd to smile on Earth awhile, and
then no more.
But whence she came, which way she went,
what garb she wore,
I noted not; I gazed awhile, and then no
more.
I saw her once, one little while, and then no
more:
'Twas Paradise on Earth awhile, and then no
more :
Ah ! what avail my vigils pale, my magic
lore ?
She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then
no more.
The shallop of my peace is wreck'd on Beau-
ty's shore ;
Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and
then no more !
I saw her once, one little while, and then no
more :
Earth look'd like Heaven a little while, And
then no more.
Her presence thrill'd and lighted to its inner
core
My desert breast a little while, and then no
more.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
So may, perchance, a meteor glance at mid-
night o'er
Some ruin'd pile a little while, and then no
more !
I saw her once, one little while, and then no
more,
The earth was Peri-land awhile, and then no
more.
Oh, might I see but once again, as once be-
fore,
Through chance or wile, that shape awhile,
and then no more !
Death soon would heal my griefs ! This
heart, now sad and sore,
Would beat anew a little while, and then no
more !
THE CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.
THE Dome, the Dome of Cologne !
Antique, unique, sublime
Rare monument from the elder time,
Begun so long agone,
Yet never finish'd, though wrought at
oft-
Yonder it soars alone,
Alone, aloft,
Blending the weird, and stern, and soft,
The Cathedral-dome of Cologne !
The Dome, the Dome of Cologne !
Whence came its Meister's plan ?
Before or since to the eye of man
Was never aught like it shown !
Alas ! the matchless Meister died !
Alas ! he died ! and none
Thereafter tried
To fathom the mystery typified
By the marvellous Dome of Cologne !
The Dome, the Dome of Cologne !
In the troublesome times of old
The soldier alone won fame and gold
The artist pass'd for a drone !
War's hurricanes rock'd and wasted
earth ;
Men battled for shrine or throne ;
None sat by his hearth
To ponder the means of a second birth
For the holy Dome of Cologne !
The Dome, the Dome of Cologne !
To God be immortal praise
That now at length, in our own bright
days,
THE MEISTER'S PLAN is KNOWN!
Research hath brought the relic to light
From its mausoleum of stone
We hail with delight
A treasure so long conceal'd from sight,
THE ORIGINAL, DOME OF COLOGNE!
The Dome, the Dome of Cologne !
' O
Its hour of glory is nigh !
Build ye it high as the sapphire sky ! .
As the moonlight never hath shone
On Temple of such a magnificent
Ideal from zone to zone,
So, aid its ascent
To the sapphire blue of the firmament,
The Cathedral-dome of Cologne !
aron ge In Jftott^ JJouque,
DALE AND HIGH- WAY.
IN a shady dell a Shepherd sate,
And by his side was the fairest mate !
The hearts of both the youth and maiden
With love were laden and oveiiaden.
And, as they spake with tongue and eye,
A weary wandering man rode by ;
A swarthy wayfarer, worn with travel,
Rode wearily over the burning gravel.
" Down hither, and rest thee, thou Weary
One!
Why ride at noon in the scorching sun ?
Rest oere iu this dell, so cool and darkling
That even the rivulets run unsparkling.
" And I and the maiden thou seest with me
Will gather the palest flowers for thee,
And weave them into as pale a garland
As wreathes the brow of a fay from Star-
land."
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAN CAN.
365
So spake the Shepherd, all cool in the shade,
And thus the Wanderer answer made :
' Though the way be long and the noon be
burning,
I ride unresting and unreturning:
" For I was false to ray vows, and sold
The early love of my heart for gold ;
So dare I seek Rest and Happiness never,
But only Geld for ever and ever !
" No flowers for me, until Pity's tears
Bedew the few that in after-years
May droop where the winds shall be nightly
telling
How low I lie in my last dark dwelling ! "
A SIGH.
FARE-THEE-SWEETLY, Youthhood's time,
Golden time of Love and Singing !
Hope and Joy were in their prime
Only when thy flowers were springing.
All thy voiceful soul is mute,
Thou hast dream'd thy dream of glory :
Scarcely now can lyre or lute
Wake one echo of thy story !
Ah ! the heart is but a grave,
Late or soon, for young Affection.
There the Love that Nature gave
Sleeps, to know no resurrection.
This our sons will echo long ;
This our sires have sung before us ;
Join, then, we the shadowy throng !
Swell, then, we the spectral chorus !
Jfordinand
THE SHEIK OF MOUNT SINAI.
A NAnnATFVE OF OCTOBER, 1830.
" How sayest thou ? Came to-day the Car-
avun
From Africa ? And is it here ! 'Tis well 1
bear me beyond the tent, me and mine otto-
man !
I would myself behold it. I feel eager
To learn the youngest news. As the Ga-
zelle
Rushes to drink will I to hear, and
gather thence fresh vigor."
So spake the Sheik. They bore him forth ;
and thus began the Moor
"Old man! Upon Algeria's towers the
Tricouleur is flying !
Bright silks of Lyons rustle at each balcony
and door ;
In the streets the loud Reveil resounds
at break of day :
Steeds prance to the Marseillaise o'er
heaps of Dead and Dying.
The Franks came from Toulon, men say.
" Southward their legions march'd through
burning lands;
The Barbary sun flash'd on their arms
about
Their chargers' manes were blown clouds ol
Tunisian sands.
Knowest where the Giant Atlas rises
dim in
The hot sky? Thither, in disastrous rout,
The wild Kabyles fled with their herds
and women.
"The Franks pursued. Hu Allah! each
defile
Grew a very hell-gulf, then, with smoke,
and fire, and bomb 1
The Lion left the Deer's half-cranch'd re-
mains the while ;
He snuflPd upon the winds a daintier
prey!
Hark ! the shout, En avantf To the top-
most peak upclomb
The conquerors in that bloody fray !
" Circles of glittering bayonets crown'd the
mountain's height.
The hundred Cities of the Plain, from At-
las to the sea afar,
From Tunis forth to Fez, shone in the noon-
day light.
bOG
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
The spearmen rested by their steeds, or
slaked their thirst at rivulets :
And round them through dark myrtles
burn'd,^-each like a star,
The slender golden minarets.
u But in the valley blooms the odorous Al-
mond-tree,
And the Aloe blossoms on the rock, defy-
ing storms and suns.
Here was their conquest seal'd. Look!
yonder heaves the sea,
And far to the left lies Franquistan.
The banners flouted the blue skies.
The artillerymen came up. Mashallah !
how the guns
Did roar to sanctify their prize !"
" 'Tis they !" the Sheik exclaim' d : " I fought
among them, I,
At the Battle of the Pyramids ! Red all
the long day ran,
Red as thy turban-folds, the Nile's high bil-
lows by !
But their Sultaun? Speak! He was
once my guest.
His lineaments, gait, garb ? Sawest
thou the Man *?"
The Moor's hand slowly felt its way in-
to his breast.
" N~o" he replied: "he bode in his warm
palace-halls.
A Pasha led his warriors through the fire
of hostile ranks ;
An Aga thunder'd for him before Atlas'
iron walls !
His lineaments, thou sayest ? On gold,
at least, they 1-ack
The kingly stamp. See here ! A Spahi 1
of the Franks
Gave me this coin in chaffering some
days back."
The Kashef " took the gold : he gazed upon
the head and face.
Was this the great Sultaun he had known
long years ago ?
It seem'd not ; for he sigh'd as all in vain
he strove to trace
1 Horae-ioldier.
* Governor.
The still-remember'd features. " Ah,
no ! this," he said, " is
Not his broad brow and piercing eye:
who this man is I do not know.
How very like a Pear his head is !"
GRABBE.
THERE stood I in the Camp. 'Twas when
the setting sun
Was crimsoning the tents of the Hussars.
The booming of the Evening-gun
Broke on mine ear. A few stray stars
Shone out, like silver-blank medallions
Paving a sapphire floor. Then flow'd in
unison the tones
Of many hautboys, bugles, drums, trom-
bones
And fifes, from twenty-two battalions.
They play'd, " Give glory unto GOD our
Lord ! "
A solemn strain of music and sublime,
That bade Imagination hail a coming time
When universal Mind shall break the slaying
sword,
And Sin, and Wrong, and Suffering shall
depart
An Earth which Christian love shall turn to
Heaven.
A dream ! yet still I listen'd, and my
heart
Grew tranquil as that Summer-even.
But soon uprose pale Hecate she who
trances
The skies with deathly light. Her beams
fell wan, but mild,
On the long lines of tents, on swords and
lances,
And on the pyramids of musquets piled
Around. Then sped from rank to rank
The signal order, " Tzako ab I " The
music ceased to play.
The stillness of the grave ensued. I tamed
away.
Again my memory's tablets show'd a sad
dening blank !
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANCi AN.
307
Meanwhile another sort of scene
Was acted at the Outposts. Carelessly I
stroll'd,
Ir. quest of certain faces, into the Canteen.
Here wine and brandy, hot or cold,
Pass'd round. At one long table Freder-
icks-d'or
Glitter'd d qui mieux mieux with epau-
lettes,
And, heedless of the constant call, " W7io
sets ? "
Harpwomen play'd and sang old ballads by
the score.
I sought an inner chamber. Here sat some
Dragoons and Yagers, who conversed, or
gambled,
Or drank. The dice-box rattled on a drum.
I chose a seat apart. My speculations
rambled.
Scarce even a passive listener or beholder,
I mused : " Give glory " " Qid en
veiit f " the sound
Came from the drum-head. I had half
turn'd round
When some one toiich'd me on the shoulder.
" Ha ! is it you ? " " None other." " Well
what news ?
How goes it in Mulhausen ? " Queries
without end
Succeed, and I reply as briefly as I choose.
An hour flies by. " Now then, adieu, my
friend!"
" Stay ! tell me " " Quick ! I am off
to llouye et JVbz'r."
" Well one short word, and then Good-
Night !
Grabbe ? " " Grabbe ? He is dead. Wait :
let me see. Ay, right 1
We buried him on Friday last. Bon soirf"
An icy thrill ran through my veins.
Dead ! Buried ! Friday last ! and here !
His grave
Profaned by vulgar feet ! Oh, Noble,
Gifted, Brave I
Bard of The Hundred Days /' was this to
be thy fate indeed ?
I wept; yet not because Life's galling chains
No longer bound thy spirit to this barren
earth ;
I wept to think of thy transcendent worth
And genius and of what had been their
meed.
I wander'd forth into the spacious Night,
Till the first feelings of my heart had spent
Their bitterness. Hours pass'd. There
was an Uhlan tent
At hand. I enter'd. By the moon's blue
light
I saw some arms and baggage and a heap
Of straw. Upon this last I threw
My weary limbs. In vain ! The moanful
night-winds blew
About my head and face, and Memory
banish'd Sleep.
All night he stood, as I had seen him last,
Beside my couch. Had he indeed forsaken
The tomb ? Or, did I dream, and should
I waken?
My thoughts flow'd like a river, dark and fast.
Again I ga/ed on that columnar brow :
" Deserted House ! of late so bricrht with
O
vividest flashes
Of Intellect and Passion, can it be that
thou
Art now a mass of sparkless ashes ?
" Those ashes once were watch-fires, by
whose gleams
The glories of the Hohenstauffen race,'
And Italy's shrines, and Greece's hallowed
streams
Stood variously reveal'd now, softly, as
the face
Of Night illumined by her silver Lamp
Now, burning with a deep and living
lustre,
Like the high beacon-lights that stud this
Camp,
Here, far apart there, in a circular cluster.
1 A poem by Grabbe thus entitled.
The allusion* aro to Qrti>' historical And Uliutntiv*
work*.
368
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
u This Camp ! Ah, yes ! methinks it images
well
What thou hast been, thou lonely Tower !
Moonbeams and lamplight mingled the
deep choral swell
Of Music in her peals of proudest power,
And then the tavern dice-box rattle !
The Grand and the Familiar fought
Within thee for the mastery; and thy
depth of thought
And play of wit made every conflict a drawn
battle !
" And, oh ! that such a mind, so rich, so
overflowing
O
With ancient lore and modern phantasy,
And prodigal of its treasures as a tree
Of golden leaves when Autumn-winds are
blowing,
That such a mind, made to illume and glad
All minds, all hearts, should have itself be-
come
Affliction's chosen Sanctuary and Home !
This is in truth most marvellous and sad !
" Alone the Poet lives alone he dies.
Cain-like, he bears the isolating brand
Upon his brow of sorrow. True, his hand
Is pure from blood-guilt, but in human eyes
His is a darker crime than that of Cain,
Rebellion against Social Wrong and Law ! "
Groaning, at length I slept, and in my
dreams I saw
The ruins of a Temple on a desolate plain.
FREEDOM AND RIGHT.
OH ! think not the Twain have gone down to
their graves !
Oh ! say not that Mankind should basely
despair,
Because Earth is yet trodden by tyrants and
slaves,
And the sighs of the Noble are spent on
the air !
Oh, no ! though the Pole, from the swamps
of the North,
Sees trampled in shreds the bright banner
he bore ;
Though Italy's heroes in frenzy pour forth
The rich blood of their hearts on the dark
dungeon-floor,
Still live-
Ever live in their might
Both Freedom and Right !
Who fight in the van of the battle must fall ;
All honor be theirs ! 'tis for Us to press on !
They have struck the first links from the
gyves that enthral
Men's minds ; and the half of our triumph
is won
The swift-coming triumph of Freedom and
Right !
Yes ! tremble, ye Despots ! the hour will
have birth
When, as vampires and bats, by the arrows
of Light,
Your nature, your names, will be blasted
from Earth !
For still
Still live in their might
Fair Freedom and Right !
Gone down to the grave ? No ! if ever their
breath
Gave life to the paralyzed nations, 'tis now,
When the serf at length wakes, as from tor-
por or death,
And the sunshine of Hope gleams anew
on his brow !
They traverse the globe in a whirlwind of
fire
They sound their deep trumpet o'er Ocean
and Land,
Enkindling in myriads the quenchless desire
To arm as one man for the Conflict at hand 1
Oh! still-
Still live in their might
Both Freedom and Right !
They rouse even dastards to combat and dare,
Till the last of oppression's bastiles be
o'erthrown ;
When they conquer not here, they are con
quering elsewhere,
And ere long they will conquer all Earth
for their own.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAN (JAN.
300
Then first will be born the Millennium of
Peace -
And, O God ! what a garland will bloom
in the sun,
When the oak-leaf of Deutschland, the olive
of Greece,
And the trefoil of Ireland are blended in
one '
As they will ;
For still in their might
Live Freedom and Right !
And what, though before that Millennium
can dawn,
The bones of our Bravest must bleach on
the plain ?
Thank Heaven ! they will feel that the swords
they have drawn
Will be sheath'cl by the victors, undimm'd
by a stain !
And their names through all time will be
shrined in each heart
As the moral Columbuses they who un-
furl'd
That sunbeamy standard that shone as a
chart
To illumine our way to the better New
World !
TO THE BELOVED ONE.
THROUGH pine-grove and greenwood, o'er
hills and by hollows,
Thine image my footsteps incessantly follows,
And sweetly thou smilest, or veilest thine
eye,
While floats the white moon up the wastes
of the sky.
In the sheen of the fire and the purple of
dawn
I see thy light figure in bower and on lawn.
1 U, Gott, welch ein Kranz wird sle glorrelch dann Zleren 1
Die Olive dcs Griechcn, dan KUtbiatt des IREN,
Und Tor Allcm germanicchen Eichengeflccht,
-Die Freiheit I dM Recbt I
By mountain and woodland it dazes my
vision
Like some brilliant shadow nom regions
Elysian.
Oft has it, in dreamings, been mine to behold
Thee, fairy-like, seated on throne of red gold ;
Oft have I, upborne through Olympus's por-
tals,
Beheld thee as Hebe among the Immortals.
A tone from the valley, a voice from the
height,
Re-echoes thy name like the Spirit of Night ;
The zephyrs that woo the wild flowers on
the heath
Are warm with the odorous life of thy breath.
And oft when in stilliest midnight my soul
Is borne through the stars to its infinite goal,
I long to meet thee, my Beloved, on that
shore
Where hearts reunite to be sunder'd no more.
Joy swiftly departeth; soon vanisheth Sor-
row ;
Time wheels in a circle of morrow and
morrow ;
The sun shall be ashes, the earth waste away,
But Love shall reign king in his glory for aye.
3ohann (Bauden* garon 0. alis
CHEERFULNESS.
SEE how the day beameth brightly before us!
Blue is the firmament green is the earth;
Grief hath no voice in the Universe-chorus
Nature is ringing with music and mirth.
Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness.
Gaze ! and if Beauty can capture thy soul,
Virtue herself will allure thee to gladness
Gladness, Philosophy's guerdon and goal
370
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses
List ! how she thrills in the nightingale's lay !
Breathe ! she is wafting thee sweets from the
roses ;
Feel ! she is cool in the rivulet's play ;
Taste ! from the grape and the nectarine
gushing
Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun ;
Green in the hills, in the flower-groves blush-
ing,
Look ! she is always and everywhere one.
Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are
trickling
Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom ;
Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling,
Suffer his lamp to be quench'd in the tomb ?
Still may we battle for Goodness and Beauty;
Still hath Philanthropy much to essay :
Glory rewards the fulfilment of Duty ;
Rest will pavilion the end of our way.
What, though corroding and multiplied sor-
rows,
Legion-like, darken this planet of ours,
Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows,
Ever when Anguish hath palsied its
powers ;
Wherefore, though Fate play the part of a
traitor,
Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of Hope,
Fearlessly certain that sooner or later
Over the stars thy desires shall have scope.
Look round about on the face of Creation !
Still is GOD'S Earth undistorted and
bright ;
Comfort the captives to long tribulation,
Thus shalt thou reap the more perfect
delight.
Love ! but if Love be a hallow'd emotion,
Purity only its rapture should share ;
Love, then, with willing and deathless emo-
tion,
All that is just and exalted and fair.
Act ! for in Action are Wisdom and Glory ;
Fame, Immortality these are its crown ;
Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of Story,
Build on ACHIEVEMENTS thy Dome of Re-
nown.
Honor and Feeling were given thee to cher-
ish,
Cherish them, then, though all else should
decay :
Landmarks be these that are never to perish,
Stars that will shine on thy duskiest day.
Courage ! Disaster and Peril, once over,
Freshen the spirit, as showers the grove:
O'er the dim graves that the cypresses cover
Soon the Forget-Me-Not rises in love.
Courage, then, friends ! Though the universe
crumble,
Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath,
Patient and trustful and joyous and humble,
Smiles through the ruin on Darkness and
Death.
ituhutg
FREEDOM.
RING, ring, blithe Freedom's Song !
Roll forth as water strong
Down rocks in sheets !
Pale stands the Gallic swarm
Our hearts beat high and warm
Youth nerves the Teuton's arm
For glorious feats !
GOD ! Father ! to thy praise
The spirit of old days
In Deutschland's Youth
Spreads as a burning brand !
We hail the fourfold band !
GOD, Freedom, Fatherland,
Old German Truth !
Pure-tongued and pious be,
Manful and chaste and free,
Great Hermann's race !
And, while GOD'S judgments light
On Tyranny's brute might,
Build We the People's Right
On Freedom's base !
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
371
For now in German brt:its
Fair Freedom manifests
Her power at length ;
Her worth is understood ;
We vow to her our blood ;
We feel that Brotherhood
Alone is Strength !
Ring, then, glad Song of Zeal,
Loud as the thunder-peal
That rocks the sphere !
Our hearts, hopes, objects, One,
Stand we, One Starry Zone,
And round One Sun, the Throne,
Be our career !
i^crich IfyopUl (fymnt
THE GRAVE.
LIFE'S Day is dark'd with Storrn and HI ;
The Night of Death is mild and still ;
The consecrated Grave receives
Our frames as Earth doth wither'd leaves.
There sunbeams shine, there dewy showers
Fall bright as on the garden-bowers ;
And Friendship's tear-drops, in the ray
Of Hope, are brighter still than they.
The Mother 1 from her lampless dome
Calls out to all, "Come home! Come
home !"
Oh ! could we once behold her face,
We ne'er would shun her dark embrace.
(Ernst Poritz Jmult.
THE GERMAN'S FATHERLAND
WHERE is the German's Fatherland ?
Is't Prussia ? Swabia ? Is't the strand
Where grows the vine, where flows the
Rhine ?
Is't where the gull skims Baltic's brine ?
' Ivirlh.
No ! yet more great and far more grand
Must be the German's Fatherland.
How call they then the German's land ?
Bavaria? Brunswick? Hast thou scann'd
It where the Zuyder Zee extends?
Where Styrian toil the iron bends ?
No, brother, no ! thou hast not epAtm'd
The German's genuine Fatherland f
Is then the German's Fatherland
Westphalia ? Pomerania ? Stand
Where Zurich's waveless water sleeps ;
Where Weser winds, where Danube sweeps
Hast found it now ? Not yet ! Demand
Elsewhere the German's Fatherland '
Then say, Where lies the German's land?
How call they that unconquer'd land ?
Is't where Tyr61's green mountains r'ne ?
The Switzer's land I dearly prize,
By Freedom's purest breezes fann'd- -
But no ! 'tis not the German's land !
Where, therefore, lies the German's la.*>d *
Baptize that great, that ancient land !
'Tis surely Austria, proud and bold,
In wealth unmatch'd, in glory old?
Oh ! none shall write her name on sand ;
But she is not the German's land ?
Say then, Where lies the German's land ?
Baptize that great, that ancient land !
Is't Alsace ? Or Lorraine that gem
Wrench'd from the Imperial Diadem
By wiles which princely treachery plann'd f
No ! these are not the German's land !
Where, therefore, lies the German's land ?
Name now at last that mighty land !
Where'er resounds the German tongue
Where German hymns to GOD are sung
There, gallant brother, take thy stand !
That is the German's Fatherland !
That is his land, the land of lands,
Where vows bind less than claspe'd hands,
Where Valor lights the flashing rye,
Where Love and Truth in deep hearts lie,
And Zeal enkindles Freedom's bracd,
That is the German's Fatherland !
372
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
That is the German's Fatherland
Where Hate pursues each foreign band
Where German is the name for friend,
Where Frenchman is the name for fiend,
And France's yoke is spurn'd and bann'd
That is the German's Fatherland !
That is the German's Fatherland !
Great GOD ! look down and bless that land !
And give her noble childi'en souls
To cherish while Existence rolls,
And love with heart, and aid with hand,
Their Universal Fatherland !
BE MERRY AND WISE.
No beauty, no glory, remaineth
Below the unbribable skies :
All Beauty but winneth and waneth
All Glory but dazzles and dies.
Since multitudes cast in a gay mould
Before us have lived and have laugh'd,
To the slumberers under the clay-mould
Let goblet on goblet be quaff'd !
For millions in centuries after
Decay shall have crumbled our bones,
As lightly with revel and laughter
Will fill their progenitors' thi-ones.
Here banded together in union
Our bosoms are joyous and gay.
How blest, could our festive communion
Remain to enchant us for aye !
But Change is omnipotent ever ;
Thus knitted we cannot remain ;
Wide waves and high hills will soon sever
The links of our brotherly chain.
Yet, even though far disunited,
Our hearts are in fellowship still,
And all, if but one be delighted,
Will hear it with Sympathy's thrill
And if, after years have gone o'er us,
Fate bring us together once more,
Who knows but the mirth of our chorus
May yet be as loud as before
Sari <%on (Kbert.
THE REVENGE OF DUKE SWERTING.
[" Swerting, Duke of the Saxons, was conquered in 435 by
Frotho IV., King of the Danes, who imposed upon the Saxons
a heavy yearly poll-tax. The Saxons in vain attempted to re-
cover their independence ; and Frotho humbled them stiL
more by making them pay a tax for every one of their limbs
that was two feet long. To keep the Saxons better in sub-
jection, Frotho had thought it prudent to make his son Ingel
marry the daughter of Swertiug, in the hope of binding the
latter to his interests by this alliance. But Swerting did not
desert his own nation he planned the destruction of the con-
queror and oppressor of his country, and accomplished it
nearly in the manner related in Ebert's ballad." M. KLATJEK-
KLATTOWSKI, German Ballads and Romances, p. 303.]
OH, a warrior's feast was Swerting's in his
Burg beside the Rhine ;
There from gloomy iron bell-cups they drank
the Saxon wine,
And the viands were served in iron up, in
coldest iron all,
And the sullen clash of iron arms resounded
through the hall.
Uneasily sat Frotho there, the Tyrant of the
Danes ;
With lowering brow he quaff'd his cup, then
eyed the iron chains
That hung and clank'd like manacles at
Swerting's arms and breast,
And the iron studs and linked rings that
boss'd his ducal vest.
" What may this bode, this chilling gloom,
Sir Duke and Brother Knights ?
Why meet I here such wintry cheer, such
sorry sounds and sights ?
Out on your shirts of iron ! Will ye bear to
have it told
That I found ye thus when Danish knight?
go clad in silks and gold ? "
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCK M A MIAN.
373
* King ! Gold befits the freeman, the Iron
marks tin- slave ;
So thought and spake our fathers, and their
sons are just and brave :
Thyself hast bound the iron round thy proud
but conquer'd foe ;
If thy chains had been but golden we had
burst them long ago.
" But I came not here to hold a parle, or tell
a tristful tale,
But to bid the dastard tremble and to make
the tyrant quail.
Oh, strong, Sir King, is iron, but the heart
is stronger still,
Nor Earth nor Hell can cast in thrall a
People's mighty Will ! "
While his words yet rang like cymbals, there
strode into the hall
Twelve swarthy Saxon Rittersmen, with
flaming torches tall ;
They stood to catch a signal-glance from
Swerting's eagle eye,
Then again they rushed out, waving their
pitchy brands on high.
The Danish King grows paler, yet he brims
his goblet higher ;
But the sultry hall is dark with smoke ; he
hears the hiss of h'rc !
Yes ! the Red Avenger marches on his fierce
and swift career,
And from man to man goes round the whis-
per, " Brother, it is near ! "
Up starts the King ; he turns to fly ; Duke
Swerting holds him fast.
" Nay, Golden King, the dice are down, and
thou must bide the cast.
If thy chains can fetter THIS fell foe, the
glory be thine own,
Thine be the Saxon Land for aye, and thine
the Saxon throne ! "
But hotter, hotter burns the air all through
that lurid hall,
And louder groan the blacken'd beams; the
crackling rafters fall,
And ampler waxes momently the glare, the
volumed flash,
Till at last the roof-tree topples down with
stunning thunder-crash.
Then in solemn prayer that gallant band of
Self-devoted kneel
"Just GOD! assoil our souls, thus driven to
Freedom's last appeal ! "
And Frotho writhes and rages, fire stifling
his quick gasp,
But, strong and terrible as Death, his foe
maintains his grasp.
" Behold, thou haughty tyrant, behold what
MEN can dare!
So triumph such, so perish, too, enslavers
everywhere ! "
And the billowy flames, while yet he speaks,
come roaring down the hall,
And the Fatherland is loosed for aye from
Denmark's iron thrall !
mmmnamu
THE STUDENT OF PRAGUE. 1
WHAT riotous din is ringing ?
What wassailers throng the house?
The student of Prague is singing
The praise of his wild carouse.
With bloodshot eyes and glowing,
He shouts like one possess'd,
His goblet overflowing,
His head on his leman's bi
i This ballad Is founded on fact. In a note at Vne end
of M. Klaaer's volume we have the genuine history of the
hero, (riven in a narrative transcribed from Fesxler and
Fischer's Eunomia, for July, 180Q. The student was the son
of a Pomeranian country clergyman, nd was sent to Prague
for the completion of his education. There his youth, tem-
perament, and freedom from restraint, soon led mm into ex-
cesses, which increased until he became a confirmed liliortine.
He ceased to correspond with his kindred; and his father,
preyed on by anxiety and grief, at length fell mortally ill. Hit
mother now wrote to him, adjuring him to return and it*cclre
the dying benediction of the parent who had reared him in the
love and fear of God; but in vain. The student. considmn;;
her story an invention to wile htm home, refused to attach
credit to it, an' pursued his career of dissipation at Prague
Time wheeleo 4n ; at last, one- lui-ln. aa the niiulont Jiv .1 bed
374
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
As pallid as alabaster,
The servant ventures in:
K 'Tis midnight, O my master !
Cease now, at least, from sin !"
" Avaunt, thou croaking booby !
I brook no babble from thee ;
As long as the wine looks ruby
Right jovial I swear to be !"
He drinks from his goblet faster;
Within lies a coiled worm :
" GOD gives thee a sign, my master !
It saith, Repent ! Reform !"
" Truce, dolt, to thy coffin-faces !
Go, preach to the fools that will hear;
Thus lock'd in my leman's embraces,
What accident have I to fear ?"
He plays with her night-black tresses ;
She breaks from his arms by force ;
Her hand on her heart she presses;
She shrieks, and drops down a corse !
Then steps the servant past her,
And falls upon his knee :
" GOD shows thee a sign, O master,
A fearful sign to thee !"
he was startled by a rustling sound nigh him, and in the same
moment a gentle current of air passed over his face. Turning
round with an involuntary shudder, he beheld a phantom
leaning over the bedside, and contemplating him with looks
of the tenderest pity. It was the apparition of his dying
father I Terror mastered him at the sight ; he seized a sword
that hung against the wall, and made a thrust at the spectre,
which immediately disappeared. The student was now
seriously alarmed, as all his dependence was upon his father,
and next day he set out for Pomerania. But before he had
accomplished more than half his journey homeward, a black
letter met him, and, opening it, he found that it announced
the death of his father. After a number of preliminary de-
tails, the following account was given of the last moments of
the deceased : " The desire of the sick man to see his child
once more, the father's anguish at the thought of his son's
depravity and obduracy, augmented hourly. On the last even-
ing of his life, never a minute elapsed that he did not inquire,
on the occasion of the slightest noise or movement near him,
'Has he come yet? Is he there?' And when answered,
' Alas, no !' he would break forth into piteous lamentations
over the wretched state of his lost son. Midnight came,
passed; he grew fainter and fainter. At one o'clock he had.
sunk into a state of strange calmness. It was thought that
he slept. His family surrounded his bed. On a sudden a
trembling came over him; he turned himself round, and lift-
ing his eyes to his daughter, who was affectionately watching
by him, he exclaimed, in a hollow voice, "All is over! My
reprobate son has just struck at me with his sword !' Speech
and consciousness then deserted him. Toward the dawning
of day he gave up the ghost." M. Klauer's narrative, of
which this is an abstract, closes here: the ballad, it will be
perceived, carries the story further, but whether according to
the strict truth or not, we cannot pretend to say.
" Away, thou hound, to the devil !
Red gold have I still in store
To win me wherewith to revel,
And fairer lemans a score.
So long as my dotard father
Takes care of this purse of mine,
So long, by hell, will I gather
The roses of Love and wine."
The servant, shuddering, fetches
Away the accusing Dead ;
And the wild young Student stretches
His wasted limbs in bed.
The lurid lamp is shooting
A bluer glare anon ;
The owls without are hooting ;
The hollow bell tolls " One !"
When lo ! a charnel vapor
Pervades the Student's room ;
Then dies the darkening taper ;
And, shimmering through the gloom,
'A shadow with look of sorrow
Bends over the reckless boy,
Who dreams of new pleasures to-morrow,
And laughs his libertine joy.
The Pitying Phantom raises
Its warning hand on high ;
The Student starts ; he gazes ;
He grasps his bed-sword nigh ;
He strikes at what resembles
His father's features pale !
And the stricken Phantom trembles,
And vanishes with a wail.
The wintry morn is dawning
In ashy-gray and red ;
The servant undraws the awning
That screens his master's bed ;
And a black-edged letter, weeping,
He gives the startled youth ;'
And the Student's flesh is creeping,
For he fears the dreadful truth.
" From thy mother, broken-hearted,
And widow'd now by thee
Thy father has departed
This life in agony.
1 The rapid conveyance of this letter is of course a poetical
license.
I'oK.MS |JV JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Whole nights I saw him languish;
And still he call'd in wild
And ceaseless tones of anguish
For thee, his ruin'd child.
" At last he lay as tranc6d ;
His struggles appear'd to cease,
And I fondly hoped and fancied
His spirit was now at peace ;
But soon I heard him crying,
'He strikes me with his sword !'
And his bitter curse in dying
On his harden'd son was pour'd."
The parricide Student ponders,
But word he utters not ;
He leaves the house and wanders
To a lone and desolate spot.
With scissors he there divests his
Proud head of its clustering hair,
And low- on his hands he rests his
Shorn skull and temples bare. 1
And now what chant funereal,
What feasters fill the house ?
Their chant is a dirge of burial,
Their feast a death-carouse.
They drain the funeral-bowl off,
And chorus in accents vague
A hymn to the rest of the soul of
The penitent Student of Prague.
Jcrdhromt (Sottfrid
ghen-
ANDREAS HOFER
"VICTORY! Victory! Inspruck's taken
By the Vintner of Passayer ! " '
What wild joy the sounds awaken ?
Hearts grow bolder, faces gayer ;
1 Und nimint ID bcide Hilndc
Den kald^cTluinirii Kopf,
"a-nd takes tho bnld-clmm lu-ud in both handu." This pas-
sage appear* to us incoimff/uent.
* Hofer kept an Inn at I'awcler, hlu birth-place; and even
fti T he had taken up arm*, he always wont among the peas-
antry by the title of dtr Saiilivirth. the Publican.
Maidens, leaving duller lab
Weave the wreaths they mean to proffer ;
All the students, all the neighbors,
March with music out to Hofer.
Till the Chief, commanding silence,
Speaks, with tone and aspect sternest- -
" Men ! lay down your trumpery vi'lins !
Death and GOD are both in earnest !
Not for Music, not for Glory,
Leave I wives and orphans weeping /
Perish Hofer's name in story ! .
He but seeks one goal unsleeping.
"Kneel in prayer, and chant your ros'ries .
Theirs is music meet to cheer ye.
When your hearts in speech that glows rise,
GOD the LORD may deign to hear ye.
Pray for me a sinner, lowly,
Pray for our gre at Kaiser loudly ; '
GOD keep Prince and People holy !
May both guard the sceptre proudly !
Me, my time is short for suing ;
Shew GOD what and how the case is ;
Count Him up what Dead are strewing
Level plains and lofty places ;
State what hosts yet shield the Wronger, 4
And what clans of Austrian bowmen
Speed the shout and shaft no longer :
GOD alone can crush, our foemen."
Julius gftosen.
THE DEATH OF HOFER.
Ax Mantua long had lain in chains
The gallant Hofer bound ;
But now his day of doom was come
At morn the deep roll of the drum
1 Betet MM CQr mlch Arnn-n.
Betct taut fUr unscrn Kuii-cr.
Fl*: Pray oftly for me [a] poor [dinner]
Prmy aloud for our Kmperor.
I quote these lines because, upon carting my eye over tb
translation, "a sinner lowly " strikes me as tome what of t
ambiguity.
4 Bonaparte.
376
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Resounded o'er the soldier'd plains.
O Heaven ! with what a deed of dole
The hundred thousand wrongs were
crown'd
Of trodden-down Tyrol ! '
With iron-fetter' d arms and hands
The hero moved along.
His heart was calm, his eye was clear,
Death was for traitor slaves to fear !
He oft amid his mountain bands,
Where Inn's dark wintry waters roll,
Had faced it with his battle-song,
The Sandwirth of Tyrol.
Anon he pass'd the fortress-wall,
And heard the wail that broke
From many a brother thrall within.
" Farewell ! " he cried. " Soon may
you win
Your liberty ! GOD shield you all !
Lament not me ! I see my goal.
Lament the land that wears the yoke,
Your land and mine, Tyrol ! "
So through the files of musqueteers
Undauntedly he pass'd,
And stood within the hollow square.
Well might he glance around him
there,
And proudly think on by-gone years !
Amid such serfs his bannerol,
Thank GOD ! had never braved the blast
On thy green hills, Tyrol !
They bade him kneel ; but he with all
A patriot's truth replied
" I kneel alone to God on high
As thus I stand so dare I die,
As oft I fought so let me fall !
Farewell" his bi-east a moment swoM
With agony he strove to hide
" My Kaiser and Tyrol ! "
* I suppose I need scarcely remark that this word is properly
accented on the second syllable.
No more emotion he betray'd.
Again he bade farewell
To Francis and the faithful men
Who girt his throne. His hands were
then
Unbound for prayer, and thus he pray'd :
" GOD of the Free, receive my soul !
And you, slaves, Fire ! " So bravely fell
Thy foremost man, Tyrol !
atpst
THE BEREAVED ONE.
THERE comes a Wanderer, worn and weary,
To a cottage on the wold
" Mother dear ! the night is dreary,
And I am wet and cold,
For 1 have been through rain and mire ;
Mother dear, it blows a storm !
Let me in, I pray, to warm
My fingers by the fire ! "
The door is open'd not by her
A little boy, well-nigh a child,
Looks up into the Wanderer's face
With a look so soft and mild !
He was like a messenger
Sent from some pure sphere above,
Unto Man's unhappy race,
On an embassy of love !
" Come in, good man," he said ; " what dost
Thou out on such a night as this ?
Oh, I was dreaming wondrous things !
Me dreamt that I had left and lost
My happy home and all my bliss ;
So I wept and could not rest,
Then came one with golden wings,
And took me to my father's breast."
The Wanderer's tears are flowing fast ;
He doth not speak, he clasps his hands,
But grief breaks forth in speech at last
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
371
" And, dearest child,where is thy father?"
"Amid a shadowy group he stands,
And a moony light reposes
On his face, but I would rather
Be with him than pulling roses ! "
u And thy mother, what of her?"
" Oh ! often when the night is falling,
When the wind moans through the fir,
I can hear her dear voice calling
From her far-off home to me :
I think this cottage was too small
For father, sister, her and all,
And so they left it, all the three."
" Ha ! what ! thy sister also ? Speak ! "
" Good man, I see thou knewest her, then.
The bloom soon faded from her cheek,
But now she dwells beyond the moon ;
She could not stay, she told me, when
Our mother and our father went ;
Down in the vale, to-morrow noon,
They'll point thee out her monument."
" And, tell me, darling child ! who sleeps
Within the grave beside the stream,
vVhere the sun can seldom beam,
And the willow ever weeps ?
The burial-stone rose blank and bare."
Here wept the child, and then he said,
" They say my brother's wife is dead,
Because she slumbers there.
" My brother Walter went abroad,
And never more came back,
And then his wife grew pale and wan,
She said her heart was on the rack,
And Life was now a weary load ;
And so she linger'd, linger'd on,
Until a year or two ago,
When Death released her from her woe.**
Thus far will Walter hear no more :
He presses once his brother's hand,
Then, wandering forth amid the roar
Of wind and rain he seeks the river,
And, having one brief minute scann'd,
Silently, and calm of eye,
The broad black mass of cloud on high,
He plunges in the waves forever !
Conrad IS&tiztl
SONG.
WHEN the roses blow
Man looks out for brighter hours ;
When the roses glow
Hope relights her lampless bowers.
Much that seem'd in Winter's gloom
Dark with heavy woe,
Wears a gladsome hue and bloom
When the roses blow
When the roses blow
Wears a gladsome hue and bloom
When the roses blow.
When the roses blow,
Love, that slept, shall wake anew :
Merrier blood shall flow
Through the springald's veins of blue;
And if Sorrow wrung the heart,
Even that shall go ;
Pain and Mourning must depart
When the roses blow
When the roses blow
Pain and Mourning must depart
When the roses blow.
When the roses blow
Look to heaven, my fainting soul !
There, in stainless show,
Spreads the veil that hides thy goal.
Not while Winter breathes his blight
Burst thy bonds below!
Let the Earth look proud and bright,
Let the roses blow !
Let the roses blow !
Oh, let Earth look proud and bright t
Let the roses blow !
GOOD-NIGHT.
GOOD-NIGHT, Good-night, my Lyre!
A long, a last Good-night !
In ashes lies the fire
That lent me Warmth and Light
178
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
With Love, Life too is fled ;
My bosom's blood is cold ;
My mind is all but dead ;
My heart is growing old.
Soon will my sad eyes close,
O Lyre, on Earth and Thee !
I go to woo Repose
In GOD'S Etei-nity.
iaron ran
THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW.
I.
WHEN midnight hour is come,
The drummer forsakes his tomb,
And marches, beating his phantom-drum
To and fro through the ghastly gloom.
He plies the drumsticks twain
With fleshless fingers pale,
And beats, and beats again and again,
A long and dreary reveil !
Like the voice of abysmal waves
Resounds its unearthly tone,
Till the dead old soldiers, long in their
graves,
Awaken through every zone.
And the slain in the land of the Hun,
And the frozen in the icy North,
And those who under the burning sun
Of Italy sleep, come forth.
And they whose bones long while
Lie bleaching in Syrian sands,
And the slumberers under the reeds of the
Nile,
Arise, with arms in their hands.
n.
And at midnight, in his shroud,
The trumpeter leaves his tomb,
And blows a blast long, deep, arid loud,
As he rides through the ghastly gloom.
And the yellow moonlight shines
On the old Imperial Dragoons ;
And the Cuirassiers they form in lines
And the Carabineers in platoons.
At a signal the ranks unsheathe
Their weapons in rear and van ;
But they scarcely appear to speak or
breathe,
And their features are sad and wan.
in.
And when midnight robes the sky,
The Emperor leaves his tomb,
And rides along, surrounded by
His shadowy staff, through the gloom.
A silver star so bright
Is glittering on his breast ;
In a uniform of blue and white
And a gray camp-frock he is dress'd.
The moonbeams shine afar
On the various marshall'd groups,
As the Man with the glittering silver star
Proceeds to review his troops.
And the dead battalions all
Go again through their exercise,
Till the moon withdraws, and a gloomier
pall
Of blackness wraps the skies.
Then around their chief once more
The Generals and Marshals throng ;
And he whispers a word oft heard before
In the ear of his aide-de-camp.
In files the troops advance,
And then are no longer seen.
The challenging watchword given it
" France !"
The answer is " St. Helene !"
And this is the Grand Review,
Which at midnight on the wolds,
If popular tales may pass for true,
The buried Emperor holds.
IRISH ANTHOLOGY.
BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
DARK ROSALEEN.
(TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH.)
[This Impassioned song, entitled, in the original, Roisln
Duh, or The Black Little Rose, was written in the reign of
Elizabeth by one of the poets of the celebrated Tirconnellian
chieftain, Hugh the Red O'Donnell. It purports to be an alle-
gorical address from Hugh to Ireland on the subject of his love
ftod struggles for her, and his resolve to raise her again to the
glorious position she held as a nation before the irruption of
the Saxon and Norman spoilers. The true character arid
meaning of the figurative allusions with which it abounds,
and to two only of which I need refer here viz., the " Roman
wine " and " Spanish ale " mentioned in the first stanza the
Intelligent reader will, of course, find no difficulty in under-
standing.]
Ou, my Dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep !
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the Deep.
There's wine .... from the royal Pope,
Upon the ocean green ;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My Dark llosaleen !
My own Rosaleen !
Shall glad your heart, shall give you
hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and
hope,
My Dark Rosaleen !
Over hills, and through dales,
Have I roam'd for your sake ;
All yesterday I sail'd with sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne,. . . .a* its highest flood,
I dashed across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My Dark Rosaleun !
My own Rosftleen t
Oh ! there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lighten'd through my
blood,
My Dark Rosaleen !
All day long, in unrest,
To and fro do I move.
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love !
The heart. . . .in my bosom faints
To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My own Rosaleen !
To hear your sweet and sad complaints
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen !
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are ray lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet. . . .will 1 rear your throne
Again in golden sheen ;
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My own Rosaleen!
'Tis you shall have the golden throne,
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Over dews, over sands.
Will I fly, for your weal :
Your holy delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.
At home. . . .in your emerald bowers,
From morning's l:ivi-u till e'en,
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers
My Dark Ro^ilfi-n !
My f'oiitl llosaleen !
380
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
You'll think of rae through Daylight's
hom-s,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen !
I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills !
And one. . . .beamy smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My fond Rosaleen !
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My Dark Rosaleen !
Oh ! the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal, and slogan cry,
Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My own Rosaleen !
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
My Dark Rosaleen !
SHANE BWEE ; OR, THE CAPTIVITY OF
THE GAELS.
Translation of the Jacobite Song, called " Geibionn na-n-
Oaoideil," written by OWEN ROE O'SITLLIVAN, a Kerry
poet, who flourished about the middle of the last century.
" Ag taisdiol na sleibte dam eealad am aonar."
'TWAS by sunset. . . .1 walk'd and wander'd
Over hill-sides. . . .and over moors,
With a many sighs and tears.
Sunk in sadness,. . . .1 darkly ponder'd
All the wrongs our .... lost land endures
In these latter night-black years.
" JIow," I mused, " has her worth departed !
What a ruin . . . .her fame is now !
We, once freest of the Free,
We are trampled .... and broken-hearted ;
Yea, even our Princes . . . .themselves must
bow
Low before the vile Shane Bwee !'"
Nigh a stream, in. . . .a grassy hollow,
Tired, at length, I. . . .lay down to rest
There the birds and balmy air
Bade new reveries. . . .and cheerier follow,
Waking newly .... within my breast
Thoughts that cheated my despair.
Was I waking. . . .or was I dreaming ?
I glanced up, and behold ! there shon
Such a vision over me !
A young girl, bright. . . .as Erin's beaming
Guardian spirit now sad and lone,
Through the Spoiling of Shane Bwee J
Oh for pencil. . . .to paint the golden
Locks that waved in .... luxuriant sheen
To her feet of stilly light !
(Not the Fleece that ... .in ages olden
Jason bore o'er .... the ocean green
Into Hellas, gleam'd so bright.)
And the eyebrows. . . .thin-arch'd over
Her mild eyes, and. . . .more, even more
Beautiful, methought, to see
Than those rainbows. . . .that wont to hover
O'er our blue island-lakes of yore
Ere the Spoiling by Shane Bwee !
" Bard !" she spake, " deem . . . not this unreaL
I was niece of . ... a Pair whose peers
None shall see on earth agen
^EONGUS CON, and the Dark O'NiALL,*
Rulers over .... lern in years
When her sons as yet were Men.
Times have darken'd;. . . .and now our holy
Altars crumble. .... and castles fall ;
Our groans ring through Christendee.
Still, despond not ! HE comes, though slowly,
He, the Man, who shall disenthral
The PROUD CAPTIVE of Shane
Bwee !"
1 Seagan Buldhe, Yellow John, a name applied firrt
P-^nce of Orange, and afterward to his adherents generally.
* Niall Dnbh.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAN (JAN.
381
Here she vanish'd ; . . . .and I, in sorrow,-
Blent with joy, rose .... and went my way
Homeward over moor and hill.
O Gr^at God! Thou.... from whom we
borrow
Life and strength, unto Thee I pray I
Thou, who swayest at Thy t will
Hearts and councils, . . . .thralls, tyrants, free-
men,
Wake through Europe. . . .the ancient soul,
And on every shore and sea,
From the Blackwater to the Dniemen,
Freedom's Bell will. . . .ere long time toll
The deep death-knell of Shane Bwce !
A LAMENTATION
FOR
THE DEATH OF SIR MAURICE FITZGERALD,
KNIGHT OF KERRY. 1
'An Abridged Translation from the Irish of Pierce Femter.]
THERE was lifted up one voice of woe,
One lament of more than mortal grief,
Through the wide South to and fro,
For a fallen Chief.
In the dead of night that cry thrill'd through
me,
I look'd out upon the midnight air ;
Mine own soul was all as gloomy,
And I knelt in prayer.
O'er Loch Gur, that night, once twice
ya, thrice
Pass'd a wail of anguish for the Brave
That half curdled into ice
Its moon-mirroring wave.
Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in
Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,
And Mogeely's Phantom Women 1
Mourn 'd the Geraldine!
Far on Carah Mona's emera d plains
Shrieks and sighs were blended many
hours,
And Ferraoy in fitfn! strains
AnswerV* -''om her towers.
1 Who was killed in Flaadera in 1W2.
* Banshees.
Youghal, Keenalmoiiky, Eemokilly,
Mourn'd in concert, and their piercing keen
Woke to wondering life the stilly
Glens of Inchiqueen.
From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore
There was fear; the traders of Tralee
Gather'd up their golden store,
And prepared to flee ;
For, in ship and hall, from night till morning
Show'd the first faint beamings of the sun,
O *
All the foreigners heard the warning
Of the dreaded One !
" This," they spake, " portendeth death to ?,
If we fly not swiftly from our fate !"
Self-conceited idiots ! thus
Ravingly to prate !
Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters
Ring laments like those by shore and sea;
Not for churls with souls of hucksters
Waileth our Banshee !
For the high Milesian race alone
Ever flows the music of her woe ;
For slain heir to bygone throne,
And for Chief laid low ! '
Hark ! . . . .Again, methinks, I hear her weep-
ing
Yonder ! Is she near me now, as then ?
Or was but the night-wind swT|>iii<_j
Down the hollow glen ?
SARSFIELD.
(FROM THE IRISH.)
" A Phadrulg Saireeal I elan go dti tn i
PART I.
The bard apostrophizes Sarzjield,
FAREWELL, O Patrick Sarsfield ! May luck
be on your path !
Your camp is broken up your work is
marred for years
But you go to kindle into flame the King of
France's wrath,
Though you leave sick Erin in tears.
Ohone! Ullagone!'
1 This word Is a corruption of the phrase Ok-ffbeoin, literal-
ly an erU noite, viz., a cry raised on the perputr-tion of MUM
bad action.
382
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
And invokes blessings on him.
May the white sun and moon . . . .rain glory
on your head,
All hero as you are, and holy Man of God !
To you the Saxons owe. . . .a many an hour
of dread
In the land you have often trod.
Ohone ! Ullasrone !
And yet more blessings.
The Son of Mary guard you, and bless you
to the end !
'Tis alter'd is the time since your legions
were astir,
When at Cullen you were hail'd as the Con-
queror and Friend,
And you cross'd the river near Birr.
Ohone ! Ullagone !
He announces his design of revisiting the
North.
I'll journey to the North, over mount, moor,
and wave.
'Twas there I first beheld, drawn up in file
and line,
The brilliant Irish hosts they were bravest
of the Brave,
But, alas ! they scorn'd to combine !
Ohone ! Ullagone !
He recounts his reminiscences of the war.
I saw the royal Boyne, when its billows
flash'd with blood.
I fought at Grana Oge, where a thousand
marcachs 1 fell.
On the dark empurpled field of Aughrim,
too, I stood,
On the plain by Shanbally's "Well.
Ohone ! Ullagone !
He gives his benison to Limerick.
To the heroes of Limerick, the City of the
Fights,
Be my best blessing borne on the wings
of the air !
We had card-playing there o'er our camp-
fires at night.
And the Word of Life, too, and prayer*
And bestows his malison on Londonderry.
But, for you, Londonderry, may Plague
smite and slay
Your people ! May Ruin . . . .desolate you
stone by stone !
Through you a many a gallant youth lies
coflvnless to-day,
With the winds for mourners alone !
Ohone ! Ullagone !
He indulges in a burst of sorrow for a lost
opportunity.
I clomb the high hill on a fair summer noon,
And saw the Saxon Muster, clad in armor
blinding bright,
Oh, Rage withheld my hand, or gunsman
and dragoon
Should have supped with Satan that night !
Ohone ! Ullagone !
PART II.
The bard mourns for the valiant Dead.
How many a noble soldier, how many a cav-
alier,
Career'd along this road .... seven fleeting
weeks ago,
With silver-hilted sword, with matchlock
and with spear,
Who now, movrone, lieth low !
Ohone ! Ullagone !
And pays a tribute to the valor of one of
the Living.
All hail to thee, Ben Hedir But ah, on thy
brow
I see a limping soldier, who battled and
who bled
Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though
now
The worthy is begging his bread !
Ohone ! Ullasrone !
' Cavaliers, or horsemen : the marcach. of the middle ages,
however, held the rank of a knight.
* I italicise those lines to invite attention to their peculiarly.
Irish character.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
383
tie deplores the loss of a friend.
And Jerome, oh Jerome ! ' he perish'd in the
strife
His head it was spiked on a halbert so high ;
His colors they were trampled. He had no
chance of life,
If the Lord God himself stood by.*
And of others, dear friends also.
Bnt most, oh, my woe ! I lament and lament
For the ten valiant heroes who dwelt nigh
the Nore,
And my three blessed brothers ! They left
me, and they went
To the wars and return'd no more !
Ohone ! Ullagone !
He reverts to the calamities of the Irish.
On the Bridge of the Boyne was our first
overthrow
By Slaney the next, for we battled with-
out rest :
The third was at Aughrim. Oh, Erin, thy
woe
Is a sword in my bleeding breast !
Ohone ! Ullagone !
He describes in vivid terms the conflagration
of the house at Ballytemple.
Oh ! the roof above our heads it was barba-
rously fired,
While the black Orange guns. . . .blazed
and bellow'd around,
And as volley follow'd volley, Colonel
Mitchell inquired
Whether Lucan' still stood his ground.
Ohone ! Ullagone !
Finally, however, he takes a more hopeful
view of the prospects of his country.
But O'Kelly still remains, to defy and to
toil;
1 One of King ,Tamc'8 generals.
1 Agut ni riabhfaghail cleasda aige da bhfatcltach te Dia
nan." This U one of those peculiarly powerful forms of ex-
II, to which I find no parallel except in the Arabic Ian-
tenant.'.
* Lord LIU-AD, i. e. General Sarsfleld.
He has memories that Hett won't perm it
him to forget,
And a sword that will make the blue blood
flow like oil
Upon many an Aughrim yet !
Ohone ! Ullagone !
And concludes most cheeringly.
And I never shall believe that my Father-
land can fall
With the Burkes and the Decies, and the
son of Royal James,
And Talbot the Captain, and SARSFIELD
above all,
The beloved of damsels and dames. 4
LAMENT
OVEI THIE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF TEACH XOLAOA.*
[Translated from the original Irish of John O'Callen, a natir*
of Cork, who died in the year 1816.]
"Oidhche dhamh go doilg, diibhach."
I WANDER'D forth at night alone,
Along the dreary, shingly, billow-beaten
shore ;
Sadness that night was in my bosom's core
My soul and strength lay prone.
The thin wan moon, half overveil'd
By clouds, shed her funereal beams upon the
scene ;
While in low tones, with many a pause be-
tween,
The mournful night-wind wail'd.
Musing of Life, and Death, and Fate,
I slowly paced along, heedless of aught
around,
Till on the hill, now, alas ! ruin-crown'd,
Lo ! the old Abbey-gate !
4 " Agvt Padraig Sairteal, gradh ban Etrionn ! " Foe
vivid account of these battles of the Williamltc ware, sei- Hit
verty's History of Ireland, Fan-ell's Illu?tr<iicil Edition, pp.
HMU.
Literally "The House of [St.] Molaga," and now cal'ari
Timoleagne.
184
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Dim in the pallid moonlight stood,
Crumbling to slow decay, the remnant of
that pile
Within which dwelt so many saints erewhile
In loving brotherhood !
The memory of the men who slept
Under those desolate walls the solitude
the hour
Mine own lorn mood of mind all join'd to
o'erpower
My spirit and I wept !
In yonder Goshen once I thought
Reign'd Piety and Peace : Virtue and Truth
were there ;
With Charity and the blessed spirit of Prayer
Was each fleet moment fraught !
There, unity of Walk and Will
Blent hundreds into one ; no jealousies or
jars
Troubled their placid lives ; their fortunate
stars
Had triumph'd o'er all 111 !
There, knoll'd each morn and even
The bell for Matin and Vesper : Mass was
said or sung.
From the bright silver censer as it swung,
Rose balsamy clouds to heaven.
Through the round-cloister'd cor-
ridors
A many a midnight hour, bareheaded and
unshod,
Walk'd the Gray Friars, beseeching from
their GOD
Peace for these western shores !
The weary pilgrim, bow'd by Age,
Oft found asylum there found welcome, and
found wine.
Oft rested in its halls the Paladine,
The Poet and the Sage !
Alas ! alas ! how dark the change !
Now round its mouldering walls, over its
pillars low,
The grass grows rank, the yellow gowans
blow,
Looking so sad and strange !
Unsightly stones choke up its wells ;
The owl hoots all night long under the altar-
stairs ;
The fox and badger make their darksome
lairs
In its deserted cells !
Tempest and Time the drifting
sands
The lightnings and the rains the seas that
sweep around
These hills in winter-nights, have awfully
crown'd
The work of impious hands !
The sheltering, smooth-stoned, mas-
sive wall
The noble figured roof the glossy marbl
piers
The monumental shapes of elder years
Where are they ? Vanish'd all !
Rite, incense, chant, prayer, mass,
have ceased
All, all have ceased ! Only the whitening
bones half sunk
In the earth now tell that ever here dwelt
monk,
Friar, acolyte, or priest.
Oh ! woe, that Wrong should triumph
thus!
Woe that the olden right, the rule and the
renown
Of the Pure-soul'd and Meek should thus
go down
Before the Tyrannous !
Where wert thou, Justice, in thai
hour ?
POEMS IJY JAMES CLARENCE MAN(;.V\.
385
Where was thy smiting sword ? What had
those good men done,
That thou shouldst tamely see them trampled
on
By brutal England's Power?
Alas, I rave ! ... .If Change is here,
Is it not o'er the land ? Is it not too in me ?
Yes ! I am changed even more than what I
see.
Now is my last goal near!
My worn limbs fail my blood moves
cold
Dimness is on mine eyes I have seen my
children die ;
They lie where I too in brief space shall lie
Under the grassy mould !
******
I turn'd away, as toward my grave,
And, all my dark way homeward by the At-
lantic's verore,
O '
Resounded in mine ears like to a diree
o
The roaring of the wave.
THE DAWNING OF THE DAY.
[The following song, translated from the Irish of O'Doran,
refers to a singular atmospherical phenomenon said to be
sometimes observed atBlackrock, near Dundalk, at daybreak,
by the fishermen of that locality. Many similar narratives arc
to be met with in the poetry of almost all countries ; but
O'Doran has endeavored to give the legend a political coloring,
of which, I apprehend, readers in general will hardly deem it
usceptible.]
" Maidin chiuin dham chois bruach na tragha."
'TwAS a balmy summer morning,
Warm and early,
Such as only June bestows ;
Everywhere the earth adorning,
Dews lay pearly
In the lily-bell and rose.
Up from each green-leafy bosk and hollow
Rose the blackbird's pleasant lay,
And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow.
Twas the Dawning of the Day !
Through the perfumed air the golden
Bees flew round me ;
Bright fish dazzled from the sea,
Till medreamt some fairy olden-
World spell bound me
In a trance of witcherio
Steeds pranced round anon witn stateliest
housing!
Bearing riders prankt in rich array,
Like flush'd revellers after wine-carousings,
'Twas the Dawning of the Day!
Then a strain of song was chanted,
And the lightly-
Floating sea-nymphs drew anear.
Then again the shore seem'd haunted
By hosts brightly
Clad, and wielding shield and spear !
Then came battle shouts an onward
rushing
Swords, and chariots, and a phantom
fray.
Then all vanish'd; the warm skies wen-
blushing
In the Dawning of the Day !
Cities girt with glorious gardens,
Whose immortal
Habitants in robes of li^ht
Stood, methought, as angel-wardens
Nigh each portal,
Now arose to daze my sight.
Eden spread around, revived and bloom-
in g;
When . . . lo ! as I gazed, nil pass'd away
... I saw but black rocks and billows loom-
ing
In the dim chill Dawn of Day !
THE DREAM OF JOHN MACDONNELL.
(TRANSLATED FHOM THE IRISH.)
[John MacDonncll, usually called MacDonnell Claragh, from
his family residence, was a native of the county of Cork, and
may be classed among the first of the purely Iri-li \>--\- of the
last century, lie was born in 1C91, and died in 1754. His
poems are remarkable for their energy, their piety of tone
and the patriotic spirit they everywhere manifest. The follow-
ing is one of them, and deserves to be regarded as a very curl-
oue topographical " Jacobltu relic. 11 ]
I LAY in unrest old thoughts of pain,
That I struggled in vain to smother,
Like midnight spectres haunted my brain;
Dark fantasies chased each other;
386
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
"When, lo ! a Figure who might it be ?
A tall fair figure stood near me !
Who might it be ? An unreal Banshee ?
Or an angel sent to cheer me ?
Though years have roll'd since then, yet
now
My memory thrillingly lingers
On her awful charms, her waxen brow,
Her pale translucent fingers,
Her eyes that mirror'd a wonder-world,
Her mien of unearthly mildness,
And her waving raven tresses that curl'd
To the ground in beautiful wildness.
O
" "Whence conies fc thou, Spirit?" I ask'd,
methougnt,
"Thou art riot one of the Banish'd?"
Alas, for me ! she answer'd nought,
But rose aloft and evanish'd ;
And a radiance, like to a glory, beam'd
In the light she left behind her.
Long time I wept, and at last medream'd
I left my shieling to find her.
And first I turn'd to the thunderous
North,
To Gruagach's mansion kingly ;
Untouching the earth, I then sped forth
To Inver-lough, and the shingly
And shining strand of the fishful Erne,
And thence to Cruachan the golden,
Of whose resplendent palace ye learn
So many a marvel olden !
I saw the Mourna's billows flow
I pass'd the walls of Shenady,
And stood in the hero-throng'd Ardroe,
Embosk'd amid greenwoods shady ;
And visited that proud pile that stands
Above the Boyne's broad waters,
Where ^Engus dwells with his warrior-
bands
And the fairest of Ulster's daughters.
To the halls of MacLir, to Creevroe's
height,
To Tara, the glory of Erin,
To the fairy palace that glances bright
On the peak of the blue Cnocfeerin,
I vainly hied. I went west and east
I travelled seaward and shoreward
But thus was I greeted at field and at
feast
" Thy way lies onward and forward !"
At last I reach'd. I wist not how,
The royal towers of Ival,
Which under the cliff's gigantic brow,
Still rise without a rival ;
And here were Thorriond's chieftains all,
With armor, and swords, and lances,
And here sweet music fill'd the hall,
And damsels charm'd with dances.
And here, at length, on a silvery throne,
Half seated, half reclining,
With forehead white as the marble stone,
And garments so starrily shining,
And features beyond the poet's pen
The sweetest, saddest features
Appear'd before me once agen,
That fairest of Living Creatures!
" Draw near, O mortal !" she said with a
sigh,
" And hear my mournful story !
The Guardian-Spirit of ERIN am I,
But dimm'd is mine ancient glory
My priests are banish'd, my warriors wear
No longer Victory's garland ;
And my Child, 1 my Son, my beloved Heir.
Is an exile in a far land ! "
I heard no more I saw no more
The bans of slumber were broken ;
And palace and hero, and river and shore,
Had vanish'd, and left no token.
Dissolved was the spell that had bound
my will
And my fancy thus for a season ;
But a sorrow therefore hangs o'er me still,
Despite of the teachings of Reason !
> Charles Stuart.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK.
387
THE SORROWS OF INNISFAIL.
(FROM THE IRISH OF GEOFFRET KEATING.)
" Om tgeel air ard-mhagh Fail ni chodlann oldhche."
TII BOUGH the long drear night I lie awake,
for the sorrows of Innisfail.
My bleeding heart is ready to break ; I can-
not but weep and wail.
Oh, shame and grief and wonder! her sons
crouch lowly under
The footstool of the paltriest foe
That ever yet hath wrought them woe !
How long, O Mother of Light and Song, how
long will they fail to see
That men must be bold, no less than strong,
if they truly will to be free ?
They sit but in silent sadness, while wrongs
that should rouse them to madness,
Wrongs that might wake the very Dead,
Are piled on thy devoted head !
Thy castles, thy towers, thy palaces proud,
thy stately mansions all,
Are held by the knaves who cross'd the waves
to lord it in Brian's hall.
Britannia, alas ! is portress in Cobhthach's
Golden Fortress,
And Ulster's and Momonia's lands
Are in the Robber-stranger's hands.
The tribe of Eogan is worn with woe ; the
O'Donnel reigns no more ;
O'Neill's remains lie mouldering low, on
Italy's far-off shore ;
And the youths of the Pleasant Valley are
scatter'd and cannot rally,
While foreign Despotism unfurls
Tts flag 'mid hordes of base-born churls.
'1 he chieftains of Naas were valorous lords,
but their valor was c-rushM by Craft
They fell beneath Envy's butcherly dagger,
and Calumny's poison'd shaft.
A few of their mighty legions yet languish
in alien regions,
But most of them, the Frank, the Free,
Were slain through Saxon perfidie!
Oh ! lived the Princes of Ainy's plains, and
the heroes of green Domgole,
And the chiefs of the Mauige, we still might
hope to baffle our doom and dole.
Well then might the dastards shiver who
herd by the blue Bride river,
But ah ! those great and glorious men
Shall draw no glaive on Earth agen !
All-powerful GOD ! look down on the tribes
who mourn throughout the land,
And raise them some deliverer up, of a strong
and smiting hand !
Oh ! suffer them not to perish, the race Tho
wert wont to cherish,
But soon avenge their fathers' graves,
And burst the bonds that keep them slavesi
THE TESTAMENT OF CATHAEIR MOR.
[One of the most interesting archaeological relics connected
wkh Irish literature is unquestionably the Testament of Cath-
aeir Mor, King of Ireland in the second century. (Haverty>
History of Ireland, Farrell's Illustrated Edition, p. 37-9.) It
is a document whose general authenticity is established l>e-
yond question, though some doubt exists as to whether it was
originally penned in the precise form in which it has come
down to modern times. Mention of it is made by many writers
on Irish history, and among others, by O'Flaherty in his
Ogygia (Part III., c. 59). But in'the LEABHAK NA O-CEAKT,
or, The Book of Rights, now for the first time edited, with
Translation and notes, by Mr. O'Donovan, for the CKLTIC SO-
CIETY, we have it entire. The learned editor is of opinion
that " it was drawn up in its present form some centuries
after the death of Cathaeir Mor. when the race of his more
illustrious sous had definite territories in Leinster." Be the
fact as it may, the document is certainly one of those charac-
teristic remains of an earlier age which most markedly bear
tho stamp of the peculiarities that distinguish native Irish
literary productions.]
3otrobnction.
HERE is THE WILL OF CATHAEIR M6&,
GOD REST HIM.
AMONG his heirs he divided his store,
His treasures and lands,
And, first, laying hands
On his son Ross Faly, he bless'd him.
"fUn Sovereign JJoujcr, my nobleness,
My wealth, my strength to curse and blt-aa,
My royal privilege of protection,
I leave to the son of my best affection,
Ross FALY, Ross of the Rii
Worthy descendant of Ireland's Kings .
To serve as memorials of succession
S88
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAX.
For all who yet shall claim their possession
In after ages.
Clement and noble and bold
Is Ross, my son.
Then, let him not hoard up silver and gold,
But give unto all fair measure of wages.
Victorious in battle lie ever hath been;
He therefore shall yield the green
And glorious plains of Tara to none,
No, not to his brothers !
Yet these shall he aid
When attack'd or bctray'd.
This blessing of mine shall outlast the tomb,
O '
And live till the Day of Doom,
Telling and telling daily,
And a prosperous man beyond all others
Shall prove Ross Faly !"
Then he gave him ten shields, and ten rings,
and ten swords,
Aud ten drinking-horns ; and he spake him
those words.
"Brightly shall shine the glory,
Ross, of thy sons and heirs,
Never shall flourish in story
Such heroes as they and theirs !"
Then, laying his royal hand on the head
<Df his good son, DARBY/ he bless'd him
and said :
" XHj} valor, my daring, my mar-
tial courage,
My skill in the tield, I leave to DAREY,
That lie be a guiding Torch and starry
Light and Lamp to the hosts of our age.
A hero to sway, to lead and command,
Shall be every son of his tribes in the
land !
O, DARRY, with boldness and power
Sit thou on the frontier of Tuath Lann,*
And ravage the lands of Deas Ghower.*
Accept no gifts for thy protection
From woman or man.
So shall heaven assuredly bless
Thy many daughters with fruitfulness,
And none shall stand above thee,
For I, thy sire, who love thee
With deep and warm affection,
I prophesy imto thee all success
Over the green battalions
Of the redoubtable Galions." 4
And he gave him, thereon, as memorials and
meeds,
Eight bondsmen, eight handmaids, eight
cups, and eight steeds.
THE noble Monarch of Erin's men
Spake thus to the young Prince Brassal,
then :
"illi) Sea, with all its wealth ot
streams,
I leave to my sweetly-speaking BRASSAL,
To serve and to succor him as a vassal
And the lands whereon the bright sun
beams
Around the waves of Amero-in's Bav*
O
As parcell'd out in the ancient day :
By free men through a long, long time
Shall this thy heritage be enjoy'd
But the chieftaincy shall at last be
destroy'd,
Because of a Prince's crime.
And though others again shall regain it,
Yet Heaven shall not bless it,
For power shall oppress it,
And Weakness and Baseness shall stain
it!"
And he gave him six ships, and six steeds,
and six shields,
Six mantles and six coats of steel
And the six royal oxen that wrought in his
fields,
These gave he to Brassel the Prince for
his weal.
THEN to Catach he spake :
" illn borbcr lanbs
Thou, CATACH, shalt take,
But ere long they shall pass from thy hands,
And by thee shall none
Be ever begotten, daughter or son !"
BarracJi,. Haverty's Ireland (Farrell's edition),
1 Tuath Laighean, viz. North Leinster.
* Dtas Ghabhair, viz. South Leinster.
4 GaUians, an ancient designation, according to O'Dono
van, of the Laighnigh or Leinstermen.
* Inbhear Aimherghin, originally the estuary of the Black
water, and so called from Aimherghin, one of the sons of Mi
leBius, to whom it was apportioned by lot.
POEMS J5V JAMES CLARENCE MAXOAX.
QTo fcurghns tuascnn spake IK- thus:
"Thou FEAIKJIIirs, also, art one of us,
But over-simple in all thy ways,
And babblest much of thy childish days.
For thee have I nought, but if lands may be
bought
Or won hereafter by sword or lance,
Of those, perchance,
I may leave thee a part,
All simple babbler and boy as thou art !"
Youxr, Fearghus, there-fore, was left be-
reaven,
And thus the Monarch spake to CKKEVEN
" o mn bom'sl) hero, my gentle CKKEVEN,
Who loveth in Summer, at morn and even,
To snare the songful birds of the field,
But shunneth to look on spear and shield,
I have little to give of all that I share.
His fame shall fail, his battles be rare.
And of all the Kings that shall wear his
crown
But one alone shall win renown." '
And he gave him six cloaks, and six cups,
and seven steeds,
And six harness'd oxen, all fresh from the
meads.
BUT on Aenghus Nic, a younger child,
Begotten in crime and born in woe,
The father frown'd, as on one defiled,
And with louring brow he spake him so :
" (Eo Nic, my son, that base-born youth,
Shall nought be given of land or gold ;
He may be great, and good, and bold,
But his birth is an agony all untold,
Which gnaweth him like a serpent's tooth.
I am no donor
To him or his race
His birth was dishonor;
His life is disgrace !"
AND thus he spake to EOCHY TIMIX,
Deeming him tit but to herd with women :
" tDeak son of mine, thou shalt not gain
Waste or water, valley or plain.
1 The text adds : i. e. Colam mac Criomfithainn ; but O'Don-
n conjectnreH that thin is a mere scholium of some scribe.
From thee shall none descend save craven?,
Sons of sluggish sires and mothers,
Who shall live and die,
But give no corpses to the ravens !
Mine ill thought and mine evil eye*
On thee beyond thy brothers
Shall ever, ever lie !"
AXD to Oilioll Cadach his words were th
" CD (Dilioll, great in coming years
Shall be thy fame among friends and foes
As the first of llrity/Htid/ts' and Hospita-
llers !
But neither noble nor warlike
Shall show thy renownless dwelling ;
Nevertheless
Thou shalt daxxle at chess,
Therein supremely excelling
And shining like somewhat starlike !"
And his chess-board, therefore, and chess-
men eke,
He gave to Oilioll Cadach the Meek.
Now Fiacha, youngest son was he,
Stood up by the bed. . . .of his father,
who said,
The while, caressing
Him tenderly :
" My son ! I have only for thee my blessing,
And nought beside
Hadst best abide
With thy brothers a time, as thine years are
r
Then Fiacha wept, with a sorrowful mien;
So, Cathaeir spake, to encourage him
g*ttf,
With cheerful speech
" Abide one month with thy brethren each,
And aeven years long with my son, Ross I"
Do this, and thy sire, in sincerity,
Prophesies unto thee fame and pron-
perity."
A \i> further he spake, as on inspired :
" A Chieftain nourishing, feared and admired,
Shall Fiacha prove !
* In the original "Mo fair tl i
weakness, my curee."
1'ubllc victuallers.
Uu-rmlly, " My
390
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
The gifted Man from the boiling Berve. 1
Him shall his brothers' clansmen serve.
His forts shall be Aillin and proud Almain,
He shall reign in Carman and Allen ; *
The highest renown shall his palaces gain
When others have crumbled and fallen.
His power shall broaden and lengthen,
And never know damage or loss ;
The impregnable Naas he shall strengthen,
And govern in Ailbhe and Arriged Ross.
Yes ! O Fiacha, Foe of strangers,
This shall be thy lot !
And thou shalt pilot
LaJhrann and Leeven ' with steady and even
Heart and arm through storm and dangers !
O O
Overthrown by thy mighty hand
Shall the Lords of Tara lie.
And Taillte's 4 fair, the first in the land,
Thou, son, shalt magnify ;
And many a country thou yet shalt bring
TQ own thy rule as Ceann and King.
The blessing I give thee shall rest
On thee and thy seed
While Time shall endure,
Thou grandson of Fiacha the Blest !
It is barely thy meed,
For thy soul is childlike and pure !"
Here ends the Will of Cathaeir Mor, who was
Kjng of Ireland.
RURY AND DARVORGILLA.
(FROM THE IRISH.)
[Ruaghrt, Prince of Oriel, after an absence of two days and
nights from his own territories on a hunting expedition, sud-
denly recollect* that he has forgotten his wedding-day. He
despairs of forgiveness from the bride whom he appears to
have slighted. Dearbhorgilla, daughter of Prince Cairtre, but
would scorn her too much to wed her if she could forgive him.
He accordingly prepares for battle with her and her father, but
unfortunately intrusts the command of his forces to one of his
most aged Ceanns or Captains. He is probably incited to the
selection of this chieftain by a wish to avoid provoking hostili-
ties, which, however, if they occur, he will meet by defiance
and conflict ; but his choice proves to have been a fatal one.
His Ceann is seized with a strange feeling of fear in the midst
of the fray ; and this, being communicated to his troops, en-
larges into a panic, and Ruaghri's followers are slaughtered.
Ruaghri himself arrives next day on the battle-plain, and, per-
ceiving the result of the contest, stabs himself to the heart.
Dearbhorgilia witnesses this sad catastrophe from a distance,
1 Bearblia, viz., the river Barrow.
The localities mentioned here were chiefly residences of
the ancient kings of Leinster.
* Forts upon the eastern coasts of Ireland.
4 TeuUte, now Teltown, a village between Kella and Navan
and, rushing toward the scene of it, clasps her lover in hei
arms ; but her stern father, following, tears her away from the
bleeding corpse, and has her cast in his wrath, it is supposed,
into one of the dungeons of his castle. But of her fate nothing
certain is known afterward ; though, from subsequent cir-
cumstances, it is conjectured than she perished, the victim of
her lover's thoughtlessness and her father's tyranny.]
KNOW ye the tale of the Prince of Oriel,
Of Rury, last of his line of kings ?
I pen it here as a sad memorial
Of how much woe reckless folly brings.
Of a time that Rury rode woodwards, clothed
In silk and gold on a hunting chase,
He thought like thunder 6 on his betroth'd,
And with clinch'd hand he smote his face.
" Foreer f* Mobhron!" Princess Darvonnlla !
O
Forgive she will not a slight like this;
But could she, dared she, I should be still a
Base wretch to wed her for heaven's best
bliss !
" Foreer ! Foreer ! Princess Darvorgilla !
She has four hundred young bowmen bold [
But I I love her, and would not spill a
Drop of their blood for ten torques' of gold.
" Still, woe to all who provoke to slaughter !
I count as nought, weigh'd with fame like
mine,
The birth and beauty of Cairtre's daughter ;
So, judge the sword between line and line !
" Thou, therefore, Calbhach," go call a mus-
ter,
And wind the bugle by fort and dun !
When stain shall tarnish our house's lustre,
Then sets in darkness the noon-day sun !"
But Calbhach answer'd, " Light need to do
so !
Behold the noblest of hero's here !
What foe confronts us, I reck not whoso,
Shall fly before us like hunted deer !"
*H-saoilse mar teoirneacfi; bethought like thunder; i. t
the thought came on him like a thunderbolt.
Alas !
T Pronounced Mo vrone, and means My grief 1
8 Royal neck-ornaments.
Calbhach, proper name of a man. derived from Calb,
bald-pated.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Spake liury then : " Calbhach, as thou
wiliest !
But see, old man, there be brief delay
For this chill parle is of all things dullest,
And my fleet courser must now away !
" Yet, though thou march with thy legions
townwards,
Well arm'd for ambush or treacherous
fray,
Still show they point their bare weapons
downwards,
As those of warriors averse to slay !"
Now, when the clansmen were arm'd and
mounted,
The aged Calbhach gave way to fears ;
For, foot and horseman, they barely counted
A hundred cross-bows and forty spears.
And thus exclaim'd he : " My soul is shaken !
We die the death, not of men but slaves ;
We sleep the sleep from which none awaken,
And scorn shall point at our tombless
graves ! "
Then out sp^ke Fergal : " A charge so
weighty
As this, O Rury, thou shouldst not throw
On a drivelling dotard of eight-and-eighty,
Whose arm is nerveless for spear or
bow ! "
But Rury answer'd : " Away ! To-morrow
Myself will stand in Traghvally 1 town ;
But, come what may come, this day I bor-
row
To hunt through Glafna the brown deer
down !'
So, through the nignt, unto gray Traghvally,
The feeble Ceann led his hosts along ;
But, faint and heart-sore, they could not rally,
So deeply Rury had wrought them wrong.
Now, when the Princess beheld advancing
Her lover's troops with their arms re-
versed,
In lieu of broadswords and chargers prancing,
She felt her heart's hopes were dead and
hearsed.
> Dnndalk.
And on her knees to her ireful father
She pray'd : " O father, let this pass by ;
War not against the brave Rury ! Rather
Pierce this fond bosom and let me die !"
But Cairtre rose in volcanic fury,
And so he spake : " By the might of God ;
1 hold no terms with this craven Rury
Till he or I lie below the sod !
"Thou shameless child! Thou, alike un-
worthy
Of him, thy father, who speaks thee thus,
And her, my Mhearb,* who in sorrow bore
thee;
Wilt thou dishonor thyself and us ?
" Behold ! I march with my serried bowmen
Four hundred thine and a thousand
mine ;
I march to crush these degraded foemen
Who gorge the ravens ere day decline !"
Meet now both armies in mortal struggle,
The spears are shiver'd, the javelins fly
But, what strange terror, what mental juggle,
Be those that speak out of Calbhach's eye ?
It is it must be, some spell Satanic,
That masters him and his gallant host.
Woe, woe the day ! An inglorious panic
O'erpowers the legions and all is lost !
Woe, woe that day, and -that hour of car
nage!
Too well they witness to Fergal's truth !
Too well in bloodiest appeal they warn Age
Not lightly thus to match swords with
Youth !
When Rury reach'd, in the red of morning,
The battle-ground, it was he who felt
The dreadful weight of this ghastly warning,
And what a blow had o'ernight been dealt 1
So, glancing round him, and sadly groaning,
He pierced his breast with his noble blade ;
Thus all too mournfully mis-atoning
For that black ruin his word had made.
Martha.
392
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
But hear ye further ! When Cairtre's daugh-
ter
Saw what a fate had o'erta'en her Brave,
Her eyes became as twin founts of water,
Her heart again as a darker grave.
Clasp now thy lover, unhappy maiden !
But, see ! thy sire tears thine arms away !
And in a dungeon, all anguish laden,
Shalt thou be cast ere the shut of day.
But what shall be in the sad years coming
Thy doom ? I know not, but guess too well
That sunlight never shall trace thee roaming
Ayond the gloom of thy sunken cell !
This is the tale of the Prince of Oriel
And Darvorgilla, both sprung of Kings !
I trace it here as a dark memorial
Of how much woe thoughtless folly brings.
THE EXPEDITION AND DEATH OF KING
DATHY. 1
(FROM THE iiusn.)
KING DATHY assembled his Druids and Sages,
And thus he spake them : " Druids and Sages !
What of king Dathy ?
What is revcal'd in Destiny's pages
Of him or his ? Hath he
Aught for the Future to dread or to dree ?
Good to rejoice in, or Evil to flee ?
Is he a foe of the Gall
Fitted to conquer or fated to fall ?"
And Beirdra, the Druid, made answer as thus :
A priest of a hundred years was he
" Dathy ! thy fate is not hidden from us !
Hear it through me !
Thou shalt work thine own will !
Thou shalt slay thou shalt prey
And be conqueror still !
Thee the Earth shall not harm !
Thee we charter and charm
From all evil and ill ;
Thee the laurel shall crown !
Thee the wave shall not drown !
1 As to this expedition of Dathy, see Haverty's History of
rcland, Farrell's Edition, p. 45.
Thee the chain shall not bind !
Thee the spear shall not find !
Thee the sword shall not slay !
Thee the shaft shall not pierce
Thou, therefore, be fearless and fierce,
And sail with thy warriors away
To the lands of the Gall,
There to slaughter and sway,
And be Victor o'er all !"
So Dathy he sail'd away, away,
Over the deep resounding sen ;
Sail'd with his hosts in armor gray
Over the deep resounding sea,
Many a night and many a day ;
And many an islet conquer'J lie
He and his hosts in armor gray.
And the billow drown'd him not,
And a fetter bound him not, .
And the blue spear found him not,
And the red sword slew him not,
And the swift shaft knew him not,
And the foe o'erthrew aim not.
Till one bright morn, at the base
Of the Alps, in rich Ausonia's regions,
His men stood marshall'd face to face
With the mighty Roman legions.
Noble foes !
Christian and Heathen stood there among
those,
Resolute all to overcome,
Or die for the Eagles of Ancient Rome !
When behold from a temple anear
Came forth an aged priest-like man,
Of a countenance meek and clear,
Who, turning to Eire's Ceann, 4
Spake him as thus : " King Dathy, hear !
Thee would I warn !
Retreat ! retire ! Repent in time
The invader's crime.
Or better for thee thou hadst never beea
born !"
But Dathy replied: "False Nazarene!
Dost thou, then, menace Dathy, thou ?
And dreamest thou that he will bow
To one unknown, to one so mean,
So powerless as a priest must be ?
He scorns alike thy threats and thee !
On ! on," my men, to victory !"
* Ceann Head, King.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAX.
393
Ana -vith loud shouts for Eire's King,
The Irish rush to meet the foe,
And faicnions clash and bucklers ring
When, lo !
Lo ! a mightv earthquake's shock !
And the cleft plains reel and rock ;
Clouds of darkness pall the skies;
Thunder crashes,
Lightning flashes,
And in an instant Dathy lies
On the earth a mass of blacken'd ashes !
Then mournfully and dolefully,
The Irish warriors sail'd away
Over the deep resounding sea,
Till, wearily and mournfully,
They anchor'd in Eblana's Bay.
Thus the Seanachies ' and Sages,
Tell this tale of long-gone ages.
PRINCE ALDFRID'S ITINERARY
THROUGH IRELAND.
(FROM THE IRISH.)
[Amongst the Anglo-Saxon students resorting to Ireland,
was Prince Aldfrid, afterward King of the Northumbrian
Saxons. His having been educated there about tho year ti84,
is corroborated by venerable Bcde in his " Life of St. Cuth-
bert." The o^ginal poem, of which this is a translation, at-
tributed to Alafrid, is still extant in the Irish language.]
I FOUND in Innisfail the fair,
In Ireland, while in exile there,
Women of worth, both grave and gay men,
Many clerics and many laymen.
I travell'd its fruitful provinces round,
And in every one of the five * I found,
Alike in church and in palace hall,
Abundant apparel, and food for all.
Gold and silver I found, and money,
Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey ;
I found God's people rich in pity,
Found many a feast and many a city.
I also found in Armagh, the splendid,
Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended,
Fasting, as Christ hath recommended,
And noble councillors untranscended.
1 Scanachies historians.
1 Yhe two Meaths then formed a dlminct province.
found in each great church moreo'er,
Whether on island or on shore,
Piety, learning, fond affection,
Holy welcome and kind protection.
I found the good lay monks and brothers
Ever beseeching help for others,
And in their keeping the holy word
Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord.
I found in Munster unfetterM of any,
Kings and queens, and poets a many
Poets well skill'd in music and measure,
Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.
I found in Connaught the just, redundance
Of riches, milk in lavish abundance ;
Hospitality, vigor, fame,
In Cruachan's ' land of heroic name.
I found in the country of Connall* the glorious
Bravest heroes, ever victorious ;
Fair-complexion'd men and warlike,
Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike !
I found in Ulster, from hill to glen,
Hardy warriors, resolute men ;
Beauty that bloom'd when youth was gone,
And strength transmitted from sire to son.
I found in the noble district of Boyle
(MS. here illegible.)
Brehon's,* Erenachs, weapons bright,
And horsemen bold and sudden in fight,
I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek,
From Dublin to Slewmargy's * peak ;
Flourishing pastures, valor, health,
Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth.
I found besides, from Ara to GU n,
In the broad rich country of Ossorie,
Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each,
Great chess-players, men of truthful speech.
* Cmachan, or Croghan, was the name of the royal palace of
Connaughl.
* Tyrconnull, the present Donegal.
Brehon a law Judge ; Erenach a ruler, an archdeacon.
Slowmargy, a mountain in the Queen'i county, near tn
river Barrow.
394
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
I found in Meath's fair principality,
Virtue, vigor, and hospitality ;
Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity,
Ireland's bulwark and security.
I found strict morals in age and youth,
I found historians recording truth ;
The things I sing of in verse unsmooth,
I found them all I have written sooth. 1
KINKORA.
(FROM THE IRISH.)
[This poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet MacLiag, the
*ecretary of the renowned monarch Brian Bora, who, as is well
known, fell at the battle of Clontarf, in 1014, and the subject
of it is a lamentation for the fallen condition of Kinkora, the
palace of that monarch, consequent on his death. The de-
cease of MacLiag is recorded in the "Annals of the Four Mas-
ters," as having taken place in 1015. A great number of his
poems are still in existence, but none of them have obtained
a popularity so widely extended as his " Lament." Kinkora
(Ceann Coradh, i. e., Head of the Weir) was situated on the
bank of the Shannon : its site is occupied by the present town
of Killaloe, but no vestiges remain of the fortress and palace
of Brian. (See Elaverty's History of Ireland, Parrell's Edition,
p. 132.)
OH, where, Kinkora ! is Brian the Great ?
And where is the beauty that once was
thine ?
Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate
At the feast in thy halls, and drank the
red wine !
Where, O Kinkora ?
Oh, where, Kinkora! are thy valorous lords?
Oh, whither, thou Hospitable ! are they
gone ?
Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the golden
swords ? "
And where are the warrioi's Brian led on ?
Where, O Kinkora ?
And where is Morrogh, the descendant of
kings ;
The defeater of a hundred the daringly
brave
1 " Bede assures us that the Irish were a harmless and friend-
ly people. To them many of the Angles had been accustomed
to resort in search of knowledge, and on all occasions had
been received kindly and supported gratuitously. Aldfrid
lived in spontaneous exile among the Scots (Irish) through his
desire of knowledge, and was called to the throne of North-
umbria, after the decease of his brother Egfrid, in 685." Lin
fqrcf* England, vol. 1, chap. iii.
^ Colg n-or, or the swords of Gold i. e. of the Oold-hilted
Swords.
Who set but slight store by jewels and rings
Who swam down the torrent and laugh'd
at its wave ?
Where, Kinkora ?
And where is Don'ogh, King Brian's worthy
son ?
And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief?
And Kian and Core ? Alas ! they are gone ;
They have left me this night alone with
my grief!
Left me, Kinkora !
And where are the chiefs with whom Brian
went forth,
The never-vanquish'd sons of Erin the
brave,
The great King of Onaght, renown'd for his
worth,
And the hosts of Baskinn from the western
wave?
Where, O Kinkora?
Oh, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed
Steeds ?
And where is Kian,who was son of Molloy ?
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of
whose deeds
In the red battle-field no time can destroy ?
Where, O Kir.kora?
And where is that youth of majestic height,
The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots ?
Even he,
As wide as his fame was, as great as was his
might,
Was tributary, O Kinkora, to thee !
Thee, O Kinkora !
They are gone, those heroes of royal birth,
Who plunder' d no churches, and broke
no trust ;
'Tis weary for me to be living on earth,
When they, O Kinkora, lie low in the dust !
Low, O Kinkora !
Oh, never again will Princes appear,
To rival the Dalcassians 8 of the Cleaving
Swords ;
1 JThe Dalcassians were Brian's body-guard.
KING BRIAN' BEFORE THE BATTLE OF CLONTARF
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
395
I can never dream of meeting afar or anear,
In the east or the west, such heroes and
lords !
Never, Einkora !
Oh, dear are the images my memory calls up
Of Brian Boru ! how he never would miss
To give me, at the banquet, the first bright
cup !
Ah ! why did he heap on me honor like
this?
Why, O Kinkora?
I am MacLiag, and my home is on the Lake :
Thither often, to that palace whose beauty
is fled,
Came Brian, to ask me, and I went for his
sake :
Oh, my grief! that I should live, and Brian
be dead !
Dead, O Kinkora !
LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE
AND TYRCONNELL.
(FKOM THE IHISH.)
[This is an Elegy on the death of the princes of Tyrone and
Tyrconnell, who having fled with others from Ireland in the
year 1607, and afterward dying at Home (O'Donnell in 1608,
O'Neill In 1616. Haverty's Ireland. Fan-ell's Edition, p. 459),
were interred on St. Peter'? Hill, in one grave. The poem is
Ihe production of O'Donnell's bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird,
or Ward, who accompanied the family in their exile, and is ad-
dressed to Nuala, O'Donnell's sinter, who was also one of the
fugitives. As the circumstances connected with the flight of
the Northern Earls, which led to the subsequent confiscation
of the six Ulster Counties by James I., may not be immediate-
ly in the recollection of many of our readers, it may be proper
briefly to state, that it was caused by the discovery of a letter
directed to Sir William Ussher, Clerk of the Council, dropped
in the Council-chamber on the 7th of May. and which accused
the Northern chieftains generally of a conspiracy to overthrow
the government. The charge is now totally disbelieved. As
an Illustration of the poem, and as an interesting piece of
hitherto unpublished literature In itself, we extract the ac-
count of the flight as recorded in the Annals of the Four Mas-
ters, and translated by Mr. O'Dnnovan : " Magulre (Cucon-
nanght) and Donogh, son of Mahon, who was son of the Bishop
O'Brien, sailed in a ship to Ireland, and put in at the harbor
ofSwilly. They then took with! hem from Ireland She Earl
O'Neill (Ilngh, son of Fedoragh) and the Earl O'Domirll (Rory,
son of Hugh, who was son of Magnus) and many others of the
cobles of the province of Ulster. These are the persons who
went with O'Neill, namely, his Connies*, Catherina, daughter
ef Magennls, and her three sons : Hugh, the Baron, John, and
Brian ; Art Oge, son of Cormac, who was son of the Baron ;
Ferdoragh, son of Con, who wan son of O'Neill: Hugh Oo,
son of Brian, who was son of Art O'Neill ; and many others of
his most intimate friends. These were they who went with
the Earl O'Donnell. namely, Caflcr, hi* brother, with hi* sister
Nuala ; Ilngh, the Earl's child, wanting three weeks of being
one year old ; Rose, daughter of O'Doherty and wife of Caffcr,
with her son Hugh, aged two years and three months ; hit
(Rory's) brother's son Donnell Oge, con of Dounel, Naghtan.
son of Calvach, who was son of Donogh Calrhrcach O'Donnell,
and many others of his intimate friends. They embarked on
the festival of the Holy Cross In autumn. This was a dlstin
gufshcd company; and it is certain that the sea has not borne
and the wind has not wafted in modern times a number of per-
sons in one ship more eminent, illustrious, or noble in point
of genealogy, heroic deed.*, valor, feats of arms, and brave
achievements than they. Would that God had but permitted
them to remain In their patrimonial Inheritances until the chil-
dren should arrive at the age of manhood I Woe to the heart
that meditated, woe to the mind that conceived, woe to the
council that recommended the project of this expedition, with-
out knowing whether they should, to the end of their lives, be
able to return to their native principalities or patrimonies."
The Earl of Tyrone was the illustrious Hugh O'Neill, the Irish
leader in the wars against Elizabeth.]
O WOMAN of the Piercing Wail,
Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay
With sigh and groan,
Would God thou wert among the Gael !
Thou wouldst not then from day to day
Weep thus alone.
'Twere long before, around a grave
In green Tirconnell, one could find
This loneliness;
Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined
Compauionless.
Beside the wave, in Donegal,
In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
Or Killillee,
Or where the sunny waters fall,
At Assaroe, near Erna's shore,
This could not be.
On Derry's plains in rich Drumclieff
Throughout Armagh the Great, renown'd
O ^
In olden years,
No day could pass but woman's grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground
Fresh floods of tears !
Oh, no ! from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
From high Dunluce's castle-walls,
From Lissadill,
Would flock alike both rich and poor.
One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls
To Tara's hill ;
And some would come from Barrow-side,
890
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
And many a maid would leave her home
On Leitrim's plains,
And by melodious Banna's tide,
And by the Mourne and Erne, to come
And swell thy strains !
Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down
The Mount whereon the martyr-saint *
Was crucified.
From glen and hill, from plain and town,
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,
Would echo wide.
There would not soon be found, I ween,
One foot of ground among those bands,
For museful thought,
So many shriekers of the keen 2
Would cry aloud, and clap their hands,
All woe-distraught !
Two princes of the line of Conn
Sleep in their cells of clay beside
O'Donnell Roe:
Three royal youths, alas ! are gone,
Who lived for Erin's weal, but died
For Erin's woe !
Ah ! could the men of Ireland read
The names these noteless burial-stones
Display to view,
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,
Their tears gush forth again, their groans
Resound anew !
The youths whose relics moulder here
Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince
and Lord
Of Aileach's lands ;
Thy noble brothers, jxistly dear,
Thy nephew, long to be deplored
By Ulster's bands.
Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time
Could domicile Decay or house
Decrepitude !
They pass'd from Earth ere Manhood's prime,
Ere years had power to dim their brows
Or chill their blood.
And who can marvel o'er thy grief,
Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
That knows their source ?
O'Donnell, Dtmnasava's chief,
Cut off amid his vernal years,
Lies here a corse
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns
In deep despair
For valor, truth, and comely bloom,
For all that greatens and adorns,
A peerless pair.
Oh, had these twain, and he, the third,
The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son,
Their mate in death
A prince in look, in deed and word
Had these three heroes yielded on
The field their breath,
Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,
There would not be a town or clan
From shore to sea,
But would with shrieks bewail the Slain,
Or chant aloud the exulting rann*
Of jubilee !
| When high the shout of battle rose,
On fields where Freedom's torch still
burn'd
Through Erin's gloom,
If one, if barely one of those
Were slain, all Ulster would have mourn'd
The hero's doom !
If at Athboy, where hosts of brave
Ulidian horsemen sank beneath
The shock of spears,
Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave,
Long must the north have wept his death
With heart-wrung tears !
1 St. Peter. This passage is not exactly a blunder, though
at first it may seem one ; the poet supposes the grave itself
transferred to Ireland, and he naturally includes in the trans-
ference the whole of the immediate locality around the grave.
TK.
3 Keen or Caoine, the funeral -wail.
If on the day of Ballachmyre
The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young,
A warrior's fate,
In vain would such as thou desire
To mourn, alone, the champion sprung
From Niall the Great !
No marvel this for all the Dead,
Ileap'd on the field, pile over pile,
At Mullach-brack,
Song.
POEMS IIY JAMES CLARENCE MAX<;.\N.
397
VvVre scarce an eric 1 for his liead,
If Death had stay'd his footsteps while
On victory's track !
If on the Day of Hostages
The fruit had from the parent bough
Been rudely torn
In sight of Minister's bands MacNee's
Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,
Could ill have borne.
If on the day of Balloch-boy,
Some arm had lain, by foul surprise,
The chieftain low,
Even our victorious shout of joy
Would soon give place to rueful cries
And groans of woe !
If on the day the Saxon host
Were forced to fly a day so great
For Ashanee 8
The Chief had been untimely lost,
Our conquering troops should moderate
Their mirthful glee.
There would not lack on Lifford's day,
From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,
From Limerick's towers,
A marshall'd file, a long array,
Of mourners to bedew the soil
With tears in showers !
[f on the day a sterner fate
Compell'd his flight from Athenree,
His blood had flow'd,
What numbers all disconsolate
Would come unask'd, and share with thee
Affliction's load !
If Derry's crimson field had seen
His life-blood ofler'd up, though 'twere
On Victory's shrine,
A thousand cries would swell the keen,
A thousand voices of despair
Would echo thine !
Oh, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm
That bloody night on Fergus' banks
But slain our Chief,
When rose his camp in wild alarm
How would the triumph of his ranks
Be dash'd with grief !
flow would the troops of Murbach mourn
1 A compensation or flue.
* Ballychannon.
If on the Curl<-w Mountain?*' day,
Which England rued,
Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,
By shedding there, amid the fray,
Their prince's blood !
Red would have been our warriors' eyes
Had Roderick found on Sligo's field
A gory grave,
No Northern Chief would soon arise
So sage to guide, so strong to shield,
So swift to save.
Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugb
Had met the death he oft had dealt
Among the foe ;
But, had our Roderick fallen too,
All Erin must, alas ! have felt
The deadly blow !
What do I say ? Ah, woe is me !
Already we bewail in vain
Their fatal fall !
And Erin, once the Great and Free,
Now vainly mourns her breakless chaiu
And iron thrall !
Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry
Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
Thy heart aside,
For Adam's race is born to die,
And sternly the sepulchral urn
Mocks human pride !
Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,
Nor place thy trust in arm of clay,
But on thy knees
Uplift thy soul to GOD alone,
For all things go their destined way
As He decrees.
Embrace the faithful Crucifix,
And seek the path of pain and prayer
Thy Saviour trod ;
Nor let thy spirit intermix
With earthly hope and worldly care
Its groans to GOD !
And Thou, O mighty Lord ! whose ways
Arc far above our feeble minds
To understand,
Sustain us in these doleful days,
And render light the chain that binds
Our fallen land !
898
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Look down upon our dreary state,
And through the ages that may still
Roll sadly on,
Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
And shield at least from darker ill
The blood of Conn !
' The Saturday before the flight, the Earl of Tyrone was
with the lord-deputy at Slane. where he had spoken with his
lordship of his journey into ERgland, and told him he would
be there about the beginning of Michaelmas term, according
to his majesty's directions. He took leave of the lord-deputy
in a more sad and passionate manner than was usual with
him. From thence he went to Mellifont and Garret Moore's
house, wheie he wept abundantly when he took his leave, giv-
ing a solemn farewell to every child and every servant in the
house, which made them all marvel, because in general it was
not his manner to use such compliments. On Monday he
went to Dungarvan, where he rested two whole days, and on
Wednesday night, they say he travelled all night. It is like-
wise reported that the countess, his wife, being exceedingly
weary, slipped down from her horse, and weeping, said, ' She
could go no further.' Whereupon the earl drew his sword,
and swore a great oath that ' he would kill her on the spot if
she would not pass on with him, and put on a more cheerful
countenance.' When the party, which consisted (men, wo-
men, and children) of fifty or sixty persons, arrived at Loch
Foyle, it was found that their journey had not been so secret
but that the governor there had notice of it, and sent to invite
Tyrone and his son to dinner. Their haste, however, was
such that they accepted not his courtesy, but hastened on to
Rathmulla, a town on the west side of Lough Swilly, where
the Earl Tyrconnell and his company met with them. From
thence the whole party embarked, and, landing on the coast
of Normandy, proceeded through France to Brussels. Davies
concludes his curious narrative with a few pregnant words,
in which the difficulties that England had to contend with in
conquering Tyrone are thus acknowledged with all the frank-
ness of a generous foe : ' As for us that are here,' he says,
'we are glad to see the day wherein the countenance and
majesty of the law and civil government hath banished Ty-
rone out of Ireland, which the best army in Europe, and the
expense of two millions of sterling pounds had not been able
to bring to pass.' "Moore's Ireland.
O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE. 1
[O'Hussey, the last hereditary bard of the great sept of Ma-
guire, of Fermanagh, who nourished about 1630, possessed a
fine genius. He commenced his vocation when quite a youth
by a poem celebrating the escape of the famous Hugh Roe
O'Donnell from Dublin Castle, in 1591, into which he hac
been treacherously betrayed. (Haverty's History of Ireland,
Farrell's Edition, p. 408.) The noble ode which O'Husseyad
dressed to Hugh Maguire, when that chief had gone on a dan
gerous expedition, in the depth of an unusually severe winter
is as interesting an example of the devoted affection of the
bard to his chief, and as vivid a picture of intense desolation
as could be well conceived.]
WHERE is my Chief, my Master, this bleaL
night, mavrone!
Oh, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak
night for Hugh,
ts showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth
one through and througt
ierceth one to the very bone !
lolls real thunder ? Or was tha: red, livid
light
Only a meteor ? I scarce know ; but through
the midnight dim
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the
hate that persecutes him
Nothing hath crueler venomy might.
An awful, a tremendous night is this, nie-
seems !
The floodgates of the rivers of heaven, I think,
have been burst wide
Down from the overcharged clouds, like un-
to headlong ocean's tide,
Descends gray rain in roaring streams.
Though he were even a wolf ranging the round
green woods,
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in
the unchainable sea,
Though he were a wild mountain-eagle, he
could scarce bear, he,
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.
Oh, mournful is my soul this night for Hugh
Maguire !
Darkly, as in a dream he strays ! Before
him and behind
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wound-
ing wind,
The wounding wind, that burns as fire !
It is my bitter grief it cuts me to the heart
That in the country of Clan Darry this should
be his fate !
Oh, woe is me, where is he ? Wandering,
houseless, desolate,
Alone, without or guide or chart 1
1 Mr. Ferguson, in a fine piece of criticism on this poem, re-
marks: "There is a vivid vigor in these descriptions, and a
MV age power in the antithetical climax, which claim a char-
acter almost approaching to sublimity. Nothing can be more
graphic, yet more diversified, than his images of unmitigated
horror nothing more gpandly startling than his heroic concep-
tion of the glow of glory triumphant over frozen toil. We
have never read this poem without recurring, and that by no
unworthy association, to Napoleon in his Russian campaign.
Yet, perhaps O'Hussey has conjured up a picture of more
inclement desolation, in his rude idea of northern horrors,
than could be legitimately employed by a poet of the present
day, when the romance of geographical obscurity no longer
permits us to imagine the Phlegrean regions of endless storm,
where the snows of Hsemus fall mingled with the lightnings
of Etna, amid Bistonian wilds or Hyrcanian forests." --Dul>
lin University Magazine, vol. iv.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAN CAN.
39l>
Mi-dreams' I see just- now his face, the straw-
berry-bright,
Uplifted to the blacken'd heavens, while the
tempestuous winds
Blow fiercely over and round him, and the
smiting sleet-shower blinds
The hero of Galang to-night !
Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is,
That one of his majestic bearing, his fair,
stately form,
Should thus be tortured and o'erborne that
this unsparing storm
Should wreak its wrath on head like his !
That his great hand, so oft the avenger of
the oppress'd,
Should this chill, churlish night, perchance,
be paralyzed by frost
While through some icicle-hung thicket as
one lorn and lost
He walks and wanders without rest.
The tempest-driven torrent deluges the
mead,
It overflows the low banks of the rivulets
and ponds
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie lock'd in
icy bonds,
So that the cattle cannot feed.
The pale bright margins of the streams are
seen by none.
Rushes and sweeps along the untamable
flood on every side
It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwell-
ings far and wide
Water and land are blent in one.
Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of
monsters, Hugh now strays,
As he confronts the storm with anguish'd
heart, but manly brow
Oh ! what a sword-wound to that tender heart
of his were now
A backward glance at peaceful days !
But other thoughts aw: his thoughts that
can still inspire
With joy and an onward-bounding hope the
bosom of MacNee
Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright
billows of the sea,
Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire !
And though frost glaze to-night the clear
dew of his eyes,
And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine
fair fingers o'er,
A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb
he ever wore,
The lightning of the soul, not skies.
AVRAN. 1
Hugh march'd forth to the fight 1 grieved
to see him so depart ;
And lo ! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-
drench'd, sad, betray'd
Hut the memory of the lime-white mansion*
his right hand hath laid
In ashes, warms the hero's heart I
KATHALEEN NY-HOULAHAN. 1
(A JACOBITE RELIC FROM THE IRISH.)
LONG they pine in weary woe, the nobles of
our land,
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed,
alas ! and bann'd ;
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the
exile's brand ;
But their hope is in the coming-to of
Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan !
Think her not a ghastly hag, too hideous to
be seen,
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless
Kathaleen ;
Young she is, and fair she is, and would be
crown'd a queen,
Were the king's son at home here with
Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan !
Sweet and mild would look her face, oh none
so swcc't and mild,
> A concluding tanza, generally Intended a( i rccapvtu.*-
tlon of the entire poem.
* Anglic*, Catherine Holohan, a name by which Ireland wat
allegoricalljr known.
400
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty
is reviled ;
Woollen plaids would grace herself and
robes of eilk her child,
If the king's son were living here with
Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan !
Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of
thrones,
Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless
bones !
Bitter anguish wrings our souls with heavy
siffhs and groans
O C7
We wait the Young Deliverer of Katha-
leen Ny-Houlahan !
Let us pray to Him who holds Life's issues
in his hands
Him who form'd the mighty globe, with all
its thousand lands ;
Girding them with seas and mountains, rivers
deep, and strands,
To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleeu
Ny-Houlahan !
He, who over sands and waves led Israel
along
He, who fed, with heavenly bread, that
chosen tribe and throng
He, who stood by Moses, when his foes were
fierce and strong
May He show forth His might in saving
Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan !
WELCOME TO THE PRINCE.
(A JACOBITE RELIC FROM THE IRISH.)
[This was written about the period of the battle of Culloden
(87th April, 1746), by William Ileffernau, surnamcd Ball, or
the Blind, of Shronehill, county Tippcrary.]
LIFT up the drooping head,
Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin! 1
Her blood yet boundeth red
Through the myriad veins of Erin.
No ! no ! she is not dead
Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin !
ichael M'QUla Kerin, prince c5 Oeaory.
Lo ! she redeems
The lost years of bygone ages
New glory beams
Henceforth on her History's pages !
Her long penitential Night of Sorrow
Yields at length before the reddening mor-
row!
You heard the thunder-shout,
Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin !
Saw the lightning streaming out
O'er the purple hills of Erin !
And, bide you yet in doubt,
Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin ?
Oh ! doubt no more !
Through Ulidia's voiceful valleys,
On Shannon's shore,
Freedom's burning spirit rallies.
Earth and Heaven unite in sign and omen
Bodeful of the downfall of our foemen.
Thurot commands the North,
Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin I
Louth sends her heroes forth,
To hew down the foes of Erin !
Swords gleam in field and gorth*
Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin!
Up ! up ! my friend !
There's a glorious goal before us ;
Here will we blend
Speech and soul in this grand chorus :
" By the Heaven that gives us one more
token,
We will die, or see our shackles broken !"
Charles leaves the Grampian hills,
Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin !
Charles, whose appeal yet thrills,
Like a clarion-blast, through Erin,
Charles, he whose image fills
Thy soul, too, MacGiolla-Kierin 1
Ten thousand strong,
His clans move in brilliant order,
Sure that ere long
He will march them o'er the Border,
* This is an allusion to that well-known atmospherical pbe
nomenon of f .he "cloud artnicp." which is eaia to have bcci
so common about this period in Scotland.
1 Oortli, literally means Garden.
I'nK.MS IlV .1. \.MKS CLAUKNCK MANGAN.
401
While the dark-hair'd daughters of the
Highlands
Crown with wreaths the Monarch of three
islands !
Fill, then, the ale-cup high,
Mechal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin !
Fill ! the bright hour is nigh
That shall give her own to Erin !
Those who so sadly sigh,
Even as you, MacGiolla-Kierin,
Henceforth shall sing.
Hark ! O'er heathery hill and dell come
Shouts for the King !
Welcome, our Deliverer ! Welcome !
Thousands this glad night, ere turning bed-
ward,
Will with us drink, "Victory to Charles
Edward !"
LAMENT FOR BANBA. 1
(FUOM THE misn.)
OH, my land ! Oh, my love !
What a woe, and how deep,
Is thy death to my long mourning soul !
God alone, God above,
Can awake thee from sleep,
Can release thee from bondage and dole !
Alas, alas, and alas,
For the once proud people of Banba !
As a tree in its prime,
Which the axe layeth low,
Didst thou fall, oh unfortunate land !
Not by Time, nor thy crime,
Came the shock and the blow,
v^iey were given by a false felon hand !
Alas, alas, and alas,
For the once proud people of Banba !
On, .iiy grief of all griefs
Is to ste how thy throne
Is usurp'd, wnilst thyself art in thrall !
Other lands Lave their chiefs,
Have their kings, thou alone
Art a wife, yet a widow withal !
Alas, alas, and alas,
For the once proud people of Banba !
1 Banba (Banva) was one of the mout ancient name* given
7 the Bards to Ireland.
The high house of O'Neill
Is gone- down to the dust,
The O'Brien is clanless and bann'd ;
And the steel, the red steel,
May no more be the trust
Ot the Faithful and Brave in the land !
Alas, alas, and alas,
For the once proud people of Banba !
True, alas ! Wronj; and Wrath
' O
Were of old all too rife.
Deeds were done which no good man admires;
And perchance Heaven hath
Chasten'd us for the strife
And the blood-shedding ways of our sires !
Alas, alas, and alas,
For the once proud people of Banba 1
But, no more ! This our doom,
While our hearts yet are warm,
Let us not over-weakly deplore !
For the hour soon may loom
When the Lord's mighty hand
Shall be raised for our rescue once more !
And our grief shall be turn'd into joy
For the still proud people of Banba !
ELLEN BAVVN.
(FROM THE nusn.)
ELLEN BAAVN, oh, Ellen Bawn, you darling,
darling dear, you
Sit awhile beside me here, I'll die unless I'm
near you !
'Tis for you I'd swim the Suir and breast the
Shannon's waters ;
For, Ellen dear, you've not your peer in Gal-
way's blooming daughters !
Had I Limerick's gems and gold at will to
mete and measure,
Were Loughrea's abundance mine, and all
Porturnna's treasure,
These might lure me, might insure me many
and many a new li.ve,
But oh ! no bribe could pay your tribe foi
one like you, my true Icve 1
402
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Blessings be on Connaught ! that's the place
for sport and raking !
Blessings, too, my love, on you, a-sleeping
and a-waking !
I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the
sun went under,
But, woe ! the flooding Shannon broke across
my path in thunder !
Ellen ! I'd give all the deer in Limerick's
parks and arbors,
Ay, and all the ships that rode last year in
Munster's harbors,
Could I blot from Time the hour I first be-
came your lover,
For, oh ! you've given my heart a wound it
never can recover !
Would to God that in the sod my corpse to-
night were lying,
And the wild-birds wheeling o'er it, and the
winds a-sighing,
Since your cruel mother and your kindred
choose to sever
Two hearts that Love would blend in one
forever and forever.
LOVE BALLAD.
(FROM THE IRISH.)
LONELY from my home I come,
To cast myself upon your tomb,
And to weep.
Lonely from my lonesome home,
My lonesome house of grief and gloom,
While I keep
Vigil often all night long,
For your dear, dear sake,
Praying many a prayer so wrong
That my heart would break !
Gladly, oh my blighted flower,
Sweet Apple of my bosom's Tree,
Would I now
Stretch me in your dark death-bower
Beside your corpse, and lovingly
Kiss your brow.
But we'll meet ere many a day,
Never more to part,
For even now 1 feel the clay
Gathering round my heart.
In my soul doth darkness dwell,
And through its dreary winding cave&
Ever flows,
Ever flows with moaning swell,
One ebbless flood of many Waves,
Which are Woes.
Death, love, has me in his lures,
But that grieves not me,
So my ghost may meet with yours
On yon moon-loved lea.
When the neighbors near my cot
Believe me sunk in slumber deep,
I arise
For, oh ! 'tis a weary lot,
This watching eye, and wooing sleep
With hot eyes
I arise, and seek your grave,
And pour forth my tears ;
While the winds that nightly rave,
Whistle in mine ears.
Often turns my memory back
To that dear evening in the dell,
When we twain,
Shelter'd by the sloe-bush black,
Sat, laugh'd, and talk'd, while thick sleet
fell,
And cold rain.
Thanks to God ! no guilty leaven
Dash'd our childish mirth.
You rejoice for this in heaven,
I not less on earth !
Love ! the priests feel wroth with me,
To find I shrine your image still
In my breast.
Since you are gone eternally,
And your fair frame lies in the chill
Grave at rest ;
But true Love outlives the shroud,
Knows nor check nor change,
And beyond Time's world of Cloud
Still must reign and range.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAX<; AN.
409
Well may now your kindred mourn
The threats, the wiles, the cruel arts,
They long tried
On the child they left forlorn !
They broke the tenderest heart of hearts,
And she died.
Curse upon the love of show !
Curse on Pride and Greed !
They would wed you " high" and woe 1
Here behold their meed !
THE VISION OF CONOR O'SULLIVAN.
(FROM THE IRISH.)
LAST night amid dreams without number,.
I beheld a bright vision in slumber :
A maiden with rose-red and lily-white fea-
tures,
Disrobed of all earthly cumber.
Her hair o'er her shoulder was flowing,
In clusters all golden and glowing,
Luxuriant and thick as in meads are the
grass-blades
That the scythe of the mower is mowing.
With hei brilliant eyes, glancing so keenly,
Her lips smiling sweet and serenely,
Her pearly-white teeth and her high-arch6d
eyebrows,
She look'd most commanding and queenly.
Her long taper fingers might dally
With the harp in some grove or green alley ;
And her ivory neck and her beautiful bosom
Were white as the snows of the valley.
Bowing down now, before her so lowly,
With words that came trembling and
slowly,
f ask'd what her name was, and where I
might worship
At the shrine of a being so holy !
" This nation is thy land and my land,"
She answer'd me with a sad smile, and
The sweetest of tones " I, alas ! am the
spouse of
The long-bamsh'd chiefs of our island !"
" Ah ! dimra'd is that island's fai- glory,
And through sorrow her children grow
hoary ;
Yet, seat thee beside me, O Nurse of the
Heroes,
And tell me thy tragical story !"
" The Druids and Sages unfold it
The Prophets and Saints have foretold it,
That the Stuart would come o'er the sea
with his legions,
And that all Eire's tribes should behold it !
" Away, then, with sighing and mourning,
The hearts in men's bosoms are burning
To free this green land oh ! be sure you
will soon see
The days of her greatness returning !
" Up. heroes, ye valiant and peerless !
Up, raise the loud war-shout so fearless !
While bonfires shall blaze, and the bagpipe
and trumpet
Make joyous a land now so cheerless !
" For the troops of King Louis shall aid
us ;
The chains that now bind us
Shall crumble to dust, and our bright swords
shall slaughter
The wretches whose wiles have betray'd
us!"
PATRICK CONDON'S VISION.
(FROM THE IRISH.)
[PATRICK CONDON, the author of this song, was a native of
the barony of Imokilly, county of Cork, and resided about four
miles from the town of Yougha!. About thirty years ago he
emigrated to North America, and located himself some dia-
tancc from Quebec. The Englishman, who has ever in tho
course of his travels, chanced to come into proximity with an
Irish " hedge school," will be at no loss to conjecture the or-
igin of the frequent allusions to heathen mythology in the**
songs. They are to be traced, we may say, exclusively to that
intimate acquaintance with the clastic* which the Minister
peasant never failed to acquire from the instructions of the
road-side pedagogue. The Kerry rustic, it is known, speaks
Latin like a citi/.vn of old Rome, and has frequently, ihou^n
ignorant of a syllable of English, conversed in the laiigi.
Cicero and Virgil with some of the most learned and intellec-
tual of English tourists. Alas 1 that the acuteness of in-
tellect for which the Irish peasant is remarkable should net
have afforded a hint to our rulers, amid their many and fruit-
less attempts at what is called conciliation 1 Would it not be
a policy equally worthy of their judgment, and deserving of
40*
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
praise in itself, to establish schools for the Irish in which they
might be taught, at least the elementary principles of educa-
tion through the medium of their native tongue ? This course,
Jong advocated by the most enlightened of every class and
creed, has been lately brought forward in an able manner by
Mr. Christopher Anderson. See his Sketches of Native Irish.]
THE evening was waning : long, long I stood
pondering
Nigh a green wood on my desolate lot.
The setting sun's glory then set me a-won-
dering,
And the deep tone of the stream in the
grot.
The birds on the boughs were melodiously
singing, too v
Even though the night was advancing
apace ;
Voices of fox-hunters, voices were ringing
too,
And deep-mouth'd hounds follow'd up the
long chase.
Nut-trees around me grew beauteous and
flourishing
Of the ripe fruit I partook without fear
Sweet was their flavor, sweet, healthful, and
nourishing ;
Honey I too found the best of good cheer !
When, lo ! I beheld a fair maiden draw near
to me ;
The noblest of maidens in figure and mind-
One who hath been, and will ever be dear to
me
Lovely and mild above all of her kind !
Long were her locks, hanging down in rich
tresses all
Golden and plaited, luxuriant and cui-l'd ;
Her eyes shone like stars of that Heaven
which blesses all :
Swan-white was her bosorn^ the pride of
the world.
Her marvellous face like the rose and the lily
shone ;
Pearl-like her teeth were as ever were seen ;
In her calm beauty she proudly, yet stilly
shone
Meek as a vestal, yet grand as a Queen.
Long-time I gazed on her, keenly and si-
lently
Who might she be, this young damsel
sublime ?
Had she been chased from a foreign land
violently ?
Had she come hither to wile away time ?
Was she Calypso ? I question'd her pleas-
antly
Ceres, or Hecate the bright undefiled ?
Thetis, who sank the stout vessels inces-
santly ?
Bateia the tender, or Hebe the mild ?
" None of all those whom you name," she
replied to me :
" One broken-hearted by strangers am I ;
But the day draweth near when the rights
naw denied to me
All shall flame forth like the stars in the
sky-
Yet twenty-five years and you'll witness my
gloriousness :
Doubt me not, friend, for in GOD is my
trust ;
And they who exult in their barren victori-
ousness
Suddenly, soon, shall go down to the dust !"
SIGHILE NI GARA.
(PROM THE IRISH.)
[The first peculiarity likely to strike the reader is the re-
markable sameness pervading those Irish pieces which assume
a narrative form. The poet usually wanders forth of a sum-
mer evening over moor and mountain, mournfulry meditating
on the wrongs and sufferings of his native land, until at
length, sad and weary, he lies down to repose in some flowery
vale, or on the slope of some green and lonely hill-side. He
sleeps, and in a dream beholds a young female of more than
mortal beauty, who approaches and accosts him. She is al-
ways represented as appearing in naked loveliness. Her per
son is described with a minuteness of detail bordering upon
tediousness her hands, for instance, are said to be such as
would execute the most complicated and delicate embroidery.
The enraptured poet inquires whether she be one of the hero-
ines of ancient story Semiramis, Helen, or Medea or one
of the illustrious women of his own country Deirdre, Blatli-
naid, or Cearnuit, or some Banshee, like Aoibhill, Cliona, or
Aine, and the answer he receives is, that she is none of those
eminent personages, but EIRE, once a queen, and now a slave
of old in the enjoyment of all honor and dignity, but to-day
in thrall to the foe and the stranger. Yet wretched as is her
condition, she does not despair, and encourages her afflicted
child to hope, prophesying that speedy relief will reach him
from abroad. The song then concludes, though in some in
stances the poet appends a few consolatory reflections of hia
own, by way of finale.
The present song is one of the class which we have de
scribed, and Sighile Ni Ghadliaradh (Celia O'Gara), in the Ian
guage of allegory, means Ireland.]
I'OKMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
405
ALONE as I wandcr'd in sad meditation,
And ponder'd my sorrows and soul's desola-
tion,
A beautiful vision a maiden drew near me,
An angel she seem'd sent from Heaven to
cheer me.
Let none dare to tell me I acted amiss
Because on her lips I imprinted a kiss
Oh !' that was a moment of exquisite bliss !
For sweetness, for grace, and for brightness
of feature,
Earth holds not the match of this loveliest
creature !
Her eyes, like twin stars, shone and sparkled
with lustre ;
Her tresses hung waving in many a cluster,
And swept the long grass all around and be-
neath her ;
She moved like a being who trod upon ether,
And seem'd to disdain the dominions of
space
Such beauty and majesty, glory and grace,
So faultless a form, and so dazzling a face,
And ringlets so shining, so many and golden,
Were never beheld since the storied years
olden.
Alas, that this damsel, so noble and queenly,
Who spake, and who look'd, and who moved
so serenely,
Should languish in woe, that her throne
should have crumbled ;
Her haughty oppressors abiding unhumbled.
Oh ! woe that she cannot with horsemen and
swords,
With fleets and with armies, with chieftains
and lords,
Chase forth from the isle the vile Sassenach
hordes,
"Who too long in their hatred have trodden
us under,
And wasted green Eire with slaughter and
plunder !
She hath studied God's Gospels, and Truth's
divine pages
The tales of the Druids, and lays of old sages ;
She hath quaff 'd the pure wave of the foun-
tain Pierian,
And is versed in the wars of the Trojan and
Tyrian ;
So gentle, so modest, so artless and mild,
The wisest of women, yet meek as a child ;
She pours forth her spirit in speech undefiled ;
But her bosom is pierced, and her soul hath
been shaken,
To see herself left so forlorn and forsaken !
" Oh, maiden !" so spake I, " thou best and
divinest,
Thou, who as a sun in thy loveliness shinest,
Who art thou and whence ? and what land
dost thou dwell in ?
Say, art thou fair Deirdre, or canst thou be
Helen ?"
And thus she made answer "What! dost
thou not see
The nurse of the Chieftains of Eire in me
The heroes of Banba, the valiant and free ?
I was great in my time, ere the Gall 1 becaim
stronger
Than the Gael, and my sceptre pass'd o'er to
the Wronger !"
Thereafter she told me, with bitter lamenting,
A story of sorrow beyond all inventing
Her name was Fair Eire, the mother of true
hearts,
The daughter of Conn, and the spouse of the
Stewarts.
She had suffer'd all woes, had been tortured
and flay'd,
Had been trodden and spoil'd, been deceived
and betray 'd ;
But her champion, she hoped, would s i
come to her aid,
And the insolent Tyrant who now was her
master
Would then be o'erwhelm'd by defeat and
disaster !
Oh, fear not, fair mourner! thy lord and
thy lover,
Prince Charles, with his armies, will cross
the seas ovar.
Once more, lo ! the Spirit of Liberty rallies
Aloft on thy mountains, and calls irom thy
valleys.
Thy children will rise and will take, one
and all,
Revenge on the murderous tribes of the Gall,
1 Gall, the rtmnger ; Gaelt, the natire Irish.
406
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAN.
And to thee shall return each renown'd castle
hall;
And again thou shalt revel in plenty and
treasure,
the wealth of the land shall be thine
without measure.
ST. PATRICK'S HYMN BEFORE TARAH.
[The original Irish of this hymn was published by Dr. Petric,
In vol. rviii., " Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy." It
is in the Bearla Feine, the most ancient dialect of the Irish, the
same in which the Brehon laws were written. It was printed
from the "Liber Hymnornm," preserved in the Library of
Trinity College, Dublin, a manuscript which, as Dr. Petrie
proves by the authority of Usher and others, must be nearly
1250 years old.]
AT TARAH TO-DAY, in this awful hour,
I call on the Holy Trinity !
Glory to Him who reigneth in power,
The God of the elements, Father, and Son,
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the
One,
The ever-existing Divinity !
AT TARAH TO-DAY I call on the Lord,
On Christ, the Omnipotent Word,
Who came to redeem from Death and Sin
Our fallen race ;
And I put and I place
The virtue that lieth and liveth in
His Incarnation lowly,
His Baptism pure and holy,
His life of toil, and tears, and affliction,
His dolorous Death his Crucifixion,
His Burial, sacred and sad and lone,
His Resurrection to life again,
His glorious Ascension to Heaven's high
Throne,
And, lastly, his future dread
And terrible coming to judge all men
Both the Living and Dead
AT TARAH TO-DAY I put and I place
The virtue that dwells in the Seraphim's
love,
And the virtue and grace
That are in the obedience
And unshaken allegiance
Of all the Archangels and angels above,
And in the hope of the Resurrection
To everlasting reward and election,
And in the prayers of the Fathers of old,
And in the truths the Prophets foretold,
And in the Apostles' manifold preachings,
And in the Confessors' faith and teachings,
O *
And in the purity ever dwelling
Within the immaculate Virgin's breast,
And in the actions bright and excelling
Of all good men, the just and the blest-. . .
AT TARAH TO-DAY, in this fateful hour,
I place all Heaven with its power,
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And the fire with all the strength it hath,
And lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the winds with their swiftness along
their path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness, 1
All these I place,
By GOD'S almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the Powers of Darkness.
AT TARAH TO-DAY
May GOD be my stay !
May the strength of GOD now nerve me !
May the power of GOD preserve me !
May GOD the Almighty be near me !
May GOD the Almighty espy me !
May GOD the Almighty hear me !
May GOD give me eloquent speech !
May the arm of GOD protect me !
May the wisdom of GOD direct me !
May GOD give me power to teach and to
preach !
May the shield of GOD defend me !
May the host of GOD attend me,
And ward me,
And guard me,
Against the wiles of demons and devils,
Against the temptations of vices and evils,
Against the bad passions and wrathful will
Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart,
Against every man who designs me ill,
Whether leagued with others or plotting
apart !
1 Properly, " strensrth," " firmness," from the Anglo-Swtoc
ttark, " strong," " stiff."
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAX.
40;
IN THIS HOUR OP HOURS,
I place all those powers
Between myself and every foe,
Who threaten my body and soul
With danger or dole,
To protect me against the evils that flow
From lying soothsayers' incantations,
From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations,
From Heresy's hateful innovations,
From Idolatry's rites and invocations,
Be those my defenders,
My guards against every ban
And spell of smiths, and Druids, and women;
In fine, against every knowledge that renders
The li<jht Heaven sends us dim in
O
The spirit and soul of Man !
MAY CHRIST, I PRAY,
Protect me to-day
Against poison and fire,
Against drowning and wounding,
That so, in His grace abounding,
I may earn the Preacher's hire !
CHRIST, as a light,
Illumine and guide me 1
CHRIST, as a shield, o'ershadow and cover me '
CHRIST be under me ! CHRIST be over me I
CHRIST be beside me
On left hand and right !
CHRIST be before me, behind me, about ma
CHRIST this day be within and without me I
CHRIST, the lowly and meek,
CHRIST, the Ail-Powerful, be
In the heart of each to whom I speak,
In the mouth of each who speaks to me I
In all who draw near me,
Or see me or hear me !
AT TARAH TO-DAY, in this awful hour,
I call on the Holy Trinity !
Glory to Him who reigneth in power,
The GOD of the Elements, Father, and Son,
And Paraclete Spirit,which Three are the One
The ever-existing Divinity!
Salvation dwells with the Lord,
With CHRIST, the Omnipotent Word.
From generation to generation
Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation I
APOCRYPHA.
TUB KARAMANIAN EXILE.
(FROM THE OTTOMAN.)
I SEE tbee ever in my dreams,
Karaman !
Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
As when thy gold-bright morning gleams,
As when the deepening sunset seams,
With lines of light thy hills and streams,
Karaman !
So thou looniest on my dreams,
Karaman ! Karaman !
The hot, bright plains, the sun, the skies,
Karaman !
Seem death-black marble to mine eyes,
Karaman! O Karaman !
I turn from summer's blooms and dyes;
Yet in my dreams thou dost arise
In welcome glory to my eyes,
Karaman !
In thee my life of life yet lies,
Karaman !
Thou still art holy in mine eyes.
Karaman ! O Kuraman .
Ere ray fighting years were como,
Karaman !
403
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE HANG AN.
Troops were few in Erzerome,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
Their fiercest came from Erzerome,
They came from Ukhbar's palace dome,
They dragg'd me forth from thee, my home
Karaman !
Thee, my own, my mountain home,
Karaman !
In life and death, my spirit's home,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
Oh, none of all my sisters ten,
Karaman !
Loved like me my fellow-men,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
I was mild as milk till then,
I was soft as silk till then ;
Now my breast is as a den,
Karaman !
Foul with blood and bones of men,
Karaman !
With blood and bones of slaughter'd men,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
My boyhood's feelings newly born,
Karaman !
Wither'd like young flowers uptorn,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
And in their stead sprang weed and thorn ;
What once I loved now moves my scorn ;
My burning eyes are dried to horn,
Karaman !
I hate the blessed light of morn
Karaman !
It maddens me, the face of morn,
Karaman ! O Karaman I
The Spahi wears a tyrant's chains,
Karaman !
But bondage worse than this remains,
Karaman 5 O Karaman !
His heart is black with million stains :
Thereon, as on Kaf 's blasted plains,
Shall never more fall dews and rains,
Karaman !
Save poison-dews and bloody rains,
Karaman !
Hell's poison-dews and bloody rains,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
But life at worst must end ere long,
Karaman !
Azreel 1 avengeth every wrong,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
Of late my thoughts rove more among
Thy fields ; o'ershadowing fancies throng
My mind, and texts of bodeful song,
Karaman !
Azreel is terrible and strong,
Karaman !
His lightning sword smites all ere long,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
There's care to-night in Ukhbar's halls,
Karaman !
There's hope too, for his trodden thralls,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
What lights flash red along yon walls ?
Hark ! hark ! the muster-trumpet calls !
I see the sheen of spears and shawls,
Karaman !
The foe ! the foe ! they scale the walls,
Karaman !
To-night Murad or Ukhbar falls,
Karaman ! O Karaman !
THE WAIL AND WARNING OF THE THREE
KHALENDEERS.
(FROM THE OTTOMAN:)
LA' LAHA, il Allah !*
Here we meet, we three, at length,
Amrah, Osman, Perizad :
Shorn of all our grace and strength,
Poor, and old, and very sad !
We have lived, but live no more ;
Life has lost its gloss for us,
Since the days we spent of yore,
Boating down the Bosphorus !
La' laha, il Allah !
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
Old Time brought home no loss lor us.
We felt full of health and heart
Upon the foamy Bosphorus J
La' laha, il Allah !
Days indeed ! A shepherd's tent
Served us then for house and fold ;
All to whom we gave or lent,
* The angel of death. * God alone is all-merciful '
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
40&
Paid us back a thousand fold.
Troublous years by myriads wail'd,
Rarely had a cross for us,
Never when we gayly sail'd,
Singing down the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah !
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
There never came a cross for us,
While we daily, gayly sail'd
Adown the meadowy Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah !
Blithe as birds we flew along,
Laugh'd and quaff 'd and stared about ;
Wine and roses, mirth and song,
Were what most we cared about.
Fame we left for quacks to seek,
Gold was dust and dross for us,
While we lived from week to week,
Boating down the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah !
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
And gold was dust and dross for us,
While we lived from week to week,
Aborting down the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah !
Friends we .were, and would have shared
Purses, had we twenty full.
If we spent, or if we spared,
Still our funds were plentiful.
Save the hours we pass'd apart
Time brought home no loss for us ;
We felt full of hope and heart
While we clove the Bospborus.
La' laha, il Allah i
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
For life has lost its gloss for us,
Since the days we spent of yore
Upon the pleasant Bosphorus !
La' laha, il Allah !
Ah ! for youth's delirious hours,
Man pays well in after days,
When quench'd hopes and palsied powers
Mock his love-and-laughter days.
Thorns and thistles on our path,
Took the place of moss for us,
Till false fortune's tempest wrath
Drove us from the Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah !
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus I
When thorns took place of moss for us,
Gone was all ! Our hearts were graves
Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus !
La' laha, il Allah !
Gone is all ! In one abyss
Lie Health, Youth, and Merriment !
All we've learn'd amounts to this
I/ife's a sad experiment.
What it is we trebly feel
Pondering what it was for us,
When our shallop's bounding keel
Clove the joyous Bosphorus.
La' laha, il Allah !
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
We wail for what life was for us,
When our shallop's bounding keel
Clove the joyous Bosphorus !
THE WARNING.
La 1 laha, il Allah !
Pleasure tempts, yet man has none
Save himself t' accuse, if her
Temptings prove, when all is done,
Lures hung out by Lucifer.
Guard your fire in youth, O Friends !
Manhood's is but Phosphorus,
And bad luck attends and ends
Boatings down the Bosphorus !
La' laha, il Allah !
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus !
Youth's fire soon wanes to Phosphorus,
And slight luck or grace attends
Your boaters down the Bosphorus !
THE TIME OF THE BARMECIDES.
(FROM THE ARABIC.)
MY eyes are film'd, my beard is gray,
I am bow'd with the weight of years ;
I would I were stretch'd in my bed of clay,
With my long-lost youth's compeers !
For back to the Past, though the though \
brings woe,
My memory ever glides
To the old, old time, long, long ago,
The time of the Barmecides !
To the old, old time, long, long ago,
The time of the Barmecides.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Fhen Youth was mine, and a fierce wild will,
And an iron arm in war,
And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill,
When the watch-lights glimmer'd afar,
And a barb as fiery as any I know
That Khoord or Beddaween rides,
Ere my friends lay low long, long ago,
In the time of the Barmecides.
Ere my friends lay low long, long ago,
In the time of the Barmecides.
One golden goblet illumed my board,
One silver dish was there ;
At hand my tried Karamanian sword
Lay always bright and bare,
For those were the days when the angry blow
Supplanted the word that chides
When hearts could glow long, long ago,
In the time of the Barmecides ;
When hearts could glow long, long ago,
In the time of the Barmecides.
Through city and desert my mates and I
Were free to rove and roam,
Our diaper'd canopy the deep of the sky,
Or the roof of the palace dome
Oh ! ours was that vivid life to and fro
Which only sloth derides
Men spent Life so, long, long ago,
In the time of the Barmecides,
Men spent Life so, long, long ago,
In the time of the Barmecides.
I see rich Bagdad once again,
O O *
With its turrets of Moorish mould,
And the Khalif 's twice five hundred men
Whose binishes flamed with gold ;
I call up many a gorgeous show
Which the pall of Oblivion hides
All pass'd like snow, long, long ago,
With the time of the Barmecides ;
All pass'd like snow, long, long ago,
With the time of the Barmecides !
But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray,
And I bend with the weight of years
May I soon go down to the House of Clay
Where slumber my Youth's compeers !
For with them and the Past, though the
thought wakes woe,
My memory ever abides ;
And I mourn for the Times gone long ago,
For the Times of the Barmecides !
I mourn for the Times gone long ago,
For the Times of the Barmecides !
THE MARINER'S BRIDE.
(FROM THE SPANISH.)
LOOK, mother ! the mariner's rowing
His galley adown the tide ;
I'll go where the mariner's going,
And be the mariner's bride !
I saw him one day through the wicket,
I open'd the gate and we met
As a bird in the fowler's net,
Was I caught in my own green thicket.
O mother, my tears are flowing,
I've lost my maidenly pride
I'll go if the mariner's going,
And be the mariner's bride !
This Love the tyrant evinces,
Alas ! an omnipotent might,
He darkens the mind like Night.
He treads on the necks of Princes !
O mother, my bosom is glowing,
I'll go whatever betide,
I'll go where the mariner's going,
And be the mariner's bride !
Yes, mother ! the spoiler has reft me
Of reason and self-control ;
Gone, gone is my wretched soul,
And only my body is left me !
The winds, O mother, are blowing,
The ocean is bright and wide ;
I'll go where the mariner's going,
And be the mariner's bride.
TO THE INGLEEZEE KIIAFIR, CALLING
HIMSELF DJAUN BOOL DJENKINZUN.
(FROM THE PERSIAN.)
Thus writeth Meer Djafrit
I hate thee, Djaun Bool,
Worse than Marid or Afrit,
Or corpse-eating Ghool.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
411
I hate thee like Sin,
For thy mop-head of hair,
Thy snub nose and bald chin,
And thy turkeycock ait.
Thou vile Ferindjee !
That thou thus shouldst disturb an
Old Moslim like me,
With my Khizzilbash turban !
Old fogy like me,
With my Khizzilbash turban 1
I pit on thy clothing,
That garb for baboons !
I eye with deep loathing
Thy tight pantaloons !
I curse the cravat
That encircles thy throat,
And thy cooking-pot hat,
And thy swallow-tail'd coat !
Go, hide thy thick sconce
In some hovel suburban ;
Or else don at once
The red Moosleman turban.
Thou dog, don at once
The grand Khizzilbash turban I
MISCELLANEOUS.
SOUL AND COUNTRY.
ARISE ! my slumbering soul, arise !
And learn what yet remains for thee
To dree or do !
The signs are flaming in the skies :
O & *
A struggling world would yet be free,
And live anew.
The earthquake hath not yet been born,
That soon shall rock the lands around,
Beneath their base.
Immortal freedom's thunder horn,
As yet, yields but a doleful sound
To Europe's race.
Look round, my soul, and see and say
If those about thee understand
Their mission here;
The will to smite the power to slay
Abound in every heart and hand
Afar, anear.
But, GOD ! must yet the conqueror's sword
Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year?
Oh, dream it not !
it sounds a false, blaspheming word,
Begot and born of moral fear -
And ill-begot !
To leave the world a name is nought ,
To leave a name for glorious deeds
And works of love
A name to waken lightning thought,
And fire the soul of him who reads,
This tells above.
Napoleon sinks to-day before
The ungilded shrine, the single soul
Of Washington ;
TRUTH'S name, alone, shall man adore,
Long as the waves of time shall roll
O
Henceforward on !
My countrymen! my words are weak,
My health is gone, my soul is dark,
My heart is chill
Yet would I fain and fondly seek
To see you borne in freedom's bark
O'er ocean still.
Beseech your GOD, and bide your hour
He cannot, will not, long be dumb;
Even now his troa<l
Is heard o'er earth with coming powrr ;
And coming, trust me, it will come,
Else were he dead !
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
SIBERIA.
IN Siberia's wastes
The Ice-wind's breath
Woundeth like the toothed steel.
Lost Siberia doth reveal
Only, blight and death.
Blight and death alone.
No Summer shines.
Night is interblent with Day.
In Siberia's wastes alway
The blood blackens, the heart pines.
In Siberia's wastes
No tears are shed,
For they freeze within the brain.
Nought is felt but dullest pain,
Pain acute, yet dead ;
Pain as in a dream,
When years go by
Funeral-paced, yet fugitive,
When man lives, and doth not live,
Doth not live nor die.
In Siberia's wastes
Are sands and rocks.
Nothing blooms of green or soft,
But the snow-peaks rise aloft
And the gaunt ice-blocks.
And the exile there
Is one with those ;
They are part, and he is part,
For the sands are in his heart,
And the killing snows.
Therefore, in those wastes
None curse the Czar.
Each man's tongue is cloven by
The North Blast, who heweth nigh
With sharp scymitar.
And such doom each drees,
Till, hunger-gnawn,
And cold-slain, he at length sinks there
Yet scarce more a corpse than ere
His last breath was drawn.
A VISION OF CONNAUGBT IN THE THIR-
TEENTH CENTURY.
Et moi, j'ai e'te anesi en Arcadie." And I, I, too, hY'
been a dreamer. Inscription on a Painting by Poussin.
entranced
Through a land of Morn ;
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right.
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
J Twas in the reign,
Of Cahal M6r of the Wine-red Hand
Anon stood nigh
By my side a man
Of princely aspect and port sublime.
Him queried I,
" Oh, my Lord and Khan, 1
What clime is this, and what golden time ?'*
When he" The clime
Is a clime to praise,
The clime is Erin's, the green and bland ;
And it is the time,
These be the days,
Of Cabal Mor of the Wine-red Hand !"
Then saw 1 thrones,
And circling fires,
And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell,
Whence flow'd the tones
Of silver lyres,
And many voices in wreathed .swell ;
And their thrilling chime
Fell on mine ears
As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band
" It is now the time,
These be the years,
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand !"
I sought the hall,
And, behold ! . . . a change
From light to dai-kness, from joy to woe !
King, nobles, all,
Look'd aghast and strange ;
'Cfeann. the Gaelic title for a chief.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
41)
The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show !
Had some great crime
Wrought this dread amaze,
This terror ? None seem'd to understand !
'Twas then the time,
We were in the days,
Of Cahal M6rof the Wine-red Hand.
I again walk'd forth ;
But lo ! the sky
Show'd fleckt with blood, and an alien sun
Glared from the north,
And there stood on high,
Amid his shorn beams, A SKELETON !
It was by the stream
Of the castled Maine,
One Autumn eve, in the Teuton's land,
That I dream'd this dream
Of the time and reign
Of Cahal M6r of the Wine-red Hand !
AN INVITATION.
FRIENDS to Freedom ! is't not time
That your course were shaped at length ?
Wherefore stand ye loitering here ?
Seek some healthier, holier clime,
Where your souls may grow in strength,
And whence Love hath exiled Fear !
Europe, Southron, Saxon, Celt,
Sits alone, in tatter'd robe.
In our days she burns with none
Of the lightning-life she felt,
When Rome shook the troubled globe,
Twenty centuries agone.
Deutschland sleeps : her star hath waned.
France, the Thundress whilome, now
Singeth small, with bated breath.
Spain is bleeding, Poland chain'd ;
Italy can but groan and vow.
England lieth sick to death. 1
Cross with me the Atlantic's foam,
And your genuine goal is won.
Purely Freedom's breezes blow,
'Merrily Freedom's children roam,
By the dcedal Amazon,
And the glorious Ohio !
Thither take not gems and gold.
Nought from Europe's robber-hoards
Must profane the Western Zones.
Thither take ye spirits bold,
Thither take ye ploughs and swords,
And your fathers' buried bones !
Come ! if Liberty's true fires
Burn within your bosoms, come !
If ye would that in your graves
Your free sons should bless their sires,
Make the Far Green West your home,
Cross with me the Atlantic's waves !
THE WARNING VOICE. 1
"H me semhle qne nous eommes & la vciUe d'une grand*
bataille humaine. Lea forces sent li ; male Je u'y vois pas de
g6n6ral." BALZAC: Livre Myr'.ique.
YE Faithful ! ye Noble !
A day is at hand
Of trial and trouble,
And woe in the land !
O'er a once greenest path,
Now blasted and sterile,
Its dusk shadows loom
It cometh with Wrath,
With Conflict and Peril,
With Judgment and Doom !
False bands shall be broken,
Dead systems shall crumble,
And the Haughty shall hear
Truths yet never spoken,
Though smouldering like flame
Through many a lost yt':ir
In the hearts of the Humble;
For, Il6>pewill expire
As the Terror draws nigher,
And, with it, the Shame
Which so long overawnl
Men's minds by its might
'"England letdet von clncr todtllchcn Krankhelt, ohne
SofTnung wte ohne Heiliing." Kngland labor* under a deadly
tlcknens, without hope and without remedy. NIKBUHB.
Written in the year 1847, when the BritUh Famine WM
wasting Ireland, and when the Irish Confederation *a*
formed.
414
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
And the Powers abroad
Will be Panic and Blight,
And phrenetic Sorrow
Black Pest all the night,
And Death on the morrow !
Now, therefore, ye True,
Gird your loins up anew !
By the good you have wrought !
By all you have thought,
And suffer'd, and done !
By your souls ! I implore you,
Be leal to your mission
Remembering that one
Of the tivo path-s before you
Slopes down to Perdition !
To you have been given,
Not granaries and gold,
But the Love that lives long,
O'
And waxes not cold ;
And the Zeal that hath striven
Against Error and Wrong,
And in fragments hath riven
The chains of the Strong !
Bide now, by your sternest
Conceptions of eai-nest
Endurance for others,
Your weakcr-soul'd brothers !
Your true faith and worth
Will be History soon,
And their stature stand forth
In the unsparing Noon !
You have dream'd of an era
Of Knowledge, and Truth,
And Peace the true glory !
Was this a chimera ?
Not so! but the childhood and
youth
Of our days will grow hoary,
Before such a marvel shall burst on their
sight !
On you its beams glow not
For you its flowers blow not !
You cannot rejoice in its light,
But in darkness and suffering instead,
You go down to the place of the Dead !
To this generation
The sore tribulation,
The stormy commotion,
And foam of the Popular Ocean,
The struggle of class against class ;
The Dearth and the Sadness,
The Sword and the War-vest ;
To the next, the Repose and the Glad
ness,
" The sea of clear glass,"
And the rich Golden Harvest !
Know, then, your true lot,
Ye Faithful, though few !
Understand your position,
Remember your mission,
And vacillate not,
Whatsoever ensue !
Alter not ! Falter not !
Palter not now with your own living
souls,
When each moment that rolls
May see Death lay his hand
On some new victim's brow !
Oh ! let not your vow
Have been written in sand !
Leave cold calculations
Of Danger and Plague,
To the slaves and the traitors
Who cannot dissemble
The dastard sensations
That now make them tremble
With phantasies vague!
The men without ruth
The hypocrite haters
Of Goodness and Truth,
Who at heart curse the race
Of the sun through the skies ;
And would look in God's face
With a lie in their eyes !
To the last do your duty,
Still mindful of this
That Virtue is Beauty,
And Wisdom, and Bliss ;
So, howe'er, as frail men, you have err'd on;
Your way along Life's thronged road,
Shall your consciences prove a sure guerdoit
And tower of defence,
Until Destiny summon you hence
To the Better Abode !
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
41*
THE LOVELY LAND.
(On A LANDSCAPE, PAINTED nvM******.)
GLORIOUS birth of Mind and Color,
Gazing on thy radiant face,
The most lorn of Adam's race
Might forget all dolor !
What divinest light is heaming
Over mountain, mead, and grove !
That blue noontide sky above,
Seems asleep and dreaming.
Rich Italia's wild-birds warble
In the foliage of those trees.
I can trace thee, Veronese,
In these rocks of marble !
Yet no ! Mark I not where quiver
The sun's rays on yonder stream ?
Only a Poussin could dream
Such a sun and river !
What bold imaging ! Stony valley,
And fair bower of eglantine !
Here I see the black ravine,
There the lilied alley !
This is some rare clime so olden,
Peopled, not by men, but fays;
Some lone land of genii days,
Storyful and golden !
Oh for magic power to wander
One bright year through such a land !
Might I even one hour stand
On the blest hills yonder!
But what spy I? . . .O, by noonlight !
'Tis the same ! the pillar-tower
I have oft pass'd thrice an hour,
Twilight, sunlight, moonlight!
Shame to me, my own, my sire-land,
Not to know thy soil and skies!
Shame, that through Machse's eyes
I first see thee, IRELAND!
No! no land doth rank above thoc
Or for loveliness or worth !
So shall I, from this day forth,
Ever sing and love thee !
THE SAW-MILL.
MY path lay toward the Mourne agen,
But I stopp'd to rest by the hill-side
That glanced adown o'er the sunken glen,
Which the Saw- and Water-maYA? hide,
Which now, as then,
The Saw- and Water-mills hide.
And there, as I lay reclined on the hill,
Like a man made by sudden qualm ill,
I heard the water in the Water-mill,
And I saw the saw in the Saw-mill !
As I thus lay still,
I saw the saw in the Saw-mill !
The saw, the breeze, and the humming bees,
Lull'd me into a dreamy reverie,
Till the objects round me, hills, mills, trees,
Seem'd grown alive all and every,
By slow degrees
Took life as it were, all and every !
Anon the sound of the waters grew
To a Mourne-ful ditty,
And the song of the tree that the saw
saw'd through,
Disturb'd my spirit with pity,
Began to subdue
My spirit with tenderest pity !
" Oh, wanderer ! the hour that brings thee
back
IB of all meet hours the meetest.
Thou now, in sooth, art on the Track,
Art nigher to Home than thou weetest ;
Thou hast thought Time slack,
But his flight has been of the fleetest !
" For thee it is that I dree such pain
As, when wounded, even a plank will ;
My bosom is pierced, is rent in twain,
tie
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
That thine may ever bide tranquil,
May ever remain
Henceforward untroubled and tranquil.
u In a few days more, most Lonely One !
Shall I. as a narrow ark, veil
Thine eyes from the glare of the world and
sun
'Mong the urns in yonder dark vale,
In the cold and dun
Recesses of yonder dark vale !
"For this grieve not! Thou knowest what
thanks
The Weary-soul'd and Meek owe
To Death !" I awoke, and heard four planks
Fall down with a saddening echo.
I heard four planks
Fall down with a hollow echo.
CEAN-SALLA.
THE LAST WORDS OP RED HUGH O'DONNELL OK HIS
DEPARTURE FROM IRELAND FOR SPAIN.
["After this defeat at Cean-Salla (Kinsale), it was remarked
that the Irish became a totally changed people, for they now
exchanged their valour for timidity, their energy and vigour for
indolence, and their hopes for bitter despondency." Annals
of the Four Masters, A. v>. 1602.]
WEEP not the brave Dead !
Weep rather the Living
On them lies the curse
Of a Doom unforgiving !
Each dark hour that rolls,
Shall the memories they nurse,
Like molten hot lead,
Burn into their souls
A remorse long and sore !
They have hclp'd to enthral a
Great land evermore,
They who fled from Cean-Salla !
Alas, for thee, slayer
Of the kings of the Norsemen !
Thou land of sharp swords,
And strong kerns and swift horsemen !
Land ringing with song !
Land, whose abbots and lords,
Whose Heroic and Fair,
Through centuries long,
Made each palace of thine
A new western Walhalla
Thus to die without sign
On the field of Cean-Salla ;
My ship cleaves the wave
I depart for Iberia
But, oh! with what grief,
With how heavy and dreary a
Sensation of ill !
I could welcome a grave :
My career has been brief,
But I bow to God's will !
Not if now all forlorn,
In my green years, I fall, a
Lone exile, I mourn
But I mourn for Cean-Salla !
IRISH NATIONAL HYMN.
O IRELAND ! Ancient Ireland !
Ancient ! yet forever young !
Thou our mother, home, and sire-land-
Thou at length hast found a tongue-
Proudly thou, at length,
Resistest in triumphant strength.
Thy flag of freedom floats unfurl'd !
And as that mighty God existeth,
Who giveth victory when and where tie
listeth,
Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nationi
of the world.
For this dull world still slumbers,
Weetless of its wants or loves,
Though, like Galileo, numbers
Cry aloud, " It moves ! it moves !"
In a midnight dream,
Drifts it down Time's wreckful stream.
All march, but few descry the goal.
O Ireland ! be it thy high duty
To teach the world the might of Moral
Beauty,
And stamp God's image truly on the strug-
gling soul.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
41?
Strong in thy self-reliance,
Not in idle threat or boast,
Hast thou hurl'd thy fierce defiance
At the haughty Saxon host
Thou hast cluim'd, in slight
Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right.
Upon thy hills along thy plains
In the green bosom of thy valleys,
The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies,
And calls on thee to trample down in dust
thy chains !
Deep, saith the Eastern story,
Burns in Iran's mines a gem,
For its dazzling hues and glory
Worth a Sultan's diadem.
But from human eyes
Hidden there it ever lies !
The aye-travailing Gnomes alone,
Who toil to form the mountain's treasure
May gaze and gloat with pleasure without
measure,
Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder-
stone.
So is it with a nation
Which vould win for its rich dower
That bright pearl, Self-Liberation
It must labor hour by hour.
Strangers, who travail
To lay bare the gem, shall fail ;
Within itself, must grow, must glow
Within the depths of its own bosom
Must flower in living might, must broadly
blossom,
The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's
Tree can blow.
Go on, then, all-rejoiceful !
March on thy career unbow'd !
IRELAND! let thy noble, voiceful
Spirit cry to God aloud !
Man will bid thee speed
God will aid thee in thy need
The Time, the hour, the power are near
Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard
Of that illustrious band, whom Heaven
and Man guard
And these words come horn one whom some
have call 'e/ a Seer.
BROKEN-HEARTED LAYS.
BALLAD.
WEEP for one blank, one desert epoch in
The history of the heart ; it is the time
When all which dazzled us no more can win ;
When all that beam'd of starlike and
sublime
Wanes, and we stand lone mourners o'er the
burial
Of perish'd pleasure, and a pall funereal,
Stretching afar across the hueless heaven,
Curtains the kingly glory of the sun,
And robes the melancholy earth in c-ne
Wide gloom ; when friends for whom we
could have striven
With pain, and peril, and the sword, and
given
Myriads of lives, had such been merged
in ours,
Requite us with falseheartedness and
wrong ;
When sorrows haunt our path like evil
powers,
Sweeping and countless as the legion
throng.
Then, when the upbrokcn dreams of boy-
hood's span,
Ami when the inanity of all things human,
And when the dark ingratitude of man,
And when the hollower perfidy of woman,
Come down like night upon the feelings,
turning
This rich, bright world, so redolent of
bloom,
Into a lazar-house of tears and mourning
Into the semblance of a living tomb 1
When, yielding to the might she cannot
master,
The soul forsakes her palace halls of youth,
And (touch'd by the Ithuriel wand of
truth,
Which oft in one brief hour works wonders
vaster
Than those of Egypt's old magician host),
Sees at a single glance that all is lost !
And brooding in her cold and desolate lair
418
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Over the phantom- wrecks of things that
were,
And asking destiny if nought remain ?
Is answer' d bitterness and lifelong pain,
Remembrance, and reflection, and despair,
And torturing thoughts that will not be for-
bidden,
And agonies that cannot all be hidden !
Oh ! in an hour like this, when thousands fix,
In headlong desperation, on self-slaughter,
Sit down, you droning, groaning bore ! and
mix
A glorious beaker of red rum-and- water !
And finally give Care his flooring blow,
By one large roar of laughter, or guflfaw,
As in the Freischutz chorus, " Haw ! haw !
haw !"
L 1 affaire estfaite you've bamm'd and both-
er'd woe.
THE ONE MYSTERY.
Tis idle ! we exhaust and squander
The glittering mine of thought in vain;
All-baffled reason cannot wander
Beyond her chain.
The flood of life runs dark dark clouds
Make lampless night around its shore :
The dead, where are they ? In their
shrouds
Man knows no more.
Evoke the ancient and the past,
Will one illumining star arise ?
Or must the film, from first to last,
O'erspread thine eyes ?
When life, love, glory, beauty, wither,
Will wisdom's page or science' chart
Map out for thee the region whither
Their shades depart ?
Supposest thou the wondrous powers,
To high imagination given,
Pale types of what shall yet be ours,
When earth is heaven ?
When this decaying shell is cold,
Oh ! sayest thou the soul shall climb
That magic mount she trod of old.
Ere childhood's time ?
And shall the sacred pulse that thrill'd,
Thrill once again to glory's name ?
And shall the conquering love that fill'd
All earth with flame,
Reborn, revived, renew'd, immortal,
liesume his reign in prouder might,
A sun beyond the ebon portal
Of death and night ?
No more, no more with aching brow,
And restless heart, and burning brain,
We ask the When, the Where, the How,
And ask in vain.
And all philosophy, all faith,
All earthly all celestial lore,
Have but one voice, which only saith
Endure adore !
THE NAMELESS ONE.
BALLAD.
ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river,
That sweeps along to the mighty sea ;
GOD will inspire me while I deliver
My soul of thee !
Tell thou the world, when my bones lie
whitening
Amid the last homes of youth and eld,
That there was once one whose veins ran
lightning
No eye beheld.
Tell how his boyhood was one drear night
hour,
How shone for him, through his griefs and
gloom,
No star of all heaven sends to light our
Path to the tomb.
Roll on, my song, and to after ages
Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
41t
lie would have taught men, from wisdom's
pages,
The way to live.
And tell how' trampled, derided, hated,
And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
lie fled for shelter to GOD, who mated
His soul with song
With song which alway, sublime or vapid,
Flow'd like a rill in the morning-beam,
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid
A mountain stream.
Tell hr w this Nameless, condemn'd for years
long
To herd with demons from hell beneath,
Saw things that made him, with groans and
tears, long
For even death.
Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,
Betray'd in friendship, befool'd in love,
With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes
blasted,
He still, still strove.
Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others,
And some whose hands should have
wrought for him,
(If children live not for sires and mothers),
His mind grew dim.
And he fell far through that pit abysmal,
The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,
And pawn'd his soul for the devil's dismal
Stock of returns.
But yet redeeni'd it in days of darkness,
And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,
Stood on his path.
And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,
And want, and sickness, and houseless
nights,
He bides in calmness the silent morrow,
That no ray lights.
And lives he still, theii? Yes! Old and
hoary
At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
He lives, enduring what future story
Will never know.
Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,
Doep in your bosoms ! There let him
dwell !
He, too, had toars for all souls in trouble,
Here and in hell.
THE DYING ENTHUSIAST.
BALLAD.
SPEAK no more of life,
What can life bestow,
In this amphitheatre of strife,
All times dark with tragedy and woe?
Knowest thou not how care and pain
Build their lampless dwelling in the brain,
Ever, as the stern intrusion
Of our teachers, time and truth,
Turn to gloom the bright illusion,
Rainbow'd on the soul of youth f
Could I live to find that this is so ?
Oh ! no ! no !
As the stream of time
Sluggishly doth flow,
Look how all of beaming and sublime,
Sinks into the black abysm below.
Yea, the loftiest intellect,
Earliest on the strand of life is wreck'd.
Nought of lovely, nothing glorious,
Lives to triumph o'er decay ;
Desolation reigns victorious
Mind is dungeon wall'd by clay :
Could I bear to feel mine own laid low ?
Oh ! no ! no !
Restless o'er the earth,
Thronging millions go :
But behold how genius, love, and worth
Move like lonely phantoms to and frc.
Suns are quench'd, and kingdoms fall,
But the doom of these outdarkens all !
Die they then ? Yes, love's devofon,
Stricken, withers in its bloom ;
t20
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
Fond affections, deep as ocean,
In their cradle find their tomb :
Shall I linger, then, to count each throe ?
Oh ! no ! no !
Prison-bursting death !
Welcome be thy blow !
Thine is but the forfeit of my breath,
Not the spirit ! nor the spirit's glow.
Spheres of beauty hallow'd spheres,
Undefaced by time, undimm'd by tears,
Henceforth hail ! oh, who would grovel
In a world impure as this ?
Who would weep, in cell or hovel,
When a palace might be his ?
Wouldst thou have me the bright lot forego ?
Oh ! no ! no !
TO JOSEPH BRENAN.
BALLAD.
FRIEND and brother, and yet more than
brother,
Thou endow'd with all of Shelley's soul !
Thou whose heart so burneth for thy mother, 1
That, like his, it may defy all other
Flames, while time shall roll !
Thou of language bland, and manner meekest,
Gentle bearing, yet unswerving will
Gladly, gladly, list I when thou speakest,
Honor'd highly is the man thou seekest
To redeem from ill !
Truly showest thou me the one thing needful !
Thou art not, nor is the world yet blind.
Truly have I been long years unheedful
Of the thorns and tares, that choked the
weedful
Garden of my mind !
Thorns and tares, which rose in rank pro-
fusion,
Round my scanty fruitage and my flowers,
Till 1 almost deem'd it self-delusion,
Any attempt or glance at their extrusion
From their midnight bowers.
Dream and waking life have now been
blended
Long time in the caverns of my soul
Oft in daylight have my steps descended
Down to that dusk realm where all is ended,
Save remeadless dole !
Oft, with tears, I have groan'd to God for
pity-
Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim-
Oft sung unto Him a prayerful ditty
Oft, all lonely in this throngful city,
Raised my soul to Him !
And from path to path His mercy track'd me
From a many a peril snatch'd He me ;
When false friends pursued, betray'd, at
tack'd me,
When gloom overdark'd, and sickness rack'd
me,
lie was by to save and free !
Friend ! thou warnest me in truly noble
Thoughts and phrases ! I will heed thee
well
Well will I obey thy mystic double
Counsel, through all scenes of woe and
trouble,
As a magic spell !
Yes ! to live a bard, in thought and feeling !
Yes ! to act my rhyme, by self-restraint,
This is truth's, is reason's deep revealing,
Unto me from thee, as God's to a kneeling
And entranced saint !
Fare thee well ! we now know each the other,
Each has struck the other's inmost chords-
Fare thee well, my friend and more than
brother,
And may scorn pursue me if I smother
In my soul thy words !
TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO.
OH, the rain, the weary, dreary rain,
How it plashes on the window-sill !
Night, I guess too, must be on the wane,
Strass and Gass 1 around are grown so still
'Earth.
Sireet and lane.
POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.
4 -.'I
Here I sit, with coffee in my cup
Ah ! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow
In the tavern where I loved to sup
Twenty golden years ago !
Twenty years ago, alas ! but stay
On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock !
After all, the hours do slip away
Come, here goes to burn another block !
For the night, or morn, is wet and cold ;
And my fire is dwindling rather low:
I had fire enough, when young and bold,
Twenty golden years ago.
Dear ! I don't feel well at all, somehow :
Few in Weimar dream how bad I am ;
Floods of tears grow common with me now,
High-Dutch floods, that reason cannot dam.
Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive
If I mope at home so ; I don't know
Am I living now f I was alive
Twenty golden years ago.
Wifeless, friendless, flagon less, alone,
Not qxiite bookless, though, unless I choose,
Left with nought to do, except to groan,
Not a soul to woo, except the muse
Oh ! this is hard for me to bear,
Me, who whilome lived so much en haut,
Me, who broke all hearts like china-ware,
Twenty golden years ago !
Perhaps 'tis better ; time's defacing waves,
Long have quench'd the radiance of my
brow
They who curse me nightly from thfcir
Scarce could love me were they living now j
But my loneliness hath darker ills
Such dun duns as Conscience, Thought
and Co.,
Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailors' bills
Twenty golden years ago !
Did I paint a fifth of what I feel,
Oh, how plaintive you would ween I w<i* !
But 1 won't, albeit I have a deal
More to wail about than Kerner has !
Kerner's tears are wept for wither'd flowers,
Mine for wither'd hopes ; my scroll of woe
Dates, alas ! from youth's deserted bowers,
Twenty golden years ago !
Yet, may Deutschland's bardlings flourish
long ;
Me, I tweak no beak among them ; hawks
Must not pounce on hawks : besides, in song
I could once beat all of them by chalks.
Though you find me as I near my goal,
Sentimentalizing like Rousseau,
Oh ! I had a grand Byronian soul
Twenty golden years ago !
Tick-tick, tick-tick ! not a sound save Time'aL
And the wind-gust as it drives the rain
Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes,
Go to bed, and rest thine aching brain !
Sleep ! no more the dupe of hopes or
schemes ;
Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow-
Curious anticlimax to thy dreams
Twenty golden years ago !
POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN.
AH ! CRUEL MAID.
[Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, says, this song, " for deep,
Impassioned feeling and natural eloquence, has not, perhaps,
its rival through the whole range of lyric poetry."]
AH, cruel maid, how hast thou changed
The temper of my mind !
My heart, by thee from love estranged,
Becomes, like thee, unkind.
By fortune favor'd, clear in fame,
I once ambitious was ;
And friends I had, who fann'd the flame,
And gave my youth applause.
But now, my weakness all accuse:
Yet vain their taunts on me ;
Friends, fortune, fame itself, I'd lose,
To gain one smile from thee.
And only thou should not despise
My weakness, or my woe ;
If I am mad in others' eyes.
'Tis thou hast made me so.
But days, like this, with doubting curst,
I will not long endure :
Am I disdain'd I know the worst,
And likewise know my cure.
If false, her vows she dare renounce,
That instant ends my pain ;
For, oh ! the heart must break at once,
That cannot hate again.
HOW OFT, LOUISA.
FROM "THE DUENNA."
ilow oft, Louisa, hast thou said
Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown-
Chou wouldst not lose Antonio's love
To reign the partner of a throne !
And by those lips that spoke so kind,
And by this hand I press'd to mine,
To gain a subject nation's love
I swear I would not part with thine.
Then how, my soul, can we be poor,
Who own what kingdoms couH not buy?
Of this true heart thou shalt be queen,
And, serving thee a monarch I.
And thus controll'd in mutual bliss,
And rich in love's exhaustless mine
Do thou snatch treasures from my lip,
And I'll take kingdoms back from thine !
HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD
FRAMED.
(Ant " MOLLY ASTOKE,")
HAD I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne'er could injure you,
For, tho' your tongue no promise claini'd,
Your charms would make me true;
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong,
For friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.
But when they find that you have bless'd
Another with your heart,
They'll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother's part.
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong,
For friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And brothers in the young.
In speaking of the lyrics in the Opera of "The Duenna,"
Moore says : "By far the greater number of the songs are full
of beauty, and some of them may rank among the best models
of lyric writing. The verses ' Had I a heart for falsehood
framed,' notwithstanding the stiflness of this word ' framed,
and one or two slight blemishes, are not unworthy of living
in recollection with the matchless air to which they ara
adapted."
POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN.
423
OH YIELD, FAIR LIDS.
(KIIO.M AN UNFINISHED MS. DRAMA.)
On yield, fair lids, the treasures of my heart,
Release those beams, that make this man-
sion bright ;
From her sweet sense, Slumber! though
sweet thou art,
Begone, and give the air she breathes in
light.
Or while, O Sleep, thou dost those glances
hide,
Let rosy Slumbers still around her play,
Sweet as the cherub Innocence enjoy'd,
\V iicu iL hy lap, new-born, in smiles he lay.
And thou, O Dream, that com'st her sleep
to cheer,
Oh take my shape, and play a lover's part ;
Kiss her from me, and whisper in her ear,
Till her eyes shine, 'tis night within my
heart.
It may be Inferred from a passage in Moore's "Life of Sher-
idan," that he intended the unfinished drama, whence those
lines are taken, to be called " The Foresters ;" and that he was
Tery hopeful of it, for he was wont to exclaim occasionally, to
confidential friends, "Ah, wait till my Foresters comes out 1"
A BUMPER OF GOOD LIQUOR
(FROM "THE DUENNA.")
A BUMPER of good liquor
Will end a contest quicker
Than justice, judge, or vicar;
So till a cheerful glass,
And let good humor pass :
But if more deep the quarrel,
Why, sooner drain the barrel
Than be the hateful fellow
That's crabbed when he's mellow.
A bumper, <fcc.
WE TWO.
l"PbU Is also from the same MS. drama noticed in the fore-
foinjj ton; of " Oh yield, fair lids."]
" WK two, each other's only pride,
Kach other's bliss, each other's guide,
Far from the world's unhallow'd noise,
Ita coarse delights and tainted joys,
Through wilds will roam and deseru
O
rude
For, Love, thy home is solitude."
" There shall no vain pretender be,
To court thy smile and torture me,
No proud superior there be seen,
But nature's voice shall hail thee, queen.'
" With fond respect and tender awe,
I will obey thy gentle law,
Obey thy looks, and serve thee still,
Prevent thy wish, foresee thy will,
And added to a lover's care,
Be all that friends and parents are."
COULD I HER FAULTS REMEMBER
COULD I her faults remember,
Forgetting every charm,
Soon would impartial Reason
The tyrant Love disarm.
But when, enraged, I number
Each failing of her mind,
Love, still, suggests each beauty,
And sees, while Reason's blind
BY CCELIA'S ARBOR
BY Coilia's arbor, all the night,
.Hang, humid wreath the lover's vow ;
And haply, at the morning's light,
My love will twine thee round her brow.
And if upon her bosom bright
Some drops of dew should fall from thee;
Tell her they are not drops of night,
But tears of sorrow shed by me.
In those charming lines Sheridan has wrought to a higher
degree of finish an idea to be found in an early poem of his ad
dressed to MUa Llnley, beginning " Uncouth i* this moss-cor-
ered grotto of stone." The poem is too long for quotation at
length, and, in truth, not worth it, the choice bit Sheridan re-
membered, however, and reconstructed as above. The original
idea stood thus :
"And thou, stony grot, In thy arch raayst preserve
Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew;
And just let them fall at her foci, and they'll serve
At tears of my sorrow intrusted to you.
"Or, lost they unheeded should Dili at her f<*ct,
Let them lull on her bonom of mow ; and I *wear
The next lime I vlnit thy nil--' -( -ov.-r'd seat,
I'll pay ihcc eacb drop with a xenui:ie tear "
424
POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN.
LET THE TOAST PASS.
HERE'S to the maiden of bashful fifteen,
Here's to the widow of fifty ;
Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen,
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty :
Chorus. Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the
glass.
Hei e's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the maid who has none, sir,
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir :
Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.
Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,
And to her that's as brown as a berry ;
Here's to the wife, with a face full of woe,
And now to the girl that is merry
Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.
For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim.
Young, or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill the pint bumper* quite up to the brim,
And let e'en us toast them together :
Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.
O, THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG 1
(FROM "THE DUENNA.")
O, the days when I was young !
When I laugh'd in fortune's spite,
Talk'd of love the whole day long,
And with nectar crown'd the night :
* Those were the days of hard drinking 0et us be thankful
they are passed away), when they not only filled a "pint
bnmper," but swallowed it at a draught, if they meant to be
thought "pretty fellows." I remember of heariug a witty
reply which was made (as it was reported) by Sir H B
L- e, an Irish don vivant of the last century, to his doctor,
who had cut him down to a pint of wine daily, when he was
on the sick-list. Now the convivial baronet was what was
called, in those days, a " six-bottle man," and, we may sup-
pose, felt very miserable on a pint of wine per diem. The
doctor called the day after he had issued his merciless decree,
nd hoped his patient was better. " I hope you only took a
pint of wine yesterday," said he. The baronet nodded a melan-
choly assent. " Now, don't think so badly of this injunction
of mine, my dear friend," continued the doctor, " you may
rely upon it, it will lengthen your days." " That I believe,"
returned Sir Hercules, " for yesterday seemed to me the longest
fay I ever spent in my life."
Then it was, old father Care,
Little reck'd I of thy frown ;
Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.
Truth they say lies in a well ;
Why, I vow I ne'er could see,
Let the water-drinkers tell
There it always lay for me !
For when sparkling wine went round
Never saw I falsehood's mask :
But still honest Truth I found
In the bottom of each flask.
True, at length my vigor's flown,
I have years to bring decay :
Few the locks that now I own,
And the few I have are gray;
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast
While thy spirits do not tire,
Still beneath thy age's frost
Glows a spark of youthful fire.
DRY BE THAT TEAR.
DRY be that tear, my gentlest love,
Be hush'd that struggling sigh ;
Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove,
More fix'd, more true, than I :
Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear,
Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear
Dry be that tear.
Ask'st thou how long my love shall stay
When all that's new is past ?
How long, ah ! Delia, can I say,
How long my liie shall last ?
Dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh,
At least I'll love thee till I die
Hush'd be that sigh.
And does that thought affect thee, too,
The thought of Sylvio's death,
That he, who only breathed for you,
Must yield that faithful breath ?
Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear,
Nor let us lose our heaven here
Dry be that tear.
POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN.
425
WHAT BARD, O TIME, DISCOVER
WHAT bard, O Time, discover,
With wings first made thee move !
Ah ! sure lie was some lover
Who ne'er had left his love !
For who that once did prove
The pangs which absence brings,
Though but one day
He were away,
Could picture thce with wings ?
Theso sweet and ingenious lines are from " The Dnenna."
The song does not appear in the late editions of rtie opera. I
obtained it from an old Dublin edition, dated 1786 where the
pierjo is entitled. " The Dnenna, or double elopement ; a comic
opera, as it is enacted at the Theatre, Smoke Alley. Dublin."
(Properly called Smock Alley.) In this edition most outrageous
liberties have been taken with the original text.
ALAS! THOU HAST NO WINGS, OH! TIME.
[In the lines that follow will be found the original form of
the idea which the author so much improved in the foregoing.
Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, gives numerous instances of
the extreme care with which he filed and polished up his
hafts of wit to bring them to the finest point. In this prac-
tice no one could better sympathize than Moore.]
ALAS ! thou hast no wings, oh ! time ;
It was some thoughtless lover's rhyme,
Who, writing in his Chloe's view,
Paid her the compliment through you.
For had he, if he truly loved,
But once the pangs of absence proved,
He'd cropt thy wings, and, in their stead,
Have painted thee with heels of lead.
I NE'ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE.
I NE'ER could any lustre see,
In eyes that would not look on mo ;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid, who seeks my heart,
Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art ?
I will own the color true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.
Is her hand so soft and pure ?
I must press it, to be sure ;
Nor can I be certain then,
'Till it grateful press again.
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh ?
I will do so, when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.
WHEN SABLE NIGHT.
WHEN sable night, each drooping plant re-
storing,
Wept o'er her flowers, her breath did
cheer,
As some sad widow o'er her baby deploring,
Wakes its beauty with a tear
When all did sleep whose weary hearts
could borrow
One hour of love from care to rest ;
Lo ! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow
My lover caught me to his breast.
He vowM he came to save me
From those that would enslave me
Then kneeling,
Kisses stealing,
Endless faith he swore!
But soon I chid him thence,
For had his fond pretence
Obtain'd one favor then,
And he had press'd again,
I fear'd my treach'rous heart might gram
him more.
Barns, in his correspondence with Mr. George Thomson
the publisher, writes than : " There is a pretty En;r1tih M>U>
by Sheridan, In ' The Dnenna,' to this air, which is out ot
light superior to D'Urfcy's. It begins
'When sable night, each drooping plant restoring.'
"The air, if I understand the cxprcssiot. of it properly, is ;ht
very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and IOTO. J
have again gone over my song to the tune, a* follows:
'Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature T
Rosy morn now lifts hta eye.
Numbering ilka bud which .\atnre
tt'attr* v>Uh, tht lean qfjoy.' "
The idea conveyed in the words I have given In tulle*, l
but the repetition of Sheridan's idea of Sable Night wcej.in t
over her flr era.
POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN.
THE MID-WATCH.
WHEN 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come,
And chilling mists hang o'er the darken'd
main,
Then sailors think of their far-distant home,
And of those friends they ne'er may see
again ;
But when the fight's begun,
Each serving at his gun,
Should any thought of them come o'er your
mind;
Think, only, should the day be won,
How 'twill cheer
Their hearts to hear
That their old companion he was one.
Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind
Have left on shore, some pretty girl and
true,
Who many a night doth listen to the wind,
And sighs to think how it may fare with
you:
Oh, when the fight's begun,
You serving at your gun,
Should any thought of her come o'er your
mind*
Think, only, should the day be won,
How 'twill cheer
Her heart to hear
That her own true sailor he was one.
MARKED YOU HER CHEEK?
MAKK'D,you her cheek of rosy hue ?
Mark'd you her eye of sparkling blue?
That eye, in liquid cii-cles moving ;
That cheek, abash'd at Man's approving ;
The one, Love's arrows darting round ;
The other, blushing at the wound :
Did she not speak, did she not move,
Now Pallas now the queen of love !
These lines are generally supposed to have been written
upon Miss Linley ; but Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, tells us
Lady Margaret Fordyce was the object of this pparklirg
eulogy. They are part of a long poem in which, to use
Moore's words, "they shine out so conspicuously, that wo
cannot wonder at their having been so soon detached, like ill-
set gems, from the loose and clumsy workmanship around
them." In the same poem, says Moore, we find " one of
those familiar lines which so many quote without knowing
whence they come ; one of those stray fragments whose
parentage is doubtful, but to which (as the law say
mate children), "pater est populus.'' "
"You write with ease to show yonr breeding,
But easy writing's aunt, futrd reading."
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
SWEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labor-
ing swain,
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting Summer's lingering blooms
delay'd ;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could
please
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene !
How often have I paused on every charm
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighboring
hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the
shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made 1
I Tow often have I bless'd the coming day
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading
tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the oJd survey'd ;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength
went round,
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down ;
The swain mistrustk-ss of his smutted face,
SVhile secret laughter titter'd round the
place ;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love.
The matron's glance that would those look*
reprove !
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sporU
like these,
With sweet succession, taught even toil to
please ;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influ-
ence shed ;
These were thy charms but all these charms
are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with-
drawn ;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green :
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain.
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choked with sedges works its weary
way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ;
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering
wall ;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's
hand,
Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay :
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade
A breath can make them, as a breath has
made;
428
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs be-
gan,
When every rood of ground maintain'd its
man ;
For him light labor spread her wholesome
store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no
more:
His best companions, innocence and health,
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling
train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain :
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets
rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp re-
pose;
And every want to luxury allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to
bloom,
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,
Those healthful sports that graced the peace-
ful scene,
Lived in each look, and brigLten'd all the
green;
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Aiiburn parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take ray solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd
grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn
grew
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to
pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of
care,
In all my griefs and God has given my
share
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting, by reposa
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd
skill
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ;
And, as an hare, whom hounds and home
pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he
flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return and die at home at last.
O bless'd retirement, friend to life's declint,
Retreats from care, that never must be
mine,
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like
these,
A youth of labor with an age of ease ;
Who quits the world where strong tempta-
tions try
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to
fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous
deep;
No surly porter stands, in guilty state,
To spui'n imploring famine from the gate ,
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way
And, all his prospects brightening to the
last,
His heaven commences ere the world be
pass'd.
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's
close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and
slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from be-
low:
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their
young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from
school,
The watchdog's voice that bay'd the whis-
pering wind
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
429
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant
mind
These all in sweet confusion sought the
shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had
made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown footway
tread,
For all the blooming flush of life is fled
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ;
She, wretched matron forced in age, for
bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses
spread,
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till
morn
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain !
Near yonder copse, where once the garden
smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grovrs
wild
There, where a few torn shrubs the place
disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change,
his place ;
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to
prize
More bent to raise the wretched than to
rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant
train ;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their
pain :
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged
breast ;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims
allow'd ;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow
done,
Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields
were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd
to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for
all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the
skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was
laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dis-
may'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his con-
trol
Despair and anguish fled the struggling
soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch
to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd
praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected
grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double
sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to
pray.
The service pass'd, around the pious man
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ;
Even children follow'd, with endearing wiln,
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good
man's smile :
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares
distress'd.
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were
given,
430
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
But all his serious thoughts had rest in
heaven :
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the
storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds
are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts
the way
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view ;
I knew him well, and every truant knew :
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to
trace
The day's disasters in his morning face ;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited
glee
At all his jokes for many a joke had he ;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he
frown'd.
Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught,
* O 7
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew
'Twa> cprtain he could write, and cipher too ;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides
presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge.
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill,
For even though vanquish'd, he could argue
still ;
While words of learned length and thunder-
ing sound
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around
And still they gazed, and still the wonder
grew
That one small head could carry all he knew.
. But pass'd is all his fame ; the very spot
Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot.
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on
high,
Where once the sign-post caught the pass-
ing eye,
Low lies that house where nutbrown draughts
inspired,
Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil
retired,
Where village statesmen talk'd with lookt
profound,
And news much older than their ale went
round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlor splendors of that festive place ;
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded
floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the
door ;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of
goose ;
The hearth, except when Winter chill'd the
day,
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel
gay;
While broken teacups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
Vain transitory splendors ! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its
fall?
Obscure it sinks ; nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's
heart :
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's
tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall
clear,
Relax his ponderous strength and lean to
hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud dis-
dain,
These simple blessings of the lowly train
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm than all the gloss of art.
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born
sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconliued :
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
431
But the long pomp, the midnight masque-
rade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth
array 'd,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain
And, even while fashion's brightest arts de-
coy,
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy?
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who
survey
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's de-
cay
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits
stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted
ore,
And shouting folly hails them from her
shore ;
Hoards even beyond the raiser's wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world
around ;
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a
name
That leaves our useful products still the
same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and
pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied
Space for his lake, his park's extended
bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ;
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
lias robb'd the neighboring fields of half
their growth ;
His seat, where solitary spots are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies :
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure,
all
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall
As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her
reign,
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress
supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her
eyes
But when those charms are pass'd, for charm*
are frail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd:
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd
But verging to decline, its splendors rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ;
While, scourged by famine, from the smiling
land
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms a garden and a grave.
Where then, ah, where shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits strayM
He drives his flocks to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth di-
vide,
And even the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share ;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
To pamper luxury and thin mankind ;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe :
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ;
Here while the proud their long-drawn
pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the
way.
The dome where pleasure holds her mid-
night rc-ign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous
train
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing
quart,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ;
Sure these denote one universal joy ?
Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah, turn
thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female
lies.
432
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd,
Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd ;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the
thorn ;
Now lost to all her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from
the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country
brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn ! thine, the love-
liest train
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ?
Even now perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread.
Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary
scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes be-
tween,
Through torrid tracks with fainting steps
they go,
Where wild Altama 1 murmurs to their v, oe.
Far different there from all that charm'd be-
fore,
The various terrors of that horrid shore ;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward
ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day
Those matted woods where birds forget to
sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance
crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death
around
Where at each step the stranger fears to
wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless
prey,
And savage men more murderous still than
they
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
1 Th river AlUmaha, tn Georgia, North America.
Mingling the ravaged landscape with th|
skies.
Far different these from every former scene ;
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven ! what son-rows gloom'd
that parting day,
That call'd them from their native walks
away ;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd
their last
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western
main
And, shuddering still to face the distant
deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to
weep.
The good old sire, the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others'
woe
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave,
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless yeai-s,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her
woes,
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure
rose,
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many
a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly
dear
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for
thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy !
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigor not their own :
At every draught more large and large they
grow,
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
433
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ;
Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part
unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin
round.
E'en now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I
stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads
the sail
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the
strand :
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness are there,
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest
maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ;
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame :
Dear charming nymph, neglected and de-
cried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ;
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st
me so;
Thou guide, by which the noble arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well !
Farewell; and, oh, where'er thy voice be
tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ;
Teach erring-man to spurn the rage of gain ;
Teach him, that states of native strength
possess'd,
Though very poor, may still be very bless'd ;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swill
decay,
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
THE TRAVELLER.
REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slew,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ;
Or onward where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the
door,
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ;
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening
chain.
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints
attend :
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests
retire
To pause from toil, and trim their evening
fire ;
Blest that abode, where want and pain re-
pair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair ;
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty
crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ;
Or pi-ess the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good.
But me, not destined such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent and
care
Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the
view,
That, like the circle bounding earth and
skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.
E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ;
And placed on high, above the storm'a
career,
Look downward where a hundred realms
appear
434
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler
pride.
When thus creation's charms around com-
bine,
Amidst the store should thankless pride re-
pine?
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes each humbler bosom
vain ?
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man ;
And wiser he whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.
Ye glittering towns with wealth and splen-
dor crown'd ;
Ye fields where Summer spreads profusion
round ;
Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale ;
Ye bending swains that dress the flowery
vale ;
For me your tributary stores combine ;
Creation's heir, the world, the world is
mine !
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it
o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting
still :
Thus to iny breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man
supplies,
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the hoard of human bliss so small ;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd,
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope
at rest,
May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest.
But where to find that happiest spot be-
iow,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease ;
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they
gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we
roam,
His first best country ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom
find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ;
As different good, by art or nature given,
To different nations, makes their blessings
even,
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call ;
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliff as Arno's shelvy side ;
And though the rocky-crested summits
frown,
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of
down.
From art more various are the blessings
sent
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content ;
Yet these each other's power so strong con-
test,
That either seems destructive of the rest:
Where wealth and freedom reign, content-
ment fails,
And honor sinks where commerce long pre-
vails.
Hence every state, to one loved blessing
prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone ;
Each to the favorite happiness attends;
And spurns the plan that aims at other
ends
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
This favorite good begets peculiar pain.
But let us try these truths with closer
eyes,
And trace them through the prospect as it
lies:
Here, for awhile my proper cares resign'd,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ;
Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at evcrj
blast.
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
435
Far to the right, where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the Summer, Italy extends :
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods :n gay theatric pride,
While oft some temple's mouldering tops
between
With venerable grandeur mark the scene.
Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.
Whatever fruits in different climes are found,
That proudly rise, or humbly court the
ground
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession decks the varied
year
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die
These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings ex-
pand
To winnow fragrance round the smiling
land.
But small the bliss that sense alone be-
stows,
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows ;
In florid beauty groves and fields appear
Man seems the only growth that dwindles
here.
Contrasted faults through all his manners
reign :
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive,
vain ;
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet
untrue ;
And even in penance planning sins anew.
All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind ;
For wealth was theirs nor far removed the
date
When commerce proudly flourish'd through
the state.
At her command the palace learn'd to rise,
Again the long-fallen column sought the
skies,
The canvas glow'd, beyond e'en nature warm,
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human
form ;
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail,
While naught remain'd, of all that riche*
gave,
But towns unmann'd and lords without a
slave
And late the nation found, with fruitless
skill,
Its former strength was but plethoric ill.
Yet, still the loss of wealth is here sup-
plied
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride :
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen
mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ;
Processions form'd for piety and love
A mistress or a saint in every grove :
By sports like these are all their carc^ be-
guiled ;
The sports of children satisfy the child,
Each nobler aim represt by long control.
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind.
As in those domes, where Caesars once l>on:
sway,
Defaced by time and tottering in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ;
And, wondering man could want the larger
pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race dis-
play-
Where the bleak S.wiss their stormy man-
sions tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread.
No product here the barren hills afford
But man and steel, the soldier and his
sword ;
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But Winter lingering chills the lap of May ;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's bn-a-t,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms
invest.
Yet still, even here, content can spread a
charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
43G
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts
though small,
lie sees his little lot the lot of all ;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head,
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal,
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short re-
pose,
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ;
With patient angle trolls the tinny deep ;
Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the
steep ;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark
the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, every labor sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round sur-
veys
His children's looks, that brighten at the
blaze ;
While his loved partner, boastful of her
hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board :
And haply too some pilgrim thither led
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
Thas every good his native wilds impart
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ;
And e'en those hills, that round his mansion
rise,
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies :
Dear is that shed to which his soul con-
forms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the
storms ;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother's
breast
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar
But bind him to his native mountains more.
Such are the charms to barren states as-
sign'd
Their wants but few, their wishes all con-
fined
Yet let them only share the praises due,
If few their wants, their pleasures are but
few :
For every want that stimulates the breast
Becomes a source of pleasure when redress'd.
Whence from such lands each pleasing
science flies,
That first excites desire, and then supplies.
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures
cloy,
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ;
Unknown those powers that raise the soul
to flame,
Catch every nerve and vibrate through the
frame :
Their level life is but a smouldering fire,
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong
desire ;
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.
But not their joys alone thus coarsely
flow,
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ;
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son,
Unalter'd, unimproved, the manners run ;
And love's and friendship's finely pointed
dart
Fall blunted from each indurated heart.
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's
breast
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest ;
But all the gentler morals, such as play
Through life's more cultured walks, and
charm the way
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky.
To kinder skies, where gentler manners
reign,
I turn ; and France displays her bright do-
main.
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world
can please
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring
Loire !
Where shading elms along the margin grew,
And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr
flew!
And haply, though my harsh touch, falter
ing still,
THK POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
437
But mock'cl all tune, and marr'd the dan-
cer's skill
Yet would the village praise my wondrous
power,
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour.
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days
Have led their children through the mirth-
ful maze ;
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore,
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.
So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms
display;
Thus idly busy rolls their world away.
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind en-
dear,
For honor forms the social temper here :
Honor, that praise which real merit gains,
Or even imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ;
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise
They please, are pleased, they give to get
esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they
seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise ;
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly
sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools im-
part;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace,
And trims her robes of frieze with copper
lace;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year :
The mind still turns where shifting fashion
draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
To men of other minds my fancy Hies,
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies.
Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the
land ;
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow,
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar,
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the
shore
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile,
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile
The slow canal, the yellow blossom'd vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain
A new creation rescued from his reign.
Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil
Impels the native to repeated toil,
Industrious habits in each bosom reign,
And industry begets a love of gain.
Hence all the good from opulence that
springs,
With all those ills superiluous treasure
brings,
Are here display'd. Their much-loved
wealth imparts
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ;
But view them closer, craft and fraud ap>
pear,
Even liberty itself is barter'd here.
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies;
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys :
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves,
Here wretches seek dishonorable graves ;
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform,
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm.
Heavens, how unlike their Belgic sires of
old-
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold,
War in each breast, and freedom on each
brow ;
How much unlike the sons of Britain now !
Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her
wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western
Spring ;
\V lu-re lawns extend that scorn Arcadian
pride,
And brighter streams than famed
glide.
> A river in India, DOW called the Jdu
438
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
There, all around, the gentlest breezes stray;
There gentle music melts on every spray ;
Creation's mildest charms are there com-
bined :
Extremes are only in the master's mind.
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great.
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of human kind pass by,
Intent on high designs a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's
hand,
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,
True to imagined right, above control ;
While even the peasant boasts these rights
to scan,
And learns to venerate himself as man.
Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured
here ;
Thine are those charms that dazzle and en-
dear ;
Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy,
But, foster' d e'en by freedom, ills annoy ;
That independence Britons prize too high
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social
tie :
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone
All claims that bind and sweeten life un-
known.
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ;
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Repress'd ambition struggles round her
shore ;
Till, overwrought, the general system feels
Its motions stopp'd, or frenzy fire the wheels.
Nor this the worst. As nature's ties de-
cay,
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway,
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and
law,
Still gather strength, and force unwilling
awe.
Hence all obedience bows to these alone,
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ;
Till time may come, when, stripp'd of all her
charms,
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms
Where noble stems transmit the patriot
flame.
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote
for fame
One sink of level avarice shall lie,
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die.
Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I
state,
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great.
Ye powers of truth that bid my soul aspire,
Far from my bosom drive the low desire !
And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel
The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel
Thou transitory flower, alike undone
By proud contempt, or favor's fostering
sun
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime
endure !
I only would repress them to secure;
For just experience tells in every soil,
That those who think must govern those
that toil ;
And all that freedom's highest aims can
reach
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each.
Hence, should one order disproportion'd
grow,
Its double weight must ruin all below.
Oh, then, how blind to all that truth re-
quires,
Who think it freedom when a part aspii'es !
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,
Except when fast approaching danger warns ;
But, when contending chiefs blockade the
throne,
Contracting regal power to stretch their
own
When I behold a factious band agree
To call it freedom when themselves are
free
Each wanton judge new penal statutes
draw,
Laws grind the poor, and rich men 1'ule the
law
The wealth of climes, where savage nation %
roam,
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at
home
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start,
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown,
I fly from petty tyrants to the tin-one.
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
439
Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful
hour
When first ambition struck at regal power ;
And thus, polluting honor in its source,
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double
force.
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled
shore,
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ?
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,
Like flaring tapers brightening as they
waste ?
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain,
Lead stern depopulation in her train,
And over fields where scatter'd hamlets
rose,
lu barren solitary pomp repose ?
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call,
The smiling long-frequented village fall ?
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd,
The modest matron and the blushing maid,
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train,
To traverse climes beyond the western
main
Where wild Oswego 1 spreads her swamps
around,
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ?
Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim
strays
Through tangled forests and through dan-
gerous ways,
Where beasts with man divided empire
claim,
And the brown Indian marks with murder-
ous aim
There, while above the giddy tempest flies,
And all around distressful yells arise
The pensive exile, bending with his woe,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,
Casts a long look where England's glories
thine,
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
Th?t bliss which only centres in the mind.
W> y have I stray'd from pleasure and re-
pose,
To seek a good each government bestows?
fn every government, though terrors reign,
M wego, a river of N. America running into Lake Ontario.
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or
cure!
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find.
With secret course, which no loud storms
annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy;
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,
Zcck's iron crown, and Damiens" bed of
steel,
To men remote from power but rarely
known
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all oar
own.
THE HERMIT.
"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
For here, forlorn and lost, 1 tread,
With fainting steps and slow,
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."
"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
" To tempt the dangerous gloom ;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
Here, to the houseless child of want
My door is open still ;
And, though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn
1 George and Luke Zerk headed an insurrection In Hungary,
1514; George usurped tin- Hov.T.-ii.-Miy. mul was punished bj
a red-hot iron crown. Damienx, who attempted the awanV
nation of Louis XV. of France, in 1757. was tortured to d-tb
440
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.
But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring ;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
Then,*pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego,
All earth-born cares are wrong :
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell ;
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far, in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighboring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest ;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gayly press'd and smiled ;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling fagot flies.
o o
But, nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spied
With answering care oppress'd ;
" And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
" The sorrows of thy breast ?
From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love ?
Alas, the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay ;
And those who prize the paltry thingg
More trifling still than they.
And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep ?
And love is still an emptier sound
The modern fair one's jest ;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
For shame, fond youth, thy sorrow! hush,
And spurn the sex," he said ;
But, while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd :
Surprised, he sees new beauties riso (
Swift mantling to the view
Like colors o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest,
A maid in all her charms.
" And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried
" Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.
But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
My father lived beside the Tyne
A wealthy lord was he ;
And all his wealth was mark'd as nine :
He had but only me.
To win me from his tender arms
Unnumber'd suitors came ;
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
441
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign'd a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove ;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd
But never talk'd of love.
In humble simplest habit clad,
No wealth or power had he ;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
And when beside me in the dale
He caroll'd lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.
The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could naught of purity display
To emulate his mind.
The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine :
Their charms were his ; but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.
For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;
And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.
Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride ;
And sought a solitude forlorn
In secret, where he died.
But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
And there, forforn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die :
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."
" Forbid it, heaven !" the Hermit cried,
And claap'd her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide
'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
" Turn, Angelina, ever dear
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.
Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign :
And shall we never, never part,
My life my all that's mine ?
No ; never, from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.
A TALE.
SECLUDED from domestic strife,
Jack Bookworm led a college life ;
O '
A fellowship, at twenty-five,
Made him the happiest man alive ;
He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.
Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair ?
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ?
Oh, had the archer ne'er come down
To ravage in a country town !
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop !
Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze,
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze !
Oh ! But let exclamation cease ;
Her presence banish'd all his peace :
So with decorum all things carried,
Miss frown'd and blush'd, and then
married.
Need we expose to vulgar sight
The raptures of the bridal night?
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground,
Or draw the curtains closed around V
Let it suffice, that each had charms :
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms;
442
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
And though she felt his usage rough,
Yet in a man 'twas well enough.
The honeymoon like lightning flew;
The second brought its transports too ;
A third, a fourth, were not amiss ;
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss ;
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay ;
Found half the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ;
But still the worst remain'd behind
That very face had robb'd her mind.
Skill'd in no other arts was she
But dressing, patching, repartee ;
And, just as humor rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.
'Tis true, she dress'd with modern grace
Half-naked at a ball or race ;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain-lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing ?
In short by night 'twas fits or fretting,
By day 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee ;
The squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations.
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke ;
While all their hours were pass'd between
Insulting repartee or spleen.
Thus, as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown ;
He fancies every vice she shows
Or thins her lip or points her nose ;
Whenever rage or envy rise,
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes !
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz ;
And, though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.
Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose,
As each a different way pursues
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promised to hold them on for life
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty's transient flower
Lo, the small-pox, whose horrid glare
Levell'd its terrors at the fair,
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.
The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright.
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes ;
In vain she tries her paste and creams
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams:
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ;
The squire himself was seen to yield,
And even the captain quit the field.
Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old.
With modesty her cheeks are dyed ;
Humility displaces pride ;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean ;
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day :
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF
QUEBEC.
AMIDST the clamor of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot
heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raotures which from pleas-
ures start.
Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest
dear ;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung
tear.
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
443
Alive the foe thy dreadful vigor fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing
eyes:
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though
dead!
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes
rise.
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.
[This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ;
but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier ;
/rowing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge,
%nd became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated
Voltaire'b Henriade.]
HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery
freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack ;
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away ?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is to die.
AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER
SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam I>lai/r,
Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind ;
She freely lent to all the poor
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighborhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning ;
And never follow'd wicked ways
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more ;
The king himself has follow'd her
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all ;
The doctors found, when she was dead
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more-
She had not died to-day.
EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.
THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's
name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flow-
ery way ?
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ;
And heaven, that lent him genius, was re-
paid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his work shall
rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skiei
444
THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
A PROLOGUE,
WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABE-
RIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM <X<E8AR
FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
(PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.)
WHAT ! no way left to shun th' inglorious
stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age ?
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a
year,
What, in the name of dotage, drives me
here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps
aside ;
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honor dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honor is no more ;
For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline,
Caesar persuades, submission must be mine ;
Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame ;
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will tit my name as well :
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honor ends.
EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF
"SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."
WELL, having Stooped to Conquer with suc-
cess,
And gain'd a husband without aid from
dress,
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer'd him, to conquer you :
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty bar-maids have done execution.
Our life is ail a play, composed to please,
" We have our exits and our entrances."
The first act shows the simple country maid r
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ;
Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning
action,
" I hope as how to give you satisfaction."
Her second act displays a livelier scene
Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market
caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scoldi
the waiters.
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she
soars,
The chop-house toasts of ogling connoisseurs.
On squires and cits she there displays her
arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts .
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
Even common-councilmen forget to eat.
The fourth act shows her wedded to the
squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher ;
Dotes upon dancing, and in all her pride
Swims round the room the Heinelle of
Cheapside ;
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
Till having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at
Spadille.
Such, through our lives, the eventful history :
The fifth and last act still remains for me.
The bar-maid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays.
EMMA.
IN all my Emma's beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine ;
For though she gives me up her breast,
Its panting tenant <s not mine.
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE,
SONG.
LOVE laid down his golden head
( )n his mother's knee ;
" The world runs round so fast," he said,
" None has time for me."
Thought, a sage unhonor'd, turn'd
From the on-rushing crew ;
Song her starry legend spurn'd ;
Art her glass down threw.
Roll on, blind world, upon thy track
Until thy wheels catch fire !
For that is gone which comes not back
To seller nor to buyer !
CREEP SLOWLY UP THE WILLOW-
WAND.
CREEP slowly up the willow-wand,
Young leaves ; and in your lightness
Teach us that spirits which despond
May wear their own pure brightness !
Into new sweetness slowly dip,
O May I advance, yet linger ;
Nor let the ring too swiftly slip
Down that new-plighted finger !
Thy bursting blooms, O Spring, retard:
While thus thy raptures press on,
How many a joy is lost or marr'd,
How many a lovely lesson 1
For each new grace conceded, those
The earlier-loved are taken ;
In death their eyes must violets close
Before the rose can waken.
Ye woods with ice-threads tingling late,
Where late we heard the robin,
Your chants that hour but antedate
When autumn winds are sobbing.
Ye gummy buds in silken sheath,
Hang back content to glisten !
Hold in, O Earth, thy charm6d breath ;
Thou air, be still, and listen !
SPENSER.
ONE peaceful spot in a storm-vex'd isle
Shall wear forever the past's calm smile :
Kilcoleman Castle ! There Spenser sate ;
There sang, unweeting of coming late.
The song he sang was a life-romance
Woven by Virtues in mystic dance,
Where the gods and the heroes of Grecian
story
Themselves were virtues in allegory.
True love was in it, but love sublimed.
Occult, high-reason'd, bewitchM, be-rhymed I
The knight was the servant of ends trans-
human,
The women were seraphs, the bard half
woman.
448
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
Time and its tumults, stern shocks, hearts
wrung,
To him were mad words to sweet music sung,
History to him an old missal quaint
Border'd round with gold angel and azure
saint.
Creative indeed was that eye, sad Mary,
That hail'd in thy rival a queen of faery,
And in Raleigh, half statesman, half pirate,
could see
But the shepherd of ocean's green Ai-cady.
Under groves of Penshurst his first notes
rang:
As Sidney lived so his Spenser sang.
From the well-head of Chaucer one stream
found birth,
Like an Arethusa, on Irish earth.
From the court he had fled, and the courtly
lure :
One virgin muse in an age not pure
Wore Florimel's girdle, and mourn'd in song
(Disguised as Irena's) lerne's wrong. 1
Roll onward, thou western Ilyssus, roll,
"Mulla," far kenn'd by "old mountain
Mole !"
With thy Shepherds a Calidore loved to
dwell ;
And beside him an Irish PastoreL
Dead are the wild-flowers she flung on thy
tide,
Bending over thee, giftless that well-sung
bride :
The flowers have pass'd by, but abideth the
river ;
And the genius that hallo w'd it haunts it
forever.
HOLY CROSS ABBEY.
NOT dead, but living still and militant,
With things dead-doom'd wrestling in con-
quering war,
1 Fairy Queen. Book V. Canto i.
* "Son*,' made in lieu of many ornaments." SPENSER'S
fplthalamlon.
More free for chains, more fair for every scar,
How well, huge pile, that forehead gray and
gaunt
Thou lift'st our world of fleeting shapes to
daunt !
The past in thee surviveth petrified :
Like some dead tongue art thou, some
tongue that died
To live ; for prayer reserved, of flatteries
scant.
The age of Sophists takes on thee no hoM :
From thine ascetic breast the hollow jibn
Falls flat, and cavil of the blustering sen be:
Thine endless iron winter mocks the gold
Of our brief autumns. God hath press'd y
thee
The impress of His own eternity.
SELF-DECEPTION
LIKE mist it tracks us wheresoe'er we go,
Like air bends with us ever as we bend ;
And, as the shades at noontide darkest grow,
With grace ascending it too can ascend :
Weakness with virtue skill'd it is to blend,
Breed baser life from buried sins laid low,
Empty our world of God and good, yet lend
The spirit's waste a paradisal glow.
O happy children simple even in wiles !
And ye of single eye thrice happy poor !
Practised self-love, the cheat which slays
with smiles,
Weaves not for you the inevitable lure.
Men live a lie : specious their latest
breath :
Welcome, delusion-slayer, truthful Death 1
OUR KINGS SAT OF OLD IN EMANIA
AND TARA.
i.
OUR kings sat of old in Emania and Tara :
Those new kings whence are they ? Their
names are unknown !
Our saints lie entomb'd in Ardmagh and
Cilldara ;
Their relics are healing ; their graves are
grass-grown.
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE
447
Our princes of old, when their warfare was
over,
As pilgrims forth wander'd; as hermits
found rest:
Shall the hand of the stranger their ashes
uncover
In Bennchor the holy, in Aran the blest ? '
ii.
Not so, by the race our Dalriada planted !
In Alba were children ; we sent her a
man.
1 There is no other example of a nation devoting itself to
spiritual things with au ardor and a success comparable to
that which distinguished Ireland. During the first three cen-
turies after he, conversion to Christianity she resembled one
vast monastery. Statements so extraordinary that if they
came from Irish sources they might be supposed to have
originated in national vanity, have reached us in snch num-
bers from the records of those foreign nations under whose
altars the relics of Irish saints aud founders repose, that upon
this point there remains no difference of opinion among the
learned. . For ordinary readers the subject is sufficiently
illustrated in the more recent Irish histories. Mr. Moore
remarks (Hist, of Ireland, vol i. p. 276) : " In order to convey
to the reader any adequate notion of the apostolic labors of
that great crowd of learned missionaries whom Ireland sent
foith, in the course of this century, to all parts of Europe, it
would be necessary to transport him to the scenes of their
respective missions ; to point out the difficulties they had to
encounter, and the admirable patience and courage with
which they surmounted them ; to show how inestimable
was the service they rendered, during that dark period, by
keeping the dying embers of learning awake, and how grate-
fully their names are enshrined in the records of foreign lands,
though but faintly, if at all, remembered in their own, win-
ning for her that noble title of the ' island of the holy and the
learned, 1 which throughout the night that overhung the rest
of Europe she so long and BO proudly wore. Thus the labors
of the great missionary, St. Columbanus, were after his death
still vigorously carried on, both in France and Italy, by those
disciples who had accompanied or joined him from Ireland ;
aud his favorite Callus, to whom in dying he bequeathed his
pastoral staff, became the founder of an abbey in Switzerland,
which was in the thirteenth century erected into a princedom,
while the territory belonging to it, through all changes, bore
the name of St. Gall. * * * This pious Irishman has been
called, by a foreign martyrologiet, the apostle of the Allema-
nian nation. Another disciple and countryman of St. Colum-
banus, named Dcicola, or in Irish Dichuill, enjoyed like his
master the patronage and friendship of the monarch Ulotalre
II., who endowed the monastic establishment formed by him
. Ltithra with considerable grants of land."
He proct'eds to enumerate many other monuments of early
Irish devotion, a* the tomb of the Irish priest Caidoc, in the
monastery of Ccntula in I'onlhiuu, and the hermitage of St.
Fiacre, to which Anne of Austria, in the year 1041, made her
pilgrimage on foot. He record* the labors of St. Fursa
among the East Angles, and afterward in France, and of his
brothers Ultan and Foillan in Brabant; of St. Livin In Ghent ;
>f St. Fridolin beside the Khini-. Hi- refers to the two Irish-
men successively bishops of Strasburg, St. Arbogast. and St.
F!or>-ntius; to the two brothers Erard anil Albert, whose
tombs were long shown at Katisbon ; to St. Wiro, to whom
used to confess, barefooted : to St. Killan, the sreat
of Franconia, who consummated his labors by martyr-
dom, and who is still honored at Wurtzburg as its patron
faint. He proceeds to commemorate Catalan*, patron of
TrMi\um, and at on* period an ornament of the celebrated
Battles won in Argyle in Dunedin they
chanted :
King Kenneth completed what Fergus
began.
Our name is her name : she is Alba no
longer :
Her kings are our blood, and she crowns
them at Scone :
Strong-hearted they are ; and strong-handed ;
but stronger
When throned on our Lia Fail, Destiny's
stone !
school of Lismore, and Virgilius, or Feargal, denounced to th
Pope by Boniface as a heretic for having anticipated at that
early period the discovery of the "antipodes," and main-
tained " that there was another world, and other men under
the earth." This great man propagated the Gospel among
the Carinthians. He then records the selection by Charle-
magne of two Irishmen, Clement and Albinns, one of whom he
placed at the head of a seminary founded by him in France,
while the other presided over a similar institution at Pavia ;
a third Irishman, Dungal, being especially consulted by the
same prince on account of his astronomical knowledge. This
celebrated teacher carried on a controversy with Claudius
Bishop of Turin, who had revived the heterodox opinions o4
Vigilantius against the veneration of the saints. He be-
queathed to the monastery of Bobio his library, the greater
part of which is still preserved at Milan.
Mr. Moore next illustrates the remarkable knowledge of
Greek possessed by the early Irish ecclesiastics, a circum-
stance accounted for by the fact that the fame of the Irish
churches and schools had attracted many Greeks to Ireland.
Advancing to the ninth century he records Sedulius and Do-
natus, the former of whom had become so celebrated from hia
writings that the Pope created him Bishop of Oreto, and de-
spatched him to Spain in order that he might compose the
differences which had arisen among the clergy there, while
the latter was made Bishop of Fiesolc. Of his writings noth-
ing remains except the Latin verses in which he celebrates
his native land under its early name of Scotia.
" Finibus occiduis describitur optima tcllus
Nomine et antiquis Scotia dicta libris.
Insula dives opum, gemmarnm, vestis et auri :
Commoda corporibus, acre, sole, solo," <fcc.
He next gives an account of the far-famed John Scotus
Erigena, and remarks upon the influence of the early Irish
writers on the scholastic philosophy. (Moore's History, vol.
i. pp. 276-307.) From the latter part of the fifth century to the
latter part of the eighth was Ireland's golden age. The
Danish invasions reduced her to the comparatively low
condition in which she was found by the Normans in the
twelfth.
The progress of Ireland's Christianity Is briefly but com-
prehensively narrated also in Mr. Haverty's recent History of
Ireland, Farrell & Son: "Among the great ecclesiastical
schools or monasteries founded In Ireland about this time
(the fifth century), were those of St. Ailbe of Emly, of 8u
BenignuB of Armagh, of St. Fiech of Slttty, of St. Mel of
Ardagh, of St. Mochay of Antrim, of St. Moctheus of Lonth.
of St. Ibar of Beg-Erin, of St. Asicus of Elphin, and of S:.
eican of Derkan." P 75. " The most celebrated of
thorn, founded early in the sixth century, wore Clonard in
Meatii founded by St. Finan or Flnlan ; Clonmacnoise. on rhe
banks of the Shannon, in the King's Bounty, founded in the
same century by St. Klaran, called the Carpenter's Son :
Hemiclior, or Bangor, In the Ards of Ulster, founded by Si.
ir 588. and Lismore In Wnterford. founder"
by St. Carthach. or Mochuda, about th i year 633. Tl se i<
448
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VEME.
THE MALISON,
i.
THE Curse of that land which in ban and in
blessing
Hath puissance, through prayer and
through penance alight
On the False One who whisper'd, the traitor's
hand pressing,
" I ride without guards in the morning,
good-night !"
O beautiful serpent! O woman fiend-
hearted !
Wife false to O'Ruark ! queen base to thy
trust !
The glory of ages forever departed
That hour from the isle of the saintly and
just.
n.
The Curse of that land on the monarchs dis-
loyal,
Who welcomed the invader, and knelt at
his knee !
False Derniod, false Donald the chieftains
once royal
Of the Deasies and Ossory, cursed let
them be !
Their name and their shame make eternal.
Engrave them
On the cliffs which the great billows buffet
and stain :
Like billows the nations, when tyrants en-
slave them,
Swell up in their fury not always in vain !
many other Irish schools attracted a vast concourse of stu-
dents, the pupils of a.single school ofien numbering from one
to three thousand, several of whom came from Britain, Gaul,
nd other countries, drawn thither by the reputation for sanc-
tity and learning which Ireland enjoyed throughout Europe."
P. 87. " * * * Scarcely an island round the coast, or in the
takes of the interior, or a valley, or any solitary spot, could be
found which, like the deserts of Egypt and Palestine, was not
inhabited by fervent coenobites and anchorites." P. 88. After
various quotations from eminent foreign authorities, as Erie of
Auxerre, and Tierry, Mr. Haverty proceeds : " Stephen White
(Apologia, p. 24) thus sums up the labors of the Irish saints on
the continent : 'Among the names of saints wLom Ireland
formerly sent forth there were, as I have learned from the
trustworthy writings of the ancients, 150 now honored as pa-
trons of places in Germany, of whom 36 were martyrs ; 45 Irish
patrons in the Gauls, of whom 6 were martyrs ; at least 30 in
Belgium ; 44 in England ; 13 in Italy ; and in Norway and Ice-
taiid 8 martyrs, besides many others.' It has been calculated
that the ancient Irish monks had 13 monastic foundations in
Scotland, 12 in England, 7 in France, 12 in Armoric Gaul, 7 in
I/Jtharingia, 11 in Burgundy, 9 in Belgium, 10 in Alsatia, 1C in
Bavaria, 6 in Italy, and 15 in Rhetia, Helvetia, and Suavia, be-
lli.
But praise in the churches, and worship and
honor
To him who, betray'd and deserted, fought
on !
All praise to King Roderick, the prince of
Clan Connor,
The king of all Erin, and Cathall his son !
May the million-voiced chant that in end-
less expansion
Sweeps onward through heaven his praisea
prolong ;
May the heaven of heavens this night be the
mansion
Of the good king who died in the cloisters
of Cons !
HYMN,
ON THE FOUNDING OF THE ABBEY OF ST.
THOMAS THE MARTTR (i BECKEf),
IN DUBLIN, A. D. 1177.
"The celebrated Abbey of St. Thomas the Martyr wa.s
founded in Dublin by Fitz-Adelm, by order of Henry Second.
The site was the place now called Thomas' Court. In the
presence of Cardinal Vivian and St. Laurence O'Toole the
deputy endowed it with a carucate of land called Donore."
HAVERTY'S Hist, of Ireland, Fan-ell & Son's edition, 205.
I.
REJOICE, thou race of man, rejoice !
To-day the Church renews her boast
Of England's Thomas ; and her voice
Is echo'd by the heavenly host.
sides many in Thuringia, and on the left margin of the Rhine
between Gueldres and Alsatia." Note, p. 103. Even after the
Danish invasion Ireland continued to found her religious es-
tablishments in foreign countries :" A few Irish monks
settled at Glastoubury, and for their support began to teacb
the rudiments of sacred and secular knowledge. One of the
earliest and most illustrious of their pupils was the great St.
Dunstan, who, under the tuition of these Irishmen became
skilful in philosophy, music, and other accomplishments.
* * * St. Cadroc, the son of a king of the Albanian Scoti, was
at the same time in Ireland, studying in the schools of
Armagh." P. 144. Mr. Haverty gives also an interesting
account of the Culdees of Ireland, "religious persons resem-
bling very much members of the tertiary orders of St. Dominic
and St. Francis in the Catholic Church at the present day, or
one of the great religious confraternities of modern times."
P. 105. He also explains those abuses, the cause of so much
misconception, by which the great chiefs occasionally usurped
and transmitted, though not in holy orders, the titles and es-
tates of the richer bishoprics, the spiritual duties of whieb
were vicariously discharged by churchmen, as has happened
more frequently at a later time in the case of narishes appro
priated by lay rectors.
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
449
Rejoice, whoever loves the right ;
Rejoice, ye faithful men and true :
The Prince of Peace o'errules the fight ;
The many fall before the few.
ii.
Behold a great high priest with rays
Of martyrdom's red sunset crown'd !
No other like him in the days
Wherein he trod the earth was found.
The swords of men unholy met
Above him clashing, and he bled :
But God, the God he served, hath set
A wreath unfading on his head.
in.
Great is the priestly charge, and great
The line to whom that charge is given !
It comes not, that pontificate,
Save from the great High Priest in
heaven !
A frowning king no equal brook'd :
" Obey," he cried, " my will, or die."
Thomas, like Stephen, heavenward look'd
And saw the Son of Man on high.
1 Nuad "of the Silver Hand" was the leader of the Tuatha
de Danann who arc said by the bards to have landed in Ire-
land A. M. 3303, i. e. according to the chronology of the Septu-
agiut, adopted by the Four Masters. Eochy, the last of the
Firbolgic kings, was slain by them ; and a cairn still shown
on the seacoast near Sligo is said to be his grave. The first
proceeding of the invaders was to burn their fleet, so as to
render retreat impossible. " According to the superstitious
ideas of the bards these Tnatha de Danann were profoundly
skilled in magic, and rendered themselves invisible to the in-
habitants nntil they bad penetrated into the heart of the
country. In other words, they landed under the cover of a
fog or mist ; and the Firbolgs, at first taken by surprise, made
no regular stand, until the new-comers had marched almost
across Ireland, when the two armies met face to face on the
plain of Moyturey, near the shore of Lough Corrib, in part of
the ancient territory of Partry. Here a battle was fought, in
which the Firbolgs were overthrown, 'with the greatest
slaughter/ says an old writer, 'that was ever heard of in Ire-
land at one meeting.' * * * The scattered fragments of his
(Eochy's) army took refuge in the nothern isle of Aran, Rath-
lin Island, the Hebrides, the Isle of Man, and Britain. 11 Far-
rell & Son's HAVEBTY'B Ireland, p. 12. " The victorious
Nnad lost his hand in this battle, and a silver hand was made
Tor him by Credne Cerd, the artificer, and fitted on him by
the Physician Diencccht, whose son, Miach, improved the
work, according to the legend, by infusing feeling and motion
Into every joint of the artificial band, as if it had been a nat-
ural one. 11 Farrell A Son's HAVERTY'S IRtt. of Ireland, p. 18.
Twenty-seven years later Nnad wa? killed in battle by
Balor "of the mighty blows," a Fomorian. The sway of the
Tuatha de Dauann \t said to have lasted for 197 years, when it
was terminated by the immigration of the Milesian race.
Furrell & Son's HAVKRTT'S Inland, p. 13. Dr. O'Donovan
says (Four Masters, vol. i. p. 84) : " From the many monu-
ments ascribed to this colony by tradition, and in ancient
Irish historical tales, it is quite evident that they were a real
people : and Crom their having been considered gods and ma-
IV.
Blest is the People, blest and strong,
That 'mid its pontiffi* counts a saint I
His virtuous memory lasting long
Shall keep its altars pure from taint.
The heathen plot, the tyrants rage ;
But in their Saint the poor shall find
A shield, or after many an age
A light restored to guide the blind.
Thus with expiatory rite
The Roman priest and Laurence sang,
And loud the regal towers that night
With music and with feasting rang.
DEAD IS THE PRINCE OF THE
SILVER HAND. 1
i.
DEAD is the Prince of the Silver Hand,
And dead Eochy the son of Ere!
Ere lived Milesius they ruled the land
Thou hast ruled and lost in turn, O'Ruark !
gicians by the Gaedhil, or Scoti, who snbdned them, it maybe
inferred that they were skilled in arts which the latter did not
understand. * * * It appears from a very curious and ancient
Irish tract; written in the shape of a dialogue between St.
Patrick and Caoilte MacRonuin, that there were very many
places in Ireland where the Tuatha de Dauaun were then
supposed to live as sprites or fairies, with corporeal and ma-
terial forms, but endued with immortality. The inference
naturally to be drawn from these stories is that the Tuatha de
Danann lingered in the country for many centuries after their
subjection by the Gaedhil, and that they lived Sa retired
situations, where they practised abstruse arts, which induced
the others to regard them as magicians."
The Tuatha de Danann are chiefly remembered in connec-
tion with two circumstances. They are asserted to have
carried into Ireland the far-famed " Lia Fail," or " Stone of
Destiny," on which the kings of Ireland were crowned for
ages, and which was afterward said to have been removed to
Scone in Scotland; and they gave. Ireland her name. The
throe names by which Ireland was called in early years, Eire,
Banba, and Fodhln. were iiKsi^iu-d to her in consequence of
their belonging to the wives of the three last kings of the
Tnatha de Danann race, each of whom reigned successively
during a single year. These three queens were slain in the
battle fought by the Milesians against the Tuatha de Danami
at Tailtinn, or Teltown, in Menth ; the Irish queens beiin 1
accustomed in the Pagan times to lead their armies to battle.
The Tnatha de Dananns seem to have easily kept the Firbolgs,
a pastoral people, In subjection, being, though inferior to
them in numbers, far superior in civilization. "It is proba-
ble," says Mr. Haverty, " that by the Tuatha de Dananns
mines were first worked in Ireland ; and it la generally be-
lieved that they were the artificers of those beautifully-shaped
bronzed swords and spear-heads that have been found in Ire-
land, and of which so many fine specimens may be seen in the
Museum of the Royal Irish Academy. * * There la evi-
dence to show that the vast mounds or artificial hills of Drogh-
eda, Knowth, Dowth, and Now Grange, along the batiks of
450
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERB.
Two thousand years have pass'd since then,
And clans and kingdoms in blind com-
motion
Have butted at heaven and sunk again
As the great waves sink in the depths of
ocean.
ii.
Last King of the Gaels of Eire, be still !
What God decrees must come to pass :
There is none that soundeth His Way or
Will:
His hand is iron, and earth is glass.
Where built the Firbolgs there shrieks the
owl;
The Tuatha bequeath'd but the name of
Eire:
Roderick, our last of kings, thy cowl
Outweighs the crown of thy kingly sire 1
THE FAITHFUL NORMAN.
PBAISE to the valiant and faithful foe !
Give us noble foes, not the friend who
lies!
We dread the drugg'd cup, not the open
blow ;
We dread the old hate in the new dis-
guise.
To Ossory's King they had pledged their
word :
He stood in their camp, and their pledge
they broke ;
Then Maurice the Norman upraised his
sword ;
The cross on its hilt he kiss'd, and spoke :
ii.
" So long as this sword or this arm hath
might
I swear by the cross which is lord of all,
By the faith and honor of noble and knight
Who touches yon Prince by this hand
shall fall !"
the Boyne, with several minor tumuli in the same neighbor-
hood, were erected as the tombs of Tuatha de Danann kings
and chieftains ; and as such they only rank after the pyramids
of Egypt for the stupendous efforts which were required to
raise them. As to the Firbolgs, it is doubtful whether there
So side by side through the throng they
pass'd ;
And Eire gave praise to the just and
true.
Brave foe! Wrongs past truth heals at
last ;
There is room in the great heart of Eire
for you !
ST. PATRICK AND THE BARD.
THE land is sad, and dark our days :
Sing us a song of the days that were !
Then sang the bard in his Order's praise
This song of the chief bard of king Laeg
haire.
The King is wroth with a greater wrath
Than the wrath of Nial or the wrath of
Conn!
From his heart to his brow the blood makes
path,
And hangs there, a red cloud, beneath his
crown.
XL
Is there any who knows not, from south to
north,
That Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday
keeps ?
No fire may be lit upon hill or hearth
Till the King's strong fire in its kingly
mirth
Leaps upward from Tara's palace steeps 1
in.
Yet Patrick has lighted his paschal fire
At Slane, it is holy Saturday,
And bless'd his font 'mid the chanting
choir !
From hill to hill the flame makes way :
While the King looks on it, his eyes with
ire
Flash red, like Mars, under tresses gray.
are any monuments remaining of their first eway in Ireland ;
but the famous Dun Angus, and other great stone forts in the
islands of Aran, are well authenticated remnants of their mil-
itary structures of the period of the Christian era, or thep
abouts." P. 20.
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
451
IV.
The great King's captains with drawn swords
rose ;
To avenge their Lord and the State they
swore ;
The Druids rose and their garments tore ;
"The strangers to us and our gods are foes !"
Then the King to Patrick a herald sent,
Who said, " Come up at noon, and show
Who lit thy fire, and with what intent ?
These things the great King Laeghaire
would know."
v.
But Laeghaire conceal'd twelve men in the
way,
Who swore by the sun the saint to slay.
VI.
When the waters of Boyne began to bask,
And the fields to flash, in the rising sun,
The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch,
And Erin her grace baptismal won :
Her birthday it was ; his font the rock,
He bless'd the land, and he bless'd his flock.
VII.
Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly :
The Staff of Jesus was in his hand ;
Eight priests paced after him chanting
slowly,
Printing their steps on the dewy land.
It was the Resurrection morn ;
The lark sang loud o'er the springing corn ;
The dove was heard, and the hunter's horn.
VIII.
The murderers stood close by on the way ;
Yet they saw naught save the lambs at play.
IX.
A trouble lurk'd in the King's strong eye
When the guests that he counted for dead
drew nigh.
He sat in state at his palace gate ;
His chiefs and his nobles were ranged
around ;
The Druids like ravens smelt some far fate ;
Their eyes were gloomily bent on the
ground.
Then spake Laeghaire : "He comes beware !
Let none salute him, or rise from his chair 1"
Like some still vision men see by night,
Mitred, with eyes of serene command,
Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly
white :
The Staff of Jesus was in his hand.
His priests paced after him unafraid,
And the boy, Benignus, more like a maid,
Like a maid just wedded he walk'd and
smiled,
To Christ new-plighted, that priestly child.
XL
They enter'd the circle; their hymn they
ceased ;
The Druids their eyes bent earthward
still :
On Patrick's brow the glory increased,
As a sunrise brightening some breathless
hill.
The warriors sat silent: strange awe they
felt ;
The chief bard, Dubtach, rose up, and knelt 1
XII.
Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be
When time gives way to eternity,
Of kingdoms that cease, which are dreams
not things,
And the Kingdom built by the King of
kings.
Of Him he spake who reigns from the Cross ;
Of the death which is life, and the life which
is loss;
And how all things were made by the Infant
Lord,
And the small hand the Magian kings
adored.
His voice sounded on like a throbbing flood
That swells all night from some far-off wood,
And when it was ended that wondrous
strain
Invisible myriads breathed low, "Amen !"
XIII.
While he spake, men say that the refluent
tide
On the shore beside Colpa ceased to sink ;
And they say the white deer by Mulla's
side
O'er the green marge bending forebore to
drink:
452
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar ;
That no leaf stirr'd in the wood by Lee.
Such stupor hung the island o'er,
For none might guess what the end would
be.
XIV.
Then whisper' d the King to a chief close by,
" It were better for me to believe than die !"
XV.
Yet the King believed not ; but ordinance
gave
That whoso would might believe that
word :
So the meek believed, and the wise, and
brave,
And Mary's Son as their God adored.
Ethnea and Fethlimea, his daughters twain,
That day were in baptism born again ;
And the Druids, because they could answer
naught,
Bow'd down to the faith the stranger brought.
That day upon Erin God pour'd His Spirit,
Yet none like the chief of the bards had
merit,
Dubtach ! He rose and believed the first,
Ere the great light yet on the res-t had
burst.
It was thus that Erin, then blind but strong,
/ O t
To Christ through her chief bard paid
homage due :
And this was a sign that in Erin song
Should from first to last to the cross be
true!
'TWAS A HOLY TIME WHEN THE
KING'S LONG FOEMEN. 1
TWAS a holy time when the king's long foe-
men
P"ought, side by side, to uplift the serf;
ft ever triumph'd in old time Greek or Roman
As Brian and Malachi at Clontarf.
1 Malachi. who fought under the great Brian Borumha at
Clontarf, where the Danish power in Ireland was overthrown
forever, had himself heen King of all Ireland, but allowed
himself to be deposed, A. r>. 1003, and his rival to be elevated
There was peace in Eire for long years after ;
Canute in England reign'd and Sweyn ;
But Eire found rest, and the freeman's
laughter
Rang out the knell of the vanquish'd Dane.
ii.
Praise to the king of ninety years
Who rode round the battle-field, cross in
hand!
But, the blessing of Eire and grateful tears
To him who fought under Brian's com-
mand !
A crown in heaven for the king who brake,
To stanch old discords, his royal wand ;
Who spurn'd his throne for his people's sake,
Who served a rival and saved the land !
KING LAEGHAIRE AND SAINT
PATRICK.
THUS sang to the princess the bard Maelmire;
But the princess received not the words he
said :
There was ever great feud and great hate in
Eire:
Yet O'Donnell wept when O'Neill was dead.
" Thou son of Calphurn, in peace go forth !'
This hand shall slay them whoe'er shall
slay thee !
The carles shall stand to their necks in
earth
Till they die of thirst who mock or stay
thee!
in his place. Mr. Moore remarks on this subject (History of
Ireland, vol. ii. p. 101) : " The ready acquiescence with which,
in general, so violent a change in the polity of the country
was submitted to, may be in a great degree attributed to the
example of patience and disinterestedness exhibited by the
immediate victim of this revolution, the deposed Malachi him-
self. Nor, in forming our estimate of this Prince's character,
from a general view of his whole career, can we well hesitate
in coming to the conclusion that not to any backwardness iu
the field, or want of vigor in council, is his tranquil submis-
sion to the violent encroachments of his rival to be attributed ;
but to a regard, rare at such an unripe period of civilization,
for the real interests of the public weal."
2 The following statement is extracted by Dr. Petrie, in his
History and Antiquities of Tara Hili, from the Annotations of
the Life of St Patrick, by Tirechan : " And Patrick repaired
again to the City of Tara to Laeghaire the son of Nial, because
lie (the King) had ratified a league with him that he should
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
453
IL
u But my father, Nial, who is dead long since,
Permits not me to believe thy word ;
For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly
Prince,
Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interred ;
But we are as men through dark floods
that wade;
We stand in our black graves undismay'd ;
Our faces are turn'd to the race abhorr'd,
And ready beside us stand spear and sword,
Ready to strike at the last great day,
Ready to trample them back into clay.
in.
" Tins is my realm and men call it Eire,
Wherein I have lived and live in hate
(Like Nial before me and Ere his sire)
Of the race Lagenian, ill-named the
Great !"
IV.
Thus spoke Laeghaire, and his host rush'd on,
A river of blood as yet unshed :
At noon they fought ; and at set of sun
That king lay captive, that host lay dead !
v.
The brave foe loosed him; but bade him
swear,
He would never demand of them Tribute
more.
So Laeghaire by the dread God-elements
swore,
By the moon divine and the earth and air ;
He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine
That circle forever both land and sea,
By the long-back'd rivers, and mighty wine,
. By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree,
By the boon spring shower, and by autumn's
fan,
By woman's breast, and the head of man,
By night and the noonday Demon he swore
1 1 1- \vould claim the Boarian Tribute no more.
not be slain in his kingdom ; hut he could not believe,
saying, 'Nial, my father, did not permit me to believe,
but that I should be interred in the top of Tara, like men
standing up in war. For the Pagans are accustomed to
be buried armed, with ttieir weapons ready, face to face,
to the Day of Erdathe, among the Ma^i, i. 0. the Day of
Judgment of the Lord.'" Dr. Petrle in the same work
quotes the following passage from the Leabbar Iluldhre,
an Irish manuscript of the Utn century:- " Laeghaire was
VI.
But with years wrath wax'd ; and he brake
his faith ;
Then the dread God-elements wrought hi*
death ;
For the wind and sunshine by Cassi's side
Came down and smote on his head that he
died.
Death -sick three days on his throne he
sate:
Then he died, as his father died, great in
hate.
VII.
They buried the king upon Tara's hill,
In his grave upright ; there stands he still
Upright there stands he as men that wade
By night through a castle -moat, undis-
may'd ;
On his head is the gold crown, the spear in
his hand,
And he looks to the hated Lagenian land.
VIII.
Patrick the Apostle, the son of Calphurn,
These pagan interments endured na
fonger ;
And Eire he commanded this song to leam,
"Though hate is strong yet love is
stronger !"
To the Gaels of Eire he gave a Creed :
He bade them to fear not Fate, Demon, or
Faery ;
But to fast in Lent, and by no black deed
To insult God's Son, and His mother
Mary.
Thus sang to the princes the bard
-Mud mire:
Oh ! when will it leave me, that widow's
wail?
My heart is stone and my brain is fire
For the men that died in thy woods,
Imayle !
taken in the battle, and he gave the Lageniana guarantees,
that is, the Sun and Moon, the Water and the Air, Day and
Night, Sea and Land, that he would never duriiii; his lift
demand the Bora Tribute. But Laeghaire went again with
a great army to the La^un latin to demand tribute of them ;
for he did not pay any regard to his oaths. But. by tht
side of Gael, he was killed by the Sun and the Wind, and
by the other Guarantees; for no one dared to
them at that time."
454
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERK
THE BIER THAT CONQUERED ; OR,
O'DONNELL'S ANSWER.
A. D. 1257.
LAND which the Norman would make his
own! l
(Thus sang the Bard 'mid a host o'erthrown,
While their white cheeks some on the
clench'd hand propp'd,
And from some the life-blood scarce heeded
dropp'd)
There are men in thee that refuse to die,
And that scorn to live, while a foe stands
nigh !
i.
O'Donnell lay sick with a grievous wound :
The leech had left him ; the priest had
come ;
The clan sat weeping upon the ground,
Their banners furl'd and their minstrels
dumb.
ii.
Then spake O'Donnell, the king : "Although
My hour draws nigh, and my dolors grow ;
And although my sins I have now coufess'd,
And desire in the land, my charge, to rest,
Yet leave this realm, nor will I nor can,
While a stranger treads on her, child or
man.
in.
" I will languish no longer a sick man here :
My bed is grievous; build up my Bier.
The white robe a king wears over me throw ;
Bear me forth to the field where he camps
your foe,
With the yellow torches and dirges low.
The heralds his challenge have brought and
fled:
The answer they bore not I bear instead.
My people shall fight my pain in sight,
And I shall sleep well when their wrong
stands ri<rht."
1 Maurice Fitz Gerald, Lord Justice, marched to the north-
west, and a furious battle was fought between him and God-
frey O'Donnell, Prince of Tirconnell, at Creadran-Killa, north
of Sligo, A. D. 1257. The two leaders met in single combat
and severely wounded each other. It was of the wound he
UJCD received that O'Donnell died soon after, after trium-
tiluuuly defeating his great rival potentate in Ulster. O'Neill.
IV.
Then the clan to the words of their Chief
gave ear,
And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a
bier ;
Its plumes from the eagle's wing were shed,
And the wine-black samite above it they
spread
Inwoven with sad emblems and texts divine,
And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine,
And all that is meet for the great and brave
When past are the measured years God gave,
And a voice cries " Come" from the waiting
grave.
v.
When the Bier was ready they laid him
thereon ;
And the army forth bare him with wail and
moan :
With wail by the sea-lakes and rock abysses ;
With moan through the vapor-trail'd wil-
dernesses ;
And men sore wounded themselves drew
nigh
And sail!, " We will go with our king and
die ;"
And women wept as the pomp pass'd by.
The sad yellow torches far off were seen ;
No war-note peal'd through the gorges
green ;
But the black pines echo'd the mourners'
keen.
VL
What said the Invader, that pomp in sight?
" They sue for the pity they shall not win."
But the sick king sat on the Bier upright,
And said, " So well ! I shall sleep to-night : _
Rest here my couch, and my peace begin.*'
VII.
Then the war-cry sounded " Bataillah
Aboo !"
And the whole clan rush'd to the battle
plain :
The latter, hearing that O'Donnell was dying, demanded
hostages from the Kinel Connell. The messengers who
brought this insolent message fled in terror the moment they
had delivered it; and the answer to it was brought by
O'Donnell on his bier. Maurice Fitz Gerald finally retired to
the Franciscan monastery winch he had founded at Youghal
and died peacefully in the habit of that order
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
455
They were thrice driven back, but they
form'd anew
That an end might come to their king's
great pain.
'Twas a people not army that onward rush'd ;
Twas a nation's blood from their wounds
that gush'd :
Bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy
were slain ;
Till evening their blood fell fast like rain ;
But a shout swell'd up o'er the setting sun,
And O'Donnell died for the field was won.
So they baiied their king upon Aileach's
shore ;
And in peace he slept ; O'Donnell More.
PECCATUM PECCAVIT.
WHERE is thy brother ? Hereinon, speak !'
H fiber, the son of Milesius, where ?
The orphans' wail and their mother's shriek
Forever they ring upon Banba's air !
And whose, oh whose was the sword, Here-
mon,
That smote Amergin, thy brother and
bard?
Twas the Fate of thy house or a mocking
Demon
That raised thy hand o'er his forehead
scarr'd !
IL
Woe, woe to Banba ! That blood of brothers
Wells up from her bosom renew'd each
year ;
'Twas hers the shriek that desolate moth-
er's :
'Twas Banba wept o'er that first red bier !
1 Between the brothers who founded the great Milesian or
Gaelic dynasty in Ireland there was strife, as between the
brothera who founded Rome. Herotnon and ITeber divided
Ireland between them. A dtepnte having arisen between
them, a battle was fought at Oeasbill, in the present King's
County, in which Ileber fell by his brother's hand. In the
second year of his reign Hercmon also slew his brother
Amergin, in battle. To Amergin no territory was assigned.
tie is said to have constructed the causeway or (oc/iar of In ver
lor, or the mouth of the Ovoca in Wicklow.
There are some excellent remarks in Mr. Hnverty's History
on the absurdity of disparaging the authentic part of Irish
history on account of other portions having been but Bardic
The priest has warn'd, and the bard lament-
ed :
But warning and wailing her sons despised;
The head was sage, and the heart half-
sainted ;
But the sword-hand was evermore unbap-
tized !
THE DIRGE OF ATHUNREE.
A. D. 1816.
[This great battle marked an epoch in Irish history. In it the
Norman power at last triumphed over that of the Gael, whiob
had long been enfeebled by the divisions in the royal house
of O'Connor. From this period also the Norman Barons more
rapidly than before became Irish Chiefs. As such they were
accepted by Ireland. The power of the English Crown on
the other hand gradually declined till R became unknown
beyond the narrow limits of a part of the Pale. It rose again
after the accession of Henry VII. 1
1.
ATHUNREE ! Athunree !
Erin's heart, is broke on thee !
Ne'er till then in all its woe
Did that heart its hope forego.
Save a little child but one
The latest regal race is gone.
Roderick died again on thee,
Athunree !
n.
Athunree! Athunree!
A hundred years and forty-three
Winter-wing'd and black as night
C 1 O
O'er the land had track'd their flight :
In Clonmacnoise from earthy bed
Roderick raised once more his head :
Fedlim floodlike rush'd to thee,
Athunree !
in.
Athunree ! Athunree !
The light that struggled sank on thee !
Legends : " The ancient Irish! altribated the utmost Impor-
tance to their historical compositions for social reasons every
question as to the rights of property turned upon the descent
of families, and the principle of clanship. * * Again, when
we arrive at the period of Christianity In Ireland, we find
that our ancient annuls stand the test of verification by
science, with a success which not only establishes their char-
acter for truthi'iilin 1 ^ ut that period, but vindicates the rt-cordj
of preceding dates." He refers especially to the eclipsrs re-
corded. "* * * Shortly after the establishment of Christian
Ity in Ireland the Chronicles of the Bards were replaced cy
regular Annals, bspt in several of the monancri**." Farrel
<t Son's edition, p. ii.
456
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
Ne'er since Gathall the red-handed
Such a host till then was banded.
Long-hair'd Kerne and Gallogiass
Met the Norman face to face ;
The saffron standard floated far
O'er the on-rolling wave of war ;
Bards the onset sang o'er thee,
Athunree !
IV.
Athunree ! Athunree !
The poison tree took root in thee !
What might naked breasts avail
'Gainst sharp spear and steel-ribb'd mail ?
Of our Princes twenty-nine,
Bulwarks fair of Connor's line,
Of our clansmen thousands ten
Slept on thy red ridges. Then
Then the night came down on thee,
Athunree !
v.
Athunree ! Athunree !
Strangely shone that moon on thee !
Like the lamp of them that tread
Staggering o'er the heaps of dead,
Seeking thac they fear to see.
Oh, that widow's wailing sore !
On it rang to Oranmore ;
Died, they say, among the piles
That make holy Aran's isles ;
It was Erin wept on thee,
Athunree !
VI.
Athunree ! Athunree !
The heart of Erin burst on thee !
Since that hour some unseen hand
On her forehead stamps the brand.
Her children ate that hour the fruit
That slays manhood at the root ;
Our warriors are not what they were ;
Our maids no more are blithe and fair ;
Truth and honor died with thee,
Athunree !
VII.
Athunree! Athunree!
Never harvest wave o'er thee !
Never sweetly-breathing kine
Pant o'er golden meads of thine !
Barren be thou as the tomb ;
May the night-bird haunt thy gloom,
And the waiter from, the sea,
Athunree!
VIII.
Athunree ! Athunree !
All my heart is sore for thee,
It was Erin died on thee,
Athunree !
BETWEEN TWO MOUNTAINS.
BETWEEN two mountains' granite walls one
star
Shines in this sea-lake quiet as the grave ;
The ocean moans against its rocky bar;
That star no reflex finds in foam or wave.
n.
Saints of our country ! if, no more a nation,
Vain are henceforth her struggles, from OD
high
Fix in the bosom of her desolation
So much the more that hope which cannot
die!
ODE.
i.
THE unvanquish'd land puts forth each year
New growth of man and forest ;
Her children vanish ; but on her,
Stranger, in vain thou warrest !
She wrestles, strong through hope sublime
(Thick darkness round her pressing).
Wrestles with God's great Angel, Time
And wins, though maim'd, the blessing.
ii.
As night draws in what day sent forth,
As Spring is born of Winter,
As flowers that hide in parent earth
Reissue from the centre,
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
457
Our land takes back her wasted brood,
Our land, in respiration,
Breathes from her deep heart unsubdued
A renovated nation !
in.
Man's mortal frame, for heaven design'd,
In caves of earth must wither ;
Of all its myriad atoms join'd
No twain may cleave together.
Our land is dead. Upon the blast
Far foith her dust is driven ;
But the glorified shape shall be hers at last,
And the crown that descends from heaven !
IV.
Her children die ; the nation lives :
Through signs celestial ranging
The nation's Destiny still survives
Unchanged, yet ever changing.
The many-centuried Wrath goes by ;
But while earth's tumult rages
" In Ccelo quies." Burst and die,
Thou storm of temporal ages !
v.
Burst, and thine utmost fury wreak
On things that are but seeming !
First kill ; then die ; that God may speak,
And man surcease from dreaming !
That Love and Justice strong as love
May be the poles unshaken
Round which a world new-born may move ;
And Truth that slept may waken !
THE STATUE OF KILKENNY. 1
A. D. 1867.
OF old ye warr'd on men : to day
On women and on babes ye war ;
The Noble's child his head must lay
Beneath the peasant's roof no more !
A strikine, and, In its admissions, a very teaching picture
of the condition of thin*,"' in Ireland in the fourteenth cen-
tury I* presented by the following extracts from the remon-
strance despatched to Pope John XXII. by O'Neill, King of
Ulster, and the other prince* of tliut province. It IB given in
Plowden's History of Ireland with the following remarks:
"The disastrous prospect of afluirs in Ireland drove 'he
English government to the unchristian and scandalous shift
of prostituting the spiritual powers of tlfe Church to the
profane use of state policy. So powerfully therefore did
I saw in sleep the Infant's hand
His foster-brother's fiercely grasp ;
His warm arm, lithe as willow waiul,
Twines me each day with closer clasp !
O infant smiler ! grief beguiler !
Between the oppressor and the oppress'd,
O soft, unconscious reconciler,
Smile on ! through thee the land is bless'd.
Through thee the puissant love the poor ;
His conqueror's hope the vancjuish'd shares ;
For thy sake by a lowly door
The clan made vassal stops and stares.
Our vales are healthy. On thy cheek
There dawns, each day, a livelier red :
Smile on ! Before another week
Thy feet our earthen floor will tread !
Thy foster-brothers twain for thee
Would face the wolves on snowy fell :
Smile on ! the Irish Enemy
Will fence their Norman nursling well.
The nursling as the child is dear ;
Thy mother loves not like thy nurse !
That babbling Mandate steps not near
Thv cot, but o'er her bleeding corse I
THE TRUE KING.
A. D. 1399.
I.
HE came in the night on a false pretence ;
As a friend he came as a lord remains :
His coming we noted not when or whence ;
We slept: we woke in chains.
the English agents press the mutual interests of both conns
to resist the erection of a new Scotch dynasty in Ireland
that a solemn sentence of excommunication was published
from the Papal chair against all the enemies of Edward II.,
and nominally against Robert and Edward lirnce. who were
then invading Ireland for the purpose of t-ccurin^ to the latter
the throne, to which the ^enerality of that nation had called
him." Vol. i. p. 131. He proceeds "This remonstrance"
(sent to neutralize the effect of Edward's appeal to Komc)
"produced so strong an effect upon Pope John XXII., thai
his Holiness immediately transmitted a copy of it to th
King, earnestly exhorting him to redress the grievance*
complained of, as the only sure expedient to bring back tht
Irish to their allegiance." P. 133.
458
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
Ere a year they had chased us to dens and
caves ;
Our streets and our churches lay drown'd
in bloed ;
The race that had sold us their sons as slaves
In our land our conquerors stood !
ii.
Who were they, those princes that gave
away
What was theirs to keep, not theirs to
give?
A king holds sway for a passing day ;
The kingdoms forever live !
The tanist succeeds when the king is dust r 1
The king rules all; yet the king hath
naught.
They were traitors not kings who sold their
trust ;
They were traitors not kings who bought !
in.
Brave Art MacMurrough ! Arise, 'tis morn !
For a true king the nation waited long.
Ha is strong as the horn of the unicorn,
This true king who rights our wrong !
He rules in the fight by an inward right ;
From the heart of the nation her king is
grown ;
He rules by right ; he is might of her might ;
Her flesh, and bone of her bone !
QUEEN MARGARET'S FEASTING.
A. D. 1451.
I.
FAIR she stood God's queenly creature !*
Wondrous joy was in her face
Of her ladies none in stature
Like to her, and none in grace
1 According to the Irish law the king, far from being able
to alienate his kingdom, had but a life-interest in the sove-
reignty. His son did not by necessity succeed to the crown.
The sovereignty was vested in a particular family as repre-
senting the clan or race. Within certain limits of kin-
dred in that family the king was chosen by election ; and at
the same period his Tanist, or successor, was chosen also.
Such was the immemorial usage ; and the transactions by
which Irish princes occasionally pretended to transfer their
rights to a foreign power were traitorous proceedings on the
part of both the sides concerned in them. These frauds
On the church-roof stood they round her,
Cloth of gold was her attire;
They in jewell'd circle wound her;
Beside her Ely's king, her sire.
n.
Far and near the green fields glitter'd
Like to poppy-beds in Spring,
Gay with companies loose-scatter'd
Seated each in seemly ring
Under banners red or yellow :
There all day "the feast they kept
From chill dawn and noontide mellow,
Till the hill-shades eastward crept.
in.
On a white steed at the gateway
Margaret's husband, Calwagh sate ;
Guest on guest, approaching, straightway
Welcomed he with love and state.
Each pass'd on with largess laden,
Chosen gifts of thought and work,
Now the red cloak of the maiden,
Now the minstrel's golden torque.
IV.
On the wind the tapestries shifted ;
From the blue hills rang the horn ;
Slowly toward the sunset drifted
Choral song and shout breeze-borne.
Like a sea the crowds unresting
Murmur' d round the gray church-tower ;
Many a prayer, amid the feasting,
For Margaret's mother rose that hour !
v.
On the church-roof kerne and noble
At her bright face look'd half dazed ;
Naught was hers of shame or trouble ;
On the crowds far off she gazed :
were concealed from the Irish, and the elections to the
monarchy went on as before, until some occasion rose sup-
posed to be favorable for the assertion of the new claim.
1 A singularly picturesque narrative of this event is given
in an old Irish Chronicle translated by Duald MacPerbis, v/ue
of Ireland's "chief bards," for Sir James Ware, in the year
1666, and republished in the Miscellany of the Irish Archaeo-
logical Society, vol. i. 1846. The chronicler thus concludes:
" God's blessing, the blessing of all the saints, and every one,
blessing from Jerusalem to Inis Glaaire. be on her goint;
to heaven ; and blessed be he who will reade and h"are
this for blessing her soul ; and cursed be that sore in her
breast that killed Marsraret." See Farrell & Sou's edition
of HAVKKTT'S History of Ireland.
QUEEN MARGARET'S FEASTING.
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
459
Once, on heaven her dark eyes bending,
Her hands in prayer she flung apart ;
Unconsciously her arms extending,
She bless'd her people in her heart.
VI.
Thus a Gaelic queen and nation
At Imayn till set of sun
Kept with feast the Annunciation,
Fourteen hundred fifty-one.
Time it was of solace tender;
'Twas a brave time strong yet fair !
Blessing, O ye angels, send her
From Salem's towers and Inisglaaire 1
PLORANS PLORAVIT.
A. D. 1583.
SHE sits alone on the cold grave-stone
And only the dead are nigh her ;
In the tongue of the Gael she makes her wail
The night wind rushes by her.
" Few, oh few are leal and true,
And fewer shall be, and fewer ;
The land is a corse ; no life, no force
O wind, with sere leaves strew her !
" Men ask what scope is left for hope
To one who has known her story :
I trust her dead ! Their graves arc red ;
But their souls are with God in glory."
WAR-SONG OF MAcCARTHY.
Two lives of an eagle, the old song saith,
Make the life of a black yew-tree ;
For two lives of a yew-tree the furrough's
path
Men trace, grass-grown on the lea ;
Two furroughs they last till the time is past
God willeth the world to be ;
For a furrough's life has MacCarthy stood
fast,
MacOarthy in Carbery.
u.
Up with the banner whose green shall live
While lives the green on the oak !
And down with the axes that grind and nve
Keen-edged as the thunder-stroke !
And on with the battle-cry known of old,
And the clan-rush like wind and wave ;
On, on ! the Invader is bought and sold ;
His own hand has dug his grave !
FLORENCE MAcCARTIIY'S FARE-
WELL TO HIS ENGLISH LOVE, 1
MY pensive-brow'd Evangeline !
What says^to thee old Windsor's pine
Whose shadow o'er the pleasance sways T
It says, " Ere long the evening star
Will pierce my darkness from afar :
I grieve as one with grief who plays."
ii.
Evangeline ! Evangeline !
In that far distant land of mine
There stands a yew-tree among tombs !
For ages there that tree has stood,
A black pall dash'd with drops of blood '
O'er all my world it breathes its glooms.
I IT.
England's fair child, Evangeline !
Because my yew-tree is not thine,
Because thy Gods on mine wage war,
Farewell ! Back fall the gates of brass ;
The exile to his own must pass ;
I seek the land of torabs once more.
1 There is a striking description of Florence MacCarthy In
the Pacata tlibcrnia. llu " WHS contented (tandem uliquando)
to repaire to the president, lying at Moyallo, bringing some
fourty horse in his company; and himself in the middcyt of
his troupe (like the great Turke among his janissaries)
drsw toward the houee, the nine-and-twentieth of October,
like Saul higher by the head and shoulders than any of bla
follower!"." P. 170. The moral indignation constantly
expressed by the author of the Pacatn ilibcrnia at Florence
MacCarthy'8 method of countermining the far darker in tricars
of the Lord President, recorded in that work, with intrigue*
of his own, is curious. Before the period he describes. Florence
had been for eleven yean detained a prisoner in England. In
1601 he was again arrested at a time when he possessed th*
"Qneen's protection." and *ent to the Tower where h
passed the rest of his life.
460
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERB.
WAR-SONG OF TIECONNELL'S BARD AT
THE BATTLE OF BLACK WATER,
A. D. 1597.
[At this battle, the Irish of UlBter were commanded by
* Red Hugh" O'Neill, Prince of Tirone, and by Hugh O'Don-
nell (called also "Red Hugh"), Prince of Tirconnell. Queen
Elizabeth's army was led by Marshal Bagnal, who fell in the
rout with 2,500 of the invading force. Twelve thousand
jold pieces, thirty-four standards', and all the artillery of the
vanquished army were taken.]
I.
GLORY to God, and to the powers that tight
For Freedom and the Right !
We have them then, the Invaders ! There
they stand
Once more on Oriel's land !
They have pass'd the gorge stream-cloven,
And the mountain's purple bound ;
Now the toils are round them woven,
Now the nets are spread around !
Give them time : their steeds are blown ;
Let them stand and round them stare
Breathing blasts of Irish air.
Our clouds are o'er them sailing ;
o y
Our woods are round them wailing :
O 7
Our eagles know their own !
n.
Thrice we've met them race and brood!
First at Clontibret they stood : '
How soon the giant son of Meath*
Roll'd from his horse upon the heath !
Again we met them once again ;
Portmore and Banburb's plain know where ;*
There fell de Burgh; there fell Kildare:
(His valiant foster-brothers twain
Died at his feet, but died in vain ;)
There Waller, Turner, Vaughan fell,
Vanquish'd, though deem'd invincible !
1 Tills battle was fought in 1595. Sir John Norreys com-
manded the invading force. TLe O'Neill led the Irish.
2 Segrave.
* This battle was fought in 1597. Lord de Burgh command-
ing the English.
4 Red Hugh O'Donnell, when but a boy of fifteen, was
already celebrated for his beauty, his courage, and his sKill
in warlike accomplishments. To prevent him from assuming
the headship of Tirconnell the following device was resorted
to by Sir John Perrot, Lord President of Munster. During the
summer of 1587 Red Hugh with MacSwyne of the battle-axes,
O'Gallagher of Ballyshannon, and some other Irish chiefs,
oad gone to a monastery of Carmelites situated on the western
ihore of Lough Swilly, and facing the mountains of Inish-
owen, the church of which had long been a famous place of
c. One day a ship, ID appearance a merchant vessel.
We raised that hour a battle-axe
That dinn'd the iron on your backs !
Vengeance, that hour, a wide-wing'd Fury,
On drave you to the gates of'Newry:
There rest ye found ; by rest restored,
Sang there your song of Battleford !
in.
Thou rising sun, fair fall
Thy greeting on Armagh's time-honor'd
wall,
And on the willows hoar
That fringe thy silver waters, Avonmore !
See ! on that hill of drifted sand
The far-famed Marshal holds command,
Bagnal, their bravest : to the right
That recreant neither chief nor knight
"The Queen's O'Reilly," he that sold
His country, clan, and Church for gold !
" Saint George for England !" Rebel crew !
What are the Saints ye spurn to you ?
They charge ; they pass yon grassy swell ;
They reach our pitfall's hidden well.
On, warriors native to the sod,
Be on them in the power of God !
IV.
Twin stars ! Twin regents of our righteous
O O
war !
This day remember whose, and who ye are
Thou that o'er green Tir-owen's tribes hast
sway !
Thou whom Tir-connell's vales obey !
The line of Nial, the line of Conn,
So oft at strife, to-day are one !
Both Chiefs are dear to Eire ; to me
Dearest he is and needs must be,
My Prince, my Chief, my child, on whom
So early fell the dungeon's doom. 4
O'Donnell ! hear this day thy Bard !
sailed up the bay, cast anchor opposite Rathmullan, and offered
for sale her cargo of Spanish wine. Young Red Hugh was
among those who went on board during the night. The next
morning he and his companions found themselves secured
under hatches. He was thrown into prison in Dublin, where
he languished for three years and three months. At the end
of that time he made his escape, and flying to the south took
refuge with Felim O'Toole, who surrendered him to the
English. " He remained again in irons," says the Chronicle,
" until the Feast of Christmas, 1592, when it seemed to the Son
of the Virgin time for him to escape." Once more he fled,
accompanied by two sons of Shane O'Neill, to the mountains
of Wicklow. then covered with snow. After wandering about
for three days and nights O'Donnell and one of his companiuua
(the other had perished) were found by some of O'Byrne't
clansmen beneath the thelter of a cliff, benumbed and ahnovt
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
461
By those young feet so maira'd and
scarrM,
Bit by the winter's fangs when lost
Thou wander'dst on through snows and
frost,
Remember thou those years in chains thou
worest,
Snatch'd in false peace from unsuspecting
halls,
And that one thought, of all thy pangs the
sorest,
Thy subjects groan'd the upstart alien's
thralls !
Tha-t thought on waft thee through the fight :
On, on, for Erin's right !
v.
Seest thou yon stream whose tawny waters
glide
Through weeds and yellow marsh lingeringly
and slowly ?
Blest is that spot and holy !
There, ages past, Saint Bercan stood and
cried,
" This spot shall quell one day the Invaders'
pride !"
He saw in mystic trance
The blood-stain flush yon rill :
On, hosts of God, advance ;
Your country's fates fulfil!
On, clansmen, leal and true,
Lambdearg ! Bataillah-aboo !
Be Truth this day your might !
Truth lords it in the fight !
VI.
O'Neill ! That day be with thee now
When, throned on Ulster's regal seat of
stone,
Thou satt'st, and thou alone ;
While flock'd from far the Tribes, and to thy
hand
Was given the snow-white wand,
Hiin's authentic sceptre of command !
Kingless a People stood around thee ! Thou
Didst dash the British bauble from th) brow,
And for a coronet laid down
dead from hunger ; for daring those three days their food had
consisted of grass and forest leaves. On the restoration of his
strength O'Donnell succeeded, with the attiMHtance of O'Neill,
in making his way to his native mountains. From thutino-
iiifii*. ihe two treat Northern Princes of Tirconnell and Tironc,
ri-niiunrinx t!ia ancient rivalries of their several Houses,
That People's love became once more thy
crown !
True King alone is he
In whom summ'd up his People share the
throne :
Fair from the soil he rises like a tree :
Rock-like the stranger presses on it, prone !
Strike for that People's cause !
For Tanistry ; for Brehon laws :
The sage traditions of civility ;
Pure hearths, and faith set free !
VII.
Hark ! the thunder of their meeting !
Hand meets hand, and rough the greeting !
Hark ! the crash of shield and brand ;
They mix, they mingle, band with band,
Intertwisted, intertangled,
Mangled forehead meeting mangled,
Like two horn-commingling stags
Wrestling on the mountain crags !
Lo ! the wavering darkness through
I see the banner of Red Hugh ;
Close beside is thine, O'Neill !
Now they stoop and now they reel,
Rise once more and onward sail,
Like two falcons on one gale !
O ye clansmen past me rushing
Like mountain torrents seaward gushing,
Tell the Chiefs that from this height
Their Chief of bards beholds the tight ;
That on theirs he pours his spirit ;
Marks their deeds and chants their merit ;
While the Priesthood evermore,
Like him that ruled God's host of yore,
With arms outstretched that God implore !
VIII.
Mightiest of the line of Conn,
On to victory ! On, on, on !
It is Erin that in thee
Lives and works right wondrously !
Eva from the heavenly bourne
Upon thee her eyes doth turn,
She whose marriage couch was spread 1
'Twixt the dying and the dead !
Parcelled kingdoms one by one
entered into that common alliance against the invader. th
effects of which were irresistible until that reverse al Kina!ij
of which the cause has never been explained.
1 The celebrated picture of an Irish artist, Mr. Maclisc, hu
rendered well known this incident, one of the nn>t touching
it liUtory. After the capture of Watnrford the Kin^- i.f
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE YERE.
For a prey to traitors thrown ;
Pledges forfeit, broken vows,
Roofless fane, and blazing house ;
All the dreadful deeds of old
Rise resurgent from the mould,
For their judgment peal is toll'd !
All our Future takes her stand
Hawk-like on thy lifted hand.
States that live not, vigil keeping
In the lirnbo of long weeping ;
Palace-courts and minster-towers
That shall make this isle of ours
Fairer than the star of morn,
Wait thy mandate to be born !
Chief elect 'mid desolation,
Wield thou well the inspiration
Thou drawest from a new-born nation 1
IX.
Sleep no longer Bards that hold
Ranged beneath me harps of gold !
Smite them with a heavier hand
Than vengeance lays on axe or brand I
Pour upon the blast a song
Linking litanies of wrong,
Till, like poison-dews, the strain
Eat into the Invader's brain.
On the retributive harp
Catch that death-shriek shrill and sharp 1
Which she utter'd, she whose lord
Leinster led forth his daughter and married her to the Nor-
man, Strongbow. This was on St. Bartholomew's Day, 1170.
"The marriage ceremony was hastily performed, and the
wedding cortege passed through streets reeking with the still
warm blood of the brave and unhappy citizens." HAVERTY'S
Hist., p. 177, Farrell & Son's edition.
1 " Another and equally unsuccessful attempt to plant Ulster
was made in 1573 by a more distinguished minion of the
Queen, Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex. Elizabeth embarked
with that noble Earl in his project of colonizing Clandeboy in'
Ulster. * * * Lingard says that the agreement was that the
Queen and the Earl should furnish each half the expense, and
should divide the colony when it should be peopled with two
thousand settlers. This bargain of fraud and crime was sealed
by Essex with a desperate act of villainy. On his arrival in
Ulster he met a most formidable opposition from Phelim
O'Neill, which resulted, after a great deal of hard fighting, in a
solemn peace between them. ' However,' says the manuscript
Irish Annals of Queen Elizabeth's reign, 'at a feast wherein
the Earl entertained that chieftain, and at the end of their
jood cheer, O'Neill with his wife were seized ; the friends who
attended were put to the sword before their faces ; Phelim,
with c?8 wife and brother, were conveyed to Dublin, where
they wv cut up in quarters.' "(The Confiscation of Ulster.
By THOMAS MACNEVIN, p. 53 ; James Duffy.)
* The intended victim was SSane O'Neill, Prince of Tirone,
!?ainst whom the Queen supported the pretensions of his
illegitimate brother Matthew, Baron of Dungannon, and of
his sons. Sussex " was concerting at that time, A. D. 1561, a
plan for the secret murder of O'Neill. * * * This chosen tool
of the Queen's representative was named Nele Gray; and
Perish'd, Essex, at thy board !
Peerless chieftain ! peerless wife !
From his throat, and hers, the knife
Drain'd the mingled tide of life !
Sing the base assassin's steel
By Sussex hired to slay O'Neill ! a
Sing, fierce Bards, the plains sword-wasted,
Sing the cornfields burnt and blasted,
That when raged the war no longer
Kernes dog-chased might pine with hunger t
Pour around their ears the groans
Of half-human skeletons
From wet cave or forest-cover
Foodless deserts peering over :
Or upon the roadside lying,
Infant dead and mother dying,
On their mouths the grassy stain
Of the wild weed gnaw'd in vain ;
Look upon them, hoary Head
Of the last of Desmonds dead ;
His that drew too late his sword
Religion and his right to guard ;
Head that evermore dost frown
From the tower of London down !
She that slew him from her barge
Makes that Head this hour the targe
Of her insults cold and keen,
England's caliph, not her queen !
Portent terrible and dire
Whom thy country and thy sire 1
after first swearing him upon the Bible to keep all secret, it
was proposed that he should receive for this murder of Shane
one hundred marks of land a year to him and his heirs for-
ever." MOORE'S Hist., vol. iv. p. 32.
"With regard to the odious transaction now under con-
sideration there needs no more than the letter addressed by
Sussex himself to his royal mist-ess on that occasion, to prove
the frightful familiarity with deeds of blood which then
prevailed in the highest stations." Ibid. The letter, which
is preserved in the State-paper Office, thus concludes : " In
fine, I brake with him to kill Shane, and bound myself by my
oath to see him have a hundred marks of land. He seemed
desirous to serve your Highness and to have the land ; but
fearful to do it, doubting his escape after, i. told him the
ways he might do it, and how to escape after with safety,
which he offered and promised to do."
* The illegitimacy of Elizabeth rests upon authority ujt
particularly favorable to the opposite side, viz., Archbifehop
Cranmer, and an Act of Parliament never repealed even in her
own reign : " Cranmer, ' having previously invoked the name
of Christ, and having God alone before his eyes,' prononnced
definitively that the marriage formerly contracted, solemnized
and consummated between Henry and Anne Boleyn was, and
always had been, null and void. The whole process was after-
ward laid before the members of the Convocation, and the
Houses of Parliament. The former presumed not to dissent
from the decision of the metropolitan ; tbe latter were willing
that in such a case their ignorance should be guided by the
learning of the clergy. By both the divorce was approved and
confirmed." LINGARD'S Hist., vol. v. p. 36. What was the ori-
gin of the Parliament which Elizabeth induced So recognize her
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERB.
463
Branded with a bastard's name,
Thy birth was but thy lightest shame!
To honor recreant and thine oath ;
Trampling that Faith whose borrow'd garb 1
First gave thee sceptre, crown, and orb,
Thy flatterers scorn, thy lovers loathe
That idol with the blood-stain'd feet
Ill-throned on murder'd Mary's seat !
Glory be to God on high !
That shout ra-ng up into the sky !
The plain lies bare ; the smoke drifts by ;
Again that cry : they fly ! they fly !
O'er them standards thirty-four
Waved at morn ; they wave no more.
Glory be to Him alone who holds the nations
in His hand,
And to them the heavenly guardians of our
Church and native land !
Sing, ye priests, youi deep Te Deums ; bards,
make answer loud and long,
In your rapture flinging heavenward censers
of triumphant song.
Isle for centuries blind in bondage, make
once more thine ancient boast,
From the cliffs of Inishowen southward on
to Carbery's coast !
We have seen the right made perfect, seen
the Hand that rules the spheres
Glance like lightning through the clouds,
and backward roll the wrongful years.
title f "In the Lower Honse a majority had been secured by
the expedient of sending to the sheriffs* a list of court candi-
dates, out of whom the members were to be chosen."
LINCIARD, vol. vi. p. 5. The court named five candidates for
the shires, and three for the boroughs !
1 Not only had Elizabeth repeatedly asserted herself to be
a Catholic in her Bister's reign, but for some time after her
own accession she wore the same mask. "She continued to
assist and occasionally to communicate at mass: she buried
her sister with all the solemnities of the Catholic ritual ; and
she ordered a solemn dirge, and a mass of requiem for the
'soul of the Emperor Charles V. 1 " LINCARD. Her corona-
tion was conducted with all the ceremonial of the Catholic
Pontifical, and at it she received the Sacrament under one
ki.-id.
The following contemporaneous sketch of Elizabeth's last
V' :ir i? not commonly known: "Sir John Harrington, her
u'dil-iin, who visited the court about seven months after the
death of &>.<jx, Aa- described in a private letter the state in
which he found the Queen. She was altered in her features
and reduced to a skeleton. Her food was nothing but manchet
bread, and succory pottage. * For her protection she had
ordered . sword to be placed by her table, which she often took
in her hand, and thrust with violence into the tapestry of her
chamber. About a year later he returned to her presence. 'I
found her,' he says, 'in a n.ost pitiable state. She bade the
archbishop ask me if I had seen Tirone. I replied with rever-
riK i- that I had seen him with the Lord Deputy. She looked
Glory fadeth, but this triumph is no barren
mundane glory ;
Rays of healing it shall scatter on the eyes
that read our story :
Upon nations bound and torpid, as they
waken it shall shine
As on Peter in his chains the angel shone
with light divine.
From the unheeding, from the unholy it
may hide, like Truth, its ray ;
But when Truth and Justice conquer on
their crowns its beam shall play.
O'er the ken of troubled tyrants it shall trail
a meteor's glare ;
For the blameless it shall glitter as the star
of morning fair:
Whensoever Erin triumphs then its dawn it
shall renew,
Then O'Neill shall be remember'd, and
Tirconnell's chief, Red Hugh !
THE MARCH TO KINSALE.
DECEMBER, A. D. 1601.
I.
O'EK many a river bridged with ice,
Through many a vale with snow-drifts
dumb,
Past quaking fen and precipice
The Princes of the North are come !
up with much choler and grief in her countenance, and said.
" O now it mindeth me that yon was one who saw this man
elsewhere," and hereat she dropped a tear and smote her
bosom. She held in her hand a golden cup which she often
put to her lips ; but in truth her heart seemed too full to need
any more filling.' * * At length she obstinately refused to
return to her bed: and sat both day and night on a stool
bolstered up with cushions, having her finger in her mouth,
and her eyes fixed on the floor, seldom condescending to
speak, and rejecting every offer of nourishment. The bishops
and the lords of the council advised and entreated in rain.
For them all, with the exception of the Lord Admiral, he
expressed the most profound contempt. He was of her own
blood; from him she consented to accept a basin of broth ; hut
when he nrgcd her to return to her bed, she replied that if he
had seen what she saw there he would never make the reqtic-t.
To Cecil, who asked if she had seen spirits, she answered that
it was an idle question beneath her notice. He insisted that
she must go to bed, if only to satisfy her people. ' Must !' t-lu>
exclaimed ; ' is mutt a word to be addressed to priuces ? Lit tie
man, little man, thy father, if he had been alive, durst not
have nsed that word ; but thou art grown presumptuous
because thou knowest that I shall die.' Ordering live others
to depart, she called the Lord Admiral to her, saying in
piteous tone, ' My lord, I am tied with an iron collar about
my neck.' He sought to console her, but she replied Nc. I
am tied, and the case ia altered with me.' " LIMQARD, roL vl
p. 316, 10. Edit. 1854.
464
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERB.
Lo, these are they that year by year
Roll'd back the tide of England's war ;
Rejoice, Kinsale ! thy hope is near !
That wondrous winter- march is o'er.
And thus they sang, " To-morrow morn
Our eyes shall rest upon the foe :
Roll on, swift night, in silence borne,
And blow, thou breeze of sunrise,
blow !"
ii.
Blithe as a boy, on march'd the host
With droning pipe and clear-voiced harp :
At last above that southern coast
Rang out their war-steed's whinny sharp ;
And up the sea-salt slopes they wound,
And airs once more of ocean quaif 'd ;
Those frosty woods the recks that crown'd,
As though May touch'd them waved and
laugh'd.
And thus they sang, " To-morrow morn
Our eyes shall rest upon our foe :
Roll on, swift night, in silence borne,
And blow, thou breeze of sunrise,
blow !"
in.
Beside their watch-fires couch'd all night,
Some slept, some laugh'd, at cards some
play'd,
While, chanting on a central height
Of moonlit crag, the priesthood pray'd.
And some to sweetheart, some to wife
Sent message kind ; while others told
Triumphant tales of recent fight,
Or legends of their sires of old.
And thus they sang, " To-morrow morn
Our eyes at last shall see the foe :
Roil on, swift night, in silence borne,
And blow, tbou breeze of sunrise,
blow !"
A. D. 1602.
WHAT man can stand amid a place of tombs
Nor yearn to that poor vanquish'd dust
beneath ?
Above a nation's grave no violet blooms ;
A vanquish'd nation lies in endless death.
'Tis past ! the dark is dense with ghost and
vision !
All lost ! the air is throng'd with moan
and wail ;
But one day more, and hope had been frui-
tion ;
O Athunree, thy fate o'erhuug Kinsale ! l
What Name is that which lays on every
head
A hand like fire, striking the strong locks
gray?
What Name is named not save with shame
and dread ?
Once let us name it, then no more for
aye !
Kinsale ! accursed be he the first who
bragg'd
" A city stands where roam'd but late the
flock ;"
Accursed the day, when, from the mountain
dragg'd,
Thy corner-stone forsook the mothei-rock !
DIRGE OF RORY O'MORE
A. D. 1643.
UP the sea-sadden'd valley at evening's de-
cline
A heifer walks lowing "the silk of the
kine ;" '
From the .deep to the mountains she roams,
and again
From the mountains' green urn to the purple-
rirnm'd main.
Whom seek'st thou, sad Mother! Thine
own is not thine !
He dropp'd from the headland ; he sank in
the brine !
1 The wholly inexplicable disaster at Kinsale, when, after
their marvellous winter-march, the two great northern chief*
of Tirconnell and Tirone had succeeded in relieving their
Spanish allies there, and when the victory seemed almost
wholly in the hands of warriors who till then had never met
with a reverse, was one of those critical events upon which
the history of a nation turns. But for it, Ireland would at the
death of Elizabeth have been in such a position that U!ter
would have had nothing to fear from James I.
1 One of the mystical names for Ireland used by the barOa.
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
405
'Twas a dream ! but in dream at thy foot
did he follow
Through the meadow-sweet on by the marish
and mallow !
Was he thine ? Have they slain him ? Thou
seek'st him not knowing
Thyself too art theirs, thy sweet breath and
sad lowing !
Thy gold horn is theirs ; thy dark eye, and
thy silk !
And that which torments thee, thy milk, is
their milk !
'Twas no dream, Mother Land ! 'Twas no
dream, Inisfail !
Hope dreams, but grief dreams not the
grief of the Gael !
From Leix and Ikerren to Donegal's shore
Rolls the dirge of thy last and thy bravest
O'More !
THE BISHOP OF ROSS.
A. D. 1650.
THEY led him to the peopled wall :
"Thy sons !" they said, " are those within !
If at thy word their standards fall.
Thy life and freedom thou shall win !"
Then spake that warrior Bishop old :
" Remove these chains, that I may bear
My crosier staff and stole of gold :
My judgment then will I declare."
They robed him in his robes of state :
They set the mitre on his head :
On tower and gate was silence great :
The hearts that loved him froze with dread.
He spake : " Right holy is your strife !
Fight for your country, king, 1 and faith :
I taught you to be true in life :
I teach you to be true in death.
1 Charles the Flrvt.
"A priest apart by God is set
To offer prayer and sacrifice :
And he is sacrificial yet,
The pontiff for his flock who dies."
Ere yet he fell, his hand on high
He raised, and benediction gave ;
Then sank in death, content to die :
Thy great heart, Erin, was his grave.
ARCHBISHOP PLUNKET.
A. D. 1681.
(THE LAST VICTIM OF THE " POPISH PLOT.")
["The Earl of Essex went to the King (Charles II.) to apply
for a pardon, and told his Majesty ' the witnesses mno: needi
be perjured, as what they swore could not possibly be true .'
bat his Majesty answered in a pa^f ion. ' Why did you not de-
clare this then at the trial T I dare pardon nobody his blood
be upon your head, and uot miue !' " UAVKRTY'B llitt.}
WHY crowd ye windows thus, and doors ?
Why climb ye tower and steeple ?
What lures you forth, O senators ?
What brings you here, O people ?
Here there is nothing worth your note
'Tis but an old man dying :
The noblest stag this season caught,
And in the old nets lying !
Sirs, there are marvels, but not here :
Here's but the thread-bare fable
Whose sense nor sage discerns nor seer ;
Unwilling is unable !
That prince who lurk'd in bush and brake
While bloodhounds bay'd behind him,
Now, to his father's throne brought back,
In pleasure's wreaths doth wind him.
The primate of that race, whose sword
Streamed last to save that lather,
To-day is reaping such reward
As Irish virtues gather.
O
Back to your councils, courts, and feasta I
Tis but a new " Intruder"
Conjoin'd with those incivic priests
That dyed the blocks of Tudor 1
406
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERB.
A SONG OF THE BRIGADE.
RIVER that through this purple plain
Toilest (once redder) to the main,
Go, kiss for me the banks of Seine !
Tell him I loved, and love for aye,
That his I am though far away,
More his than on the marriage-day.
Tell him thy flowers for him I twine
When first the slow sad mornings shine
In thy dim glass for he is mine.
Tell him when evening's tearful light
Bathes those dark towers on Aughrim's
height,
There where he fought in heart I fight.
O O
A freeman's banner o'er him waves !
So be it ! I but kiss the graves
Where freemen sleep whose sons are slaves.
Tell him I nurse his noble race,
Nor weep save o'er one sleeping face
Wherein those looks of his I trace.
For him my beads I count when falls
Moonbeam or shower at intervals
Upon our buru'd and blacken'd walls :
And bless him ! bless the bold Brigade,
May God go with them, horse and blade,
For Faith's defence, and Ireland's aid !
A BALLAD OF SARSFIELD ; OR, THE
BURSTING OF THE GUNS.
A. D. 1690.
SARSFIELP went out the Dutch to rout,
And to take and break their cannon ;
To mass went he at half-past three,
And at four he cross'd the Shannon.
Tirconnel slept. In dream his thoughts
Old fields of victory ran on ;
And the chieftains of Thomond in Limerick**
towers
Slept well by the banks of Shannon.
He rode ten miles and he cross'd the ford.
And couch'd in the wood and waited ;
Till, left and right, on march'd in sight
That host which the true men hated.
" Charge !" Sarsfield cried ; and the green
hill-side
As they charged replied in thunder ;
They rode o'er the plain and they rode o'ec*
the slain,
And the rebel rout lay under !
He burn'd the gear the knaves held dear,
For his king he fought, not plunder ;
With powder he cramm'd the guns, and
ramm'd
Their mouths the red soil under.
The spark flash'd out like a nation's shout
The sound into heaven ascended ;
The hosts of the sky made to earth reply,
And the thunders twain were blended !
Sarsfield went out the Dutch to rout,
And to take and break their cannon ;
A century after, Sarsfield's laughter
Was echo'd from Dungannon. 1
OH THAT THE PINES WHICH
CROWN YON STEEP.
OH that the pines which crown yon steep-
Their fires might ne'er surrender !
Oh that yon fervid knoll might keep,
While lasts the world, its splendor '
Pale poplars on the breeze that lean,
And in the sunset shiver,
Oh that your golden stems might screen
For aye yon glassy river !
1 It was in the parish church of Dungannon that the volun
teers of 1782 proclaimed the constitutional independence
the Irish Parliament.
TIIK POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
467
That yon white bird on homeward wing
Soft-sliding without motion,
And now in blue air vanishing
Like snow-flake lost in ocean,
Beyond our sight might never flee,
Yet forward still be flying :
And all the dying day might be
Iin mortal in its dying.
Pellucid thus in saintly trance,
Thus mute in expectation,
What waits the earth ? Deliverance ?
Ah no ! Transfiguration !
She dreams of that new earth divine,
Conceived of seed immortal ;
She sings, " Not mine the holier shrine,
Yet mine the steps and portal !"
THE LAST JVLvcCARTHYMORE.
[Tje !a*t great chief of the MacCarthy family, which had
reiened In South Desmond ever *ince the second century,
went into exilo with James II. Ik- spent the last years of his
life on a wild island strewn with wrecks in the month of the
Elbe.]
ON thy woody heaths, Muskcrry Carbery,
on thy famish'd shore,
Hands hurl'd upward, wordless wailings,
clamor for MacCarthymore !
He is gone ; and never, never shall return to
wild or wood
Till the sun burns out in blackness and the
moon descends in blood.
He, of lineage older, nobler, at the latest
Stuart's side
Once again had drawn the sword for Charles,
in blood of traitors dyed ;
Once again the stranger fattens where Mac-
Carthys ruled of old,
For a later Cromwell triumphs in the Dutch-
man's muddier mould.
Broken boat and barge around him, sea-gulls
piping loud and shrill,
Sits the chief where bursts the breaker, and
laments the sea-wind chill ;
In a barren northern island dinn'd by oeean'i
endless roar,
Where the Elbe with all his waters btream
between the willows hoar.
Earth is wide in hill and valley; palace
courts and convent piles
Centuries since received thine outcasts, Ire-
land, oft with tears and smiles ;
Wherefore builds this gray-hair'd exile on a
rock-isle's weedy neck?
Ocean unto ocean calleth ; inly yearneth
wreck to wreck !
He and his, his church and country, king
and kinsmen, house and home,
Wrecks they are like broken galleys
strangled by the yeasty foam ;
Nations past and nations present are 01
shall be soon as these
Words of peace to him come only from the
breast of roarinsr seas.
Clouds and sea-birds inland drifting o'er the
sea-bar and sand-plain ;
Belts of mists for weeks unshifting ; plunge
of devastating rain ;
Icebergs as they pass uplifting agueish
gleams through vapors frore,
These, long years, were thy companions, O
thou last MacCarthymore !
When a rising tide at midnight rush'd
against the downward stream,
Rush'd not then the clans embattled, meet-
ing in the chieftafn's dream ?
When once more that tide exhausted died
in murmurs toward the main,
Died not then once more his slogan ebbing
far o'er hosts of slain ?
Pious river! let us rather hope the low
monotonies
Of thy broad stream seaward toiling and
the willow-bending breeze
Charm'd at times a midday slumber, tran-
quillized tempestuous breath
Music last when harp was broken, requiem
sad and sole in death.
4f>8
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERB.
HYMN FOR THE FEAST OF
ST. STEPHEN.
PRINCES sat and spake against me ;
Sinners held me in their net ;
Thou, O Lord, shalt save thy servant,
For on thee his heart is set.
Strong is he whose strength Thou art ;
Plain his speech and strong his heart.
u.
Blessed Stephen stood discoursing
In the bud of spotless youth
With his judges. Love, not malice,
Edged his words and arm'd with truth.
They that heard him gnash'd their teeth ;
Heard him speak, and vow'd his death.
in.
Gather'd on a thousand foreheads
Dai-k and darker grew the frown,
Broad'ning like the pincwood's shadow
While a wintry sun goes down.
On the Saint that darkness fell :
At last they spake : it was his knell.
IV.
As a maid her face uplifteth
Brightening with an inward light,
When the voice of her beloved
Calls her from some neighboring height,
So his face he raised on high,
And saw his Saviour in the sky !
v.
Dimm'd a moment was that vision :
O'er him burst the stony shower ;
Stephen with his arms extended
For his murderers pray'd that hour.
To his prayer Saint Paul was given :
Then he slept and woke in heaven.
VI.
Faithful deacon, still at Christmas
Decking tables for the poor !
Martyr, at the bridal banquet
Guest of God for evermore !
Jn the realms of endless day
'For thine earthly clients pray 1
GRATTAN.
GOD works through man, not hills or snows !
In man, not men, is the God-like power ;
The man, God's potentate, God foreknows ;
He sends him strength at the destined
hour.
His Spirit He breathes into one deep heart ;
His cloud He bids from one mind depart,
A Saint ! and a race is to God re-born !
A Man ! One man makes a nation's morn !
ii.
A man, and the blind land by slow degrees
Gains sight ! A man, and the deaf land
hears !
A man, and the dumb land, like wakening
/ t O
seas,
Thunders low dirges in proud, dull ears !
One man, and the People a three days' corse,
Stands up, and the grave-bands fall off per-
force ;
One man, and the Nation in height a span
To the measure ascends of the perfect man.
in.
Thus wept unto God the land of Eire :
Yet there rose no man, and her hope was
dead :
In the ashes she sat of a burn'd-out fire ;
And sackcloth was over her queenly head.
But a man in her latter days arose ;
Her deliverer stepp'd from the camp of her
foes:
He spake; the great and the proud gave
way,
And the dawn began which shall end in day !
ADDUXIT IN TENEBRIS.
THEY wish thee strong: they wish thee
great !
Thy royalty is in thy heart !
Thy children mourn thy widow'd state
In funeral groves. Be what thou art '
2
M
5
5
THK I 'OHMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
469
Across the world's vainglorious waste,
As o'er Egyptian sands, in thee,
God's hieroglyph, His shade is cast
A bar of black from Calvary.
Around thee many a land and race
Have wealth or sway or name in story ;
But on that brow discrown'd we trace
The crown expiatory.
THE CAUSE.
THE kings are dead that raised their swords
In Erin's right of old ;
The bards that dash'd from fearless chords
Her name and praise lie cold :
But flx'd as fate her altars stand ;
Unchanged, like God, her faith ;
Her Church still holds in equal hand
The keys of life and death.
II.
As well call up the sunken reefs
Atlantic waves rush o'er,
As that old time of native chiefs
And Gaelic kings restore !
Things heavenly rise : things earthly sink ;
God works through Nature's laws ;
Sad Isle, 'tis He that bids thee link
Thine Action with thy Cause !
GRAY HARPER, REST!
GRAY Harper, rest ! O maid, the Fates
On thosersad lips have press'd their seal !
Thy song's sweet rage but indicates
That mystery it can ne'er reveal.
Take comfort ! Vales and lakes and skies,
Blue seas, and sunset-girdled shore,
Love-beaming brows, love-lighted eyes,
Contend like thee. What can they more ?
SONNET.
SARSFIELD AND CLAUE.
SILENT they slumber in the unwholesome
shade :
And why lament them? Virtue, too, can
die:
Old wisdom labors in extremity ;
And greatness stands aghast, and cries for
aid
Full often : Aye, and honor grows dis-
mayM ;
And all those eagle hopes, so pure and high,
Which soar aloft in youth's unclouded sky,
Drop dust ward, self-subverted, self-betray'd.
Call it not joy to walk the immortal floor
Of this exulting earth, nor peace to lie
Where the throng'd marbles awe the passer
by:
True rest is this ; the task, the mission o'er,
To bide God's time, and man's neglect to
bear
Hail, loyal Sarsfield ! Hail, high-hearted
Clare !
SONG.
A BRIGHTEN'D Sorrow veils her face,
Sweet thoughts with thoughts forlorn,
And playful sadness, like the grace
Of some autumnal morn ;
When birds new-waked, like sprightly elves,
The languid echoes rouse,
And infant Zephyrs make themselves
Familiar with old boughs.
it.
All round our hearts the Maiden's hair
Its own soft shade doth flinj;:
O
Her sigh perfumes the forest air,
Like eve but eve in Spring !
When Spring precipitates her How ;
And Summer, swift to greet her,
Breathes, every night, a warmer glow
Half through the dusk to meet her.
470
THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE.
ST. COLUMKILL'S FAREWELL TO
THE ISLE OF ARRAN,
ON SETTING SAIL FOR IONA. '
(From the Gaelic.)
FAREWELL to Arran Isle," farewell !
I steer for Hy :' ray heart is sore :
The breakers burst, the billows swell
'Twixt Arran Isle and AlbaV shore.
Thus spake the Son of God, "Depart !"
Arran Isle, God's will be done !
By Angels throng'd this hour thou art :
1 sit within my bark alone.
O*Modan, well for thee the while!
Fair falls thy lot. and well art thou !
Thy seat is set in Arran IsJe :
Eastward to Alba turns my prow.
O Arran, Sun of all the West !
My heart is thine ! As sweet to close
Our dying eyes in thee, as rest
Where Peter and where Paul repose !
O Arran, Sun of all the West !
My heart in thee its grave hath found :
He walks in regions of the blest
The man that hears thy church-bells'
sound !
Arran blest, O Arran blest !
Accursed the man that loves not thee !
The dead man cradled in thy breast
No demon scares him: well is he.
Each Sunday Gabriel from on high
(For so did Christ our Lord ordain)
Thy masses comes to sanctify,
With fifty Angels in his train.
Each Monday Michael issues forth
To bless anew each sacred fane :
Each Tuesday cometh Raphael
To bless pure hearth and golden grain.
' Prom the prose translation in vol. i. of the Transactions of
Ju. Gaelic Society, Dublin, 1808.
2 In the Bay of Galway. It was one of the chief retreats of
the Irish monks and missionaries, and still abounds in relig-
ious memorials.
1 lona.
* Scotland.
Each Wednesday cometh Uriel,
Each Thursday Sariel, fresh, from God ;
Each Friday cometh Ramael
To bless thy stones and bless thy sod.
Each Saturday comes Mary,
Comes Babe OH arm, 'rnid heavenly hosts !
O Arran, near to heaven is he
That hears God's Angels bless thy coasts 1
SONNET.
CHRISTIAN EDUCATION.
WHAT man can check the aspiring life that
thrills
And glows through all this multitudinous
wood ;
That throbs in each minutest leaf and bud,
And, like a mighty wave ascending, tills
More high each day with flowers the encir-
cling hills ?
From earth's maternal heart her ancient
blood
Mounts to her breast in milk ! her breath
doth brood
O'er fields Spring-flush'd round unimpris-
on'd rills !
Such life is also in the breast of Man ;
Such blood is at the heart of every Nation,
Not to be chain'd by Statesman's frown or
ban.
Hope and be strong: fear and be weak!
The seed
Is sown : be ours the prosperous growth to
feed
With food, not poison Christian Education!
DEATH.
GOD'S creature, Death ! thou art not God's
compeer !
An Anarch sceptred in primordial night ;
Immortal Life's eternal opposite :
Nor art thou some new Portent sudden and
drear
Blotting, like sea-born cloud, a noontide
sphere :
THE POKMS 0V AUBREY DE VERB.
471
Thou art but Adam's forfeit by the might
Of Calvary sunset-steep'd, and changed to
light ;
To God man's access through the gates of
Fear !
Penance thou art for them that penance
need ;
To ecu Is detach'd a gentle ritual ;
Time's game reiterate, and with lightning
speed
Play'do'er; through life a desert Baptist's
call.
Judgment and Death are woful things, we
know :
Yet Judgment without Death were tenfold
o
woe !
THE GRAVES OF TY11CONNEL AND
TYRONE,
ON SAN PIETRO, IN MONTOKIO.
WITHIN Saint Peter's fane, that kindly
hearth
Where exiles crown'd their earthly loads
down cast,
The Scottish Kings repose, their wanderings
past,
in death more royal thrice than in their
birth.
Near them, within a church of narrower girth
But with dilated memories yet more vast,
Sad Ulster's Princes find their rest at last,
Their home the holiest spot, save one, on
earth.
This is that Mount which saw Saint Petei
die!
Where stands yon dome stood once tlui
Cross reversed :
From this dread Hill, a Western Calvary,
The Empire and that Synagogue accurst
Clash'd two ensanguined hands Hke Cain
in one.
Sleep where the Apostle slept, Tyrconnel
and Tyrone !
WAYSIDE FOUNTAINS.
As o'er the marble brink you lean,
This Well, glad guest, becomes your
mirror :
May every glass in which are seen
Your spirit's face, your moral mien,
Cause you as little terror.
In this cool shadow, grateful guest !
Repose, and humbly drink;
And muse on Him who found no rest :
And now, and always think
Of that, His last great thirst, which He
Endured for those thou lov'st, and thee.
POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL
THE HERMIT.
FAR m a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal
well :
Remote from men, with God he pass'd the
days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure
praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seem'd Heaven itself, till one suggestion
rose
That Vice should triumph, Virtue, Vice
obey.
This sprung some doubt of Providence's
sway :
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost.
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest
Calm Nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending
grow,
And skies beneath with answering colors
glow:
Hut if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken Sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by
sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right,
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly
dew),
lie quits his cell ; the pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ;
Then with the Sun a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.
The morn was wasted in the pathless
grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to
pass ;
But when the southern Sun had warm'd the
day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair.
Then near approaching, " Father, hail !" he
cried,
"And hail, my son," the reverend sire re-
plied ;
Words follow'd words, from question answer
flow'd,
And talk of various kind deceived the road ;
Till each with other pleased, and loth to
part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.
Now sunk the Sun ; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ;
Nature in silence bid the world repose ;
When near the road a stately palace rose :
There by the Moon through ranks of trees
they pass.
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides
of grass.
It chanced the noble master of the dome
Still made his house the wandering stran-
ger's home
THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL.
411
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive : the liveried servants wait ;
Their lord receives them at the pompous
gate.
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they
drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of
down.
At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of
day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ;
Fresh o'er the guy parterres the breezes
creep,
And shake the neighboring wood to banish
sleep.
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call :
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced,
Which the kind master forced the guests to
taste.
Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch
they go :
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe:
His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering
prize.
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks
with fear,
So seern'd the sire ; when far upon the road,
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd.
He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trem-
bling heart,
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to
part :
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it
hard
That generous actions meet a base reward.
While thus they pass, the Sun his glory
shrouds,
The changing skies hang out their sable
clouds ;
A sound in air presaged approaching rain,
And beasts to covert scud across the plain.
Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair
retreat,
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat.
'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimproved
around ;
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there.
As near the miser's heavy doors they
drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ;
The nimble lightning mix'd with showers
began,
And e'er their heads loud rolling thunders
ran.
Here long they knock, but knock or call in
vain,
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain.
At length some pity warm'd the master's
breast,
('Twas then his threshold first received a
guest) ;
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous
care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair;
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,
And Nature's fervor through their limbs re-
calls:
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine,
(Each hardly granted), served them both to
dine ;
And when the tempest first appear'd to
cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark the pondering hermit
view'd,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ;
"And why should such," within himself ho
cried,
" Lock the lost wealth a thousand want be-
side?"
But what new marks of wonder soon take
place
In every settling feature of his face ;
When from his vest the young companion
bore
That cup, the generous landlord own'd be-
fore,
And paid profusely with the precious bowl
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul.
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly !
The Sun emerging opes an azure sky ;
A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the
day :
474
THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL.
.The weather courts them from the poor re-
treat,
And the glad master bolts the wary gate.
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's
bosom wrought
With all the travel of uncertain thought;
His partner's acts without their cause ap-
pear,
'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness
here :
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.
Now Night's dim shades again involve
the sky,
Again the wanderei's want a place to lie,
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh,
The soil improved around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great :
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind.
Hither the walkers turn with weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master
greet :
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest
guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies :
" Without a vain, without a grudging
heart,
To him who gives us all, I yield a part ;
From him you come, for him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer."
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talk of virtue till the time of bed.
When the grave household round his hall
repair,
Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with
prayer.
At length the world, renew'd by calm re-
pose,
Was strong for toil, the dappled Morn
arose ;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near the closed cradle where an infant slept,
And writhed his neck : the landlord's little
pride,
O strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd,
and died.
Horror of horrors! what ! his only son !
How look'd our hermit when the fact was
done ;
>*> Hell, though Hell's black jaws in sunder
part,
And breathe blue tire, could moie assault
his heart.
Confused, and struck with silence at the
deed,
Ho flies, but trembling, i'ails to fly with
speed.
His steps the youth pursues; the country
lay
Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the
way.
A river cross'd the path ; the passage o'er
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ;
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied,
And deep the waves beneath the bending
glide.
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin,
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust
him in ;
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head,
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the
dead.
Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father' d
eyes,
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries,
" Detested wretch !" But scarce his speech
began,
When the strange partner seem'd no longer
man:
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ,
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his
feet ;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ,
Celestial odors breathe through purpled air ;
And wings, whose colors glitter'd on the
day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes dis-
play.
The form ethereal burst upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion
grew,
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ;
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends,
And in a calm his settling temper ends.
But silence here the beauteous angel broke,
(The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke).
"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice
unknown,
In sweet memorial rise before the throne :
These charms, success in our bright region
find,
And force an angel down, to calm thy mind ;
THE POEMS OF THOMAS I'AUNELL.
475
For this, conunissioiiM, I forsook tlie sky:
Nay, cease to kneel thy fellow-servant 1.
"Then know the truth of government
divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
"The Maker justly claims that worM he
made,
In this the right of Providence is laid ;
Its sacred majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends :
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human
eye,
The power exerts his attributes on high,
Your actions uses, nor controls your will,
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.
" What strange events can strike with
more surprise,
Than those which lately struck thy wonder-
ing eyes ?
Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty
just,
And where you can't unriddle, learn to
trust !
" The great, vain man, who fared on costly
food,
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ;
Who made his ivory stands with goblets
shine,
And forced his guests to morning draughts
of wine,
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.
"The mean, suspicious wretch, whose
bolted dooi
Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor;
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be
kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the
bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of tire upon his head ;
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And IOOM- from dross the silver runs below.
" Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,
But now the child half-wean'd his heart
from God ;
(Child of his age) for him he lived in pain,
And measured back his steps to Earth again.
To what excesses had his dotage run ?
But God, to save the lather, took the son.
To all but thee. in tits he seem'd to go,
(And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow :)
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
" But now had all his fortune felt a wrack,
Had that false servant sped in safety bark ;
This night his treasured heaps he meant to
steal,
And what a fund of charity would fail !
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial
o'er,
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more."
On sounding pinions here the youth with-
drew :
The sage stood wondering as the seraph
flew.
Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high,
7 O *
His master took the chariot of the sky ;
The fiery pomp ascending left to view ;
The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow too.
The bending hermit here a prayer begun,
'''Lord! as in Heaven, on Earth thy will be
done."
Then gladly turning sought his ancient
place,
And pass'd a life of piety and peace.
A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.
BY the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er :
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.
How deep yon a/ure dyes the sky !
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie,
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumbering bree/.e forgets to breath* ,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
476
THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy state
By all the solemn heaps of Fate.
And think, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
Time was, like thee, they life possest,
And time shall be, that thou shall rest.
Those with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
QHck to the glancing thought disclose
Where toil and poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame,
(Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away),
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half-ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great ;
Who, while on Earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
Ha ! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades !
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds,
And all with sober accent cry,
" Think, mortal, ivhat it is to die"
Now from yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks, I hear a voice begin ;
(Ye ravens, ceuse your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground !)
It sends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from among the bones :
" When men my scythe and darts supply,
I low great a king of fears am I !
They view me like the last of things ;
They make, and then they draw, my strings.
Fools ! if you less provoked your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God;
A port of calms, a state to ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas."
Why then thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weedu,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the escutcheons of the dead ?
Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul these forms of woe;
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the tell.
Whene'er their suffering years are icui,
Spring forth to greet the glittering Sun .
Such joy, though far transcending sense.
Have pious souls at parting hc^ce.
On Earth, and in the body pl/.ced,
A few, and evil years, they v/aste :
But when their chains are jast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing, and tawer away,
And mingle with the blaxe of day.
AN ALLEGORY ON MAN.
A THOUGHTFUL being, long and spare,
Our race of mortals call him Care,
(Were Homer living, well he knew
What name the gods have call'd him too) r
With fine mechanic genius wrought,
And loved to work, though no one bought.
This being, by a model bred
In Jove's eternal sable head,
Contrived a shape empower'd to breathe,
And be the worldling here beneath.
The man rose, staring like a stake;
Wondering to see himself awake !
Then look'd so wise, before he knew
The business he was made to do
That, pleased to see with what a grace
He gravely show'd his forward face,
Jove talk'd of breeding- him on high,
An under-something of the sky.
But ere he gave the mighty nod,
Which ever binds a poet's god,
(For which his curls ambrosial shake,
And mother Earth's obliged to quake) r
He saw old mother Earth arise,
She stood confess'd before his eyes ;
But not with what we read she wore,
A castle for a crown before,
Nor with long streets and longer road*
Dangling behind her, like commodes:
THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARK ELL.
4 -
; ;
As yet with wreaths alone she drest,
And trail'd a landscape-painted vest.
Then thrice she raised, as Ovid said,
And thrice she bow'd her weighty head :
Her honors made, " Great Jove," she cried,
" This thing was fashion'd from my side:
His hands, his heart, his head are mine ;
Then what hast thou to call him thine ?"
" Nay, rather ask," the monarch said,
" What boots his hand, his heart, his head ?
Were what I gave removed away,
Thy part's an idle shape of clay."
" Halves, more than halves !" cried honest
Care,
" Your pleas would make your titles fair.
You claim the body, you the soul,
But I, who join'd them, claim the whole."
Thus with the gods debate began,
On such a trivial cause as man.
And can celestial tempers rage?
<^uoth Virgil, in a later age.
As thus they wrangled, Time came by ;
(There's none that paint him such as I,
For what the fabling ancients sung
Makes Saturn old, when Time was young).
As yet his winters had not shed
Their silver honors on his head ;
He just had got his pinions free
From his old sire, Eternity.
A serpent girdled round he wore,
The tail within the mouth, before;
By which our almanacs are clear
That learned Egypt meant the year.
A staff he carried, where on high
A glass was fix'd to measure by,
As amber boxes made a show
For heads of canes an age ago.
His vest, for day and night, was pied ;
A bending sickle arm'd his side ;
And Spring's new months his train adorn :
The other seasons were unborn.
Known by the gods, as near he draws,
They make him umpire of the cause.
O'er a low trunk his arm he laid,
Where since his hours a dial made ;
Then leaning heard the nice debate,
And thus pronounced the words of Fate :
" Since body from the parent Earth,
And soul from Jove received a birth,
Return they where they first began ;
But since their union makes the man,
Till Jove and Earth shall part these two,
To Care who join'd them, man is due."
He said, and sprung with swift career
To trace a circle for the yew :
Where ever since the seasons wheel,
And tread on one another's heel.
" 'Tis well," said Jove, and for consent
Thundering he shook the firmament.
" Our umpire Time shall have his way,
With Care I let the creature stay :
Let business vex him, avarice blind,
Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind,
Let error act, opinion speak,
And want afflict, and sickness break,
And anger burn, dejection chill,
And joy distract, and sorrow kill,
Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow.
Time draws the long destructive blow ;
And wasted man, whose quick decay
Comes hurrying on before his day,
Shall only find by this decree,
The soul flies sooner back to me."
HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.
LOVELY, lasting peace of mind,
Sweet delight of human kind !
Heavenly born, and^ bred on high,
To crown the favorites of the sky
With more of happiness below
Than victors in a triumph know !
Whither, oh whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head ;
What happy region dost thou please
To make the seat of calms and ease?
Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state to meet thee there
Increasing avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold enshrined.
The bold adventurer ploughs his way
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love, and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart, which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
178
THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL.
Amusing thought ; but learns to know
That solitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground :
Or in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below :
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.
Lovely, lasting peace, appear:
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.
'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And, lost in thought, no more perceived
The branches whisper as they waved :
It secm'd as all the quiet place
Confess'd the presence of His grace.
When thus she spoke : Go, rule thy will,
Bid thy wild passions all be still,
Know God and bring thy heart to
know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then every grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest.
Oh ! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gBatitude and joy ;
Raised as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer,.
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleased and bless'd with God alone :
Then while the gardens take my sight
With all the colors of delight :
While silver waters glide along,
To please my ear and court my song :
I'll lift my voice, and tune my 'string,
And thee, great Source of nature, sing.
The sun that walks his airy way,
To light the world and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd
light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night ;
The seas that roll unnumber'd waves ;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves ;.
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain ;
All of these, and all I see,
Should be sung, and sung by me :
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
Go seai-ch among your idle dreams,,
Your busy or your vain extremes ;
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.
POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS,
INTRODUCTION AND MEMOIR
BY JOHN MITCH KL.
Ax Mallow, on the river Blackwater, in the county of Cork, and some time in the
year 1S14. THOMAS OSBORXE DAVIS was born. His father was by birth a Welshman, but
long settled in the south of Ireland, and Davis, ever proud of his Cymric blood, and of his
kindred with the other Gaelic family of Milesians, named himself through life a Celt.
"The Celt" was his now de plume; and the Celtic music and literature, the Celtic lan-
guage, and habits, and history, were always his fondest study. Partly from the profound
sympathy of his nature with the fiery, vehement, affectionate, gentle, and bloody race that
bred him, his affinity with ''the cloudy and lightning genius of the Gael," partly from
his hereditary aversion to the coarser and more energetic Anglo-Saxon, and partly from
the chivalry of his character, which drew him to the side of all oppressed nations every-
where over the earth, he chose to write Celt upon his front; he would live and die a Celt.
The scenes of his birth and boyhood nursed and cherished this feeling. Amongst the
hills of Munster on the banks of Ireland's most beauteous river, the AvondJieu, Spenser's
Auniduff," and amidst a simple people who yet retained most of the venerable usages
of olden time, their wakes and f \u\ern\-caoines, their wedding merrymakings, and simple
hospitality with a hundred thousand welcomes, he imbibed that passionate and deep love,
not for the people only, but for the very soil, rocks, woods, waters, and skies of his native
land, which gives to his writings, both in prose and poetry, their chief value and charm.
He received a good education, and entered Trinity College, Dublin. During his
university course his reading was discursive, omnivorous, by no means confined within the
text-books and classic authors prescribed for study within the current terms of the college
i-iirrii-ulum. Therefore he was not a dull, plodding, blockhead "premium-man." He
came through the course creditably enough, but without distinction; and Wallis, an early
friend and comrade of Davis, and the author of the first tribute to his memory and his
genius, in the " Introduction " prefixed to this edition of his Poems, says that " during
his college course, and for some years after, while he \v:is very generally liked, he had,
unless, perhaps, with some few who knew him intimately, but a moderate reputation for
high ability of any kind." In short, his moral and intellectual growth was slow: he had
no personal ambition for mere distinction, and never through all his life did anything for
effect. Thus he spent his youth in storing his own mind and training his own heart:
never wrote or spoke for the public till he approached his thirtieth year; exerted faculty
after faculty (unsuspected by himself as well as by others) just as the occasion for their
exertion arose, and nobody else was at hand able or willing to do the needful work; and
when he died at the age of thirty-one, those only who knew him best felt that the world
had been permitted to see but the infancy of a great genius.
480 INTRODUCTION AND MEMOIR.
His poetry is but a fragment of the man. He was no boy-rhymer; and brimful as his
eye and soul were of the beauties and glories of Nature, he never felt a necessity to utter
them in song. In truth he did not himself suspect that he could make verses until the
establishment of the "Nation" newspaper, in which, from the first, he was the principal
writer; and then, from a calm, deliberate conviction that amongst other agencies for
arousing national spirit, fresh, manly, vigorous, national songs and ballads must by no
means be neglected, he conscientiously set to work to manufacture the article wanted.
The result Avas that torrent of impassioned poesy which flashed through the columns of
the " Nation," week by week, and made many an eager boy, from the Giant's Causeway
to Cape Clear, cut open the weekly sheet with a hand shaken by excitement, to kindle
his heart with the glowing thought of the nameless " Celt."
The defeat of Ireland and her cause, and the utter prostration into which she has
fallen, may, in the minds of many, deprive the labors of Davis of some portion of their
interest. If his aspirations had been made realities, and his lessons had ripened into
action; if the British standard had gone down, torn and trampled before the green banner,
in this our day, as it had done before on many a well-fought field. then all men would
have loved to trace the infancy and progress of the triumphant cause, the lives and
actions of those who had toiled in the sweat of their brows to make its triumph possible.
It is the least, indeed, of the penalties, yet it is one of the surest penalties of defeat that
the world will neglect you and your claims; will not care to ask why you were defeated,
nor care to inquire whether you deserved success.
Yet to some minds it will be always interesting to understand instead of misunder-
standing even a baffled cause. And to such, the Poems of Davis are presented as the
fullest and finest expression of the national sentiment that in 1843 shook the British
empire to its base, and was buried ignominiously in the Famine-graves of '48 not without
hope of a happy resurrection.
To characterize shortly the poetry of Davis its main strength and beauty lies in its
simple passion. Its execution is unequal; and in some of the finest of his pieces any
magazine-critic can point out weak or unmusical verses. But all through these ringing
lyrics there is a direct, manly, hearty, human feeling, with here and there a line or passage
of such passing melody and beauty that once read it haunts the ear and heart forever.
" What thoughts were mine in early youth !
Like some old Irish song,
Brimful of love, and life, and truth,
My spirit gushed along."
And in that exquisite song, "The Rivers." Let any one who has an ear to hear, and a
tongue to speak, read aloud the fifth stanza
"But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore,
And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lismore ;
There the stream, like a maiden
With love overladen,
Pants wild on each shore.."
Who that has once seen will ever forget old Lord Clare rising at the head of his mess-table
in the " Battle-eve of the Brigade "
" The veteran arose, like an uplifted lance,
Saying, Comrades, a health to the monarch of France ! "
INTRODUCTION AND MEMOll;. 481
His " Lament for the death of Owen Roe" is the very heart and soul of a musical, wild,
and miserable Irish caoine (the coronach, or noeniae)
"Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep for our pride I
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died !
Weep the victor of Benburb weep him, young men and old ;
Weep for him, ye women your Beautiful lies cold 1
"We thought you would not die we were sure you would not go,
And leave us in our utmost need to Crom well's cruel blow
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky
Oh ! why did you leave us, Owen ? Why did you die ? "
For his battle-ballads may be instanced " Fontenoy," and the " Sack of Baltimore." And
his love-songs are the genuine pleadings of longing, yearning, devouring passion. Perhaps,
however, the most characteristic, though far from the finest of all these songs, is that be-
ginning " Oh ! for a steed !" There he gives bold and broad expression to that feeling
which we have already described as a leading constituent of his noble nature, sympathy
with conquered nations, assertion and espousal of their cause against force and fate, and
u mortal detestation and defiance of that conquering " energy" which impels the civilizing
bullies of mankind to " bestride the narrow world like a Colossus." This sympathy it
was, which so strongly attracted him to the books of Augustin Thierry, whose writings he
often recommended as the most picturesquely faithful and heartily human of all historical
works.
Spa/je would fail us to give anything like an adequate narrative of Davis's political
toils through the three last busy years of his life. It is not detracting from any man's
just claims to assert, what all admit, that he, more than any one man, inspired, created,
and moulded the strong national feeling that possessed the Irish people in '43, made
O'Connell a true uncrowned king, and
. " Placed the strength of all the land
Like a falchion in his hand."
The "government," at last, with fear and trembling, came to issue with the " Repeal
Conspirators " in the law courts. Well they might fear and tremble. One movement of
O'Connell's finger for only he could give the signal and within a month no vestige of
British power could have remained in Ireland. For O'Connell's refusal to wield that
power, then unquestionably in his hands, may God forgive him ! He went into prison on
the 30th of May, 1844, stayed there three months came out in a triumph of perfect
juiroxysm. of popular enthusiasm stronger than ever. Yet from that hour the cause de-
clined; nothing answering expectation, or commensurate with the power at his command,
was done or attempted. " Physical force" was made a bugbear to frighten women and
children; priests were instructed to denounce " rash young men " from their altars; and
" Law" London law, was thrust down the national throat.
Davis saw this, vainly resisted it, and made head against it for awhile. He labored
in the "Nation" more zealously than ever; but his intimate comrades perceived him
changed; and after a short illness he died at his mother's house, Baggot- street, Dublin, on
the 16th of September, 184.~>.
The " Nation " lost its strength and its inspiration. The circle of friends and comrades,
the "Young Ireland party," as they were called, that revolved around this central figure,
INTRODUCTION AND MEMOIK.
that were kept in tlieir spheres by the attraction of his strong nature, taking their literary
tasks from his hands, drawing instruction from his varied accomplishments, and courage and
zeal from his kindly and cheerful converse, soon fell into confusion, alienation, helplessness.
Gloom gathered round the cause, and famine, wasting the bone and vigor of the nation,
made all his friends feel, as the confederate Irish felt when Owen Roe died of poison, like
" Sheep without a shepherd, when snow shut out the sky."
MacISTevin, who idolized him, was cut suddenly from all his moorings, and like a rudderless
ship drifted and whirled, until he died in a mad-house. Of others, it would be invidious
to trace the career in this place. Enough to say, that the most dangerous foe English
dominion in Ireland has had in our generation is buried in the cemetery of Mount Jerome,
in the southern suburbs of Dublin.
Fragmentary and hasty as are the compositions in prose or verse which Davis left
behind him, they are the best and most authentic exponent of the principles and aspira-
tions of the remnant of his disciples.
TIIK PATRIOT BISHOP OF ROSS-
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
I.
ftattonal $allabs anb Songs.
" RATIONAL POETRY Is the very flowering of the soul, the great-
Mt evidence of Ita health, the greatest excellence of Its beauty.
lu melody ti balsam to the senses. It Is the playfellow of Child-
h< :0, '.p-l aio ths companion of Manhood, consoles Aire. It
presents the most dramatic events, the largest characters, the
most impressive scenes, anil the deepest passions, in the language
most familiar to us. It magnifies and ennobles our hearts, our in-
tellects, our country, and our countrymen ; binds us to the land by
Ita condensed and gem-like history to the future by example and
by aspiration. It solaces us in travel, fires us in action, prompts
our invention, tdieds a grace beyond the power of luxury round
nr homes, is the recognized envoy of our minds among all man-
kind, and to all time." DATIS'B KSSATR.
THE MEN OF TIPPERARY.
AIR Original.*
LET Britain boast her British hosts,
About them all right little care we;
Not British seas nor British coasts
Can match the man of Tipperary !
ii.
Tall is his form, his heart is warm,
His spirit light as any fairy ;
His wrath is fearful as the storm
That sweeps The Hills of Tipperary !
i VitU "Spirit of the Nation," 4to, p. 84.
III.
Lead him to fight for native land,
His is no courage cold and wary ;
The troops live not on earth would stand
The headlong Charge of Tipperary t
IV.
Yet meet him in his cabin rude,
Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary
You'd swear they knew no other mood
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary !
v.
You're free to share his scanty meal,
His plighted word he'll never vary
In vain they tried with gold and steel
To shako The Faith of Tipperary \
VI.
Soft is his cailin's sunny eye,
Her mien is mild, her step is airy,
Her heart is fond, her soul is high
Oh ! she's the pride of Tipperary I
VII
Let Britain brag her motley rag ;
We'll lift the Green more proud and airy ;
Bo mine the lot to bear that tiag,
And huad The Men of Tipperary !
484
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
rnr.
Though Britain boasts her British hosts,
About them all right little care we ;
Give us, to guard our native coasts,
The Matchless Men of Tipperary !
THE RIVERS.
AIR Kathleen O^More.
I.
THIKE'S a far-famed Blackwater that runs to
Loch Neagh,
There's a fairer Blackwater that runs to the sea,
The glory of Ulster,
The beauty of Muuster,
These twin rivers be.
From the banks of that river Benburb's towers
arise ;
This stream shines as bright as a tear from
sweet eyes ;
This, fond as a young bride ;
That, with foeman's blood dyed
Both dearly we prize.
in.
Deep sunk in that bed is the sword of Monroe,
Since, 'twixt it and Donagh, he met Owen Roe,
And Charlemont's cannon
Slew many a man on
These meadows below.
The shrines of Armagh gleam far over yon lea,
Nor afar is Dungannon that nursed liberty,
And yonder Red Hugh
Marshal Bagenal o'erthrew
On Beal-an-atha-Buidhe. 1
v.
Bat far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore,
And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lis-
more ;
There the stream, like a maiden
With love overladen,
Pants wild on each shore.
\Vulyo, Ballanabwee the mouth of tli yellow ford.
VI.
Its rocks rise like statues, tall, stately, and fair,
And the trees, and the flowers, and the moun-
tains, and air,
With Wonder's soul near you,
To share with, and cheer you,
Make Paradise there.
VII.
I would rove by that stream, ere my flag I un-
rolled ;
I would fly to these banks, my betrothed to en-
fold
The pride of our sire-land,
The Eden of Ireland,
More precious than gold.
VIII.
May their borders be free from oppression and
blight ;
May their daughters and sons ever fondly unite
The glory of Ulster,
The beauty of Munster,
Our strength and delight.
GLENGARIFF.
AIR O* Sullivan? 8 March.
I.
I WANDERED at eve by Glengariffs sweet water,
Half in the shade, and half in the moon,
And thought of the time when the Sacsanach
slaughter
Reddened the night and darknened the noon ;
Mo nuar ! mo nuar ! mo nuar /* I said
When I think, in this valley and sky
Where true lovers and poets should sigh
Of the time when its chieftain O'Sullivan fled. 3
u.
Then my mind went along with O'Sullivaii
marching
Over Musk'ry's moors and Ormond's plain,
His curachs the waves of the Shannon o'erarch-
And his pathway mile-marked with the slain :
8 Vide pout, page l'J6.
TIIK I'oKMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
Afo nnar ! mo nuar ! mo nuarf I said
Yet 'twas better far from you to go,
And to battle with torrent and foe,
Than linger as slaves where your sweet waters
spread.
in.
But my fancy burst on, like a clan o'er the border,
To times that seemed almost at hand,
Wben grasping her banner, old Erin's Lamh
Laidir
Alone shall rule over the rescued land ;
baotho ! baotho ! baotho ! ' I said
Be our marching as steady and strong,
And freemen our valleys shall throng,
When the last of our foemen is vanquished and
lied.
THE WEST'S ASLEEP.
Are Tht Brink of the White Kocki.
WHEN all besides a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep
Alas! and well may Erin weep,
When Connaught lies in slumber deep.
There lake and plain smile fair and free,
'Mid rocks their guardian chivalry
Sing oh ! let man learn liberty
From crashing wind and lashing sea.
n.
That chainless wave and lovely land
Freedom and Nationhood demand
Be sure, the great God never planned,
For slumbering slaves, a home so grand.
And, long, a brave and haughty race
Honored and sentinelled the place
Sing oh ! not even their sons' disgrace
Can quite destroy their glory's trace.
in.
For often, in O'Connor's van,
To triumph dashed each Connaught clan-
And fleet as deer the Normans ran
Through Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan.
And later times saw deeds as brave ;
And glory guards Clanricard's grave
Sing oh ! they died their land to sat e,
At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave.
IV.
And if, when all a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep
Alas ! and well may Erin weep,
That Connanght iics in slumber deep.
But hark! some voice like thunder spake,
" The WesCs awake, the WesCs awake"
" Sing oh ! hurra ! let England quake,
We'll watch till death for Erin's sake !"
OH! FOR A STEED.
AIB Original.
I.
OH ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a blazing
scimitar,
To hunt from beauteous Italy the Austrian's red-
hussar.
To mock their boasts,
And strew their hosts,
And scatter their flags afcu.
ii.
Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and dear Po-
land gathered aroujd,
To smite her circle vf savage foes, and smash
them upon the ground ;
Nor hold my hand
While on the land,
A foreigner foe was found.
in.
Oh ! fvr a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that
never failed,
Aod a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate
valor mailed,
'Till "stripes and stars,"
And Russian czars,
Before the Red Indian quailed.
IV.
Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains
of Hindustan,
And a hundred thousand cavaliers, to cbargt
like a single man.
Till our shirts were red,
And the English tied,
Like a cowardly caravan.
486
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
v.
Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, with the Greeks
at Marathon,
Or a place in the Switzer phalanx, when the
Moral men swept on,
Like a pine-clad hill
By an earthquake's will
Hurled the valleys upon.
VI.
Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian
smote down the Dane,
Or a place beside great Aodh O'Neill, when
Bagenal the bold was slain,
Or a waving crest
And a lance in rest,
With Bruce upon Bannoch plain.
VII.
Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Curragh
of Kildare,
And Irish squadrons ready to do, as they are
ready to dare
A hundred yards,
And Holland's guards
Drawn up to engage me there.
VIII.
Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and any good
cause at all,
Or else, if you will, a field on foot, or guarding
a leaguered wall
For freedom's right ;
In flushing fight
To conquer if then to fall.
CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS. 1
AIR Tkt March of the Men nf Ilarlech*
I.
ONCE there was a Cymric nation :
Few its men, but high its station
Freedom is the soul's creation,
Not the work of hands.
Coward hearts are self-subduing;
Fetters last by slaves' renewing
Edward's castles are in ruin,
Still his empire stands.
Still the Saxon's malice
Blights our beauteous valleys;
1 rid* Aooendix
2 Welsh ir
Ours the teil, but his the spoil, and his the law*
we writhe in ;
Worked like beasts, that Saxon priests may riot
in our tithing;
Saxon speech and Saxou teachers
Crush our Cymric tongue !
J O
Tolls our traffic binding
O '
Rents our vitals grinding
Bleating sheep, we cower and weep, when, by
one bold endeavor,
We could drive from out our hive the Saxon
drones for ever.
" CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS"--
Pass along the word !
ii.
We should blush at Arthur's glory
Never sing the deeds of Rory
Caratach's renowned story
Deepens our disgrace.
By the bloody day of Banchor !
By a thousand years of rancor!
By the wrongs that in us canker!
Up ! ye Cymric race
Think of Old Llewellyn,
Owen's trumpets swelling :
Then send out a thunder shout, and every tru
man summon,
Till the ground shall echo round from Severn to
Plinlimmon,
"Saxon foes, and Cyrn-ic brothers,
"Arthur's con.e ajjain !"
O
Not his bone and smew,
But his soul wiVnin you,
Prompt and true t- plan and do, and firm a?
Monmouth i-on
For our cause though crafty laws and charging
troop? environ
"CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERST"
Pass along the word !
A BALLAD OF FREEDOM.
THE Frenchman sailed in Freedom's name tc
smite the Algerine,
The strife was short, the- crescent sunk, and then
his guile was seen ;
For, nestling in the pirate's hold a fiercer pirate
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
487
lie bade the tribes yield up their flocks, the
towns their gates unbar.
Right on he pressed with freemen's hands to
subjugate the free,
The Berber in old Atlas glens, the Moor in
Titteri ;
And wider have his razzias spread, his cruel con-
q,ucsts broader,
But God sent down, to face his frown, the gallant
Abdel-Kader
The faithful Abdel-Kader! unconquercd Abdel-
Kadcr !
Like falling rock,
Or fierce siroc
No savage or marauder
Son of a slave !
First of the brave !
Hurrah for Abdel-Kader I '
n.
The Englishman, for long, long years, bad
ravaged Ganges' side
A dealer first, intriguer next, lie conquered far
and wide,
Till, hurried on by avarice, and thirst of endless
rule,
His sepoys pierced to Candahar, his flag waved
in Cabul ;
But still within the conquered land was one
unconquered man,
The fierce Pushtani 5 lion, the fiery Akhbar
Khan
He slew die sepoys on the snow, till ScindhV
full flood they swam it
Right rapidly, content to flee the son of Dost
Mohammed,
The so;i of Dost Mohammed, and brave old Dost
Mohammed
Oh! long may they
Their mountains sway,
Akhbar and Dost Mohammed !
Long live the Dost!
"Who Britain crost,
Hurrah for Dost Mohammed !
in.
The Russian, lord of million serfs, and nobles
serflicr still,
1 This name I* pronounced Cawder. The French ujr that their
(rent fo wag a slave's son. Be It so he has a hero's and freeman's
bcurt. " Hurrah for AlxU-1-Ksder !" AUTHOR'S NOT*.
2ThU Is the name by which the Adrians call themselves.
AffKhan Is a Persian name. //.
STliv real name of the Indus, which Is a Latinised word. Id,
Indignant saw Circassia's sons bear up against
his will ;
With fiery ships he lines their coast, his armies
cross their streams
He builds a hundred fortresses his conquests
done, he deems.
But steady rifles rushing steeds a crowd of
nameless chiefs
The plough is o'er his arsenals! his fleet is on
the reefs!
The maidens of Kabyntica are clad in Moscow
dresses
His slavish herd, how dared they beard the
mauntain-bred Cherkesses !
The lightening Cherkesses! the thundering
Cherkesses !
May Elburz top
In Azov drop,
Ere Cossacks beat Cherkesses !
The fountain head
Whence Europe spread
Hurra! for the tali Cherkesses! 4
IV.
But Russia preys on Poland's fields, where So-
bieski reigned,
And Austria on Italy the Roman eagle
chained
Bohemia, Servia, Hungary, within her clutches,
gasp;
And Ireland struggles gallantly in England's
loosening grasp.
! would all these their strength unite, or battle
on alone,
Like Moor, Pushtani, and Chcrkess, they soor
would have their own.
Hurrah ! hurrah ! it can't be far, when from the
Scindh to Shannon
Shall gleam a line of freemen's flags begirt by
freemen's cannon !
The coming day of Freedom the flashing flags
of Freedom !
The victor glaive
The mottoes brave,
May we be there to read them I
That glorious noon,
God send it soon
Hurrah for human Freedom !
4Cherkeseea or Abdyes is the right name of the to-called Cir-
cassians. Kniiyntica Is a town In the heart of the Caucasus, of
which Mount Klliarz is the summit, liluinvnbacb. and other
physiologists, assert that the Oner European raota decoend from t
Circassian stock Id.
488
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS
THE IRISH HURRAH.
A'B Nach m-baineann tin do.
I.
HAVE you hearkened the eagle scream over the
sea ?
Have you hearkened the breaker beat under
your lee?
A something between the wild waves, in their
P la 7.
And the kingly bird's scream, is The Irish
Hurrah !
n.
How it rings on the rampart when Saxons assail,
How it leaps on the level, and crosses the vale,
Till the talk of the cataract faints on its way,
And the echo's voice cracks with The Irish
Hurrah !
in.
How it sweeps o'er the mountain when hounds
are on scent,
How it presses the billows when rigging is rent,
Till the enemy's broadside sinks low in dismay,
As our boarders go in with The Irish Hurrah !
IV.
Oh ! there's hope in the trumpet and glee in the
fife,
But never such music broke into a strife,
As when at its bursting the war-clouds give way,
And there's cold steei along with The Irish
Hurrah !
v.
What joy for a death-bed, your banner above,
And round you the pressure of patriot love,
As you're lifted to gaze on the breaking array
Of the Saxon reserve at The Irish Hurrah !
A SONG FOR THE IRISH MILITIA.
AIB Tht Peacock.
THE tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seeds in prostrate men ;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown !
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free !
ii.
No foe would fear your thunder words
If 'twere not for our lightning swords
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis lest they link in war array ;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free !
in.
The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write
What prophets preached the truth so well
As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL f
God guard the creed those heroes tnught,
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free !
IV.
Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineer*
And rifles thin their bay'/ieteers,
And every field the island through
Will show " what Irishmen can do !"
A soldier's life's the life fo.T VTJ
A soldier's death, so IrelanO'.i free !
v.
Yet, 'tis not strength, and 'tis rot steel
Alone can make the English resl ;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway
The patient dint, and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free !
VI.
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men ;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,
But train my soul to lead a line
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free !
THE TOEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
489
OUR OWN AGAIN.
Am Original.^
I.
LET the coward shrink aside,
We'll have our own again;
Let the brawling slave deride,
Here's for our own again
Let the tyrant bribe and lie,
March, threaten, fortify,
Loose his lawyer and his spy,
Yet we'll have our own again.
Let him soothe in silken tone,
Scold from a foreign throne ;
Let him come with bugles blown,
We shall have our own again.
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again
Let the game be fairly tried,
We'll have our own again.
ii.
Send the cry throughout the land,
" Who's for our own again ?"
Summon all men to our band,
Why not our own again ?
Rich, and poor, and old, and young,
Sharp sword, and fiery tongue
Soul and sinew firmly strung,
All to get our own again.
Brothers thrive by brotherhood
Trees in a stormy wood
Riches come from Nationhood
Sha'n't we have our own again ?
Munstcr's woe is Ulster's bane !
Join for our OAvn again
Tyrants rob as well as reign,
We'll have our own again.
in.
Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred,
44 Rise for our own again !"
Often passed the signal word,
' Strike for our own again !"
Rudely, rashly, and untaught,
Uprose they, ere they ought,
Failing, though they nobly fought,
Dying for their own again.
Mind will rule and muscle yield,
In senate, ship, and field
When we've skill our strength to wield
Let us take our own again.
1 Firf " Spirit of the Nation." 4to, p. 80S.
t Written in rp*y to some very beautiful rcnes prlrvted In the
By the slave his chain is wrought,
Strive for our own again.
Thunder is less strong than thought,-
We'll have our own again.
IV.
Calm as granite to our foes,
Stand for our own again ;
Till his wrath to madness grows
Firm for our own again.
Bravely hope, and wisely wait,
Toil, join, and educate ;
Man is master of his fate ;
We'll enjoy our own again.
With a keen constrained thirst
Powder's calm ere it burst
Making ready for the worst,
So we'll get our own again.
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again.
God is on the righteous side,
We'll have our own again.
CELTS AND SAXONS. 5
WE hate the Saxon and the Dane,
We hate the Norman men
We cursed their greed for blood and gain,
We curse them now again.
Yet start not, Irish born man,
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan
We have no curse for you.
ii.
We have no curse for you or yours,
But Friendship's ready grasp,
And faith to stand by you and yours
Unto our latest gasp
To stand by you against all foes,
llowe'er or whence they come,
With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows,
From England, France, or Rome.
in.
What matter that at different shrines
We pray unto one God
"Evening Mall." deprecating and defying the atwnmM bMtflltj a*
the Irlsli (Vlt* to the I rink Saxons. AUTHOR'S Sort
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
What matter that at different times
Our fathers won this sod
In fortune and in name we're bound
By stronger links than steel ;
And neither can be safe nor sound
But in the other's weal.
As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand
Long drifting down the Nile,
Buijt up old Egypt's fertile land
For many a hundred mile;
So Pagan clans to Ireland came,
And clans of Christendom,
Yet joined their wisdom and their fame
To build a nation from.
v.
Here came the brown Pho3nician,
The man of trade arid toil
Here came the proud Milesian,
Ahungering for spoil ;
And the Firbolg and the Cymry,
And the hard, enduring Dane,
And the iron Lords of Normandy,
With the Saxons in their train.
VI.
And oh ! it were a gallant deed
To show before mankind,
IIow every race and every creed
Might be by love combined
Might be combined, yet not forget
The fountain whence they rose,
As, filled by many a rivulet
The statelv Shannon flows.
Nor would wo wreak our ancient feud
On Belgian or on Dane,
Nor visit in a hostile mood
The hearths of Gaul or Spain ;
But long as on our country lies
The Anglo-Norinan yoke,
Their tyranny we'll signalize,
And God's revenge invoke.
VIII.
We do not hate, we never cursed,
Nor spoke a foeman's word
Against a man in Ireland nursed,
iiowe'er we thought he erred ;
So start not, Irish barn man,.
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not race, nor creed, nor cian,
WeVe hearts and hands for vou.
ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY
THE DAY.
Am The Protestant Boy*.
IRELAND ! rejoice, and, England ! deplore
Faction and feud are passing away.
'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar,
" Orange and green will carry the day."
Orange ! Orange !
O O
Green and Orange !
Pitted together in many a fray
Lions in tight !
And linked in their might,
Orange and Green will carry the day.
Orange ! Orange !
Green and Orange !
Wave together o'e mountain and bay.
Orange and Green !
Our King and our Queen !
"Orange and Green will carrv the dav !"
ii.
Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed
William and James are turned to clay
Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed ;
Red was the crop, and bitter the pay !
Freedom fled us !
Knaves misled us !
Under the feet of the foemen we lay
Riches and strength
We'll win them at length,
For Orange and Green will carry the day !
Landlords fooled us ;
England ruled us,
Hounding our passions to make us their picv
But, in their spite,
The Irish UNITE,
And Orange and Green will carry the day !
in.
Fruitful our soil where honest men starve ;
Empty the mart, and shipless the bay ;
Out of our want the Oligarchs carve ;
Foreigners fatten on our decay !
Disunited,
Therefore bHghted,
THE POEMS OF TIIOMAS DAVIS
491
Rained ami rent by the Englishman's s\v;iy,
Party and creed
For once have agreed
Orange and Green will carry the day !
Boy no's old water,
Red with slaughter!
Now is .is pure as an : nfant at play ;
So, in our souls,
Its history rolls,
And Orange and Green will carry the day.
IV.
English deceit can rule us no more,
Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray
Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore,
** Orange and Green must carry the Jay ! M
Orange ! Orange !
1'lcss the Orange !
Tories and Whigs grow pale with dismay
When, from the North,
Burst the cry forth,
" Orange and Green will carry the day ;"
No surrender !
No Pretender
Never to falter and never betray
With an Amen,
We swear it again,
ORANGE AND GKEKN SHALL CARRY THE DAT.
n.
$jUti0nal Songs anb
" Tfc greatest achievement of the Irish people is their music.
It tells tliolr history, climate, and character: tint it too much
love* to weep. Lot us, when so many of our chains have been
broken wliile our strength is great, and our hopes high cultl-
atc Its holder strains its raging nml rejoicing : or If we woep, lot
It be like men who-* eyes nre lifted, though their tears full.
Music Is the flrst faculty of the Irish ; and scarcely any thing
ban snrh power fur eood over them. The use of this faculty ana
lhl power, pnblicly and constantly, to keep up their spirits, re-
fine their tastes, warm their courage, increase their union, and
renew their real is the duty of every patriot." DAVIS'S ESSAYS.
THE LOST PATH.
AiKGrddJi mo
SWEET thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be
All comfort else has flown :
For every hope was false to mo,
And here I am, alone.
NVhat thoughts were mine in early youth !
Like some old Irish song,
Brimful of love, and life, and truth,
My spirit gushed along.
II.
I hoped to right my native isle,
I hoped a soldier's fame,
I hoped to rest in woman's smile,
And win a minstrel's name.
Oh ! little have I served my land,
No laurels press my brow,
I have no woman's heart or hand,
Nor min-trcJ honors now
in.
But fancy has a magic power,
It brings me wreath and crown,
And woman's love, the self-same hour
It smites oppression down.
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort bo,
I have no joy beside ;
Oh ! throng around, and be to me
Power, country, fame, and bride.
492
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
LOVE'S LONGINGS.
To the conqpaeror his crowning,
First freedom to the slave,
And air unto the drowning,
Sunk in the ocean's wave
And succor to the faithful,
Who fight their flag above,
Are sweet, but far less grateful
Than were my lady's love.
1 know I am not worthy
Of one so young and bright ;
And yet I would do for thee
Far more than others might;
I cannot give you pomp or gold,
If you should be my wife,
But I can give you love untold,
And true in death or life.
in.
Methinks that there are passions
Within that heaving breast
To scorn their heartless fashion,
And wed whom you love best.
Methinks you would be prouder
As the struggling patriot's bride,
Than if rank your home should crowd, or
Cold riches round you glide.
IV.
Oh ! the watcher longs for morning,
And the infant cries for light,
And the saint for heaven's warning,
And the vanquished pray for might ;
But their prayer, when lowest kneeling,
And their suppliance most true,
Are cold to the appealing
Of this longing heart to you.
HOPE DEFERRED.
Aim OKI art thou gone, my Mary dear f
I.
TIB long since we were forced to part, at least it
seems so to my grief,
For sorrow wearies us like time, but ah it
brings not time's relief;
As in our days of tenderness, before me still she-
seems to glide ;
And, though my arms are wide as then, yet she-
will not abide.
The daylight and the starlight shine, as if her
eyes were in their light,
And, whispering in the panting breeze, her love-
songs come at, lonely night ;
While, far away with those less dear, she tries to
hide her grief in vain,
For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her 1>-
give pain.
ii.
I know she never spoke her love, she never
breathed a single vow,
And yet I'm sure she loved me then, and still
doats on me now;
For when we met, her eyes grew glad, and heavy
when I left her side,
And oft she said she'd be most happy as a poor
man's bride ;
I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it
ready by the spring ;
The spring is past what season now my girl
unto our home will bring?
I'm sick and weary, very weary watching,.
morning, night, and noon ;
How long you're coming I am dying will you
not come soon ?
EIBHLIN A RtJIN.
AIR Mbhlin a ruin.
WHEN I am far away,
Eibhlin a ruin,
Be gayest of the gay,
Eibhlin a rui,
Too dear your happiness,
For me to wish it less
Love has no selfishness,
Eibhlin a ruin.
ii.
And it must be our pride,
Eibhlin a r&in,
Our trusting hearts to hide,
Eibhlin a ruin.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
493
They wish our love to blight,
We'll wait for Fortune's light,
The flowers close up at night,
Eibhlin a ruin.
in.
And when we meet alone,
Eibhlin a ruin,
Upon my bosom thrown,
Eibhlin a ruin ;
That hour, with light bedecked,
Shall cheer us and direct,
A beacon to the wrecked,
Eibhlin a ruin.
IV.
Fortune, thus sought, will corae,
Eibhlin a ruin,
We'll win a happy home,
Eibhlin a ruin.
And, as it slowly rose,
'Twill tranquilly repose,
A rock 'mid melting snows,
Eibhlin a ruin.
THE BANKS OF THE LEE.
AIR A Trip to the Gottaye.
OH ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,
And love in a cottage for Mar.y and me ;
There's not in the land a lovelier tide,
And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my
bride.
She's modest and meek,
There's a down on her cheek,
And her skin is as sleek
As a butterfly's wing
Then her step would scarce show
On the fresh-iallen snow,
And her whisper is low,
But as clear as the spring.
Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,
And love i-n a cottage for Mary and me,
I know not how love is happy elsewhere,
I know not how any but lovers are there !
n.
Oh ! so green is the grass, so clear is the stream,
So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam,
That beauty should ne'er to other lands roam,
But make on the banks of the river its home.
When dripping with dew,
The roses peep through,
'Tis to look in at you
They are growing so fast ;
While the scent of the flowers
Must be hoarded for hours,
'Tis poured in such showers
When ray Mary goes past,
the banks of the Lcc, the banks of the
Lee,
And love in a cottage for Mary and me
Oh, Mary for me oh, Mary for me !
And 'tis little I'd sigh for the banks of the
Lee!
Oh
THE GIRL OF DUNBWY
'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy
Stepping the mountain statelily
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
n.
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her
eyes;
The child of a peasant yet England's proud
Queen
Has less rank in her heart, and less gra-.e in her
mien.
in.
Her brow 'neath her raven haii gleams, just as if
A breaker spread white 'ncath a shadowy cliff
And love, and devotion, and energy speak
From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-
pale cheek.
IV.
But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her
lip,
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent
moon's tip,
And her form and her step, like the red-deer's
go past
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, aa fast.
494
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
v.
I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,
And sh'e knew that I worshipped in passing her by,
The saint of the wayside she granted my
prayer,
Though we spoke not a word, for her mother
was there.
VI.
I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills,
But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills ;
And I whisper her softly, " Again, love, we'll
meet,
And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet."
DUTY AND LOVE.
AIB My lodging is on the cold ground.
OH ! lady, think not that my heart has grown cold,
If I woo not as once I could woo ;
Though sorrow has bruised it, and long years
have rolled,
It still doats on beauty and you ,
And were I to yield to its inmost desire,
I would labor by night and by day^
Till I won you to flee from the home of your sire,
To live with your love far away.
ii.
But it is that my country's in bondage, and I
Have sworn to shatter her chains !
By my duty and oath I must do it, or lie
A corse on her desolate plains :
Then, sure, dearest maiden, 'twere sinful to sue,
And crueller far to win,
But, should victory smile on my banner, to you
I shall fly without sorrow or sin
ANNIE, DEAR.
AIB Maidt in May.
OUR mountain brooks were rushing,
Annie, dear,
The Autumn eve was flushing,
Annie, dear;
But brighter was yo-ur blushing,
When first, your murmurs hushing,
I told my love outgushing.
Annie, dear.
n.
Ah ! but our hopes were splendid.
Annie, dear ;
How sadly they have ended,
Annie, dear !
The ring betwixt us broken,
When our vows of love were spoken,
Of your poor heart was a token,
Annio dear.
in.
The primrose flowers were shining
Annie, dear,
When, on my breast reclining,
Annie, dear,
Began our Mi-na-meala ;
And many a month did follow
Of joy but life is hollow,
Annie, dear.
IV.
For once, when home returning,
Annie, dear,
I found our cottage burning,
Annie, dear ;
Around it were the yeomen,
Of every ill an omen,
The country's bitter focmen,
Annie, dear.
v.
But why arose a morrow,
Annie, dear,
Upon that night of sorrow,
Annie, dear f
Far better, by thee lying,
Their bayonets defying,
Than live an exile sighing,
Annie, dear.
BLIND MARY.
AIB Blind Mary.
I.
THERE flows from her spirit such love an 1 delight,
That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
41)5
As the gleam from a homestead through dark-
ness will show,
Cr the moon glimmer soft through the fast fall-
ing snow.
ii.
Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at
times,
As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes;
And she talks of the sunset, like parting of
friends,
And the starlight, as love, that nor changes nor
ends.
HI.
Ah ! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun,
For the mountains that tower, or the rivers that
run
For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light,
Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight.
IV.
In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and
shade,
In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade ;
While the darkness that seems your sweet being
to bound
Is one of the guardians, an Eden around !
THE BRIDE OF MALLOW.
TWAS dying they thought her,
And kindly they brought her
To the banks of Blackwatcr,
Where her forefathers lie ;
Twaa the place of her childhood,
And they hoped that its wild wood,
And air soft and mild would
Soothe her spirit to die.
ii.
But she met on its border
A lad who adored her
No rich man, nor lord, or
A coward, or slave ;
But one who had worn
A green coat, and borne
A pike from Slieve Mourne,
With the patriots brave.
HI.
Oh! the banks of the stream arc
Than emeralds greener :
And how should they wean her
From loving the earth ':
While the song-birds so sweet,
And the waves at their feet,
And each young pair they meet,
Are all flushing with mirth.
IV.
And she listed his talk,
And he shared in her walk
And how could she baulk
One so gallant and true ?
But why tell the rest ?
Her love she confest,
And sunk on his breast,
Like the eventide dew.
v.
Ah ! now her cheek glows
With the tint of the rose,
And her healthful blood flows,
Just as fresh as the stream ;
And her eye flashes bright,
And her footstep is light,
And sickness and blight
Fled away like a d rerun.
VI.
And soon by his side
She kneels a sweet bride,
In maidenly pride
And maidenly fears ;
And their children were fair,
And their home knew no care,
Save that all homesteads were
Not as happy as theirs.
THE WELCOME.
Am An buac/iailin buidht.
I.
COMB in the evening, or come in the morning,
Come when your looked for, or come without
warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll
adore you.
406
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
Light is ray heart since the day we were
plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was
blighted ;
The green of the trees looks far greener than
ever,
And the -innets are singing, "True lovers!
don't sever."
ii.
I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose
them;
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my
bosom.
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire
you;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire
you.
Oh ! your step's like the rain to the summer-
vexed farmer,
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor;
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise
above me,
Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to
love me
in.
We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the
eyrie,
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the
fairy,
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the
river,
Fill you ask of your darling what gift you can
give her.
Oh! she'll whisper you : "Love as unchange-
ably beaming,
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully
streaming,
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall
quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity's
river."
IV.
So come in the evening, or come in the morn-
ing,
Come when you're looked for, or come without
warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before
you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll
adore vou !
Light is my heart since the day we were
plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was
blighted ;
The green of the trees looks far greener than
ever,
And the linnets are singing, "True lover*!
don't sever !"
THE Ml-NA-MEALA.
LIKE the rising of the sun,
Herald of bright hours to follow,
Lo ! the marriage rites are done,
And begun the Mi-na-meala.
ii.
Heart to heart, and hand to hand,
Vowed 'fore God to love and cherish,
Each by each in grief to stand,
Never more apart to flourish.
in.
Now their lips, low whisp'ring, speak
Thoughts their eyes have long been saying,
Softly bright, and richly meek,
As seraphs first their wings essaying,
IV.
Deeply, wildly, warmly love
'Tis a heaven-sent enjoyment,
Lifting up our thoughts above
Selfish aims and cold employment.
v.
Yet, remember, passion wanes,
Romance is parent to dejection ;
Naught our happiness sustains
But thoughtful care and firm affection.
VI.
When the Mi-na-meala 1 s flown,
Sterner duties surely need you;
Do their bidding, 'tis love's own,
Faithful love will say God speed you.
VII.
Guard her comfort as 'tis worth,
Pray to God to look down on her;
And swift as cannon-shot go forth
To strive for freedom, truth, and honor.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
497
VIII.
Oft recall and never swerve
Your children's love and hers will follow ;
Guard yonr home, and there preserve
For vou an endless Mi-na-mcala. 1
MAIRE BIIAN A ST6IR.
Am Original.
IN a valley, far away,
With mv ^fdile blidn a $t6ir*
Short would be the summer-day,
Ever loving more and more ;
Winter-days would all grow long,
With the light her heart would pour,
With her kisses and her song,
And her loving maith go Ie6r.*
Fond is Mdire bhdn a st6ir,
Fair is Mdire bhan a sldir,
Sweet as ripple on the shore,
Sings my Mdire bhdn a st6ir.
ii.
Oh ! her sire is very proud,
And her mother cold as stone ;
But her brother bravely vowed
She should be my bride alone ;
For he knew I loved her well,
And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 'twas all in vain to sue.
True is Mdire bhdn a stdir,
Tried is Mdire bhdn a stdir,
Had I wings I'd never soar
From my Mdire bhdn a stdir.
HI.
There are lands where manly toil
Surely reaps the crop it sows,
Glorious woods and teeming soil,
Where the broad Missouri flows;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise,
From our hearth with maith /o ledr,
There shall shine the happy eyes
Of my Mdire bhdn a stdir.
1 Money i n DO n.
H Which means "fair Mry my treasure." If we are to writ*
to enable tome of our reader* to pronounce this, we
u( do no thai, Maur-ya taun nttfuu-e, and pretty looking tuff
Mild is Mdire bhdn a stdir,
Mine is Mdire bhdn a stdir,
Saints will watch about the door
Of my Mdire bhdn a stdir.
OH ! THE MARRIAGE.
AIR Tfa Swaggering Jig.
On ! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me ;
For Eoghan 4 is straight as a tower,
And tender and loving and true,
He told me more love in an hour
Than the 'Squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c.
ii.
His hair is a shower of soft gold,
His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away ;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me :
Oh ! sure 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh ! the marriage, <fec.
in.
His kinsmen are honest and kind,
The neighbors think much of his skill,
And Eoghan's the iad to my mind,
Though he owns neither castle nor mill
But he has a tilloch of land,
A horse and a stocking of coin,
A foot for the dance, and a hand
In the cause of his country to join.
Then, Oh ! the marriage, k
IV.
We meet in the market and fair
We meet in the morning and night
llu sits on the half of my chair,
And my people are wild with delight.
it i> Really It la Urn* for the ir.habiuaw of Ireland to learn Ir
ii Much plenty, or In abundauc*. Avrruou'i NOTI.
4 r*lffo Owen ; but that Is. piuperly, a naiae among the I'ym
(Welsh). M
498
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS
Yet I long through the winter to skim,
Though Eoghan longs more I can see,
When I will be married to him,
And he will be married to me.
Then, Oh ! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bkuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carnage,
Might envy my marriage to me.
A PLEA FOR LOVE.
THE summer brook flows in the bed
The winter torrent tore asunder ;
The skylark's gentle wings are spread,
Where walk the lightning and the thunder :
And thus you'll find the sternest soul
The greatest tenderness concealing,
And minds, that seem to mock control,
Are ordered by some fairy feeling.
n.
Then, maiden ! start not from the hand
That's hardened by the swaying sabre
The pulse beneath may be as bland
As evening after day of labor :
Aud, maiden ! start not from the brow
That thought has knit, and passion darkened ;
In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough,
The tenderest tales are often hearkened.
THE BISHOP'S DAUGHTER.
AIK The Maid of Killala.
KILLALA'S halls are proud and fair ;
Tyrawley's hills are cold and bare ;
Yet, in the palace, you were sad,
While, here, your heart is safe and glad.
11.
No satin couch, no maiden train,
Are here to soothe each passing pain ;
Yet lay your head my breast upon,
'Twill turn to down for you, sweet one !
Your fathers halls are nch and fair,
And plain the home you've come to
But happy love's a fairy king,
And sheds a grace on every thing.
THE BOATMAN OF KIN >ALB.
AIR An Cota Gaol.
I.
His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me ;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail,
More bravely than he guards my breast-
The Boatman of Kinsale.
ii.
The wind that round the Fastnet sweep*.
Is not. a whit more pure
The goat that down Cnoc Sheeliy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an Autumn gale
De Courcy's heart is not so high
The Boatman of Kinsale.
in.
The brawling squires may heed him
The dainty stranger sneer
But who will dare to hurt our cot,
When Mylcs O'llea is here !
The scarlet soldiers pass along
They'd like, but fear to rail
His blood is hot, his blow is strong
The Boatman of Kinsale.
IV.
His hooker's i the Scilly van,
When seines are in the foam :
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He'll trust in God, and cling to me
The Boatman of Kinsale.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
DARLING NELL.
WHY should not I take her unto my heart ?
She has not a morsel of guile or art;
Why should not I make her my happy wife,
And love her and cherish her all my life?
I've met with a lew of as shining eyes,
I've met with H hundred of wilder sighs,
I think I met some whom I loved as well
But none who loved me like my Darling Nell.
ii.
She's ready to cry when I seem unkind,
But she smothers her grief within her mind ;
And when ray spirit is soft and fond,
She sparkles the brightest of stars beyond.
Oh ! 'twould teach the thrushes to hear her siug,
And her sorrow the heart of a rock would
wring ;
There never was saint but would leave his cell,
If he thought he could marry my Darling Nell I
LOVE CHANT.
I THINK I've looked on eyes that shone
With equal splendor,
And some, but they are dimmed and gone,
As wildly tender.
I never looked on eyes that shed
Such home-light mingled with such beauty-
That 'mid all lights and shadows said,
"I love and trust and will be true to ye."
n.
I've seen some lips almost as red,
A form as stately ;
And some such beauty turned my head
Not very lately.
But not till now I've seen a girl
With form so proud, lips so delicious,
Vith hair like night, arid teeth of pearl
Who was not haughty and capricious.
in.
Oh, fairer than the dawn of day
On Erne's islands !
Oh, purer than the thorn sp- <y
In Bantry's highlands !
In sleep such visions crossed mv view,
And when I woke the phantom faded ;
But now I find the fancy true,
And fairer than the vision made it.
A CHRISTMAS SCENE;
OR, LOVK IN THE COUNTRT.
THP mil blast comes howling through leaf
rifted trees
That late were as harp-strings to each gentle
breeze ;
The strangers and cousins and everv one flown,
While we sit happy-hearted together alone.
ii.
Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair,
The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black
hair ;
Papa with his farming is busy to-day,
And mamma's too good-natured to ramble this
way.
in.
The girls are gone are they not ? into town,
To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau,
down ;
Ah ! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to
coquette
Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet 1
IV.
You're not do you say ? just remember last
night,
You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him
your knight ;
Poor lad ! if he loved you but no, darling ! no,
You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so.
v.
The painters arc raving of light and of shade,
And Harry, the poet, of lake, hill, and glade;
While the light of your eye and your soft
wavy form
Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright
and warm.
500
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
VI.
The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand,
But you know. Kate, it's not half so white as
your hand,
And say what you will of the gray Christmas sky,
I sliyhtly prefer my dark girl's gray eye.
Be quiet, and sing me " The Bonny Cuckoo,"
For it bids us the summer and winter love
through ;
And then I'll read out an old ballad that shows
IIow Tyranny perished, and Liberty rpse.
My Kate ! I'm so happy, your voice whispers soft,
And your cheek flushes wilder from kissing so
oft,
For town or for country, for mountains or farms,
What care I ? My darling's entwined in ray
arms.
THE INVOCATION.
AIR Fanny Power.
BRIGHT fairies by GlengarifFs bay,
Soft woods that o'er Killarney sway,
Bold echoes born in Ceim-an-eich,
Your kinsman's greeting hear !
He asks you, by old friendship's name,
By all the rights that minstrels claim,
For Erin's joy and Desmond's fame,
Be kind to Fanny dear !
n.
Her eyes are darker than Dunloe,
Her soul is whiter than the snow,
Her tresses like arbutus flow,
Her step like frighted deer :
Then, still thy waves, capricious lake !
And ceaseless, soft winds, round her wake,
Yet never bring a cloud to break
The smile of Fanny dear I
in.
Oh ! let her see the trance-bound men,
And kiss the red deer in his den,
And spy from out a hazel glen
O'Donoghue appear ;
Or, should she roam by wild Dunbwy,
Oh ! send the maiden to hei knee,
I sung whilome, 1 but then, ah ! me,
I knew not Fanny dear !
IV.
Old Mangerton ! thine eagles plume
Dear Innisfallen! brighter bloom
And Mucruss ! whisper through the gloom
Quaint legends to her ear ;
Till strong as ash-tree in its pride,
And gay as sunbeam on the tide,
We welcome back to Liffey's side
Our brightest, Fanny dear.
LOVE AND WAR.
i.
How soft is the moon on Glengariff!
The rocks seem to melt with the light
Oh ! would I were there with dear Fanny,
To tell her that love is as bright ;
And nobly the sun of July
O'er the waters of Adragoole shines
Oh ! would that I saw the green banner
Blaze there over conquering lines.
ii.
Oh ! love is more fair than the moonlight,
And glory more grand than the sun ;
And there is no rest for a brave heart.
Till its bride and its laurels are won ;
But next to the burst of our banner,
And the smile of dear Fanny, I craTg
The moon on the rocks of Glengariff
The sun upon Adragoole's wave.
MY LAND.
i.
SHE is a rich and rare land ;
Oh ! she's a fresh and fair land
She is a dear and rare land
This native land of mine.
n.
No men than hers are braver
Her women's hearts ne'er waver :
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
1 ride ante, page 27.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
501
in.
Site's not a dull or cold land ;
No ! she's a warm and bold land ;
Oh ! she's a true and old land
This native land of mine.
IV.
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border
No friend within it pine !
v.
Oh, she's a fresh and fair land ;
Oh, she's a true and rare land;
Yes, she's a rare and fair land
This native land of mine.
THE RIGHT ROAD,
i.
LET the feeble-hearted pine
Let the sickly spirit whine,
But work and win be thine,
While you've life.
God smiles upon the bold
So, when your flag's unrolled,
Bear it bravely till you're cold
In the strife.
II.
If to rank or fame you soar,
Out your spirit frankly pour
Men will serve you and adore,
Like a king.
Woo your girl with honest pride,
Till you've won her for your bride-
Then to her, through time and tide,
Ever cling
in.
Never under wrongs despair ;
Labor long, and everywhere,
Link your countrymen, prepare,
And strike home.
Thus have great men ever wrought,
Thus must greatness still be sought,
Thus labored, loved and fought
Greece and Rome.
in.
antr Swrtgs ilhtstratibe 0f Irisjr fjhl0rg.
THIS country of ours is no sand-bank, thrown up by some
recent caprice of earth. It Is an ancient land, honored in the
archives of civilization, traceable into antiquity by its pi' ty,
its valor, and Its sufferings. Every great European race has
sent Its strtani to the river of Irish mind. Long wars, vast
optimizations, subtle codes, beacon crimes, leading virtues,
and self-mighty men were here. If we lived influenced by
win. I. and sun, and tree, and not by the passions and deeds of
the PAST, we are a thriftless and hopeless people." DAVIS'S
ESSAYS.
A NATION ONCE AGAIN. 11
i.
WHEN boyhood's fire was in my blood,
I read of ancient freemei ,
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,
THREE HUNDRED MEN AND THREE MEN.'
1 This little poem, though not strictly belonging to the his-
torical class, is placed first as striking more distinctly than
iinv ,.fii.-r In the collection, the key-note of the author's
theme. ED.
And then I prayed I yet might see
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland, long a province, be
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.
n.
And, from that time, through wildest woe,
That hope has shown, a far light;
Nor could love's bright i-st summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight ;
It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field, and fane ;
Its angel voice sang round my bed,
"A NATION ONCE AGAIN."
3 Set to original music in the "Spirit of the Nation," 4to, p.
272.
3 The Three Hundred Greek* who died at Thermopylae, and
the Three Romans who kept the Subltclan Bridge. AUTHoR*t
NOTE.
502
THE POEMS OF. THOMAS DAVIS.
in.
It whispered, too, that " freedom's ark
And service high and holy,
Would be profaned by feelings dark
And passions vain or lowly ;
For freedom comes from God's right hand,
A.nd needs a godly train ;
And righteous men must make our land
A NATION ONCE AGAIN."
So, as I grew from boy to man,
I bent me to that bidding
My spirit of each selfish plan
And cruel passion ridding ;
For, thus I hoped same day to aid
Oh ! can such hope be vain ?
When my dear country shall be made
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.
LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS.
AIR An bruach na ca.rra.ige bdine. 1
I.
OH ! proud were the chieftains of green Inis-Fail!
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! *
The stars of our sky, and the salt of our soil ;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
Their hearts were as soft as a child in the lap,
Yet they were " the men in the gap"
And now that the cold clay their limbs doth
enwrap ;
A s truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
ii.
'Gainst England long battling, at length they
went down ;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
But they left their deep tracks on the road of
renown ;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
We are heirs of their fame, if we're not of their
race,
And deadly and deep our disgrace,
If we live o'er their sepulchres, abject and base ;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
1 Set to this beautiful Tipperary air In the " Spirit of the Na-
tion," 4to, p. 236.
2" That Is pity, without heir In their company 1 ' i. e., What
a pity that there Is no heir of their company. See the poem
Of Giolla losa Mor Mao Firblslgh In The Genealogies, Tribes.
III.
Oh ! sweet were the minstrels of kind Inis-
Fail !
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
Whose music, nor ages nor sorrow can spoil ;
As truagh gan oidhir ''n-a bh-farradh /
But their sad stifled tones are like streams
flowing hid,
Their caoine 3 and their piopracht* were chid,
And their language, " that melts in music,"
forbid ;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
IV.
How fair were the maidens of fair Inis-Fail !
As truagh gan oidhir J n-a bh-farradh!
As fresh and as free as the sea-breeze from soil,
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
Oh ! are not our maidens as fair and as pure ?
Can our music no longer allure ?
And can we but sob, as such wrongs we en-
dure ?
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Their famous, their holy, their dear Inis-Fail !
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
Shall it still be a prey for the stranger to spoil ?
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
Sure, brave men would labor by night and by
day
To banish that stranger away ;
Or, dying for Ireland, the future would say
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
Oh ! shame for unchanged is the face of our
isle ;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
That taught them to battle, to sing, and to
smile ;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
We are heirs of their rivers, their sea, and their
land,
Our sky and our mountains as grand
We are heirs oh ! we're not of their heart
and their hand ;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh !
and Customs of the Vi FiachrackorO'Dubhda's Country, print-
ed for the Irish Arch. Soc., p. 230. line 2, and note d. Also,
O'Reilly's Diet vocefarradh. AUTHOR'S NOTE.
3 Anglice, keen.
4 Anglice, pibroch.
THE FATE OF KING DATHI.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
503
THE FATE OF KING DATHI. 1
(A. D. 428.)'
DARKLY their glibs o'erhang,
Sharp is their wolf-dog's fang,
Bronze spear and falchion clang
Brave men might shun them
Heavy the spoil they bear
Jewels and gold are there
llostage and maiden fair
How have they won them ?
ii.
From the soft sons of Gaul,
Roman, and Frank, and thrall,
Borough, and hut, and hall,
These have been torn.
Over Britannia wide,
Over fair Gaul they hied,
Often in battle tried,
Enemies mourn !
in.
Fiercely their harpers sing,
Led by their gallant king,
They will to EIR bring
Beauty and treasure.
Britain shall bend the knee
Rich shall their households be
When their long ships the sea
Homeward shall measure.
IV.
Barrow and Rath shall rise,
Towers, too, of wondrous size,
Tdillin they'll solemnize,
Feis-Teamhrach assemble.
Samhain and Beal shall smile
On the rich holy isle
Nay ! in a little while
CEtius shall tremble !'
v.
Up on the glacier's snow,
Down on the vales below,
Monarch and clansmen go
Bright is the morning.
1 This and '.lie remaining poems In Part I. have been arranged
l nearly as possible In chronological sequence. Eo.
Vi<l Appendix.
I Toe consul (Kiln*, the shield of Italy, and Urror of " the bar-
Never their march they slack,
Jura is at their back,
When falls the evening black,
Hideous, and warning.
VI.
Eagles scream loud on high ;
Far off the chamois fly ;
Hoarse comes the torrent's cry,
On the rocks whitening.
Strong are the storm's wings ;
Down the tall pine it flings ;
Hailstone and sleet it brings
Thunder and lightning.
VII.
Little these veterans mind
Thundering, hail, or wind ;
Closer their ranks they bind
Matching the storm.
While, a spear-cast or more,
On, the front ranks before,
DAT HI the sunburst bore
Haughty his form.
VIII.
Forth from the thunder-cloud
Leaps out a foe as proud
Sudden the monarch bowed
On rush the vanguard ;
Wildly the king they raise
Struck by the lightning's blaze
Ghastly his dying gaze,
Clutching his standard !
Mild is the morning beam,
Gently the rivers stream,
Happy the valleys seem ;
But the lone Islanders
Mark how they guard their king!
Hark to the wail they sing !
Dark is their counselling
Helvetia's high landers.
Gather, like ravens, near
Shall DATHI'S soldiers fcarf
Soon their home-path they clear
Rapid and daring;
barlan." was a contemporary of King Dathl. F
the Parliament of Txru. Ttiltin, games held at Tallite, count;
Meath. S,itnlmin and lif<tl, the moon and sun, wui.-u Ireland
worshipped. Aoruua'a NOT*.
604
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
On through the pass and plain,
Until the shore they gain,
And, with their spoil, again,
Landed in EIRINN.
Little does EIRE' care
For gold or maiden fair
"Where is King DATHI ? where,
Where is my bravest ?"
On the rich deck he lies,
O'er him his sunburst flies
Solemn the obsequies,
EIRE ! thou gavest.
See ye that countless train
Crossing Ros-ComainV plain,
Crying, like hurricane,
Uile I'm ai ?
Broad is his cam's base
Nigh the " King's burial-place,"*
Last of the Pagan race,
Lieth King DATHI !
ARGAN M6R. 4
AIB Argan Mor.
THE Danes rush around, around ;
To the edge of the fosse they bound ;
Hark ! hark, to their trumpets' sound,
Bidding them to the war !
Hark ! hark, to their cruel cry,
As they swear our hearts' cores to dry,
And their Raven red to dye ;
Glutting their demon, Thor.
ii.
Leaping the Rath upon,
Here's the fiery Ceallachan
He makes the Lochlonnach 6 wan,
Lifting his brazen spear !
Ivor, the Dane, is struck down,
For the spear broke right through his crown.
Yet worse did the battle frown
Anlaf is on our rere !
1 Tk Une ancient and modern name of this island. ED.
2 Angl. Boocommon.
3 /Jiliernice, Roilig na Riogh ; vulgo, Relignaree " A famous
kurial- place near Oruacban, in Connacht, where the kings were
III.
See ! see ! the Rath's gates are broke,
And in in, like a cloud of smoke,
Burst on the dark Danish folk,
Charging us everywhere
Oh ! never was closer fight
Than in Argan Mor that night
How little do men want light,
Fighting within their l;iir !
IV.
Then girding about our king,
On the thick of the foes we spring-
Down down we trample and fling,
Gallantly though they strive ;
And never our falchions stood,
Till we were all wet with their blood,
And none of the pirate brood
Went from the Rath alive !
THE VICTOR'S BURIAL.
WRAP him in his banner, the best shroud of the
brave
Wrap him in his onchu* and take him to his
grave
Lay him not down lowly, like bulwark over-
thrown,
But, gallantly upstanding, as if risen from his
throne,
With his craiseach" 1 in his hand, and his sword
on his thigh,
With his war-belt on his waist, and his cath-
bharr* on high
Put his Jleasff 9 upon his neck his green flag
round him fold,
Like ivy round a castle wall not conquered,
but grown old
'Mhuire as iruaf/h ! A mhuire as truagh !
A mhuire as truagh! ochon /"
Weep for him ! Oh ! weep for him ; but re-
member, in your moan,
That he died, in his pride, with his fooa
about him strown.
usually interred, before the establishment of the Christian rellgioc
in Ireland." O'Srien's It: Diet.
4 Vide Appendix. 5 Northmen. 6 Flag. 7 Spear
8 Helmet. 9 Collar. 10 Anglice, Wirrasthrue, ochon*
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
505
Oh ! shrine him in Bcinn-Edair, 1 with his face
towards the foe,
As an emblem that not death our defiance can
lay low
Let him look across the waves from the prom-
ontory's breast,
To menace back The East, and to sentinel The
West;
Sooner shall these channel waves the iron coast
cut through,
Than the spirit he has left, yield, Easterlings ! to
you
Let his coffin be the hill, let the eagles of the
sea
Chorus with the surges round, the tuireamh* of
the free !
''Mhuire as Iruayh! A mhuire as truagh !
A mhuire as truagh ! oclion !
Weep for him ! Oh ! weep for him, but re-
member, in your moan,
That he died, in his pride with his foes
about him strown !
THE TRUE IRISH KING.'
THE Caesar of Rome has a wider demesne,
And the Ard Riyh of France has more clans in
his train ;
The sceptre of Spain is more heavy with gems,
And our crowns cannot vie with the Greek
diadems ;
But kinglier far before heaven and man
Are the Emerald fields, and the fiery-eyed clan,
The sceptre, and state, and the poets who sing,
And the swords that encircle A TRUE IKJSH
KING !
n.
For he must have come from a conquering race
The heir of their valor, their glory, their grace ;
His frame must be stately, his step must be fleet,
His hand must be trained to each warrior feat,
1 Howth.
8 F'i</ Appendix.
4Angl. O'Hagnn. O'ShM.
6 Angl. O'Cnhan, or Kane, O'Hanlon.
I Aral. The Ar.ls.
9 A masculine lament.
7 AnffL Donrgn..
His face, as the harvest-moon, steadfast and clear,
A head to enlighten, a spirit to cheer ;
While the foremost to rush where the battle-
brands ring,
And the last to retreat is A TRUE IRISH Kiso !
in.
Yet, not for his courage, his strength, or hi
name,
Can he from the clansmen their fealty claim.
The poorest, and highest, choose freely to-day
The chief, that to-night they'll as truly obey ;
For loyalty springs from a people's consent,
And the knee that is forced had been better un-
bent
The Sacsanach serfs no such homage can bring
As the Irishmen's choice of A TRUE IRISH
KINO !
IV.
Come, look on the pomp when they " make an
O'NEILL ;"
The muster of dynasts O'h- Again, 4 O'Shiad-
hail,
O'Cathain, O'h-Anluain, s O'Bbrpislein, and all,
From gentle Aird Uladli* to rude Dun na
n-gall ;'
" St. Patrick's com/tarba" 6 with bishops thir-
teen,
And olLimhs* and breitheamhs and minstrels,
are seen,
Round Tulach-Og 11 Rath, like the bees in the
spring,
All swarming to honor A TRUE IRISH KINO !
v.
Unsandalled he stands on the foot-dinted rock ;
Like a pillar-stone fixed against every shock,
Round, round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill;
Like his blcmishless honor, and vigilant wiJI.
The gray beards are telling how chiefs by the
score
Have been crowned on " The llath of the
Kings" heretofore,
While, crowded, yet ordered, within its green
ring,
Are the dynasts and priests round THK THCK
IRISH KINO!
6 Successor comfuirba Phofiruigthv Arcbblabop of (A r4-
maffut) Armagh.
9 Doctors or learn*) men. 10 .Tud^e*. An\fL Br*bon.
11 In the county ( Tir-Soghain) Tyrone, between Uokau>w
and 9tewari*town.
60(5
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
VI.
The chronicler read him the laws of the clan,
And pledged him to bide by their blessing and
ban;
His skian and his sword are unbuckled, to show
Th.it they only were meant for a foreigner foe ;
A white willow wand has been put in his hand
A type of pure, upright, and gentle command
While hierarchs are blessing, the slipper they
fling,
And O'Cathain proclaims him A TRUE IRISH
KINO !
VII.
Thrice looked he to Heaven with thanks and
with prayer
Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare
To the waves of Loch n-Eathach, 1 the heights
of Strathbhan ?
And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan
One clash on their bucklers ! one more they
are still
What means the deep pause on the crest of the
hill?
Why gaze they above him ? a war-eagle's wing !
** 'Tis an omen ! Hurrah ! for THE TRUE IRISH
KING!"
via.
God aid him ! God save him ! and smile on
his reign
The terror of England the ally of Spain.
May his sword be triumphant o'er Sacsanach arts ;
Be his throne ever girt by strong hands, and
true hearts !
May the course of his conquests run on till be
see
The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea !
May minstrels forever his victories sing,
And saints make the bed of THK TRUE IRISH
KING !
THE GERALDIXES.
TUK Geraldines ! the Geraldines ! 'tis full a
thousand years
Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed
their battle-spears ;
1 Angi. Lough Neagb
trtmn.
When Capet seixed the crown of France, their
iron shields were known,
And their sabre-dint struck terror on the flank?
of the Garonne :
Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard
by William's skle,
And the gray sands of Palestine with Moslem
blood they dyed ;
But never then, nor thence, till now, have false-
hood or disgrace
Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle
in his face.
ii.
The Geraldines ! the Geraldines ! 'tis true, in
Strongbow's van
By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign
began ;
And, oh ! through many a dark campaign they
proved their prowess stern,
In Leinster's plains, and Minister's vales, on king,
and chief, and kerne :
But noble was the cheer within the halls so
rudely won,
And generous was the steel-gloved hand that
had such slaughter done ;
O
How gay their laugh, how proud their mien !
you'd ask no herald's sign
Among a thousand you had known the princely
Geraldine.
in.
These Geraldii>es ! these Geraldines! not long
our air they breathed ;
Not long they ted on venison, in Irish water
seethed ;
Not often had their children been by Irish
mothers nursed,
When from their full and genial hearts an Irish
feeling burst !
The English monarchs strove in vain, by law,
and force, and bribe,
To win from Irish thoughts and ways this " 111010
than Irish" tribe ;
For still they ciung to fosterage, to Lreitheamh,
cloak, and bard :
What king dare say to Geraldine, " Your Irish
wife discard ?"
IV.
Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines! how royally ye
reigned
O'er Desmond broad, and rich Kildarc, and
English arts disdained:
THE P;)EMS OF THOMAS DAVIS
507
Your sword made knights, your banner waved,
free was your bugle call
By GlcannV green slopes, and DaingeanV
tide, from BearbhaV banks to Eochaill. 4
What gorgeous slirincs, what brtitkeamk* lore,
what minstrel feasts there were
In and around Magh NuadhaidV keep, and
palace-filled Adarc !
But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend
or kin were pressed ;
And foemen fled, when "CromAbu"' 1 bespoke
your lance in rest.
v.
Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldincs ! since Silken
Thomas flung
King Ilcnry's sword on council board, the Eng-
lish thanes among,
Ye never ceased to battle brave against the
English sway,
Though axe and brand and treachery your
proudest cut away.
Of Desmond's blood, through woman's veins
passed on th' exhausted tide ;
llis title lives a Sacsanach churl usurps the
lion's hide ;
And, though Kildare tower haughtily, there's
ruin at the root,
Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such
a tree no fruit ?
VI.
True Geraldines! brave Geraldincs ! as torrent*
mould the earth,
You channelled deep old Ireland's heart by con-
stancy and worth :
When Ginckle 'leaguerod Limerick, the Irish sol-
diers gazed
To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's ban-
ner blazed !
And still it is the peasant's hope upon the Cuir-
reach's* mere,
" Tjcy live who'll see ten thousand men with
good Lord Edward here"
So let them dream till brighter days, when, not
by Edward's shade,
But by some leader true as he, their lines shall
be arraved !
1 Anyl. Olyn. 2 Aitgl. I)iiii;io. 8 Atitfl. Harrow.
4 Angl. YoughaL 5 A tigl. Brehon. 6 Anyt, Maynooth.
7 FornuTly the war-cry of the OcraliJInM anil now their inotio.
8 Any!. Cumuli.
9 The concluding stnnxu. now first published, was found among
til* author's papers. Bo.
VII.
These Geraldincs ! these Geraldincs! rain wears
away the rock,
And time may wear away the tribe that stood
the battle's shock,
But, ever, sure, while one is left of all that
honored race,
In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fiizgerald'i
place :
And, though the last were dead and gone, how
many a field and town,
From Thomas Court to Abbcyfeile, would cherish
their renown,
And men would say of valor's rise, or ancient
power's decline,
"'Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the
Gcraldine."
V1H.
The Geraldines! the Gcraklines! and are there
any fears
Within the sons of conquerors for full a thou-
sand years ?
Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with
martyrs' blood?
Or has that grown a purling brook, which long
rushed down a flood ?
By Desmond swept with sword and fire, by
clan and keep laid low,
By Silken Thomas and his kin, by sainted
Edward! No!
The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish
line
COMMAND THEIR SON TO TAKE THE POST THAT
FITS THE GEKALDINE !*
O'BRIEN OF ARA."
AIR Tk llptr of BUtsinyton.
TAI.L are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh 11
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh"-
Dcsinond feeds five hundred men a day;
Yet, here's to O'Briain 1 * of Ara!
10 Ar \ a small mountain tract, south of Loch LMrg<lbelrc, and
north of the Canulltv (v</v. the Ke-|.<-r) bills. It wa* the scat M
a branch of the Thoinond prince*, cnlk-il die O'r.ru-ti> ..I Ara. wh
holtl an linportnnt |>lce in the MunU-r Annals. Atmioic'o NOT*
11 r/(/o, (TKomiedjr. 1* PuZ. MTrtbv.
18 Fi 0'Brin.
508
TUB POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
Up from the Castle of Druira-aniar, 1
Down from the top of Caraailte,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.
a.
See you the mountains look huge at eve
So is our chieftain in battle
Welcome he has for the fugitive,
Uisce-bcatha? lighting, and cattle !
Up from the Castle of Druim-amar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Gossip and ally are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.
in.
Horses the valleys are tramping on,
Sleek from the Sacsanach manger
Creachs the hills are encamping on,
Empty the bans of the stranger !
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Ceithearn? and buannacht are coining here
To give him the CEAIJ MILK FAILTK.
IV.
He has black silver from Gill da-lua 4
Rian 6 and Cearbhall 6 are neighbors
"N Aonach 1 submits with & fuililiu
Butler is meat for our sabres !
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Rian and Cearbhall are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.
v.
'Tis scarce a week since through Osairghe 8
Chased he the Baron of Durmhagh'
Forced him five rivers to cross, or he
Had died by the sword of Red Murchadh !'
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
All the Ui Bhriain are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.
VI.
Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh
Desmond feeds five hundred men a day ;
Yet, here's to O'Briain of Aral
t Vul. Druniineer. 2 Vul. Usqiu-hmigli.
Vul. Killaloe. S Vul. Ryan.
8 Vitlgo, Kerne.
Vul. enroll
Up from the Castle of Druira-aniar,
D*wn from the top of Camailte,
Clansman and kinsman are corning here
O
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.
EMMELINE TALBOT.
A BALLAD OF THE PALE.
(The Scene is on the borders of Dublin and Wicklow.)
I.
'TWAS a September day
In Glenismole, 11
Emmeline Talbot lay
On a green knoll.
She was a lovely thing,
Fleet as a Falcon's wing,
Only fifteen that spring
Soft was her soul.
Danger and dreamless sleep
Much did she scorn,
And from her father's keep
Stole out that morn.
Towards Glenismole she hies :
Sweetly the valley lies,
Winning the enterprise
No one to warn.
in.
Till by the noon, at length,
High in the vale,
Emmeline found her strength
Suddenly fail.
Panting, yet pleasantly,
By Dodder side lay slie
Thrushes sang merrily,
" Hail, sister, hail !"
IV.
Hazel and copse of oak
Ma<le a sweet lawn,
Out from the thicket broke
Rabbit and fawn.
T Vul. Nenftgh.
10 rul. Murroueh.
8 Vul. Ossory. 9 V'd. Darrw
1 1 Bibernic*, Gleann-n-sm<Jil.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
509
Green were the mar* round,
Sweet was the river's sound,
Eastwards Hat Cruach frowned,
South lay Sliabh B:in.
v.
Looking round Barnakoel, 1
Like a tall Moor
Full of impassioned zeal,
Peeped brown Kippure.*
Dublin in feudal pride,
And many a hold beside,
Over Finn-ghaill 5 preside
Sentinels sure !
VI.
Is that a roebuck's eye
Glares from the green ?
Is that a thrush's cry
Rings in the screen ?
Mountaineers round her sprung,
Savage their speech and tongue,
Fierce was their chief and young-
Poor Emmeline !
VII.
" Hurrah, 'tis Talbot's child,"
Shouted the kerne,
" Off to the mountains wild,
Faire 4 O'Byrne !"
Like a bird in a net,
Strove the sweet maiden yet,
Praying and shrieking, " Let
Let me return."
VIII.
After a nioment's doubt,
Forward he sprung,
With his sword flashing out-
Wrath on his tongue.
M Touch not a hair of hers
Dies he, who finger stirs!"
Back fell his foragers
To him she clung.
IX.
Soothing the maiden's fear,
Kneeling was he,
When burst old Talbot's spears
Out on the lea.
Bib. Bcarna-chML
i>. Kep.lubhalr.
g. Frrb.
March-men, all stanch and stout.
Shouting their Belgard shout
" Down with the Irish rout,
Prets cf accompli r."
Taken thus unawares,
Some fled amain
Fighting like forest bears,
Others were slain.
To the chief clung the maid
How could he use his bfade ?
That night, upon him weighed
Fetter and chain.
XI.
Oh ! but that night was long,
Lying forlorn,
Since, 'mid the wassail song,
These words were borne
u Nathless your tears and cries
Sure as the sun shall rise,
Connor O'Byrnc* dies,
Talbot hath sworn."
XII.
Brightly on Tamhlacht 1 hill
Flashes the sun ;
Strained at his window-sill,
How his eyes run
From lonely Sagart slade
Down to Tigh-bradan glade,
Landmarks of border raid,
Many a one.
XIII.
Too well the captive knows
Belgard's main wall
Will, to his naked blows,
Shiver and fall,
Ere in his mountain hold
He shall again behold
Those whose proud hearts arc cold,
Weeping his thrall.
XIV.
1 Oh ! for a mountain side,
Bucklers and brands !
Freely I could have died
Heading my bands,
6 The motto and cry of th> TalboU.
6 Hib Concbobbar O'Broin.
510
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
But on a felon tree''
Bearing a fetter key,
By him all silently
Etnmcline stands. * *
xv.
Late rose the castellan,
He had drunk deep,
Warder and serving-man
Still were asleep,
Wide is the castle-gate,
Open the captive's grate,
Fetters disconsolate
Flung in a heap. * *
xvr.
'Tis an October day,
Close by Loch Dan
Many a creach lay,
Many a man.
'Mongst them, in gallant mien,
Connor O'Bryne's seen
Wedded to Emmeline,
Girt by his clan!
O'SULLIVAN'S RETURN. 1
AIR An crulsgin Ian."*
I.
O'SuiLLEBHAiN has come
Within sight of his home,
He had left it long years ago ;
The tears are in his eyes,
And he prays the wind to rise,
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow,
from the prow ;
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow.
ii.
For the day had been calm,
And slow the good ship swam,
And the evening gun had been fired ;
He knew the hearts beat wild
Of mother, wife, and child,
And of clans, who to see him long desired, long
desired ;
And of clans, who to see him long desired.
1 Vide Appendix.
2 Slow time.
3 The standard bearings of O'SulHvan. See O'Donovan's edition
of the Banquet of Dun na n-Gedh, and the Battle of Magh Rath,
'or the Archaeological Society, App, p. 849 " Bearings of O'Sul-
ti van at the Battle of Caisglinn."
" I see, mightily advancing on the plain,
The banner of the race of noble Finghin ;
in.
Of the tender ones the clasp,
Of the gallant ones the grasp,
He thinks, until his tear-* fall warm
And full seems his wide hall,
With friends from wall to wall,
Where their welcome shakes the banners, likb
storm, like a storm ;
Where their welcome shakes the banners like a
storm.
IV.
Then he sees another scene
Norman churls on the green
" O'Sailleabhain abu" is the cry ;
For filled is his ship's hold
With arms and Spanish gold,
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on
high, wave on high ;
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on
high. 8
v.
" Finghin's race shall be freed
From the Norman's cruel breed
My sires freed Bear' once before,
When the Barnvvells were strewn
On the fields, like hay in June,
And but one of them escaped from our shore,
from our shore ;
And but one of them escaped from our
shore." 4
VI.
And, warming in his drcarr,
He floats on victory's stream,
Till Desmond till all Erin is free!
Then, how calmly he'll go down,
Full of years and of renown,
To his grave near that castle by the sea, by th.
sea;
To his grave i^ar that castle by the sea !
VII.
But the wind heard his word,
As though he were its lord,
And the ship is dashed up the Bay.
His spear with venomous adder (entwined),
His host all fiery champions."
Finghin was one of their mo.-t famous progenitors. AUTHOR'S NOTK.
4 The Barnwells were Normans, who seized part of Beara in the
reign of Henry II. ; but the O'Sullivans came down on them, and-
cut off all save one a young man who settled at Drinmagh Castle
Co. Dublin, and was ancestorto the Barnwells, Lords of Tricilestont
and Kingsland. Id.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
511
Alas ! for that proud bark,
The night has fallen dark,
Tis too late to Eadarghabhal 1 to bear away, to
boar away ;
Tis too late to Eadarghabhal to bear away.
, vin.
Black and rough was the rock,
And terrible the shock,
As the good ship crashed asunder ;
And bitter was the cry,
And the sea ran mountains higli,
And the wind was as loud as the thunder, the
thunder;
And the wind was as loud as the thunder.
There's woe in Beara,
There's woe in Gleann-garbh,'
And from Beanntniighe* unto Dun-
kiarain ; 4
All Desmoud hears their grief,
And wails above their chief
u Is it thus, is it thus, that you return, you re-
turn
! it thus, is it thus, that you return ?"
THE FATE OF THE O'SULLIVANS.'
** A Bxnv in the mountain gap
Oh ! wherefore bring it hither?
Restore it to its mother's lap,
Or else 'twill surely wither.
A baby near the eagle's nest !
How should their talons spare it ?
Oh ! take it to some woman's brc:ast,
And she will kindly care it"
ii.
" Fear not for it," M'Swiney said,
And stroked his cul-fionn* slowly,
1 Vul. Adragoole. 2 Vul Olenearrlff.
8 Vul. Bantry. 4 Vul. Dmikcrr.m.
5 After the taking of Dnnbwy, and the ruin of the O'Sulllvan's
country, tlie chief marched right through Muskerry ami Onnonil,
u.>lly j.utsueJ. He crossed the Shannon In runu-h* made of his
L.T-I-V skins, lie then defeated the English forces and clew their
e.Mi.iii.mili-r. M.snl.y, and finally fought his way Into O'Huarc's
country During his absence his lady (Btanligliearna) and In-
fani *vrt supported ID the mountains uy *ue of his clansmen.
And proudly raised his matted heau,
Yet spoke me soft arxl lowly
"Fear not for it, for, many a !ay,
I climb the eagle's eyrie,
And bear the eaglet's food away
To feed our little fairy.
in.
" Fear not for it, no Bantry bird
Would harm our chieftain's l>ab\
He stopped, and something in him stirred
'Twas for his chieftain, may be.
And then he brushed his softened eyes,
And raised his bonnet duly,
And muttered, "The Beantiyheama lies
Asleep in yonder buaili."' 1
IV.
He pointed 'twixt the cliff and lake,
And there a hut of heather,
Half hidden in the craggy brake,
Gave shelter from the weather;
The little tanist shrieked with joy,
Adown the gully staring
The clansman swelled to see tlu> boy,
O'Sullivan-like, daring.
v.
Oh ! what a glorious sight wa* there,
As from the summit gazing,
O'er winding creek and islet fair,
And mountain waste amazing;
The Caha and Dunkerroii hills
Cast half the gulfs in shadow.
While shone the sun on Culiagh's rills,
And Whiddy's emerald meadow
VI.
The sea a sheet of crimson spread,
From Foze to Dursey islands ;
While flashed the peaks from Mizcnhcad
To Musk'ry's distant highlands
I saw no kine, I saw no sheep,
I saw nor house nor furrow ;
But round the tarns the red deer leap,
Oak and arbutus thorough.
M'Swiney, who. tradition says, used to rob the eagles' DM* at
their prey for his charge O'Sulllvan was excepted from Jxiie*
the First'* amnesty on account of his persevering resistance, lie
went to Spain, and was appointed governor of Corunna and Via-
coum Bcrehaven. Ills march from Glungarrlff to Leltrizi l\ i-r-r-
bap?, the most romantic and gallant achievement of bis |,
AUTHOR'S NOT*.
Vulffo, co'llln.
7 Vulgo, t.oulle.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
Oh ! what a glorious sight was there,
That paradise o'ergazing
When, sudden, burst a smoky glare,
Above Glengarriff blazing
The clansman sprung upon his feet
Well might the infant wonder
His hands were clenched, his brow was knit,
His hard lips just asunder.
Like shattered rock from out the ground,
He stood there stiff and silent
Our breathing hardly made a sound,
As o'er the baby I leant ;
His figure then went to and fro,
As the tall blaze would flicker
And as exhausted it sunk low,
His breath came loud an-d thicker.
Then slowly turned he round his head
And slowly turned his figure,
His eye was fixed as Spanish lead,
His limbs were full of rigor
Then suddenly he grasped the child,
And raised it to his shoulder,
Then pointing where, across the wild,
The fire was seen to smoulder :
* Look, baby ! look, there is the sign,
Your father is returning,
The 'generous hand' of Finghin's line
Has set that beacon burning.
' The generous hand' Oh ! Lord of Hosts
Oh, Virgin, ever holy !
There's naught to give on Bantry's coasts
Dunbwy is lying lowly.
XI.
" The halls, where mirth and minstrelsy
Than Beara's wind rose louder,
Are flung in masses lonelily,
And black with English powder
The sheep that o'er our mountains ran,
The kine that filled our valleys,
Are gone, and not a single claH
O'Sullivan now rallies.
XII.
He, long the Prince of hill and bay !
The ally of the Spaniard !
Has scarce a single ath to day,
Nor seamen left to man yard"
M'Swiney ceased, then fiercely strode
Bearing along the baby,
Until we reached the rude abode
Of Bantry's lovely lady.
XIII.
We found her in the savage shed
O
A mild night in midwinter
The mountain heath her only bed,
Her dais the rocky splinter!
The sad Beantiyhearn' had seen the fire--
'Twas plain she had been praying
She seized her son, as we came niftier,
And welcomed me, thus saying
" Our gossip's friend I gladly greet,
Though scant'ly I can cheer him ;"
Then bids the clansman fly to meet
And tell her lord she's near him.
M'Swiney kissed his foster son,
And shouting out hisfaire
" O* SuUlebhain abu" is gone
Like Marchman's deadly arrow !
xv.
An hour went by, when, from the shore
The chieftain's horn winding,
Awoke the echoes' hearty roar
Their fealty reminding :
A moment, and he faintly gasps
" These these, thank heaven, are left me"-
And smiles as wife and child he clasps--
" They have not quite bereft> me."
XVI.
I never saw a mien so grand,
A brow and eye so fearless
There was not in his veteran band
A single eyelid tearless.
His tale is short O'Ruarc's strength
Could not postpone his ruin,
And Leitrim's towers he left at length,
To spare his friend's undoing.
XVII.
To Spain to Spain, he now will SHU.
His destiny is wroken
An exile from dear Inis-fail,
Nor yet his will is broken ;
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
For still he hints some enterprise,
When fleets shall bring them over
Dunbwy's proud keep again shall rise,
And mock the English rover. * * *
XVIII.
I saw them cross Slicve Miskisk o'er,
The crones around thera weeping
I saw them pass from Culiagh's shore,
Their galleys' strong oars sweeping,
I saw their ship unfurl its sail
I saw their scarfs long waven
They saw the hills in distance fail
They never saw Berehavcn !
THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 1
summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's
hundred isles
The summer's sun is gleaming still through
Gabriel's rough defiles
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane loeks like a
moulting bird ;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide
is heard ;
The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children
cease their piay ;
The gossips leave the little inn ; the households
kneel to pray
And full of love, and peace, and rest its daily
labor o'er
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of
Baltimore.
II.
A deeper rest, a starry trance, lias come with
midnight there ;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth,
or sea, or air.
1 Baltimore Is small xoapori In the barony of Carbery, In South
Monster. It grew up round a Castle of O'Drlacoll's, and was, after
Is ruin, colonised by the English. On the 20th of June, 1681, the
srew of two Algerine galleys landed In the dead of the night, sacked
the town, and bore off Into slavery all who were not too old, or too
f onng, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up
U> Intricate channel by one llackelt, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem con-
scious of the calm ;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing
heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques, round
Dtmashad that glide,
Must trust their oars methinks not few against
the ebbing tide
Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge
them to the shore
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs
in Baltimore !
HI.
All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky
street,
And these must be the lover's friends, with gen-
tle gliding feet
A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "the roof is in
a flame !"
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush
maid, and sire, and dame
And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleam-
ing sabre^s fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white
or crimson shawl
The yell of " Allah" breaks above the prayer,
and shriek, and roar
Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Balti-
more !
IV.
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the
shearing: sword ;
O
Then sprung the mother on the brand with
which her son was gored ;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-
babes clutching wild ;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled
with the child ;
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed
with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps
his Syrian steel
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers
yield their store,
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of
Baltimore !
they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two yean after wat
convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered
this. To the Hrtlst. the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbor-
b<>o<l Is most Interesting. See "The Ancient and Present Slate o.
the County and City of Cork," by Charles Mmtli. M I)., voL 1
p. S70. Second edition. Dublin, 1774. AUTHOR'S NUT*.
514
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
v.
Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds
began to sing -
They see not now the milking maids deserted
is the spring !
Midsummer day this gallant rides from distant
Bandon's town
These hooters crossed from stormy Skull, that
skiff from Affadown ;
They only found the smoking walls, with neigh-
bors' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile
they wildly went
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cleire, and
saw five leagues before
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Balti-
more.
VI.
Oh ' some must tug the galley's oar, and some
must tend the steed
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that
a Bey's jerreed.
Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous
Dardanelles ;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy
dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen
for the Dey
She's safe she's dead she stabbed him in the
midst of his Serai;
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble
maid they bore,
She only smiled O'Driscoll's child she thought
of Baltimore.
vn.
'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath
that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger
concourse stand,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling
wretch is seen
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan he, who steered
the Algerine !
lie fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing
prayer,
Fr he had slain the kith and kin of many a
hundred there
1 Commonly called Owen Roe O'Neill Vide Appendix
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought
the Norman o'er
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in
Baltimore.
LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGIIAN
RUADH O'NEILL. 1
[Time 10th November, 1649. Scene Onnond's Camp. County
Waterford. Speakers A Veteran of Koghan O'NeilPs clan, and
one of the horsemen ji.st arrived with an account of his death.]
I.
" DID they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan
Ruadh O'Neill ?"
" Yes, they slew with poison him, they feared
to meet with steel."
" May God wither t\p their hearts ! May their
blood cease to flow !
May they walk in living death, who poisoned
Eoghan Ruadh !
n.
" Though it break my heart to hear, say again
the bitter words."
"From Deny, against Cromwell, he marched to
measure swords ;
But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on
his way,
And he died at Cloch Uachtar, 9 upon Saint
Leonard's day."
in.
" Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One ! Wail r
wail ye for the Dead ;
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath with
ashes strew the head.
IIow tenderly we loved him ! How deeply we
deplore !
Holy Saviour ! but to think we sball never set
him more !
IV.
"Sagest in the council was he, khulcst in the
Hall:
Sure we never won a battle- -'tw.s Eoghan won
them all.
Had he lived had be lived -our dear country
had been free ;
But he's dead, but he's dead, aud 'ti slave
we'll ever be.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
515
* O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Rod
Hugh,
Audlcy and MacMahon ye are valiant, wise,
and true ;
But what, what are ye all to our darling who
is gone ?
The Rudder of our ship was he, our Castle's
corner-stone !
VI.
"Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep,
weep for our pride !
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief
had died !
Weep the Victor of Beann-bhorbh 1 weep him,
young man and old ;
Weep tor him, ye women your Beautiful lies
cold!
VII.
" We thought vou would not die we were sure
O tf
you would not go,
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's
cruel blow
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts
out the sky
Oh ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? Why did
you die ?
VIII.
" Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill !
bright was your eye,
Oh ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? why did
you die ?
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with
God on high ;
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan !
why did you die?"
A RALLY FOR IRELAND. 8
[MAY, 1689.] 3
SHOUT it out, till it ring
From Beann-mhor to Cape Cleire,
For our country and king,
And religion so dear.
1 FW. Btntmrb.
8 8t t original imHc la
Spirit of Nation." 4to, p,
Rally, men ! rally
Irishmen ! rally !
Gather round the dear flag, that, wet with on?
tears,
And torn, and bloody, lay hid for long years,
And now, once again, in its pride reappears.
See ! from The Castle our green banner
waves,
Bearing fit motto for uprising slaves
For Now OK NEVKR !
Now AND FOKEVKR!
Bids you to battle for triumph or graves
Bids you to burst on the Sacsanach knavea
Rally, then, rally !
Irishmen, raHy !
Shout Now OR NEVKR !
NOW AND FOREVER !
Heed not their fury, however it raves,
Welcome their horsemen with pikes and with
staves,
Close on their cannon, their bay'nets, and
glaives,
Down with their standard wherever it waves ;
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves !
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves !
n.
Gallant Sheldon is here,
And Hamilton, too,
And Tirchonaill so dear,
And Mac Carrthaigh, so true.
And there are Frenchmen ;
Skilful and stanch men
De Rosen, Pontec, Pusignan, and Boisseleau,
And gallant Lauzun is a coming, you know,
With Balldears;, the kinsman of jjreat Eo^h^n
w o o
Ruadh.
From Sionainn to Banna, from Life to
Laoi, 4
The country is rising for Libertie.
Though your arms are rude,
If your courage be good,
As the traitor fled will the stranger flee,
At another Drom mor, from " the Irishry."
Ann, peasant and lord !
Grasp musket and sword !
< Jrusp pike-staff and skian '.
Give your horses the rein'
March, in the name of his Majesty
Ulster and Munster unitedly
8 ndf Appendix.
4 \'ul'j". shannon, l'nn,
', od L*.
516
THE POtfMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
Townsman and peasant, like waves of the sea
Leinster and Connacht to victory
Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty,
Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty.
ii.
Kirk, Schomberg, and Churchill
Are coming what then ?
We'll drive them and Dutch Will
To England again ;
We can laugh at each threat,
For our Parliament's met
De Courcy, O'Briain, Mac Dornhnail, Le Poer,
O'Neill and St. Lawrence, and others go leor,
The choice of the land from Athluain 1 to the
shore !
They'll break the last link of the Sacsanach
chain
They'll give us the lands of our fathers again !
Then up ye ! and fight
For your King and your Right,
Or ever toil on, and never complain,
Though they trample your roof-tree, and rifle
your fane.
Rally, then, rally !
Irishmen, rally
Fight NOW OR NEVER,
Now AND FOREVER!
Laws are in vain without swords to maintain ;
So, muster as fast as the fall of the rain :
Serried and rough as a field of ripe grain,
Stand by your flag upon mountain and plain ;
Charge till yourselves or your foemen are
slain !
Fight till yourselves or your foemen are slain !
THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.'
[AUGUST 27, 1690.]
AIR Qarradh Eoghain.*
OH, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is
nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
. Alhlone.
K Oanyowen.
2 Vide Appendix.
King William's men round Limerick lay,
His cannon crashed from day to day,
Till the southern wall was swept away
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.*
'Tis afternoon, yet hot the sun,
When William fires the signal gun,
And, like its flash, his columns run
On the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
ii.
Yet, hurrah! for the men who, when danger i*
nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the
eye,
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all
The breach gaped out two perches wide,
The fosse is filled, the batteries plied ;
Can the Irishmen that onset bide
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
Across the ditch the columns dash,
Their bayonets o'er the rubbish flash,
When sudden comes a rending crash
From the city of Luimneach linn-ghla,s.
in.
Then, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is
' ' O
nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
The bullets rain in pelting shower,
And rocks and beams from wall and tower ;
The Englishmen are glad to cower
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
But, rallied soon, again they pressed,
Their bayonets pierced full many a breast,
Till they bravely won the breach's crest
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
IV.
Yet, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is
nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
Then fiercer grew the Irish yell,
And madly on the foe they fell,
Till the breach grew like the jaws of hell
Not the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
4 " Limerick of the azure river." See " The Circuit of Ireland , '
p. 47. AOTUOK'S MOTH.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
r>!7
The women fought before the men,
Each man became a match for ten,
So back they pushed the villains then,
From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlnt.
Then, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is
nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the
eye.
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's
wall,
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
But Bradenburgh the ditch h;is crost,
And gained our Hank at little cost
The bastion's gone the town is lost;
Oh ! poor city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
When, sudden, Sarsfield springs the mine,
Like rockets rise the Germans fine,
And come down dead 'mid smoke and shine
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
VI.
So, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is nigh )x
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, .
And hurrah ! for bold SarsfieM, the bravest of all.
Out, with a roar, the Irish sprung,
And back the beaten English flung,
Till William fled, his lords among,
From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
'Twas thus was fought that glorious fight,
By Irishmen, for Ireland's right^-
May all such days have such a night
As the battle of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
anb Songs illustrative of Jfrisjj pstorg.
"BT n Ballad History we do not mean a metrical chronicle, or
any continual! work, but a string of ballads chronologically
arranged, and illustrating the main events of Irish History, its
characters, customs, scenes, and passions.
" Kxact dates, subtle plots, minute connections and motives,
rarely appear in Ballads; and for these ends the worst pruso his-
tory i.s superior to the best Ballad series; but these are not tho
highest ends of history. To hallow or accurse the scenes of glory
and honor, or of shame and sorrow to give to the imagination the
nns, and homes and senates, and battles of other days to rouse
and soften and slrenirihrn and enlarge us with the passions of gruat
periods to lend us into lve of sell-denial, of justice, of beauty, of
valor, of generous life and proud death and to set up in our ttouls
the memory of great men, who shall then be as models and judges
of our actions those are tin- highest duties of History, and these
re beat taught by ft Ballad History." Di vis's ESSAYS.
THE PENAL DAYS.
A IK Th \Vhtelicright.
I.
On ! weep those days, the penal days,
When Ireland hopelessly complained.
Oh ! weep those days, the penal days,
When godless persecution reigned ;
When, year by year,
For serf and peer,
Fresh cruelties were made by law,
And, filled with hate,
Our senate sate
To weld anew each fetter's flaw ;
Oh ! weep those days, those penal day
Their memory still on Ireland weighs.
n.
They bribed the flock, they bribed the SOD,
To sell the priest and rob the sire;
Their dogs were taught alike to run
Upon the scent of wolf and friar.
Among the poor,
Or on the moor,
Were hid the pious and the true
While traitor knave,
And recreant slave,
Had riches, rank, and retinue :
And, exiled in those penal d:ivs
Our banners over Europe blaze.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
in.
A stranger held the land and tower
Of many a noble fugitive ;
No popish lord had lordly power,
The peasant, scarce had leave to live ;
Above his head
A ruined shed,
No tenure but a tyrant's will
Forbid to plead,
Forbid to read,
Disarmed, disfranchised, imbecile
What wonder if our step betrays
The freedman, born in penal days?
IV.
They're gone, they're gone, those penal days !
All creeds are eqjiial in our isle ;
Then grant, Lord, thy plenteous grace,
Our ancient feuds to reconcile.
Let all atone
For blood and groan,
For dark revenge and open wrong,
Let all unite
For Ireland's right,
And drown our griefs in freedom's song ;
Till time shall veil in twilight haze,
The memory of those penal days.
THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD. 1
A CHANT OF THE BRIGADE.
I.
SARSFIELD has sailed from Limerick Town,
He held it long for country and crown ;
And ere he yielded, the Saxon swore
To spoil our homes and our shrines no more.
n.
Sarsfield and a.11 his chivalry
Are fighting for France in the low coun-trie
At his fiery charge the Saxons reel,
They learned at Limerick to dread the steel.
1 Sarsfleld was slain on the 29th July, 1698, at Landen, heading
hts countrymen in the van of victory, King William flying. He
could not have died better. His last thoughts were for his country.
As he lay on the field unhelmed and dying, he put his hand to his
treast When he took it nway, it was full of his best blood. Look-
\W at it uulty with an eye in which victory shone a moment be-
lli.
Sarsfield is dying on Landen's plain ;
His corslet hath met the ball in vain
As his life-blood gushes into his hand,
He says, " Oh ! that this was for father-land !"
Sarsfield is dead, yet no tears shed we
For he died in the arms of Victory,
And his dying words shall edge the brand,
When we chase the foe from our native land !
THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA.
(1702.)
FROM Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode,
And soft are the beds in his princely abode ;
In billet and barrack the garrison sleep,
And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep :
'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze
Of that midwinter night on the flat Cremonese;
A fig for precaution ! Prince Eugene sits clown
In winter cantonments round Mantua town.
Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain,
Horse, foot, and dragoons are defiling amain.
" That flash !" said Prince Eugene, " Count Merci,
push on"
Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.
Proud mutters the prince " That is CassioU'b
sign:
Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona '11 b*
mine
For Merci will open the gate of the Po,
But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemonv will
show !"
in.
Through gate, street, and square, wita his keen
cavaliers
A flood through a gully Count Merci careers ;
fore, he said faintly, "Oh! that this were for Ireland." He said
no more; and history records no nobler saying, nor any more be-
coming death. AUTHOR'S NOTE.
Vide Appendix, for a brief sketch of the services of the Irish
Brigade, in which most of the allusions in these and several of th
following poems are explained. ED.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
519
They ride without getting or giving a blow.
Nor halt 'till they gaze on the gate of the Po :
w Surrender the gate" but a volley replied,
For a handful of Irisli arc posted inside.
By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come
rather late,
If he stay till Count Merci shall open that gate !
IV.
But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians
pour,
And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore ;
Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain
There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villuroy's rein
"A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse
Release me, MacDonnell !" they hold on their
course.
Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall,
Prince Eugene's headquarters are in the Town-
hall !
v.
Here and there, through the city, some readier
band,
For honor and safety, undauntedly stand.
At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke
I> Major O'Mahony, tierce as a Turk.
His sabre is flashing the major is drest,
But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the
rest!
Yet they rush to the ramparts the clocks have
tolled ten
And Count Merci retreats with the half of his
men.
VI.
44 In on them," said Friedberg, and Dillon is
broke,
Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak ;
Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers
go;
But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I
trow.
Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball,
Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen
fall-
Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel,
And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel.
VII.
Oh! hear you their shout in your quarters,
Eugene ?
In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succor you
lean!
The bridge has been broken, and, mark ! how
pell-mell
Come riderless horses, and volley and yell !
He's a veteran soldier he clenches his hands,
He springs on his horse, disengages his bands
lie rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid.
He is chased through the gates by the IRISH
BRIGADE.
VIII.
News, news, in Vienna ! King Leopold's sad.
News, news, in St. James's ! King William is
mad.
News, news, in Versailles " Let the Irish
Brigade
Be loyally honored, and royally paid."
News, news, in old Ireland high rises her
pride,
And high sounds her wail for her cliildrcn who
died,
And deep is her prayer, " God send I may seo
MacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me."
THE FLOWER OF FINAE.
BRIGHT red is the sun on the waves of Lough
Sheelin.
A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is steal-
ing,
While fair round its islets the small ripplea
p'ay,
But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.
ii.
Her hair is like night, and her eyes like gray
morning,
She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,
Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May-
day,
Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae.
HI.
But who down the hill-side than red deer runs
fleeter ?
And who on the lake side is hastening to greet
her?
Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gar,
The darling and pride of the Flower of Finao?
520
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
iv.
One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of
gladness ;
Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sad-
ness ?
He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can
stay,
He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae.
v.
For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land,
And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from
Ireland ;
He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away,
But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of
Finae
VI.
He fought at Cremona she hears of his story ;
He fought at Cassano she's proud of his glory,
Yet sadly she sings Siubhail a ruin 1 all the day,
" Oh, come, come, my darling, come home to
Finae."
VII.
Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh
broken-hearted,
Her reel and her rock, and her flax she has
parted ;
She sails with the " Wild Geese" to Flanders
away,
And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.
Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging
Before him, the Sacsanach snuadrons enlarging
Behind him the Cravats their sections display
Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae.
IX.
On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are
flying ;
Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying,
Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array;
And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae.
In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying,
And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying ;
That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray ;
This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae.
1 Vulgo, Shule aroon.
THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.
AIR The girl I left behind me.
I.
THE dames of France are fond and free,
And Flemish lips are willing,
And soft the maids of Italy,
And Spanish eyes are thrilling ;
Still, though I bask beneath their smile,
Their charms fail to bind me,
And my heart flies back to Erin's isle,
To the girl I left behind mo.
ii.
For she's as fair as Shannon's side,
And purer than its water,
But she refused to be my bride
Though many a year I sought her ;
Yet, since to France I sailed away,
Her letters oft remind me
That I promised never to gainsay
The girl I left behind me.
in.
She says " My own dear love, come home,
My friends are rich and many,
Or else abroad with you I'll roam
A soldier stout as any ;
If you'll not come, nor let me go,
I'll think you have resigned me."
My heart nigh broke when I answered No I
To the girl I left behind me.
IV.
For never shall my true love brave
A life of war and toiling ;
And never as a skulking slave
I'll tread my native soil on ;
But, were it free, or to be freed,
The battle's close would find me
To Ireland bound nor message need
From the girl I left behind me.
CLARE'S DRAGOONS. 1
Am Viva la.
WHEN, on Ramillies' bloody field,
The baffled French were forced to yield
2 Fide Appendix.
THE POEMS OF THOM\S DAVIS.
521
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons.
The Flags, we conquered in that fray,
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say ;
We'll win them company to day,
Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la. for Ireland's wrong !
O
Viva la, for Ireland's right !
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright !
ii.
The brave old lord died near the fight,
But, for each drop he lost that night,
A Saxon cavalier shall bite
The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.
For never, when our spurs were set,
And never, when our sabres met,
Could we the Saxon soldiers get
To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade !
Viva la, the Old One, too !
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the Shamrock shine forever new I
in.
Another Clare is here to lead,
The worthy son of such a breed ;
The French expect some famous deed,
When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons.
Our Colonel comes from Brian's race,
His wounds arc in his breast and face,
The bearna baoghail ' is still his place,
The foremost of his bold Dragoons.
9
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade !
Viva la, the Old One, too !
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the Shamrock shine forever new !
IV.
There's not a man in squadron here
Was ever known to flinch or fear ;
Though first in charge and last in rerc,
Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons ;
Op of danger.
But, see ! we'll soon have work to do,
To shame our boasts, or prove them true,
For hither comes the English crew,
To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right !
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed and sabre bright !
v.
Oh ! comrades ! think how Ireland pines
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Ckire's Dragoons,
Then bring your Green Flag to the sky,
Be Limerick your battle-cry,
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high,
Around the track of Clare's Dragoons !
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade !
Viva la, the Old One, too !
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the Shamrock shine forever new t
WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW.
AIB Tht gtntU M<ridn.
WHY sits the gentle maiden there,
While surfing billows splash around I
Why doth she southwards wildly stare
And sing with such a tearful sound
M The Wild Geese fly where other walk ;
The Wild Geese do what others talk
The way is long from France, you know
He'll come at last when south winds blow."
n.
Oh ! softly was the maiden nurst
In Castle ConnelFs lordly towers,
Where Skellig's billows boil and burst,
And, far above, Dunkorron towers :
And she was noble as the hill
Yet battle-flags are nobler still :
And she was graceful as the wave
Yet who would live a tranquil slave I
522
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
in.
And, so, her lover went to Franco,
To serve the foe of Ireland's foe;
Yet deep he swore " Whatever chance,
I'll corne some day when south winds blow."
And prouder hopes he told beside,
How she should be a prince's bride,
How Louis would the Wild Geese 1 sei^l.
And Ireland's weary woes should end.
IV.
But tyrants quenched her father's health,
And wrong and absence warped her mind ;
The gentle maid, of gentle birth,
Is moaning madly to the wind
" He said he'd come, whate'er betide :
He said I'd be a happy bride :
Oh ! long the way and hard the foe
He'll come when south when south windi
blow !"
THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE.
Am Coutentfii I am.
I.
THE mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set,
And the gallant Count Thomond is president I
yet;
The vet'ran arose, like an uplifted lance,
Crying " Comrades, a health to the monarch !
of France !"
With bumpers and cheers they have done as Le ;
bade,
For King Louis is loved by The Irish Brigade,
ii.
"A health to King James," and they bent as they
quaffed ;
" Here's to George the Elector" and fiercely they
laughed;
41 Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago,
Where Shannon, and Barrow, and BlackwaU-r
flow ;"
44 God prosper Old Ireland," you'd think them
afraid,
So pale grew the chiefs of The Irish Brigade.
1 The recruiting for the Brigade was carried on in the French
ships which smuggled brandies, wines, silks. &o. , to the western
and southwestern coasts. Their return cargoes were recruits for
the Brigade, and were entered io their books as Wild Gerse. llenc* j
III.
" But, surely, that light cannot come from oui
lamp ?
And that noise are they all getting drunk in
the camp ?"
" Hurrah ! boys, the morning of battle is come,
And the generates beating on many a drum."
So they rush from the revel to join the parade ;
For the van is the ri<jht of The Irish Brigade.
They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and
true,
And, though victors, they left on the field not a
few ;
And they, who survived, fought and drank aTof
yore,
But the land of their heart's hope they aever
saw more ; $ < ((
For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Bdl-
grade,
Lie the soldiers and chiefs of The Irish Brigade.
FONTENOY.'
(1745.)
i.
TiiiucK, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English
column failed,
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the
Dutch in vain assailed ;
For town and slope were filled with fort and
flanking feattery,
And well they swept the English ranks, and
Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly, through l)e Barri's wood, the British
soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminish-
ed and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld wiih
anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance
to try ;
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his general*
ride !
And mustering come his chosen troops, like
clouds at eventide.
this became the common name in Ireland for the Irish serving in
the Brigade. The recruiting was chiefly from Clare, Linieri"-!'
Curk, Kerry, and Galway. AUTIIOR'S NOTK.
2 Vide Appendix.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
523
II.
Six thousand English veterans in stately column
tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay
is at their head ;
Steady they step a-down the slope steady they
climb the hill ;
Steady they load steady they fire, moving right
onward still, 'TVfOU
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as througn a
furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and
bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above ^ they rose, and
kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked
at hostile force :
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner
grow their ranks
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through
Holland's ocean banks.
HI.
More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs
rush round ;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons
strew the ground ;
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still
on they marched and fired
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltiguer
retired.
" Push on, my household cavalry !" King Louis
madly cried :
To death they rush, but rude their shock not
unavenged they died. _~
On through the camp the column trod;-^
Louis turns his rein :
u Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, " the irish
troops remain ;"
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a
Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement,
and true.
IV.
" Lord Clare," he says, " you have your wish,
there are your Saxon foes !"
The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously
he goes !
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're
wont to be so gay !
The treasured wrongs of fifty years arc in their
hearts to-day
The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas
writ could dry,
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines,
their women's parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their
country overthrown,
Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked 011
him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else-
where,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these
proud exiles were.
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting,
he commands,
" Fix bay'nets," " Charge," Like mountain
storm, rush on these fiery bands !
Thin is the English column now, and faint their
volleys grow,
Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they
make a gallant show.
They dress their vauks upon the hill to face that
battle-wind
Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like rocks,
the men behind !
One volley crashes from their line, when, through
the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the
headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce
huzza !
" Revenge 1 remember Limerick! dash down the
Sacsanach !"
Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with
hunger's pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles
sprang :
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their
guns are filled with gore ;
Through shattered ranks, and severed flies, and
trampled flags they tore :
The English strove with desperate strength,
paused, rallied, staggered, fled
The green hill-side is matted close with dying
and with dead.
Across the plain, and far away passed on that
hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassiu dash in upon their
track.
524
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the
sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand the field
is fought and won !
THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION.
(1782.)
THE church of Dungannon is full to the door,
And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor,
While helmet and shako are ranged all along,
Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng.
In the front of the altar no minister stands,
But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands ;
And though solemn the looks and the voices
around,
You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound.
Say ! what do they hear in the temple of
prayer ?
Oh ! why in the fold has the lion his lair?
ii.
Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle,
By English oppression, and falsehood, and guile?
Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered,
To guard it for England the North volunteered.
From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast
Still they stood to their guns when the danger
had past,
For the voice of America came o'er the wave,
Crying Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the
skive !
Indignation and shame through their regiments
speed,
''hey have arms in their hands, and what more
do they need ?
in.
O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are
spread,
The cities of Leinster resound to their tread,
The valleys of Munster with ardor are stirred,
And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles
have heard ;
A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere
For forbidden the arms of freemen to bear
Vet foemen and friend are full sure, if need be,
The slave for his country will stand by the free.
By green flags supported, the Orange flag-
wave,
And the soldier half turns to unfetter th
slave !
IV.
More honored that church of Dunsrannon is now
O
Than when at its altar communicants bow ;
More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayer,
Ar-e the rites and the thoughts of the warriors-
there ;
In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore :
" We've suffered too long, and we'll suffer no
more
Unconquered by Force, we were vanquished by
Fraud ;
And now, in God's temple, we vow unto God,
That never again shall the Englishman bind
His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our
mind."
v.
The church of Dungannon is empty once more
No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor,
But the counsels of England are fluttered to-
see,
In the cause of their country, the Irish agree ;
So they give as a boon what they dare not
withhold,
And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old,
With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her
own,
And an army to fight for the people and throne.
But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fears
She surrender the guns of her brave Volunteers !
SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782.
AIR Boyne Water.
HURRAH ! 'tis clone our freedom's wron-
Hnrrah for the Volunteers !
No laws we own, but those alone
Of our Commons, King, and Peers.
The chain is broke the Saxon yoke
From off our neck is taken ;
Ireland awoke Dungannon spoke
With tear was England shaken.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
525
n.
When Grattan rose, none dared oppose
The claim he made for freedom :
They knew our swords, to back his words,
Were ready, did he need thorn.
Then let us raise, to Grattan's praise,
A proud and joyous anthem ;
And wealth, and grace, and length of days,
May God, in mercy, grant him !
in.
Bless Harry Flood, who nobly stood
By us, through gloomy years !
Bless Charlemont, the brave and good,
The Chief of the Volunteers !
The North began ; the North held on
The strife for native land ;
Till Ireland rose, and cowed her foes
God bless the Northern land !
IV.
And bless the men of patriot pen
Swift, Molyneux, and Lucas ;
Bless sword and gun, which " Free Trade" won-
Bless God ! who ne'er forsook us !
And long may last, the friendship fast,
Which binds us all together ;
While we agree, our foes shall flee
Like clouds in stormy weather.
v.
Remember still, through good and ill,
How vain were prayers and tears
How vain were words, till flashed the swords
Of the Irish Volunteers.
By arms we've got the rights we sought
Through long and wretched years
Hurrah ! 'tis done, our freedom's won
Hurrah for the Volunteers !
THE MEN OF 'EIGHTY-TWO.
An: An Crtiitgin Lan,
9
To rend a cruel chain,
To end a foreign reign
The swords of the Volunteers were drawn.
And instant from their sway,
Oppression fled away ;
So we'll drink them in a cruixyin /d, Idn, Idn,
We'll drink them in a cruisgin Inn !
Within that host were seen
The Orange, Blue, and Green-
The Bishop for its coat left his lawn
The peasant and the lord
Ranked in with one accord,
Like brothers at a cruisgin Idn, Idn, Idn,
Like brothers at a cruisyin Idn !
in.
With liberty there came
Wit, eloquence, and fame ;
Our feuds went like mists from the dawn ;
Old bigotry disdained
Old privilege retained
Oh! sages, fill a cruisgin Idn, Idn, Idn,
And, boys, fill up a cruisyin Idn !
IV.
The trader's coffers filled,
The barren lands were tilled,
Our ships on the waters thick as spawn
Prosperity broke forth,
Like summer in the north
Ye merchants ! fill a cruisyin Idn, Idn, /an,
Ye farmers ! fill a cruisyin Idn !
v.
The memory of that day
Shall never pass away,
Though its fame shall be yet outshone ;
We'll grave it on our shrines,
We'll shout it in our lines
Old Ireland ! fill a cruisgin Idn, Idn, Idn,
Young Ireland ! fill a cruisgin Idn !
VI.
And drink The Volunteers,
Their generals, and seers,
Their gallantry, their genius, and their brawn
With water, or with wine
The draught is but a sign
The purpose fills the cruisgin Idn, Idn, Idn,
This purpose fills the cruisyin Idn f
VII.
That ere Old Ireland goes,
And while Young Ireland glows.
The swords of our sires be girt on,
And loyally renew
The work of 'EioiiTV-T\vo
Oh ! gentlemen a cruisyin Idn, Idn, Idn,
Our freedom ! in a cruisyin Idn I
526
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
NATIVE SWORDS.
(A VOLUNTEER SONG. 1ST JULY, 1792.)
Am Boyne Water.
I.
WE'VE bent too long to braggart wrong,
While force our prayers derided ;
We've fought too long, ourselves among,
By knaves and priests divided ;
United now, no more we'll bow,
Foul faction, we discard it ;
And now, thank God ! our native sod
Has Native Swords to guard it.
ii.
Like rivers which, o'er valleys rich,
Bring ruin in their water,
On native land, a native hand
Flung foreign fraud and slaughter.
From Dermod's crime to Tudor's time
Our clans were our perdition ;
Religion's name, since then, became
Our pretext for division.
in.
But, worse than all, with Lim'rick's fall
Our valor seemed to perish ;
Or o'er the main, in France and Spain,
For bootless vengeance flourish.
The peasant, here, grew pale for fear
He'd suffer for our glory,
While France sang joy for Fontenoy,
And Europe hymned our story.
IV.
But now, no clan, nor factious plan,
The East and West can sunder
Why Ulster e'er should Munster fear,
Can only wake our wonder.
Religion's crost, when union's lost,
And " royal gifts" retard it ;
But now, thank God ! our native sod
Has Native Swords to guard it.
TONE'S GRAVE.
i.
IN Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,
And wildly along it the winter winds rave ;
Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there,
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of
Kildare,
ii.
Once I lay on that sod it lies over Wolfe Tone
And I thought how he perished in prison alone,
His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed
" Oh, bitter," I said, " is the patriot's meed ;
in.
For in him the heart of a woman combined
With a heroic life, and a governing mind
A martyr for Ireland his grave has no stone-
His name seldom named, and his virtues un-
known."
IV.
I was woke from my dream by the voices ard
tread
Of a band, who came into the home of the dead ;
They carried no corpse, and they carried no-
stone,
And they stopped when they came to the grave
of Wolfe Tone.
v.
There were students and peasants, the wise and
the brave,
And an old man who knew him from cradle to
grave,
And children who thought me hard-hearted \
for they,
On that sanctified sod were forbidden to play.
VI.
But the old man, who saw I was mourning there r
said :
" We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe
Tone is laid ;
And we're going to raise him a monument, too
A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true."
VII.
My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand r .
And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his
band ;
"Sweet! sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can
remain
To the cause, and the man so long vanquished
and slain."
VIII.
In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green.
grave,
And freely around it let winter winds rave
Far better they suit him the ruin and gloom.
TILL IRELAND, A NATION, CAN BCILD HIM A TOMII
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
527
V.
jscellaiteotts Uacms.
"NATIONALITY IB no longer an unmeaning or despised name
among us. It is welcomed by the higher ranks, It is the inspiration
of the bolil, and the hope <>f the p^ple. It is the summary name
for many things. It seeks a Literature made by Irishmen, and
colored by our scenery, manners, and cKvacter. It desires to
tee Art applied to express Irish thoughts &i.i belief. It would
make our Music sound in every parish at twlligi.^ our Pictures
sprinkle the walls of every house, and our Poetry ano History sit
at every hearth.
It would thus create a race of men full of a more intensely
Irish character and knowledge, and to that race it would give Ire-
land. It would give them the seas of Ireland to sweep with their
nets and launch on with their navy ; the harbors of Ireland, to
receive a greater commerce than any island in the world ; the
soil of Ireland to live on, by more millions than starve here now ;
the fame of Ireland to enhance by their genius and valor ; the
Independence of Ireland to guard by laws and arms." DAVIS'B
EMAYS.
NATIONALITY.
A NATION'S voice, a nation's voice
It is a solemn thing !
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice
'Tis stronger than a king.
'Tis like the light of many stars,
The sound of many waves ;
Which brightly look through prison-bare;
And sweetly sound in caves.
Yet is it noblest, godliest known,
When righteous triumph swells its tone.
n.
A nation's flag, a nation's flag
If wickedly unrolled,
May foes in adverse battle drag
Its every fold from fold.
But, in the cause of Litarty,
Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell ;
Guard it till Death or Victory
Look you, you guard it well !
No saint or king has tomb so proud,
As he whose flag becomes his shroud.
in.
A nation's right, a nation's right
God gave it ; and gave, too,
A nation's sword, a nation's might,
Danger to guard it through.
'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke,
'Tis just and equal laws,
Which deal unto the humblest folk,
As in a noble's cause.
On nations fixed in right and truth,
God would bestow eternal youth.
IV.
May Ireland's voice be ever hearc!
Amid the world's applause!
And never be her flag-staff stirred,
But in an honest cause !
May Freedom be her very breath,
Be Justice ever dear;
And never an ennobled death
May son of Ireland fear !
So the Lord God will ever smile,
With guardian grace, upon our isie.
SELF-RELIANCE.
i.
THOUGH savage force and subtle schemes,
And alien rule, through ages lasting,
Have swept your land like lava streams,
Its wealth, and name, and nature blasting,
Rot not, therefore, in dull despair,
Nor moan at destiny in far lands :
Face not your foe with bosom bare.
Nor hide your chains in pleasure's garland*
The wise man arms to combat wrong,
The brave man clears a den of liona.
The true man spurns the Helot's song :
The freeman's friend is Self-Reliance !
528
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
ii.
Though France, that gave your exiles bread,
Youi priests a home, your hopes a station,
Or that young land, where first was spread
The starry flag of Liberation,
Should heed your wrongs some future day,
And send you voice or sword to plead 'em,
With helpful love their help repay,
Bat trust not even to them for Freedom.
A Nation freed by foreign aid
Is but a corpse by wanton science
Convuhed like life, then flung to fade
The life itself is Self-Reliance !
in.
Oh ! see your quailing tyrant run
To courteous lies, and Roman agents;
His terror, lest Dungannon's sun
Should rise again with riper radiance.
Oh ! hark the Freeman's welcome cheer,
And hark your brother sufferers sobbing ;
Oh ! mark the universe grow clear,
And mark your spirit's royal throbbing,
'Tis Freedom's God that sends such signs,
As pledges of his blest alliance ;
He gives bright hopes to brave designs,
And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance !
IV.
Then, flung alone, or hand-in-hand,
In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn ;
In lowly toil, or high command,
In social hall, or charsnno; column ;
' O O *
In tempting wealth, and trying woe,
In struggling with a mob's dictation ,
In bearing back a foreign foe,
In training up a troubled nation :
Still hold to Truth, abound in Love,
Refusing every base compliance
Your Praise within, your Prize above,
And live and die in SELF-RELIANCE !
SWEET AND SAD.
A PRISON SERMON.
Tis sweet to climb the mountain's crest,
And run, like deer-hound, down its breast ;
Tis sweet to snuff the taintless air,
And sweep the sea with haughty stare :
And, sad it is, when iron bars
Keep watch between you and the stars :
And sad to find your footstep stayed
By prison-wall and palisade :
But 'twere better be
A prisoner forever,
With no destiny
To do, or to endeavor;
Better life to spend
A marlyr or confessor,
Than in silence bend
To alien and oppressor.
'Tis sweet to rule an ample realm,
Through weal and woe to hold the helm;
And sweet to strew, with plenteous hand,
Strength, health, and beauty round your lard
And sad it is to be unprized,
While dotards rule unrecognized;
And sad your little ones to see
Writhe in the gripe of poverty :
But 'twere better pine
In rags and gnawing hunger,
While around you whine .
Your elder and your younger ;
Better lie in pain,
And rise in pain to-morrow,
Than o'er millions reign,
While those millions sorrow.
in.
'Tis sweet to own a quiet hearth
Begirt by constancy and mirtb (
'Twere sweet to feel your dyiug clasp
Returned by friendship's steady grasp :
And sad it is, to spend your life,
Like sea-bird in the ceaseless strife
Your lullaby the ocean's roar,
Your resting-place a foreign shore :
But 'twere better live,
Like ship caught by Lofoden
Than your spirit give
To be by chains corroden :
Best of all to yield
Your latest breath, when lying
On a victor field,
With the green flag flying !
IV.
Human joy and human sorrow,
Light or shade from conscience borrow ;
Till-: POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
B29
The tyrant's crown is lined with flame,
Lite never paid the coward's shame :
The miser's lock is never sure,
The traitor's home is never pure ;
While seraphs guard, and cherubs tend
The good mau's life and brave man's end :
But their fondest care
Is the patriot's prison,
Hymning through its air
" Freedom hath arisen,
Oft from statesmen's strife,
Oft from battle's flashes,
Oft from hero's life,
Oftenest from his ashes !"
THE BURIAL. 1
WHY rings the knell of the funeral bell from a
hundred village shrines ?
Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those
long and ordered lines ?
With tear and sigh they're passing by, the
matron and the maid ;
Has a hero died is a nation's pride in that cold
coffin laid ?
With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark
men go tramping on
Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their
wrath till the rites are done \
THE CHANT.
44 Ululu ! uhdu ! high on the wind,
There's a home for the slave where no fetters can
bind.
Woe, woe to his slayers" comes wildly along,
With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.
And now more clear
It swells on the car ;
Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear.
* Ulul.n ! ululaf wail for the dead.
Green grow the grass of Fiugall on his head;
And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere ap-
pearing,
Aud shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for
Erin.
1 Written on the funeral of the Rov. P. J. Tyrrell, 1'. P. of
Lu.-k ; on of tbOM ImJicuxl wtlu O'Ooniicll In tin: government
IIKIM-I-IU its of 1M4. Kl>.
Ululu ! ululu ! soft fall the dew
On the feet and the head of the martyred and
true."
For awhile they tread
In silence dread
Then muttering and moaning go the crowd,
Surging and swaying like mountain cloud,
And again the wail comes fearfully loud.
THE CHANT.
" Ululu ! ululu ! kind was his heart !
Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall
part.
The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord,
Mis pilgrimage over, he has his reward.
By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling,
To God with the raised cross appealing
lie seems still to kneel, and he seems still to
pray,
And the sins of the dying seem passing away.
"In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so
dreary,
Our constant consoler, he never grew wearv ;
But he's gone to his rest,
And he's now with the blest,
Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest
Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead !
Ululu! ululu! here is his bed."
Short was the ritual, simple the prayer,
Deep was the silence and every head bare ;
The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around,
Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground.
Kneeling and motionless " Dust unto dust."
" lie died as becometh the faithful and just
Placing in God his reliance and trust;"
Kneeling and motionless " Ashes to ashes"
Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes;
Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray,
But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have
they
Stern and standing oh ! look on them now,
Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow ;
Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow :
THIS VOW.
" We have bent and borne, though we saw him
torn from his home by the tyrant's crew
And we bent and bore, when he came om-e more,
tlfough suffering had pierced him through :
530
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
" And now nc is laid beyond our aid, because to
Ireland true
A martyred man the tyrant's ban, the pious
patriot slew.
" And shall we bear and bend forever,
And shall no time our bondage sever,
And shall we kneel, but battle never,
For our own soil ?
" And shall our tyrants safely reign
On thrones built up of slaves and slain,
And naught to us and ours remain,
But chains and toil ?
" No ! round this grave our oath we plight,
To watch, and labor, and unite,
Till banded be the nation's might
It's spirit steeled.
" And then collecting all our force,
We'll cross oppression in its course,
And die or all our rights enforce,
On battle-field."
Like an ebbing sea that will come again,
O O
Slowly retired that host of men ;
Mcthinks they'll keep some other day
The oath they swore on the martyr's clay.
WE MUST NOT FAIL.
WE must not fail, we must not fail,
However fraud or force assail ;
By honor, pride, and policy,
By Heaven itself! we must be free.
n.
Time had already thinned our chain,
Time would have dulled our sense of pain ;
By service long, and suppliance vile,
We might have won our owner's smile.
in.
We spurned the thought, our prison burst,
And dared the despot to the worst ;
Renewed the strife of centuries,
And flnng our banner to the breeze.
IV.
We called the ends of earth to view
The gallant deeds we swore to do ;
They knew us wronged, they knew us brave r
And, all we asked, they freely gave.
We took the starving peasant's mite
To aid in winning back his right,
We took the priceless trust of youth ;
Their freedom must redeem our truth.
VI.
We promised loud, and boasted high,
" To break our country's chains, or die ;"
And, should we quail, that country's name-
Will be the synonym of shame.
VII.
Earth is not deep enough to hide
The coward slave who shrinks aside ;
Hell is not hot enough to scathe
The ruffian wretch who breaks his faith.
VIII.
But calm, my soul ! we promised true,.
Her destined work our land shall do ;
Thought, courage, patience will prevail !
We shall not fail we shall not fail !
O'CONNELL'S STATUE.
(LINES TO HOOAN.)
CHISEL the likeness of The Chief,
Not in gayety, nor grief ;
Change not by your art to stone,
Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.
Dark her talc, and none can tell
Its fearful chronicle so well.
Her frame is bent her wounds arc deep--
Who, like him, her woes can weep ?
lie can be gentle as a bride,
While none can rule with kinglier pride.
Calm to hear, and wise to prove,
Yet gay as lark in soaring love.
Well it were posterity
Should have some image of his glee ;
That easy humor, blossoming
Like the thousand flowers of spring !
THE POEMS OF TIIOM \S DAVIS.
Glorious tho marble which could show
His bursting sympathy for wo^,
Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,
Like mother's milk to craving child.
And oh ! how princely were the art
Could mould his mien, or tell his heart,
When sitting sole on Tara's hill,
NVhile hung a million on his will!
Yet, not in gayety, nor grief,
Chisel the image of our Chief;
Nor even in that haughty hour
When a nation owned his power.
But would you by your art unroll
His own, and Ireland's secret soul,
And give to other times to scan
The greatest greatness of the man ?
Fierce defiance let him be
Hurling at our enemy.
From a base as fair and sure
As our love is true and pure,
Lrt-t his statue rise as tall
And firm as a castle wall ;
On his broad brow let there be
A type of Ireland's history;
Pious, generous, deep, and warm.
Strong and changeful as a storm ;
Let whole centuries of wrong
Upon his recollection throng
Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile,
Tutor's wrath, and Stuart's wuile,
O *
And iron Stafford's tiger jaws,
And brutal Brunswick's penal laws ;
Not forgetting Saxon faith,
Not forgetting Norman scaith,
Not forgetting William's word,
Not forgetting Cromwell's sword.
Let the Union's fetter vile
The shame and ruin of our isle
Let the blood of 'Ninety-eight
And our present blighting fate
Let the poor mechanic's lot,
And the peasant's ruined cot,
Plundered wealth and glory flown,
Ancient honors overthrown
Let trampled altar, rifled urn,
Knit his look to purpose stern.
Mould all this into one thought,
Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught;
Still let our glories through it gleam,
Like fair flowers through a flooded stream,
Or like a flashing wave at night,
Uright, 'mid the solemn darknc bright.
Let the memory of old days
Shine through the statesman's anxious face-
Dathi's power, and I Irian's Came,
And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame.
And the spirit of Red Hugh,
And the pride of 'Eighty-two.
And the victories he won,
And the hope that leads him on !
Let whole armies seem to fly
From his threatening hand and eye;
Be the strength of all the land
Like a falchion in his handj
And be his gesture sternly grand.
A braggart tyrant swore to smite
A people struggling for their riglit
O'Connell dared him to the field,
Content to die, but never yield.
Fancy such a soul as his,
In a moment such as this,
Like cataract, or foaming tide,
Or army charging in its pride.
Thus he spoke, and thus he stool v
Proffering in our cause his bloou.
Thus his country loves him best
To image this is your behest.
Chisel thus, and thus alone,
If to man you'd change the stone.
THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED.'
Am. Irish Molly 0!
I.
FULL often when our fathers saw the Red above
the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre,
pike, and scian,
And over many a noble town, and many a field
of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the
English Red.
ii.
But in the end, throughout the land, the sham
ful sight was seen
The English Red in triumph high above the
Irish green ;
1 This and the three following pieces arc properly direct ballad*
Th* rentier must not expect depth t.r tx.Ki in vrrms of tin* de-
scription, written fur a temporary purpose. Kn.
532
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
But well they died in breach and field, who, as
their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the
English Red.
in.
And they who saw, in after times, the Red above
the Green,
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a
forest screen ;
Vet often by this healthy hope their sinking
hearts were fed,
That, in some day to come, the Green should
flutter o'er the Red.
IV.
Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe
Tone sunk serene
Because they could not bear to leave the Red
above the Green ;
And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sars-
field nobly bled
Because their eyes were hot to sec the Green
above the Red.
v.
So, when the strife began again, our darling
Irish Green
Was down upon the earth, while high the Eng-
lish Red was seen ;
Yet still we hold our fearless course, for some-
thing in us said,
"Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green
above the Red."
VI.
And 'tis for this we think and toil, and know-
ledge strive to glean,
That we may pull the English Red below the
Irish Green,
And leave our sous sweet Liberty, and smiling
plenty spread
Above the land oiu-.e dark with blood the
Green above the Red !
VII.
The jealous English tyrant now has banned the
Irish Green,
And forced us to conceal it like a something
foul and mean ;
But yet, by Heavens ! he'll sooner raise his vic-
tims from the dead
Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and
cotton to the Red !
VIII.
We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and
blesses those who lean
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly
king or queen ;
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our
blood to shed
Once and forever more to raise the Green above
the Red !
THE VOW OF TIPPERARY.
A IB Tipperary.
FROM Carrick streets to Shannon shore,
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,
From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mor,
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.
ii.
Too long we fought for Britain's cause,
And of our blood were never chary ;
She paid us back with tyrant laws,
And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.
in.
Too long, with rash and single arm,
The peasant strove to guard his eyrie,
Till Irish blood bedewed each farm,
And Ireland wept for Tipperary.
But never more we'll lift a hand
We swear by God and Virgin Marv !
Except in war for Native Land,
And thafs The Vow of Tipperary !
A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS.
" BASE Bog-trotters," says the " Times,"
" Brown with mud, and black wiKh crime*,
Turf and lumpers dig betimes
(We grant you need 'em),
But never lift your heads sublime,
Nor talk of Freedom.'"
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
obi*
Yet, Bog trotters, sirs, be sure,
Are strong to do, and to endure,
Men whose blows are hard to cure
Brigands ! what's in ye,
That the fierce man of the moor
Can't stand again ye ?
in.
The common drains in Mushra moss
Are wider than a castle fosse,
Connaught swamps are hard to cross,
And histories boast
That Allen's Bog has caused the loss
Of many a host.
IV.
Oh ! were you in an Irish bog,
Full of pikes, and scarce of prog,
You'd wish your " Times"-ship was incog.
Or far away,
Though Saxons, thick as London fog,
Around you lay.
A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG-
TROTTERS.
THE " Mail" says, that Hanover's King
Twenty Thousand men will bring.
And make the " base bog-trotters" sing
A pillileu-
And that O'Connell high shall swing,
And others too.
n.
There is a tale of Athens told,
Worth at least its weight in gold
To fellows of King Ernest's mould
(The royal rover),
Who think men may be bought and sold,
Or ridcn over.
in.
Darius (an imperial wretch,
A Persian Ernest, or Jack Ketch)
Bid his knaves from Athens fetch
" Earth and water,"
Or else the heralds' necks he'd stretch,
And Athens slaughter.
IV.
The Athenians threw them in a well,
And left them there to help themscl',
And when his armies came, pell-mell,,
They tore his banners,
And sent his slaves in shoals to hell,
To mend their manners.
v.
Let those who bring and those who send
Hanoverians, comprehend
Persian-like may be their end,
And the " bog-trotter"
May drown their knaves, their banners rend
Their armies slaughter.
A SCENE IN THE SOUTH.
I WAS walking along in a pleasant place,
In the county Tipperary ;
The scene smiled as happy as the holy face
Of the Blessed Virgin Mary ;
And the trees were proud, and the sward wa
green,
And the birds sang loud in the leafy scene.
n.
Yet somehow I felt strange, and soon I felt
sad,
And then I felt very lonely ;
I pondered in vain why I was not glad,
In a place meant for pleasure only :
For I thought that grief had never been there,
And that sin would as lief to heaven repair.
in.
And a train of spirits seemed passing me by
The air grew as heavy as lead;
I looked for a cabin, yet none could I spy
In the pastures about me spread ;
Yet each field seemed made for a peasant's cot,
And I felt dismayed when I saw them not.
IV.
As I stayed on the field, I saw Oh, my <M<1
The marks where a cabin had been :
Through the midst of the fields, some feet o?
the sod
Were coarser and far less green.
534
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
And three or four trees in the centre stood,
But they seemed to freeze in their solitude.
v.
Surely there was the road that led to the
cot,
For it ends just beneath the trees,
And the trees like mourners are watching the
spot,
And cronauning with the breeze ;
And their stems are bare with children's play,
But the children where, oh ! where are they ?
VI.
An old man unnoticed had come to my side,
His hand in my arm linking
A reverend man, without haste or pride
And he said : " I know what you're
thinking ;
A cabin stood once underneath the trees,
Full of kindly ones but alas ! for these !
VII.
fc A loving old couple, and tho' somewhat
poor,
Their children had leisure to play ;
And the piper, and stranger, and beggar were
sure
To bless them in going away ;
But the typhus came, and the agent too
Ah ! need I name the worst of the two ?
VIII.
" Their cot was unroofed, yet they strove to
hide
In its walls till the fever was passed ;
Their crime was found out, and the cold ditch
side
Was their hospital at last :
Slowly they went to poorhouse and grave,
Bui the LORD they bent to, their souls will save.
IX.
" And thro' many a field you passed, and will
pass,
In this lordling's ' cleared' demesne,
. The scene is a mere actual landscape which I saw. AUTHOR'S
KOTK.
'2 Just before the insurrection which expelled the Anstrians, Tell
. .and some of his brother conspirators spent a night on the shore of
the Underwalde Lake, consulting for liberty; and while they were
thus engaged, the genius of Switzerland appeared to them, and she
Wat armed, but weeping. " Why weep you, mother?" said Tell :
Where households as happy were one* Hut,
alas!
They too are scattered or slain."
Then he pressed my hand, and he went away ;
I could not stand, so I knelt to pray.
x.
"God of justice !" I sighed, " send your spirit
down
On these lords so cruel and proud,
And soften their hearts and relax their frown,
Or else" I cried aloud
" Vouchsafe thy strength to the peasant's hand
To drive them at length from off the land !" '
WILLIAM TELL AND THE GENIUS OF
SWITZERLAND
TELL. You have no fears,
My native land !
Then dry your tears,
And draw your brand.
A million made a vow
To free you. Wherefore, now,
Tears again, my native land ?
ii.
GENIUS. I weep not from doubt,
I weep not for dread ;
There's strength in your shout,
And trust in your tread.
I weep, for I look for the coming dead,
Who for Liberty's cause shall die;
And I hear a wail from the widow's bed
Corne mixed with our triumph cry.
Though dire my woes, yet how can I
Be calm when I know such suffering's nigh I
in.
TELL. Death comes to all,
My native land !
Weep not their fall
A glorious band !
and she answered, " 1 see dead patriots, and hear their orphan*
wailing;" and he said again to her, "The tyrant kills us with his
prisons and taxes, and poisons our air with his presence ; war-
death is better ;" and she cuid, " It is better" and the cloud passed
from her brow, and she gave him a spear and bade him conquer.
Id.
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS
535
Famine and slavery
Slaughter more cruelly
Than Battle's blood-covered hand !
IV.
. Yes, and all glory
Shall honor their grave,
With shrine, song, and story,
Denied to the slave.
Thus pride shall so mingle with sorrow,
Their wives half their weeping will stay ;
And their sons long to tempt on the morrow
The death they encounter to-day.
Then away, sons, to battle away !
Draw the sword, lift the flag, and away !
THE EXILE.
(PARAPHRASED FROM THE FREXCII.)
I'VE passed through the nations unheeded, un-
known ;
Though all looked upon me, none called me
their own.
I shared not their laughter they cared not my
moan
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone.
ii.
At eve, when the smoke from some cottage
uprose,
How happy I've thought, at the weary day's
close,
With his dearest around, must the peasant repose ;
But, ah ! the poor exile is always alone.
in.
Where hasten those clouds ? to the land or the
sea
Driven on by the tempest, poor exiles, like me?
What matter to either where cither shall flee?
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone.
IV.
Those trees they are beauteous those flowers
they are lair;
But no trees and no flowers of my country are
there
They speak not unto me they heed not my care;
For ah! the poor exile is always alone.
v.
That brook murmurs softly its way through the
plain ;
But the brooks of my childhood had not the
same strain.
It reminds me of nothing it murmurs in vain ;
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone.
VI.
Sweet are those songs, but their sweetness or
sorrow
No charm from the songs of my infancy borrow.
I hear them to-day and forget them to-morrow
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone.
VII.
They've asked me, " Why weep you ?" I've told
them my woe
They listed my words, as the rocks feel the snow.
No sympathy bound us ; how could their tear*
flow ?
For, sure the poor exile is always alone.
VIII.
When soft on their chosen the young maidens
smile,
Like the dawn of the morn on Erin's dear isle,
With no love-smile to cheer me, I look on the
while ;
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone.
IX.
Like boughs round the tree are those babes
round their mother,
And these friends like its roots, clasp and grow
to each other ;
But, none call me child, and none call me
brother ;
For, ah ! the poor exile is ever alone.
x.
Wives never clasp, and friends never smile,
Mothers ne'er fondle, nor maidens beguile ;
And happiness dwells not, except in our isle,
And so the poor exile is always alone.
XI.
Poor exile, cease grieving, for all are like you
Weeping the banished, the lovely, and true.
Our country is heaven 'twill welcome you, too ;
And cherish the exile, no longer alone !
536
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
MY HOME.
A DREAM.
I HAVE dreamt of a home a happy home
The flakiest from it would not care to roam :
'Tvvas a cottage home on native ground,
Where all things glorious clustered round
For highland glen and lowland plain
Met within that small demesne.
In sight is a tarn, with cliffs of fear,
Where the eagle defies the mountaineer,
And the cataract leaps in mad career,
And through oak and holly roam the deer.
On its brink is a ruined castle, stern,
The mountains are crowned with rath and earn,
Robed with heather, and bossed with stone,
And belted with a pine-wood lone.
Thro' that mighty gap in the mountain chain,
Oft, like rivers after rain,
Poured our clans on the conquered plain.
And, there upon their harassed rear,
Oft pressed the Norman's bloody spear ;
Men call it " the pass of the leaping deer."
Wild is the region, yet gentle the spot
As you look on the roses, the rocks are forgot ;
For garden gay, and primrose lawn
Peep through the rocks, as thro' night comes
dawn.
And see, by that burn the children piay ;
In that valley the village maidens stray,
Listing the thrush and the robin's lay,
Listing the burn sigh back to the breeze,
And hoping guess whom ? 'mong the thorn-trees.
Not yet, dear girls on the uplands green
Shepherds and flocks may still be seen.
Freemen's toils, with fruit and grain,
The valley fill, and clothe the plain.
There's the health which labor yields
Labor tilling its own fields.
Freed at length from stranger lord
From his frown, or his reward
Each the owner of his land,
Plenty springs beneath his hand.
Meet these men on land or sea
Meet them in council, war, or glee ;
Voice, glance, and mien, bespeak them free.
Welcome greets you at their hearth ;
Reverent they to age and worth ;
Yet prone to jest, and full of mirth.
Fond of song, and dance, and crowd '
Of harp, and pipe, and laughter loud ;
Their lay of love is low and bland,
Their wail for death is wild and grand ;
Awful and lovely their song of flame,
When they clash the chords in their country s
name.
They seek no courts, and own no sway,
Save the counsels of their elders gray ;
For holy love, and homely faith,
Rule their hearts in life and death.
Yet their rifles would flash, and their sabres smite.
And their pike-staffs redden in the fight,
And young and old be swept away,
Ere the stranger in their land should sway.
But the setting sun, ere he sink in the sea,
Flushes and flashes o'er crag and tree,
Kisses the clouds with crimson sheen,
And sheets with gold the ocean's green.
Where the stately frigate lies in the bay,
The friendly fleet of the Frenchman lay.
Yonder creek, and yonder shore
Echoed then the battle's roar ;
Where, on slope after slope, the west sun shines,
After the fight lay our conquering lines.
The triumph, though great, had cost us dear ;
And the wounded and dead were lying near
When the setting sun on our bivouac proud,
Sudden burst through a riven cloud,
An answering shout broke from our men
Wounds and toils were forgotten then,
And dying men were heard to pray
The light would last till they passed away
They wished to die on our triumph day.
We honored the omen, and thought on timca
gone,
And from chief to chief the word was passed on.
The " harp on the green" our land-flag should be,
And the sun through clouds bursting, our flag
at sea,
The green-borne harp o'er yon battery gleams,
From the frigate's topgallant the "sunburst'*
streams.
In that far-off isle a sainted sage
O
Built a lowly hermitage,
Where ages gone made pilgrimage.
1 Correct!;- aruit, the Irish name for the violin. ADTHOB'B NOT*
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
537
Over his grave, with what weird delight,
The gray trees swim in the Hooding light ;
How a halo clasps their solemn head,
Like heaven's breath on the rising dead
Longing and languid as prisoned bird,
With a powerless dream my heart is stirred.
And I pant to pierce beyond the toml>,
And see the light, or share the gloom.
But vainly for such power we pray,
God wills enough let man obey.
Two thousand years, 'mid sun and storm,
That tall tower has lifted its mystic form.
The yew-tree shadowing the aisle,
'Twixt airy arch and mouldering pile,
And nigh the hamlet that chapel fair
Show religion has dwelt, and is dwelling there.
While the Druid's crom-leac up the v;ile
Tells how rites may change, and creeds may fail,
Creeds may perish, and rites may fall,
But that hamlet worships the God of all.
In the land of the pious, free, and brave,
Was the happy home that sweet dream gave.
But the mirth, and beauty, and love that dwell
Within that home I may not tell.
THE lady's son rode by the mill :
The trees were murmuring on the hill,
But in the valley they were still,
And seemed with heat to cower :
They said that he should be a priest,
For so had vowed his sire deceased ;
They should have told him too, at least,
To fly from Fanny Power.
ii.
The lonely student fete his breast
Was like an empty linnet's nest,
Divinely moulded to be blt^t,
Yet pining hour by hour :
For, see, amid the orchard trees,
Her green gown kirtled to her knees,
Adown the brake, like whispering breeze,
Went lightsome Fanny Power.
in.
ller eyes cast down a mellow light
Upon her neck of glancing white,
Like starshine on a snowy night,
Or moonshine on a tower
She sang he thought her songs were hymns,
An angel's grace was in her limbs ;
The swan that on Lough Erne swims
Is rude to Fanny Power.
IV.
Returned, he thought the convent dull,
At best a heavy heartless lull
No hopes to cheer, no flowers to cull,
No sunshine and no shower.
The Abbot sent him to his cell,
And spoke of penance and of hell ;
But nothing in his heart to quell
The love of Fanny Power.
v.
lie dreamed of her the livelong day,
At evening, when he tried to pray,
Instead of other Saints, he'd say,
holy Fanny Power!
How happier seemed an exile's lot
Than living there, unlov'd, forgot ;
And, oh, best joy ! to share his cot
His own dear Fanny Power.
'Tis vain to strive with Passion's might-
He left the convent walls one night,
And she was won to join his flight
Before he wooed an hour ;
So, flying to a freer land,
lie broke his vow at Love's command,
And placed a ring upon the hand
Of happy Fanny Power.
MARIE NANGLE; OR, THE SEVEN SIS-
TERS OF NAVAN.
A FRAGMENT.
OH ! there were sisters, sisters seven,
As bright as any stars in heaven ;
Save one, they all were snowy white,
And she like oriental night :
Yet she was like unto the rest,
Had all their softness in her breast,
Their lights and shadows in her face,
And in her figure all their grace ;
The brightest, she of all the seven.
Yet all were bright, as stars in heaven.
53*
THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS.
ii.
They had true lovers, every one,
Except the fairest she had none ;
Or rather say that she returned
Their love to none who for her burned ;
For Marie's timid, Marie's mild,
And on her spirit undefiled
St. BrigidV nuns their thoughts have bent;
She flies her sister's merrimc.nt.
They say they'll marry, every one,
But Marie says she'll be a Nun.
in.
*' Oh ! wait a while," her father said,
*' Sweet Marie, wait till I am dead."
The Nuns, tor this, more firmly sought
To wean her from each earthly thought.
Oh ! you were made for God, not man,
'Twas thus their pious plea began ;
For much these pale recluses feared,
As her gay sisters' nuptials neared.
" Oh ! wait awhile," the Baron said,
" Sweet Marie wait till they arc wed."
IV.
A novice now, sweet Marie dwells
Within dark Odder's sacred cells ;
Yet on her sisters' wedding day
She joins the chivalrous array.
The brides were sweeter than their flowers,
The bridegrooms came from 'haughty towers,
For Nangle's 2 daughters are beneath
No lordly hand in lordly Meath.
The novice heart of Marie swells,
" Oh, dark," she sighs, " are Odder's cells !"
v.
Yet vainly on that wedding day
Her sisters and their gay grooms pray
She grieves to part with those so dear,
But she is filled with pious fear ;
While Tuite and Tyrrell urged in vain,
Her tears fell down like Munster rain
Malone and Bellew, Taaffe and Dease 3
" Oh, cease," she says, "in pity cease,
Or I must leave your wedding gay,
In Odder's walls to fast and pray."
1 Of Odder, a nunnery dedicated to St. Bride or Brigid in the
ounty Menth, parish of ttkreen, in the twelfth century.
2 The Nangles were Barons of the Nsvan, and figure much In
the history of tbe 1'ale.
8 Tis clear the Nnngles knew their rank, for rb
nmong the best in Moath.
names were
VI.
The marriage rites are bravely done ;
But what ails her, the novice Nun ?
Oh ! never had she seen an eye
Look into hers so tenderly.
" Methinks that deep and mellow voice
Would make the Abbess' self-rejoice ;
He's sure the Saint I dreamt upon
Not Barnewell of Trimleston.
In holy Land his spurs he won
What aileth me, a novice Nun ?"
*****
[It is but a fragment of a Ballad, which some of Davis's friend*
are sure was completed. No more, however, than the above wss
ever printed ]
MY GRAVE.
SHALL they bury me in the deep,
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep ?
Shall they dig a grave for me,
Under the green-wood tree f
Or on the wild heath,
Where the wilder breath
Of the storm doth blow ?
Oh, no ! oh, no !
Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes .'
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore ;
Yet not there nor in Greece, though I love it
more.
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find ?
Shall my ashes career on the world seeing wind I
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground ?
J ust as they fall they are buried so
Oh, no! oh, no!
No ! on an Irish green hill-side,
On an opening lawn but not too wide ;
For I love the drip of the wetted trees
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze,
To freshen the turf put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair;
Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew,
The matted grass-roots may trickle through.
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
" HE SERVED HIS COUNTRY, AND LOVED tII9
KIND."
Oh ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,
It' one were sure to be buried so.
APPENDIX.
D+ep runk in that bed is the noord of Monroe,
Since, tteixt it and Donagh? he mtt Owen Roe.
Page 484.
The Blackwater, in Ulster, is especially remarkable
as the scene of the two most remarkable victories ob-
tained by the Irish over the English power for several
centuries past. The particulars of these battles are
so little known, that it is hoped the following ac-
counts of them, taken from the best accessible sources,
will be acceptable to the reader. The first is from
the pen of Mr. DAVIS.
THE BATTLE OP BENBURB.
(5Tu JUNE, 1046.)
The battle of Benburb was fought upon the slopes
of ground, now called the Thistle Hill, from being
the property of the Thistles, a family of Scotch farm-
ers, now represented by a fine old man of over eighty
years. This ground is two and a quarter miles in a
right line, or three by the road, from the Church of
Benburb, and about six miles below Caledon, in the
county Tyrone ; in the angle between the Blackwater
and the Oonagh, on the Benburb side of the latter,
and close to Battleford Bridge. We are thus particu-
lar in marking the exact place, because of the blun-
ders of many writers on it.
Major-General Robert Monro landed with several
thousand Scots at Carrickfergus, in the middle of
April, 1642, and on the 28th and 29th was joined by
Lord Conway and Colonel Chichester, &c., with 1,800
foot, five troops of horse, and two of dragoons. Early
in May, a junction was effected between Monro and
Tichborne, and an army of 12,000 foot, and between
1,000 and 2,000 horse, was made up. Yet, with this
vast force, Monro achieved nothing but plunder, un-
less the treacherous seizure of Lord Antrim be an ex-
ception. Thus was the spring of 1642 wasted. Yet,
> So this line runs, as originally pnblished, nn<l likewise Jn the
Uil of the present edition. But I have strong suspicion that the
author wrote it, "Since 'twixt It nn.l Onitfffi." .Vr. iiu-miltix the
iTr Oonkgb Vide 'Inscription of the buttle, especially the first
so overwhelming was Monro's force, that the Irish
Chiefs were thinking of giving up the war, when, on
the 13th of July, OWEN ROE MAC- ART O'NEILL land-
ed at Doe Castle, county Donegal, and received the
command.
Owen Roe was born in Ulster, and at an early age
entered the Spanish the imperial service, influ
enced, doubtless, by the same motives that led Mar-
shal MacDonald into the French ihat " the gates of
promotion were closed at home." Owen, from hia
great connexions, and greater abilities, rose rapidly,
and held a high post in Catalonia. We have heard,
through Dr. Qartland, the worthy head of the Sala-
manca College, that Eugenlo Rufo is still remem-
bered there. He held Arras in 1040 against the
French, and (says Carte) " surrendered it at last upon
honorable terms, yet his conduct in the defence was
such as gave him great reputation, and procured him
extraordinary respect even from the enemy."
Owen was sent for at the first outbreak in 1 041,
but it was not till the latter eud of June, 1642, that
he embarked for Dunkirk, with many of the officers
and men of his own regiment, and supplies of arms.
He sailed round the north of Scotland to Donegal,
while another frigate brought similar succors to
Wexford, under Henry O'Neill and Richard O'Far-
rell. Owen was immediately conducted to Charle-
mont, and invested with the command of Ulster.
Immediately on Owen's landing, Lesley, Earl of
Leven, and General of the Scotch troops, wrote to
him, saying, " He was sorry a man of his reputation
and experience abroad, should come to Ireland for
the maintaining of so bad a cause ;" and advising his
return ! O'Neill replied, " He had more reason to
come to relieve the deplorable state of his country,
than Lesley had to march at the head of an army
into England against his king, at a time when they
(the Scots) wore already masters of all Scotland." No
contrast could be greater or better put. Lord Levan
immediately embarked for Scotland, telling Monro,
whom he left in command, " that he would certainly
paragraph. I wouM not, however, alter the text, without >in*
search after the original MS. ; or, In default of thnt. a critical ex-
amination of the topography of a district. In the description of
which so many errors hare been committed. Ki>.
540
APPENDIX.
be ousted, if O'Neill once got an army together."
And so it turned out. Owen sustained himself for
four years against Monro on one side and Ormond on
the other harassed by the demands of the other
provincial generals, and distressed for want of pro-
visions defying Monro by any means to compel him
to fight a battle until he was ready for it. But at
length, having his troops in fine fighting order, he
fought and won the greatest battle fought in Ireland
since the " Yellow Ford." But we must tell how this
came about.
Throughout 1642, and in the summer of 1643,
Monro made two attempts to beat up O'Neill's quar-
ters ; and though the Irish General had not one-tenth
of Monro's force, he compelled him to retire with loss
into Antrim and DOW T U. Assailed by Stewart's army
on the Donegal side, Owen Roe retreated into Long-
ford and Leitrim, hoping in the rugged districts to
nurse up an army which would enable him to meet
Monro in the field.
By the autumn of 164:j, after having suffered many
trifling losses, he had got together a militia army of
3,000 men, and the cessation having been concluded,
he inarched into Meath, joined Sir James Dillon, and
reduced the entire district. In 1644, Monro's army
amounting to 13,000 men, O'Neill, after having for a
short time occupied a great part of Ulster, again re-
turned to North Leinster. Here he was joined by
Lord Castlehaven with 6,000 men ; but except trifling
skirmishes, no engagement took place, and Castle-
haven returned, disgusted with a war, which he had
not patience to value, nor profundity to practise.
1645 passed over in similar skirmishes, in which the
country suffered terribly from the plundering of
Monro's army.
The leaders under Owen Roe were, Sir Pheliui
O'Neill, and his brother Turlough ; Con, Cormac,
Hugh, and Brian O'Neill ; and the following chief-
tains with their clans : Bernard MacMahon, the son
of Hugh, chief of Monaghan, and Baron of Dartry ;
Colonel MacMahon, Colonel Patrick MacNeny (who
was married to Helen, sister of Bernard MacMahon) ;
Colonel Richard O'Ferrall of Longford, Roger Ma-
guire of Fermanagh ; Colonel Philip O'Reilly of
Ballynacargy castle in the county of Cavan (who was
married to Rose O'Neill, the sister of Owen Roe) ;
and the valiant Maolmora O'Reilly (kinsman to Phil-
ip), who, from his great strength and determined
bravery, was called Miles the Slasher. The O'Reillys
brought 200 chosen men of their own name, and of
the MacBradys, MacCabes, MacGowans, Fitzpatricks,
and Fitzsimons, from Cavan. Some fighting men
were also brought by MacGauran of Templeport, and
MacTeruan of Croghau ; some Connaught forces
came with the O'Rorkes, MacDermotts, O'Connors,
and O'Kelleys ; there came also some of the O'Don-
nells and O'Doghertys of Donegal ; Mantis O'Cane of
Derry ; Sir Constantino Magenuis, county of Down ;
the O'Hanlons of Armagh, regal standard-bearers of
Ulster ; and the O'Hagans of Tyrone.
Lords Blaney, Conway, and Montgomery com-
jianded under Monro.
In the spring of 1046, Owen Roe met the Nuncio
at Kilkenny, and received from the council an am
pier provision than heretofore ; and by May he had
completed his force under it, to 5,000 foot and 500
horse. This army consisted partly of veterans trained
by the four preceding campaigns, and partly of new
levies, whom he rapidly brought into discipline by
his organizing genius and his stern punishments.
With this force he marched into the county of Ar
magh, and Monro, hearing of his movements, ad-
vanced against him by rapid marches, hoping to sur-
prise him in Armagh city. Monro's forces consisted,
according to all the best authorities, of 6,000 foot, 800
horse, and 7 field-pieces ; though some accounts raise
his foot to 8,500, and he himself lowers it in his apol-
ogetic dispatch to 3,400, and states his field-pieces
at 6.
Simultaneously with Monro's advance, his brother,
Colonel George Monro, marched from Coleraine,
along the west shore of Loch Neagh, with three
troops of horse ; and a junction was to have been
effected between the two Monros and the Tyrconnell
forces at Glasslough, a place in the county Mona-
ghau, but only a few miles S. W. of Armagh. On
the 4th of June, Owen Roe marched from Glasslough
to Benburb, confident, by means of the river and
hilly country, that he could prevent the intended
junction. Monro bivouacked the same night at
Hamilton's Bawn, four miles from Armagh. Before
dawn on Friday, the 5th, Monro marched to Armagh
town, burning houses, and wasting crops as he ad-
vanced. Fearful lest his brother, who had reached
Dungaunon, should be cut off, he marched towards
Benburb, and on finding the strength of the Irish
position there, advanced up the right bank of the
Blackwater, hoping to tempt Owen from his ground.
In the mean time a body of Irish horse, detached
against George Monro, had met him near Dungan-
non, and checked his advance, though with some
loss.
A good part of the day was th us spent, and it was
two o'clock in the afternoon before Monro crossed the
Bla'ckwater at Kinaird (now Caledon), and led hia
army down the left bank of the river against O'Neill.
This advance of Owen's to Ballykilgavin was only to
consume time, and weary the enemy, for he shortly
after retreated to Knocknacliagh, where he had de-
termined to fight. It was now past four o'clock,
when the enemy's foot advanced in a double line of
columns. The first line consisted of five, and the
second of four columns, much too close for manoeu-
vring. The Irish front consisted of four, and the re-
serve of three divisions, with ample room.
O'Neill's position was defended on the right by a
wet bog, and on the left by the junction of the Black-
water and the Oonagh, In his front was rough,
hillocky ground, covered " with scrogs and bushes."
Lieutenant-Colonel Richard O'Farrell occupied
some strong ground in advance of Owen's position,
but Colonel Cunningham, with 500 musketeers
and the field-pieces, carried the pass, and O'F>tr-
rell effected his retreat with little loss, and no dis-
order. The field-guns were pushed in advance by
THE BATTLE OF BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUID1IE.
541
Monro with most of bis cavalry, but Owen kept the
main body of bis borse in reserve.
A^ood deal of skirmishing took place, and though
the enemy bad gained much ground, his soldiers
were growing weary ; it was five o'clock, and the
evening sun of a clear and firry June glared in their
faces. While in this state, a body of cavalry was seen
advancing from the northwest ; Monro declared them
to be bis brother's squadrons, and became confident
lit success. But a few minutes sufficed to undeceive
him they were the detachments, under Colonels
Bernard MacMahon, and Patrick MacNeney, return-
ing from Dungannon, after having driven George
Monro back ujxjn his route.
The Scotch musketeers continued for some time to
gain ground along the banks of the Oonagh, and
threatened Owen's left, till the light cavalry of the
Irish broke in among them, sabred many, drove the
pest across the stream, and returned without any
loss. The battle now became general. The Scotch
cannon, posted on a slope, annoyed O'Neill's centre,
and there seemed some danger of Mouro's manoeu-
vring to the west sufficiently to communicate with
George Monro's corps. Owen, therefore, decided on
a general attack, keeping only Kory Maguire's regi-
ment as a reserve. His foot moved oil in steady
columns, and his horse in the spaces between the
first and second charge of his masses. In vain did
Monro's cavalry charge this determined infantry; it
threw back from its face ssquadron after squadron,
tind kept constantly, rapidly, and evenly advancing.
In vain did Lord Blaney take pike in baud, and
ptaml in the ranks. Though exposed to the play of
Monro's guns and musketry, the Irish infantry
charged up hill without firing a shot, and closed with
sabre and pike. They met a gallant resistance, j
Blaucy and his men held their ground long, till the :
superior vivacity and freshness of the Irish clansmen
bore him down.
An attempt was made with the columns of the rear
line to regain the ground ; but from the confined
space in which they were drawn up, the attempt to
manoeuvre them only produced disorder ; and just at
this moment, to complete their ruin, O'Neill'p cavalry,
wheeling l.y the Hunks of his columns, charged th
Scotch cavalry, and drove them pell-mull upon the
shaken and confused infantry. A total rout followed.
Monro, Lord Conway, Captain Burke, and forty of
the horsemen escaped across the Blackwater, but
most of the foot were cut to pieces, or drowned in the
river ; 3,423 of the enemy were found on the battle-
field, and Lord Montgomery, with 21 officers, and 150
men, were taken prisoners. O'Neill lost 70 killed
(including Colonel Man us, MacNYill, and Garve
O'Donnell), and 200 wounded (including Lieutenant-
Colonel O'Farrell and Phelim MacTiiohill O'Neill).
He took all the Scots artillery, twenty stand of colors,
and all the arms, save those of Sir James Mont-
gomery, whose regiment, being on Monro's extreme
right, effected its retreat in some order. 1,500 draft
horses, and two mouths' provisions were also taken,
but, unfortunately, Monro's ammunition blew up
shortly after the battle was won. Mouro fled without
coat or wig to Lisburn. Moving from thence, he
commanded every household to furnish two musket-
eers ; he wrote an a|X)logetic and deceptions dispatch
to the Irish committee in London, burnt Dundrum,
and deserted most of Down. But all bis efforts would
have been in vain ; for O'Neill, having increased his
army by Scotch deserters and fresh levies, to 10,000
foot and 21 troo)>s of horse, was in the very uct of
breaking in on him, with a certainty of expelling the
last invader from Ulster, when the fatal command of
the Nuncio reached Owen at Tanderagee, ordering
him to march southward to support that factious
ecclesiastic against the peace. O'Neill, in an un-
happy hour, obeyed the Nuncio, abandoned the fruits
of bis splendid victory, and marched to Kilkenny.
II.
And ClutrleinonVs cannon
Sltie many a man on
T/tese mfailows M
r. Page 484.
The following passage will sufficiently explain this
allusion :
" Early in June (1602) Lord Mountjoy marched by
Dundalk to Armagh, and from thence, without inter-
ruption, to the banks of the Blackwater, about five
miles to the eastward of Portmore, and nearer to
Loch Ncagh. He sent Sir Richard Moiyson to thu
north bank of the river, commenced the building of
a bridge at that point, and a castle, which he named
Charlemont, from his own Christian name, and sta-
tioned a garrison of one hundred and fifty men there
under the command of Captain Toby Caulfield the
founder of a noble family, which has held that spot
from that day to this ; but which afterwards (as is
usual with settlers in Ireland) became more Irish
than many of the Irish themselves." MitcM's Life
of Aodh O'Neil, p. 219 ; vide Irish Penny Jntrnml
for 184X-2, p. 217.
IH.
A ri't yonder Rtd Hugh
M'lrthtil Hagennl o'erthwo
On l>tal-an-at/ia-bnidhe. Page 4 s
THE BATTLE OF BKAL-AN-ATIIA-HUIDUK.
(lOrn AUGUST, 151)5.)
" The tenth morning of August rose bright and
serene u]x>n the towers of Armagh, and the silver
waters of Avonmore. Before day dawned, the Eng-
li-h army left the city in three divisions, and at aim-
rise they were winding through the hills and woods
behind the spot where now stands the little church
of Grange. The sun was glancing 'n the corslott
and spears of their glittering cavalry ; their banner?
542
APPENDIX.
waved proudly, and their bugles rang clear in the
morning air ; when, suddenly from the thickets on
both sides of their path, a deadly volley of musketry
swept through the foremost ranks. O'Neill had sta-
tioned here five hundred light-armed troops to guard
the denies ; and in the shelter of thick groves of fir-
trees they had silently waited for the enemy. Now
they poured in their shot, volley after volley, and
killed great numbers of the English ; but the first
division, led by Bagnal in person, after some hard
fighting, carried the pass, dislodged the marksmen
from their position, and drove them backwards into
the plain. The centre division, under Cosby and
Wingfield, and the rear-guard, led by Cuin and
Billing, supported in flank by the cavalry under
Brooke, Montacute, and Fleming, now pushed for-
ward, speedily cleared the difficult country, and
'brined in the open ground in front of the Irish lines.
It was not quite safe,' says an Irish chronicler (in
admiration of Bagnal's disposition of his forces) ' to
attack the nest of griffins and den of lions in which
were placed the soldiers of London.' Bagnal, at the
head of his first division, and aided by a body of
cavalry, charged the Irish light-armed troops up to
the very intrenchments, in front of which O'Neill's
foresight had prepared some pits, covered over with
wattles and grass ; and many of the English cavalry,
rushing impetuously forward, rolled headlong, both
men and horses, into these trenches, and perished.
Still the Marshal's chosen troops, with loud cheers,
and shouts of ' St. George, for merry England !' res-
olutely attacked the intrenchments that stretched
across the pass, battered them with cannon, and in
one place succeeded, though with heavy loss, in
forcing back their defenders. Then first the main
body of O'Neill's troops was brought into action ; and
with bagpipes sounding a charge, they fell upon the
English, shouting their fierce battle-cries, Lamli-
deary ! and 0' Dhomhnaill Abu ! O'Neill himself, at
the head of a body of horse, pricked forward to seek
out Bagnal amidst the throng of battle ; but they
never met : the marshal, who had done his devoir
that day like a good soldier, was shot through the
brain by some unknown marksman ; the division he
had led was forced back by the furious onslaught of
the Irish, and put to utter rout ; and, what added to
their confusion, a cart of gunpowder exploded amidst
the English ranks, and blew many of their men to
atoms. And now the cavalry of Tyr-connell and
Tyr-owen dashed into the plain, and bore down the
remnant of Brooke's and Fleming's horse ; the col-
umns of Wingfield and Cosby reeled before their
rushing charge while in front, to the war-cry of
BntaiUa Abu ! the swords and axes of the heavy-
armed galloglasses were raging amongst the Saxon
ranks. By this time the cannon were all taken ; the
cries of ' St. George' had failed, or turned into death-
shrieks ; and once more, England's royal standard
sunk before the Red Hand of Tyr-owen.
" The last who resisted was the traitor O'Reilly ;
twice he tried to rally the flying squadrons, but was
slain in the attempt : and at last the whole of that
fine army was utterly routed, and fled pellmell to-
wards Armagh, with the Irish hanging fiercely oa
their rear. Amidst the woods and marshes all con-
nection and order were speedily lost ; and as OTVn
nell's chronicler has it, they were ' pursued in couples
in threes, in scores, in thirties, and in hundreds '
and so cut down in detail by their avenging pursu-
ers. In one spoi, especially, the carnage was ter-
rible, and the country people yet point out the lane
where that hideous rout passed by, and call it to this,
day the ' Bloody Loaning.' Two thousand five hun-
dred English were slain in the battle and flight,
including twenty-three superior officers, besides lieu
tenants and ensigns. Twelve thousand gold pieces,
thirty-four standards, all the musical instruments
and cannon, with a long train of provision wagons*
were a rich spoil for the Irish army. The confed'
erates had only two hundred slain and six hundred
wounded.
MitcheFs Life of Aod/i O'Neill, pp. 141-144,
IV.
CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS. PAGE 486.
This poem has less title than any other in Part 1
to be ranked among National (i. e., either in subject,
or by aim or allusion, Irish) Ballads and Songs, un-
less the affinity of the Cymric with the Irish Celts,
and the fact that the author himself was of Welsh
extraction by the father's side, be considered a suf-
ficient justification.
Mr. Davis was very fond of the air " The March
of the Men of Harlech," to which this poem is set.
To evince his strong partiality for, and sympathy
with the Welsh people, it is enough to quote the
following passage from one of his political essays :
"We just now opened M'Culloch's Geographical
Dictionary to ascertain some Welsh statistics, and
found at the name ' Wales' a reference to ' England
and Wales,' and at the latter title nothing distinct
on the Principality ; and what was there was rather
inferior to the information on Cumberland, or most
English counties.
" And has time, then, we said, mouldered away
that obstinate and fiery tribe of Celts, which baffled
the Plantagenets, which so often trod upon the
breastplates of the Norman, which sometimes bent
in the summer, but ever rose when the fierce ele-
ments of winter came to aid the native ? Has that
race passed away, which stood under Llewellyn, and
rallied under Owen Glendower, and gave the Dragon
flag and Tudor kings to England? Is the prophecy
of twelve hundred years false are the people and
tongue passed away ?
" No ! spite of the massacre of bards, and the
burning of records spite of political extinction,
there is a million of these Kymrys in Wales and its
marches ; and nine out of ten of these speak their
old tongue, follow their old customs, sing the song?
which the sleepers upon Snowdon made, have thei
THE FATE OF KING DATEII.
543
religious rites in Kyinric, and hate the Logrian as
much as ever their fathers did. . . .
" Twenty-nine Welsh members could do much if
united, more especially if they would co-operate with
the Irish and Scotch members in demanding their
share ot the imperial expenditure ; or what would
lie safer and better, in agitating for a local council to
administer the local affairs of the Principality. A
million of the Kymry, who are still apart in their
mountains, who have immense mineral resources,
and some good harbors, one (Milford) the best in
Britain, and who are of our blood, nearly of our old
and un-English language, .have as good a right to a
local senate as the 700,000 people of (i recce, or the
half million of Cassel or Mecklenburgh have to inde-
pendence, or as each of the States of America has to
a local congress. Localization by means of Federal-
ism seems the natural and best resource of a country
like Wales to guard its puree, and language, and
character from imperial oppression, and its soil from
foreign invasion. As powers run, it is not, like Ire-
land, quite able, if free, to hold her own ; but it has
importance enough to entitle it to a local congress
for its local affairs."
THE IRISH HURRAH. PAGE 488.
The second stanza of this poem, as it appears in
the text, was omitted by the author in a later copy ;
it would seem, with a view of adapting it better 10
the air to which it is set.
VI.
A CHRISTMAS SCENE. PAGE 499.
The first sketch of this poem differs a good deal
from that in the text. It is so pleasing, that it is
given here as originally published. It was then en-
titled
A CHRISTMAS OAKOL.
The hill-blast comes howling from leaf-rifted trees.
Which late were as harp-strings to each pun tie broeie;
The sportsmen have parted, the bluo-btockings gone,
While we sit happy-hearted together, alone.
The glory of natnre through the window has charms,
But within, gentle Kate, you're entwined in my arum;
The sportsmen may seek for snipe, woodcock, ami Imrc
The snow Is on their cheek, on mine your black hair.
The painters may rave o. the light and tbe *bade,
The I'liifx and the poets of lake, hill, and glade ;
Wlille the light of your eye, and your soft wavy form,
fait a proser like me by the hearth bright niul warm.
My Kate. I'm so hiippy, your voice wl.lp-m fort.
And your ohei'k Iln*hvs wilder by klwiiit; si oft ;
Should our Ulss ((row less fond, or the weather ocrene,
Fortii together we'll wander to see each lovd scene.
And at eve, as the sportsmen and pedants will cy,
As tlioy swallow their dinner, how they spent the day,
Your eye, roguish-smiling, to me only will say
That more sweetly than any. you and I spent tbe day.
VII.
THE FATE OF KINO DATIII. PAGE 503.
The real adventures of this warlike king, the last
of the Pagan monarchs of Ireland, and likewise the
last who extended his conquests to the continent of
Europe, are, like too much of the ancient annals of
the country, obscured by the mixture <* pious or ro-
mantic legends with authentic history. An accurate
account of Dathi, and his immediate predecessors,
will be found in the addenda to Mr. O'Donovan's ex-
cellent edition of the "Tribes and Customs of the
Ui-Fiachruch," printed for the Irish Archaeological
Society ; from which the following passages are
extracted.
"In the lifetime of Niall of the Nine Hostages,
Brian, his brother Of the half-blood, became King of
Connaught, and his second brother of the half-blood,
Fiachra, the ancestor of the O'Dowds and all the
Ui-Fiachrach tribes, became chief of the district ex-
tending from Carn Fearadhaigh, near Limerick, to
Magh Mucroime, near Athenry. But dissensions soon
arose bstween Brian and his brother Fiachra, and the
result was that a battle was fought between them, in
which the latter was defeated, and delivered as a host-
age into the hands of his half-brother, Niall of the
Nine Hostages. After this, however, Dathi, a very
warlike youth, waged war on his Uncle Brian, and
challenged him to a pitched battle, at a place called
Damh-cluain, not far from Knockmea-hill, near Tuam.
In this battle, in which Dathi was assisted by Crim-
thann, son of Enna Ceuuseloch, King of Leinster
Brian and his forces were routed, and pursued from
the field of battle to Fulcha Domhnaill, where he wa
overtaken and slain by Crhnthann. . . .
" After the fall of Brian, Fiachra was set at liberty
and installed King of Connaught, and enjoyed that
dignity for twelve years, during which period he waa
general of the forces of his brother Niall. According
to the book of Lecau. this Fiachra had five sons, ol
which the most eminent were Dathi, and Amhalgaidii
(vulgo, A wiry), King of Connaught, who died in the
year 449. The seven sons of this Amhalgaidh, to-
gether with twelve thousand men, are said to have
been baptized in one day by St. Patrick, at Forrach
Mac n'Amhalgaidh, near Killala.
" On the death of his father Fiachra, Dathi became
King of Counaught, and on the death of his untie
Niall of the Nine Hostages, he became Monarch ol
I, h aving the government of Connaught to hi*
544
APPENt>iX.
le*6 war'ike brrther Amhalgaidh. King Datlii, fol-
lowing the example of his predecessor, Nis.ll, not only
invaded the coasts of Gaul, but forced his way to the
veiy foot of the Alps, where he was killed by a flash
of lightning, leaving the throne of Ireland to be
filled by a line of Christian kings."
Tribes and Customs of the Ui-Fiachrach Addenda,
pp. 344-6.
VIII.
ARGAN MOR PAGE 504.
Mr. Davis was very fond of the air for which this
poeni was composed, and which suggested its name.
It is a simple air, of great antiquity, preserved in
Bunting's Third Collection, where it is No. V. of the
airs marked "very ancient." The following is Mr.
Bunting's account of it :
"Argan Mor. An Ossianic air, still sung to the
words preserved by Dr. Young, and published in the
first volume of the Transactions of the Hoyal Irish
Academy. The editor took dbwn the notes from the
singing, or rather recitation, of a native of Murloch,
in the county of Antrim. This sequestered district
lies along the seashore, between Tor Point and Fair
Head, and is still rife with traditions, both musical
and legendary. From the neighboring ports of
Cushendun and Cushendall was the principal line of
communication with Scotland ; and, doubtless, it was
by this route that the Ossianic poems themselves
found their way into that country." Ancient Musi*,
of Ireland. Preface, p. 88.
IX.
THE TKUE Iiusn KING. PAGE 505.
In an essay on Ballad History, Mr. Davis refers to
this poem, as an attempt to show how the materials
and hints, scattered through antiquarian volumes,
may be brought together and presented with effect
in a poetical form. The subject is one involved in
unusual obscurity, considering its importance in Irish
History. The chief notices of the custom have been
collected by Mr. O'Donovan in the Addenda to his
edition of the Tribes and Customs of the Ui-Fiddirch,
pp. 425-452, to which work the reader is referred
who may wish to trace the disjecta membra poemutis,
in the scattered hints and traditions of which Mr.
Davis has availed himself.
X.
RETUHN. PAGE 510.
Che following description was prefixed to this ballad
bj the author, on its first publication :
1 - Among other places which were neither yielded nor taken to
the eud they should l>e delivered to the English. Don Juan tied
himself to deliver tny castle and liuveii, the only key <>(' mine
ulieritanca whereupon the living of many thousand person
" Tlilo hul'.ad i a founded on an ill-remembered Btc.ry
of an Irish chief, returning after long absence on the
Continent, and being wrecked and drowned close to
his own castle.
"The scene is laid in Ban try Bay, which runs up
into the county of Cork, in a northeasterly direction.
A few miles from its mouth, on your left hand as you
go up, lies Beare Island (about seven miles long), and
between it and the mainland of Beare lies Beare
Haven, one of the finest harbors in the world. Dun-
boy Castle, near the present Castletown, was on tho
main, so as to command the southwestern entrance
to the haven.
" Furth*er up, along the same shore of Beare, ia
Adragoole, a small gulf off Bantry Bay.
" The scene of the wreck is at the southeastern
shore of Beare Island. A ship steering from Spain,
by Mix.enhead for Dunboy, and caught by a southerly
gale, if unable to round the point of Beare and to
make the Haven, should leave herself room to run up
the bay, towards Adragoole, or some other shelter."
XI.
Dunbwy is lying l>wly.
Tlie halls where mirth and minstrelsy
. Than Jleara's wind rose louder,
Are flung in masses lonelily,
And black with Enylisk pnwder.
Page 512.
The destruction of O'Sullivan's C'astle of Dunboy
or Dunbwy (correctly Dunbaoi or Dunbuidhe) is well
described by Mr. Mitchel :
" Mountjoy spent that spring in Munster, with the
President, reducing those fortresses which still re-
mained in the hands of the Irish, and fiercely crush-
ing down every vestige of the national war. Richard
Tyrrell, however, still kept the field ; and O'Sullivau
Beare held his strong castle of Dun-buidhe, which ho
wrested from the Spaniards after Don Juan had
stipulated to yield it to the enemy. 1 This castle
commanded Bantry Bay, and was one of the most
important fortresses in Munster, and therefore Carew
determined, at whatever cost, to make himself master
of it. Dun-buidhe was but a square tower, with a
courtyard and some outworks, and had but 140
men ; yet it was so strongly situated, and so bravely
defended, that it held the Lord President and an
army of four thousand men, with a great train of
artillery and some ships of war, fifteen days before
its walls. After a breach was made, the storming
parties were twice driven back to their lines ; and
even after the great hall of the castle was carried, the
garrison, under their indomitable commander, Mac
(Jeohegan, held their ground in the vaults under-
neath for a whole day, and at last fairly beat the
doth rest, that live some twenty leagues upon the eeticost,
into thi' hands of my cruel, cursed, misbelieving enemies."
Leltar uf Donald O'Sullivan Beare to the King of Spain. I'ac
Hib.
A KALLV FOR IRELAND.
545
1/esiegers out of the hall. The English cannon then
p'ayed furiously upon the walls; and the President
swore to bury these obstinate Irish under the ruins.
Again a desperate sortie was made by forty men
they were all slain : eight of them leaped into the
Boa to save themselves by swimming; but I'aivw,
anticipating this, had stationed Captain Harvy ' with
three boats to keep the sea, but had the killing of
them all ;' and at last, after Mac Geohegan was mortal-
ly wounded, the remnant of the garrison laid down
their arms. Mac Geohegan lay, bleeding to death, on
the floor of the vault ; yet when he saw the besiegers
admitted, he raised himself up, snatched a lighted
torch, and staggered to an open powder-barrelone
moment, and the castle, with all it contained, would
have rushed skyward in a pyramid of flame, when
suddenly an English soldier seized him in his arms ;
he was killed on the spot, and all the rest were shortly
after executed. ' The whole number of the ward,'
says Carew, ' consisted of one hundred and forty-
three selected men, being the best choice of all their
forces, of which not one man escaped, but were either
slain, executed, or buried in the ruins ; and so obsti-
nate a defence hath not been seen within this king-
dom.' Perhaps some will think that the survivors
of so brave a band deserved a better fate than hang-
tog."
Afitchel's life of Aodh O'JfeUl, pp. 216-218.
XII.
LAMKNT FOR OWEN ROE O'NEILL. PAGE 514.
The ra"<t notable events in the career of this great
rhieftain .rill be found in the account of the Battle of
Iknburb, ante, p. 539. The closing scenes of his
lit'" were briefly narrated as follows, by Mr. Davis,
In a little sketch, published with this poem when it
first appeared :
" Tn 1649, the country being exhausted, Owen
made a truce with Monk, Coote, and the Indepen-
dentsa truce observed on both sides, though Monk
was severely censured by the English Parliament for
it. (Journals, 10th August, 1649.) On its expiration,
O'Neill concluded a treaty with Ormond, 12th Oc-
toljer, 1649 ; and so eager was he for it, that ere it
was signed he sent over 3,000 men, under Major-
i" te-ral O'Farrell, to join Ormond (which they did
October 25th). Owen himself strove with all haste
t" follow, to encounter Cromwell, who had marched
south after the sack of Drogheda. But fate and an un-
scrupulous foe forbade. Poison, it is believed, had been
B iiim either at Merry, or shortly after. His con-
stitution struggled with it for some time ; slowly and
tanking, he marched through Tynino and Mnnaghan
into Cavan, and anxiously looked for by Ormond,
O Farrell.andthe southern corps and army lingered
till the 6th of November (St. Leonard's feast), when
he died at Clough Oughter Castle then the seat of
Maelmorra O'lleilly, and situated on a rock in Lough
Oughter, some six miles west of C-nvan. He was
buried, says Carte, in Cavan Abbey ; but report saj
his sepulchre was concealed, lest it should be violated
by the English. The news of his death reached Or
mond's camp when the duke was preparing to fight
Cromwell when Owen's genius and soldiers were
most needed. All writers (even to the sceptical Dr.
O'Conor, of Stowe) admit that, had Owen lived, he
would have saved Ireland. His gallantry, his influ-
ence, Ids genius, his soldiers, all combine to render it
probable. The rashness with which the stout bishop,
Ebher Mac Mahon, led 4,000 of Owen's veterans to
death at Letterkenny, the year after ; and the way in
which Ormoud frittered away the strength of O'Far-
rel's division (though 1,200 of them slew 2,000 of
Cromwell's men in the breach at Clonmel) and the
utter prostration which followed, showed Ireland how
great was her loss when Owen died.
"O'Farrell, Red Hugh O'Neill, and Mac Mahon
were Ulster generals ; Audley, Lord Castlehaven,
and Preston commanded in the south and east ; the
Marquis of Clanricarde was president of Connaught."
XIII.
A RALLY FOR IRELAND. PAGE 515.
There is no period in Irish, or in English History,
which has been so much misrepresented, or of which
so utterly discordant opinions are still entertained,
as the Revolution of 1688-91. The English history
of that revolution has been elaborately sifted, and its
hidden causes successively dragged to light by men
of remarkable eminence in literature and in politics.
It is sufficient to mention, in England, Mr. Fox, Sir
James Mackintosh, Mr. Hallain, Dr. Liugard, and Mr.
Ward ; in France, M. Thierry (Historical Essays.
No. VI.), M. Carrel, and M. De Mazire-and among
Irishmen, Mr. W. Wallace (Continuation of Mackin-
tosh's History), and Mr. Torreus Mac Cullagh (articles
in the " North of England Magazine" for 1842, and in
the " Dublin Magazine" for 1843). A minute study of
some, at least, of these writers Mr. Wallace's hi-story
is, perhaps, on the whole, the fairest and most com
prehensive is indispensable to a correct understand-
ing of the Irish question.
In the "Dublin Magazine" for 1843, January to
April, Mr. Davis devoted a series of papers to a critical
examination of some of the Irish authorities on this
subject, principally in regard to the Irish Parliament
of 1689. His aim was to vindicate the character of
that legislature, and to refute some of the most glar
ing falsehoods which had hitherto, by dint of impu-
dent reassert'ion, passed almost unquestioned by
Irishmen of every shade of political opinion. False-
hoods of a more injurious tendency have never been
current among a people ; and the effort to expose
them was with Mr. Davis a labor of zeal and love ;
for he knew well how much of the religious di-
sion which has been, and in the ruin of Ire-land, took
its rise from, and stands rooted in erroneous conrep
lions of that time. To these papers tl-o reader if
APPENDIX.
referred, who is anxious to form an accurate, and
withal a national judgment of the cardinal crisis in
Irish History.
How high the hopes of Ireland were at the com-
mencement of this struggle, and how she cherished
afterwards the memories and hopes bequeathed from
ii, is abundantly illustrated by the Jacobite Relics in
Mr. Hardman's Irish Minstrelsy, and in the more
recent collection of Mr. Daly.
XIV.
BALLADS AJ.JD SONGS OP THE BRIGADE.
PP. 518-524.
ou w^siderabie a space in thia volume is occupied
by poems, founded on the adventures and services of
khe Irish Brigade, that it seemed right to include
here the following sketch, written by Mr. Davis in
the year 1844 :
HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE IKISfl BRIGADE.
INTRODUCTION.
The foreign military achievements of the Irish
began on their own account. They conquered and
colonized Scotland, frequently overrun England dur-
ing and after the Roman dominion there, and more
than once penetrated into Gaul. During the time of
the Danish invasion they had enough to do at home.
The progress of the English conquest brought them
again to battle on foreign ground. It is a melan-
choly fact, that in the brigades wherewith Edward I.
ravaged Scotland, there were numbers of Irish and
Welsh. Yet Scotland may be con tent ; Wales and
Ireland suffered from the same baseness. The sacred
heights of Snowdon (the Parnassus of Wales) were
first forced by Gascon mountaineers, whose indepen-
dence had perished ; and the Scotch did no small
share of blood-work for England here, from the time
of Monro's defeats in the Seventeenth Century, to
the Fencible victories over drunken peasants in 1798.
In these levies of Edward I., as in those of his son.
were numbers of native Irish. The Connaught clans
in particular seem to have served these Plantagenets.
From Edward Bruce's invasion, the English control
was so broken that the Irish clans ceased to serve al-
together, and, indeed, shortly after made many of the
Anglo-Irish pay them tribute. But the lords of the
Pale took an active and prominent part in the wars
of the Roses ; and their vassals shared the victories,
the defeats, and the carnage of the time.
In the Continental wars of Edward III. and Henry
V., the Norman-Irish served with much distinction.
Henry VIII. demanded of the Irish government
,000 men, 1,000 of whom were, if possible, to be
gunners /:. e., armed with matclilocks. The services
of these Irish during the short war in France, and
especially at the siege of Boulogne, are well known.
At the submission of Ireland in 1003, O'Sullivan
Hearra, and some others excepted from the amnesty,
took service and obtained high rank in Spain : and
after the flight of O'Neill and O'Donnell in 1607,
numbers of Irish crowded into all the Continental ser-
vices. We find them holding commissions in Spain,
France, Austria, and Italy.
Scattered among " Strafford's Letters," various in-
dications are discoverable of the estimation in which
the Irish were held as soldiers in foreign services
during the early part of the seventeenth century.
The Spanish government, in particular, seems to have
been extremely desirous of enlisting in Ireland, their
own troops at that time being equal, if not superior,
to any in the world, especially their infantry.
Nor were the Irish troops less active for the English
king. Strafford had increased the Irish army. These-
he paid regularly, clothed well, and frequently " drew
out in large bodies." He meant to oppress, but dis-
cipline is a precious thing, no matter who teaches it
a Straftbrd or a Wellington ; and during the wars
which followed 1641, some of these troops he had
raised served Ireland. In 16u9, when the first row
with the Scotch took place, Wentworth was able to
send a garrison of 500 Irish to Carlisle, and other
forces to assist Charles. And the victories of Mon-
trose were owing to the valor and discipline of the
Irish auxiliaries under Colkitto (left handed) Alister
Mac Donnell.
Many of the Irish who had lost their fortunes by
the Cromwelliau wars, served on the Continent.
Tyrconuell increased the Irish army, but with lees
judgment than Strafford. Indeed, numbers of his
regiments were ill-officered mobs, and, when real
work began in 1689, were disbanded as having
neither arms nor discipline. His sending of the Irish
troops to England hastened the Revolution by excit-
ing jealousy, and they were too mere a handful to
resist. They were forced to enter the service of
German princes, especially the Prussian.
[An account of the formation of the Irish Brigade,
with the names and numbers of the regiments, etc.,
is omitted here, as more accurate details will be found
in The History of the Irish Brigade, which is to
appear in the Library of Ireland.}
SERVICES OF THE IRISH BRIGADE.
The year before the English Revolution of 88,
William effected the league of Augsburg, and com-
bined Spain, Italy, Holland, and the empire, against
France ; but except some sieges of imperial towns,
the war made no great progress till 1690. In that
year France blazed out ruin on all sides. The Pahi-
tinate was overrun and devastated. The defeat of
Humieres at Valcourt was overweighed by Lux em-
burgh's great victory over Prince Waldech at Fleurus.
But, as yet, no Irish troops served north of the
Alps. It was otherwise in Italy.
The Duke of Savoy having joined the Allies, Marshal
Catinat entered his territories at the head of 18.000
men. Mountcashel's brigade, which landed in May
and had seen service, formed one-third of this corps.
Catinat, a disciple of Tureune, relied on his infantry-;
nor did he err in this instance. On the 8th of August,
1 690. he met the Duke of Savoy and Prince Eugene ai
I'.ALLADS AND SONGS OF THE BRIGADE
547
Suiil'ardo, near Salucco. The buttle began by a
feigned attack on the Allies' right wing. The real
attack was made by ten battalions of infantry, who
ciossed some marshes heretofore deemed impassable,
turned the left wing commanded by Prince Eugene,
(I rove it in on the centre, and totally routed the enemy.
The Irish troops ("bog-trotters," the " Timi-s" calls us
now) proved that there are more qualities in a soldier
than the light step and hardy frame which the Irish
bog gives to its inhabitants.
But the gallant Mountcashel received a wound, of
which he died soon after at Bareges.
This same brigade continued to serve under Cati-
nat throughout the Italian campaigns of '91, '02, and
'93.
The principal action of this last year was at Mar-
^iglia, on the 4th October. It was not materially
different in tactic from Staffardo. Catinat, cannonad-
ing the Allies from a height, made a feigned attack
in the centre, while his right wing lapped round
Savoy's left, tumbled it in, and routed the army with
a loss of 8,000, including Duke Schomberg, son to
him who died at the Boyne. On this day, too, the
M mister soldiers had their full share of the laurels.
They continued to serve during the whole of this
war against Savoy ; and when, in 1696, the duke
changed sides, and, uniting his forces with Catinat's,
laid siege to Valenza in North Italy, the Irish dis-
tinguished themselves again. No less than six Irish
egiments were at this siege.
While these campaigns were going on in Italy, the
arrison of Limerick landed in France, and the second
irish Brigade was formed.
The Flanders campaign of '91 hardly went beyond
skirmishes.
Louis opened 1692 by besieging Namur at the
head of 120,000 men, including the bulk of the Irish
Brigade. Luxemburgh was the actual commander,
and Vauban the engineer. Namur, one of the great-
est fortresses of Flanders, was defended by Coehorn,
the ail-but equal of Vauban ; and William advanced
10 its relief at the head of 100,000 men, illustrious
players of that fearful game. But French and Irish
valor, pioneered by Vauban and mauo3uvred by Lux-
emburgh, prevailed. In seven days Namur was
taken, and shortly after the citadel surrendered,
though within shot of William's camp.
Iritis returned to Versailles, and Luxemburgh con-
tinued his progress.
On the 24th of July, 1692, William attempted to
Bteal a victory from the marshal who had so repeat-
edly beaten him. Having forced a spy to persuade
Luxemburgh that the Allies meant only to forage,
he made an attack on the French camp, then
placed between Steenkirk and Enghien. Wirtemburg
and Mackay had actually penetrated the French
camp ere Luxemburgh mounted his horse. But so
rapid were his movements, so skilfully did he divide
the Allies and crush Wirtemburg ere Count, Solme*
could help him, that the enemy was driven oti' with
the loss of :!,000 men, and many colors anil can-
who commanded the Brigade that day,
was publicly thanked for his conduct. In Maich.
1693, he was made a Mareschal do Camp.
But his proud career was drawing to a close. He
was slain on the 29th July, 101)3, at Lauden, heading
his countrymen in the van of victory, King William
flying. He could not have died better. His lant
thoughts were for his country. As he lay on the
field unhelmed and dying, he put his hand to his
breast. When he took it away, it was full of his best
blood. Looking at it sadly with an eye in which
victory shone a moment before, he said faintly, " Oh '
that this were for Ireland." He said no more ; and
history records no nobler saying, nor any more be-
coming death. 1
It is needless to follow out the details of the Italian
and Flanders campaigns. Suffice, that bodies of the
Irish troops served in each of the great armies, and
maintained their position in the French ranks during
years of hard and incessant war.
James II. died at St. Germains on the 16th Septem-
ber, 1701, and was buried in the church of the Eng'
lish Benedictines in Paris. But his death did not
affect the Brigade. Louis immediately acknowledged
his son James III., and the Brigade, upon which the
king's hopes of restoration lay, was continued.
In 1701, Sheldon's cavalry, then serving under
Catinat in Italy, had an engagement with the cavalry
corps under the famous Count Merci, and handled
them so roughly that Sheldon was made a lieutet nut-
general of France, and the supernumeraries of his
corps were put on full pay.
In January, 1702, occurred the famous rescue of
Cremona. Villeroy succeeded Catinat in August,
1701, and having, with his usual rashness, attacked
Eugene's camp at Chiari, he was defeated. Both
parties retired early to winter-quarters, Eugene en-
camping so as to blockade Mantua. While thus
placed, he opened an intrigue with one Cassoli, a priest
of Cremona, where Villeroy had his headquarters.
An old aqueduct passed under Cassoli's house, and he
had it cleared of mud and weeds by the authorities,
under pretence that his house was injured for want
of drainage. Having opened this way, he got several
of Eugene's grenadiers into the town disguised, and
now at the end of January all was ready.
Cremona lies on the left bank of the river Po. 4 It
was then five miles round, was guarded by a strong
castle and by an enceinte, or continued fortification
all around it, pierced by five gates. One of these
gates led almost directly to the bridge over the Po.
This bridge was fortified by a redoubt.
Eugene's design was to surprise the town at night.
He meant to penetrate on two sides, south and north
Prince Charles of Vaudemont crossed the Po at
Kin-nzola, and marching up the right bank with
I According to Mr. O'Conor (Military History <\f t>,t
A'lttinn, p. -'J-K "there wiw no Irish corps in the army of Lax-
riiiliiirub. nnil SnrMleld Ml lending on a clmrL-i' of grangers." Bn*
this only ninkcx his death, and the rocruts which accompanied i'_
tin- iiMrr Htffcttii|j. ED.
.' In talking nl' ritcht or left bunks or rivers, you are sup|>m^ ! to
In- looking down tin- xtreutn. Thus. Conoaughl is on tin- riylii
bank of thu Shannon ; Ix> luster and M:i:i>t-r on its left bank.
548
APPENDIX.
2,500 foot und 500 horse, was to assault the bridge
and gate of the Po as soon as Eugene had entered
on the north. As this northern attack was more
complicated, and as it succeeded, it may be best de-
scribed in the narrative of events.
On the 31st of January, Eugene crossed the Oglio
at Ustiano, and approached the north of the town.
Marshal Villeroy had that night returned from a war-
council at Milan.
At three o'clock in the morning of the 1st of Feb-
ruary, the allies closed in on the town in the follow-
ing order : 1,100 men under Count Kufstein entered
by the aqueduct ; 300 men were led to the gate of
St. Margaret's, which had been walled up, and im-
mediately commenced removing the wall from it ;
meantime, the other troops, under Kufstein, pushed
on, and secured the ramparts to some distance, and
as soon as the gate was cleared, a vanguard of
horse, under Count Merci, dashed through the town.
Eugene, Staremberg, and Prince Commerci followed
with 7,000 horse and foot. Patrols of cavalry rode
the streets ; Staremberg seized the great square ; the
barracks of four regiments were surrounded, and the
men cut down as they appeared.
Marshal Villeroy, hearing the tumult, hastily
burned his papers, and rode out, attended only by a
page. He was quickly snapped up by a party of
Eugene's cavalry, commanded by an Irishman named
MacDonnell. Villeroy, seeing himself in the hands
of a soldier of fortune, hoped to escape by bribery.
He made offer after offer. A thousand pistoles and a
regiment of horse were refused by this poor Irish
captain ; and Villeroy rode out of the town with his
captor.
The Marquis of Mongon, General Crenant, and
other officers, shared the same fate ; and Eugene as-
sembled the town council to take an oath of alle-
giance, and supply him with 14,000 rations. All
seemed lost.
All was not lost. The Po gate was held by 35
Irishmen, and to Merci's charge and shout they
answered with a fire that forced their assailant to
pass on to the rampart, where he seized a battery.
This unexpected and almost rash resistance was the
very turning point of the attack. Had Merci got
this gate, he had only to ride on and open the bridge
to Prince Vaudemont. The entry of 3,000 men
more, and on that side, would have soon ended the
contest.
Not far from this same gate of the Po were the
quarters of two Irish regiments, Dillon (one of
Mountcashel's old brigade) and Burke (the Athloue
regiment.) Dillon's regiment was, in Colonel Lacy's
absence, commanded by Major Mahony. He had
ordered his regiment to assemble for exercise at day-
break, and lay down. He was woke by the noise of
the Imperial Cuirassiers passing his lodgings. He
jumped up, and finding how things were, got off to
the two corps and found them turning out in their
shirts to check the Imperialists, who swarmed round
their quarters.
He had just got his men together when General
D'Arenes came up, put himself at the head of these
regiments, who had nothing but their musket*,
shirts, and cartouches about them. He instantly
led them against Merci's force, and, aftei a sharp
struggle, drove them from the ramparts, killing
large numbers, and taking many prisoners, amongsi
others MacDonnell, who returned to fight after secur-
ing Villeroy.
In the mean time, Estrague's regiment had made a
post of a few houses in the great square ; Count
Revel had given the word, " French to the ram-
parts," and retook All-Saints' Gate, while M. Prasliu
made head against the Imperial Cavalry patrols.
But when Revel attempted to push further round
the ramparts, and regain St. Margaret's Gate, he was
repulsed with heavy loss, and D'Arenes, who seems
to have been everywhere, was wounded.
It was now ten o'clock in the day, and Mahony
had received orders to fight his way from the Po to
the Mantua Gate, leaving a detachment to guard the
rampart from which he had driven Merci. lie
pushed on, driving the enemy's infantry before him,
but suffering much from their fire, when Baron Frei-
berg, at the head of a regiment of Imperial Cuiras-
siers, burst into Dillon's regiment. For a while
their case seemed desperate ; but, almost naked us
they were, they grappled with their foes. The linen
shirt and the steel cuirass the naked footman, and
the harnessed cavalier met, and the conflict was
desperate and doubtful. Just at this moment Ma-
houy grasped the bridle of Freiberg's horse, au-1 bid
him ask quarter. " No quarter to-day," said Frei-
berg, dashing his spurs into his horse. He was m
stautly shot. The cuirassiers saw and paused ; the
Irish shouted and slashed at them. The volley came
better, and the sabres wavered. Few of the cuiras-
siers lived to tiy ; but all who survived did fly ; and
there stood those glorious fellows in th. wintry
streets, bloody, triumphant, half-naked. Bourke lost
seven officers and forty-two soldiers killed, and nine
officers and fifty soldiers wounded. Dillon had one
officer and forty-nine soldiers killed, and twelve
officers and seventy-nine soldiers wounded.
But what matter for death or wounds! Cremona
is saved. Eugene waited long for Vaudemont, but
the French, guarded from Merci's attack by the Irish
picket of D5, had ample time to evacuate the redoubt,
and ruin the bridge of boats.
On hearing of Freiberg's death, Eugene made an
effort to keep the town by frightening the council.
On hearing of the destruction of the bridge he de-
spaired, and effected his retreat with consummate
skill, retaining Villeroy and 100 other officers pris-
oners.
Europe rang with applause. Mr. Forman men-
tions what we think a very doubtful saying of King
William's about this event. There is no such ques-
tion as to King Louis. He sent his public and for-
mal thanks to them, and raised their pay forthwith
We would not like to meet the Irishman who
knowing these facts, would pass the north of Itah;.
and not track the steps of the Irish regimenta
through the streets and gates .and ramparts of Cre
mona.
BALLADS AND SONGS OF THE BRIGADE.
In the campaigns of 1703, the Irish distinguished
themselves under Vendome in Italy, at Vittoria, Luz-
zara, Cassano, and Calcinate, and still more on the
Rhine. When Villars won the battle of Freidlin-
gen, the Irish had their share of the glory. At
Spires, when Tallurd defeated the Germans, they had
more. Tallard had surprised the enemy, but their
commander, the Prince of Hesse, rallied his men,
and, although he had three horses shot under him. he
repelled the attack, and was getting his troops well
into hand. At this crisis Nugent's regiment of horse
was ordered to charge a corps of German cuirassiers,
riiej did so effectually. The German cavalry was
cut up ; the French infantry, thus covered, returned
to their work, and Hesse was finally defeated with
immense loss.
And now the fortunes of France began to waver,
but the valor of the Brigade did not change.
It is impossible, in our space, to do more than
(glance at the battles in which they won fame amid
general defeat.
At the battle of Hochstet, or Blenheim, in 1704,
Marshal Tallard was defeated and taken prisoner by
Maryborough and Eugene. The French and Bava-
rians lost 10,000 killed, 13,000 prisoners, and 90
pieces of cannon. Yet, amid this monstrous disaster,
Clare's dragoons were victorious over a portion of
Eugene's famous cavalry, and took two standards.
And in the battle of liamillies, in 1700, where Ville-
roy was utterly routed, Clare's dragoons attempted
to cover the wreck of the retreating French, broke
through an English regiment, and followed them :
Into the thronging van of the Allies. Mr. Forman
ates that they were generously assisted out of this
predicament by an Italian regiment, and succeeded in
carrying off the English colors they had taken.
At the sad days of Oudenarde and Malplaquet,
gome of them were also present ; but to the victories
which brightened this time, so dark to France, the
Brigade contributed materially. At the battle of Al-
man/a (,13th March, 1707), several Irish regiments
served under Berwick. In the early part of the day
the Portuguese and Spanish auxiliaries of England
were broken, but the English and Dutch fought suc-
cessfully for a long time ; nor was it till repeatedly
charged by the elite of Berwick's army, including
the Irish, that they were forced to retreat : 3,000
killed, 10,000 prisoners, and 120 standards attested
he magnitude of the victory. It put King Philip on
he throne of Spain. In the siege of Barcelona, Dil-
lon's regiment t fought with great effect. In their
ranks was a boy of twelve years old ; lie was the son
of aGalway gentleman, Mr Lally, or O'Lally, of Tul-
loch na Duly, and his uncle had sat in James's par-
liament of lOy'J. This boy, so early trained, was
afterwards the famous Count Lally de Tollendal,
whose services in every part of the globe make his
execution a stain uj>on the honor as well as upon the
justice of Louis XVI. And when Villars swept off
he whole of Albemarle's battalions at Denain, in
1712, the Irish were in his van.
The treaty of Utrecht, and the dismissal of Marl-
borough put an end to the war in Flanders, but still
many of the Irish continued to serve in Italy and
Germany, and thus fought at Parma, Guastalla, and
Philipsburg. In the next war their great and pecu
liar achievement was at the battle of Fontenoy.
Louis in person had laid siege to Tournay : Marshal
Saxe was the actual commander, and had under him
79,000 men. The Duke of Cumberland advanced at
the head of 55,000 men, chiefly English and Dutch,
to relieve the town. At the duke's approach, Saxe
and the King advanced a few miles from Tournay
with 45,000 men, leaving 18,000 f to continue the
siege, and 6,000 to guard the Scheld. Saxe posted
his army along a range of slopes thus : his centre was
on the village of Fontenoy, his left stretched off
through the wood of Barri, his right reached to the
town of St. Antoine, close to the Scheld. He fortified
his right and centre by the villages of Fontenoy and
St. Antoine, and redoubts near them. His extreme
left was also strengthened by a redoubt in the wood
of Barri, but his left centre, between the wood and
the village of Fontenoy, was not guarded by any
thing save slight lines. Cumberland had the Dutch,
under Wakleck, on his left, and twice they attempted
to carry St. Antoiue, but were repelled with heavy
loss. The same fate attended the English in the
centre, who thrice forced their way to Fontenoy, but
returned fewer and sadder men. Ingoldsby was
then ordered to attack the wood of Barri with Cum-
berland's right. He did so, and broke into the wood,
when the artillery of the redoubt suddenly opened
on him, which, assisted by a constant fire from the
French tirailleurs (light infantry), drove him back.
The duke resolved to make one great and final
effort. He selected his best regiments, veteran Eng-
lish corps, and formed them into a single column
of 6,000 men. At its head were six cannon, and as
many more on the flanks, which did good service.
Lord John Hay commanded this great mass.
Every thing being now ready, the column advanced
slowly and evenly, as if on the parade-ground. It
mounted the slojxj of Saxe's position, and pressed on
between the woods of Barri and the village of Fonte-
noy. In doing so, it was exposed to a cruel fire of
artillery and sharp-shooters ; but it stood the storm,
and got behind Fontenoy. The moment the object
of the column was seen, the French troops were
hurried in upon them. The cavalry charged ; but
the English hardly paused to offer the raised bayonet,
and then poured in a fatal lire. They disdained to rush
at the picked infantry of France. On they went tiD
within a short distance, and then threw in their ball*
with great precision, the olH<vrs actually laying thei/
canes along the muskets, to make the men fire low
Mass after mass of infantry was broken, and on went
the column, reduced, but still apparently invincible.
Due Richelieu had four cannon hurried to the front,
and he literally battered the head of the column,
while the household cavalry surrounded them, and,
in repeated charges, wore down their strength, but
these French were fearful sufferers. Louis was> almut
to leave the field. In this juncture Saxe ordered up
his lot reserve the Irish Brigade. It om.sisted. that
day. of the regiments of Clare, Lally, Dillon, Berwick,
APPENDIX.
Roth, and Buckley, with Fitzjaines's horse, O'Brien.
Lord Clare was in command. Aided by the French
regiments of Normandy and Vaisseany, they were or-
dered to charge upon the flank of the English with
fixed bayonets, without firing. Upon the approach
of this splendid body of men, the English were
halted on the slope of a hill, and up that slope the
Brigade rushed rapidly and in fine order. " They
were led to immediate action, and the stimulating
cry of 'Cuimhnigidk ar Luimneac agus ar fheile na
Sncsanach' 1 was re-echoed from man to man. The
fortune of the field was no longer doubtful, and
victory the most decisive crowned the arms of
France."
The English were weary with a long day's fight-
Ing, cut up by cannon, charge, and musketry, and
dispirited by the appearance of the Brigade fresh,
and consulting of young men in high spirits and
discipline- still they gave their fire well and fatally:
but they vrere literally stunned by the shout and
shattered by the Irish charge. They broke before
the Iruli Iwyonets, and tumbled down the far side
4% jnt>w L'tnerick and British fnith.
of the hill, disorganized, hopeless, and falling by
hundreds. The Irish troops did not pursue them
far : the French cavalry and light troops pressed on
till the relics of the column were succored by some
English cavalry, and got within the batteries of tlu-ir
camp. The victory was bloody and complete. Louis
is said to have ridden down to the Irish bivouac, and
personally thanked them ; and George II., on hearing
it, uttered that memorable imprecation on the Penal
Code, " Cursed be the laws which deprived me of
such subjects." The one English volley, and the
short struggle on the crest of the hill, cost the Irish
dear. One-fourth of the officers, including Colonel
Dillon, were killed, and one-third of the men.
Their history, after Fontenoy, may be easily given.
In 1747 they carried the village of Laufeld, after
three attacks, in which another Colonel Dillon, 130
other officers, and 1,600 men were killed ; and in
1751 they were at Maestricht. Lally's regiment
served in India, and the other regiments in Germany,
during the war from 175G to 1762 ; and during the
American war, they fought in the French West India
Islands.
At this time they were greatly reduced, and at the
Revolution completely broken up.
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN,
THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY.
(Ir will be at once sen that these Poems have all heen written
long before the passing of the Relief Bill. To none more than to
the writer could the pleasing prospects opened up by the enact-
ment of this healing measure be more truly or sincerely gratifying.
To behold the unworthy fetters of a noble and gallant nation riven,
br energies unbound, her centuries of strife and disunion termi-
nated, and the day of her liberation and repose arrived, was a
consummation which, though devoutly desired, was scarcely to t>e
looked for in his generation ; and were these Poems to be now re-
written, doubtless the tone of sorrow and despondency which per-
haps too much pervades them would give place to one more
cheerful nd congenial to the altered circumstances of Ireland.
In the east, as well as In the west, of Europe, the prospect is
equally cheering. While Ireland has heen unsealing and purging
her long-abused vision, the cause of freedom has not stood still in
country too much akin to tier in fate and misrule. Greece has
happily shaken off her iron bon-lage; her independence may now
be considered as achieved, and the Miout of Freedom once more
be heard on the mountains of Hellas in the pass of Thermopylae
This is a pleasing state of things ; but how .shall we speak of t)-ose
degenerate nations of the south, of Naples and of the Peninsula?
They have permitted the young hope of their freedom to be stran-
gled in its cradle, and submitted their necks to a yoke as baneful
n<l contemptible as ever bowed down a people. In these coun-
tries, the tide of liberty was setting in with impetuous strength
when these Poems were written. That it has been partially
checked, he must lament; but that it must eventually prevail,
need admit of little fear or question.)
ONCE more I'm free the city's din is gone,
And with it wasted days and weary nights ;
But bitter thoughts will sometimes rush upon
The heart that ever loved its sounds or sights.
To you I fly, lone glens and mountain heights,
From all I hate and mucli I love no more
Than this I seek, amid your calm delights,
To learn my spirit's weakness to deplore,
To strive against one vice, and gain one virtue
more.
How firm are our resolves, how weak our
strife !
We seldom man ourselves enough to brave
The syren tones that o'er the sea of life
Breathe dangerously sweet from Pleasure's
cave.
False are the lights she kindles o'er the wave.
Man knows her beacon's fatal gleam nor flies,
But as the bird which flight alone could save
Still loves the serpent's fascinating eyes,
Man seeks that dangerous light, and in the en-
joyment dies.
But even when Pleasure's cup the brightest
glow'd,
And to her revel loudest was the call,
I felt her palace was not my abode,
I fear'd the handwriting upon the wall,
And said, amidst my blindness and my thrall,
Could I, as he of Nazareth did do,
Hut gvasr the pillars of her dazzling hail
And feel again the strength that once I knew,
I'd crumble her proud dome, though I should
perish too.
Is it existence, 'mid the giddy throng
Of those who live but o'er the midnight bowl,
To revel in the dance, the laugh, the song,
And all that chains to earth the immortal
soul
To breathe the tainted air of day that roll
In one dark round of vice to hear the cries
Indignant virtue lifts to Glory's goal,
When with unfetter'd pinion she would rise
To deeds that laugh at death and live beyond
the skies ?
Not such at least should be the poet's life,
Heaven to his soul a nobler impulse gave :
His be the dwelling where there is no strife,
Save the wild conflict of the wind and wave
His be the music of the ocean cave,
When gentle waves, forgetful of their wai,
552
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
Its rugged breast with whispering fondness
lave;
And as he gazes on the evening star,
His heart will heave with joys the world can
never mar.
Nature, what art thou that thus canst pour
Such tides of holy feeling round the heart ?
In all ihy various works at every hour.
How sweet the transport which thy charms
impart !
But sweetest to the pensive soul thou art,
In this calm time to man in mercy given,
When the dark mists of Passion leave the
heart,
And the free soul, her earthly fetters riven,
Spreads her aspiring wing and seeks her native
heaven.
There is a bitterness in man's reproach,
Even when his voice is mildest, and we deem
That on our heaven-born freedom they en-
croach,
And with their frailties are not what they
seem ;
But the soft tones in star, in flower, or stream,
Over the unresisting bosom gently flow,
Like whispers which some spirit, in a dream,
Brings from her heaven to him she loved
below,
To chide and win his heart, from earth, and sin,
and woe.
Who, that e'er wander'd in the calm blue
night,
To see the moon upon some silent lake,
And as it trembled to her kiss of light.
Heard low soft sounds from its glad waters
break
Who that look'd upward to some mountain
peak,
That rose disdaining earth or o'er the sea
Sent eye, sent thought in vain its bounds to
seek
Who thus could gaze, nor wish his soul might
be
Like those great works of God, sublime and pure
and free ?
Do I still see them, love them, live at last
Alone with nature here to walk unseen ?
To look upon the storms that I have pass'd,
And think of what I might be or have been ?
To read my life's dark page ? beauteous
queen,
That won my boyish heart and made m^ be
Thy inspiration's child if on this green
And sea-girt hill I feel my spirit free,
Next to yon ocean's God, the praise be nH
thee.
Spirit of Song ! since first I wooed thy smile,
How many a sorrow hath this bosom known,
How many false ones did its truth beguile,
From thee and nature ! While around it strown
Lay shattcr'd hopes and feelings, thou alone
Above my path of darkness brightly rose,
Yielding thy light when other light was gone :
Oh, be thou still the soother of my woes,
'Till the low voice of Death shall call me to re-
pose.
I've seen the friend whose faith I thought was
proved,
Like one he knew not, pass me heedless by ;
I've marked the coldness of the maid I loved,
And felt the chill of her once beaming eye ;
The bier of fond ones has received my sigh :
Yet I am not abandon'd, if among
The chosen few whose names can never die,
Thy smile shall light me life's dark wasta
along,
No friend but this wild lyre no heritage but
song.
'Tis a delightful calm ! there is no sound,
Save the low murmur of the distant rill ;
A voice from heaven is breathing all around,
Bidding the earth and restless man be still ;
Soft sleeps the moon on Inchidony's 1 hill ;
And on the shore the shining ripples break
Gently and whisperingly at Nature's will,
Like some fair child that on its mother's
cheek
Sinks fondly to repose in kisses pure and meek.
'Tis sweet, when earth and heaven such si-
lence keep,
With pensive step to gain some headland's
height,
And look across the wide extended deep,
To where its farthest waters sleep in light ;
Or gaze upon those orbs so fair and bright,
Still burning on in heaven's unbounded space,
1 Inchidony, an island at the entrance of Clonakilty Bay. Th
channel lies between it and the eastern uuore.
TIIE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
i
tlOc
Like Seraphs bending o'er life's dreary night,
And with their look of love, their smile of
peace,
Wooing the weary soul to her high resting-
place.
Such was the hour the harp of Judah pour'd
Those strains no lyre of earth had ever rung,
When to the God his trembling soul adored
O'er the rapt chords the minstrel monarch
hung.
Such was the time when Jeremiah sung
With more than Angel's grief the sceptre torn
From Israel's land, the desolate streets among :
Ruin gave back his cry 'till cheerless morn,
M Return thee to thy God, Jerusalem, return."
Fair moon, I too have loved thee, love thee
still,
Though life to me hath been a chequered scene
Since first with boyhood's bound I climb'd
the hill
To see the dark wave catch the silvery sheen ;
Or when I sported on my native green
With many an innocent heart beneath thy
ray,
Careless of what might come or what had
been,
When passions slept and virtue's holy ray
Shed its unsullied light round childhood's lovely
day.
Yes, I have loved thee, and while others spent
This hour of heaven above the midnight
bowl,
Oft to the lonely beach my steps were bent,
That I might gaze on thee without control,
That I might watch the white clouds round
thee roll
Their drapery of heaven thy smiles to veil,
As if too pure for man, 'till o'er my soul
Came that sweet sadness none can e'er reveal,
But passion'd bosoms know, for they alone can
- feel.
Oh thai I were once more what I was then,
With soul unsullied and with heart unsear'd,
Before 1 mingled with the herd of men
In whom all trace of man had disappear'd ;
Before the calm pare morning star that
cheer'd
And sweetly lured me on to virtue's shrine
Was clouded or the cold green turf w ; >
rear'd
Above the hearts that warmly beat to mine !
Could I be that once more, 1 need not now re-
pine.
What form is that in yonder anchored bark,
Pacing the lonely deck, when all beside
Are hush'd in sleep ? though undefined ami
dark,
His bearing speaks him one of birth and pride.
Now he leans o'er the vessel's landward side.
This way his eye is turn'd Hush, did I hear
A voice as if some loved one just had died ?
'Tis from yon ship that wail comes on mine
ear,
And now o'er ocean's sleep it floats distinct and
clear.
SONG.
On Cicada's' hill the moon is bright,
Dark Avondu* still rolls in light,
All changeless is that mountain's head,
That river still seeks ocean's bed,
The calm blue waters of Loch Lene
Still kiss their own sweet isles of green,
But where's the heart as firm and trno
As hill, or lake, or Avondu ?
It may not be the firmest heart
From all it loves must often part,
1 dead* and Cabirboarna (the hill of the four enp*) form part
of the chain of mountains which stretches westward from Mill-
street to Killarney.
Avondn, the Blackwater (Avunduff of Spenser). There are
several rivers of this name In the counties of Cork and Kerry, but
the one here mentioned Is by far the most considerable. It rise*
in a bosrcy mountain called Meenganine, in the latter county, and
discharges itself into the sea at Yougbal. For the length of IU
course and the beauty and variety of scenery through which It
flows, i l is superior I believe to iiny river in Minuter. It it* sub-
ject to very high floods, and from its great rapidity and the havoc
which It commits on those OCCMMCJMS. >wecping before il corn,
cattle, and sometimes even cottages, one may not inaptly apply to
It what Virgil says of a moro celebrated river:
Prolnlt insano eontorquens vortice sllvaa,
Hex tluvloruui Erldauus.
Spenser thus beautifully characterizes come of our prlnc'pal
Irish riven, though he has made a mistake with regard lc '.bo
Allo; It Is the Blackwater that passes through Sliav-logher
There was the Liffle rolling down the lea,
The sandy Slane, the stony Au-brlan,
The spacious bhcnan, spreading like a *<.
The pleasant Knyne, the IMiy, fruitful Bac,
Sweet Awniiluff, which of the Englishman
h called Blxckwaier, ami the I.ifl'nr ilec|>,
Sad Trowls, that once his people overrau.
Strong Allo tumbling from Siew-logher Moep,
And tlullainine wht wave* 1 whilom taught to wx>p
654:
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALL AN AN.
A look, a word will quench the flame
That time or fate could never tame ;
And there are feelings proud and high
That through all changes cannot die,
That strive with love, and conquer too :
I knew them all by Avondu !
How cross and wayward still is fate
I've learn'd at last, but learn'd too late.
I never spoke of love, 'twere vain
I knew it, still I dragg'd my chain :
I had not, never had a hope,
But who 'gainst passion's tide can cope ?
Headlong it swept this bosom through,
And left it waste by Avondu.
Avondu, I wish I were
As once upon that mountain bare,
Where thy young waters laugh and shine
On the wild breast of Meenganine !
1 wish I were by Cicada's hill,
Or by Glenluachra's rushy rill !
But no ! I never more shall view
Those scenes I loved by Avondu.
Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks
Of evening on the beauteous Reeks! 1
Farewell, ye mists that loved to ride
On Cahir-bearna's stormy side!
Farewell November's moaning breeze,
Wild Minstrel of the dying trees !
Clara ! a fond farewell to you
No more we meet by Avondu.
No more but thou, glorious hill,
Lift to the moon thy forehead still ;
Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river
Upon thy free wild course forever ;
Exuit, young hearts, in lifetime's spring,
And taste the joys pure love can bring ;
But, wanderer, go they're not for you !
Farewell, farev, ell, sweet Avondu.
To-morrow's breeze shall swell the sail
That bears me far from Inuisfail,
But, lady, when some happier youth
Shall see thy worth and know thy truth,
Somo lover of thy native land
Shall woo thy heart and win thy hand,
Oh think of him who loved thee too,
And loved in vain my Avondu.
1 Macgillacuddy's Reeks, In the neighborhood of Killarney, we
ihe highest mountains in Minister. For a description of these,
*nd of the celebrated lakes of that place, see Weld's Killarney, by
Ur the best and most correct work on tlie subject.
One hour, my bark and I shall be
All friendless on the unbounded sea,
No voice to cheer me but the wave
And winds that through the cordage rave,
No star of hope to light me home,
No track but ocean's trackless foam.
'Tis sad no matter, all is gone
Ho ! there, my lads, weigh quick, and on !
Stranger, thy lay is sad : I too have felt
That which for worlds I would not feel again.
O
At beauty's shrine devoutly have I knelt^
And sigh'd my prayer of love, but sigh'd in
vain.
Yet 'twas not coldness, falsehood, or disdain
That crush'd my hopes and cast me far away,
Like shatter 1 d bark upon a stormy main ;
'Twas pride, the heritage of sin and clay,
Which darkens all that's bright in young Love's
sunny day.
'Tis past I've conquer'd, and my bonds aro
broke,
Though in the conflict well-nigh broke my
heart.
Man cannot tear him from so sweet a yoke
Without deep wounds that long will bleed ana
smart.
Loved one but lost one ! yes, to me thou art
As some fair vision of a dream now flown,
A wayward fate hath made us meet and part,
Yet have we parted nobly; be mine own
The grief that e'er we met that e'er 1 live alone !
But man was born for suffering, and to bear
Even pain is better than a dull repose.
'Tis noble to subdue the rising tear,
'Tis glorious to outlive the heart's sick throes.
Man is most man amidst the heaviest woes,
And strongest when least human aid is given ;
The stout bark flounders when the tempest
blows,
The mountain oak is by the lightning riven,
But what can crush the mind that lives alone
with Heaven ?
Deep in the solitude of his own heart
With his own thoughts he'll hold communion
high,
Though with his fortune's ebb false friends de-
part
And leave him on life's desert shore to lie.
Though all forsake him and the world belie
The world, that fiend of scandal, strife, ar.d
crime
TIIE POEMS OF J. J. CALL A NAN.
Vet has he that which cannot change or die,
[lis spirit still, through fortune, fate, and time,
Lives like an Alpine peak, lone, stainless, and
sublime.
Well spoke the Moralist, who said, " The more
I mix'd with men the less a man I grew :"
\Vho can behold their follies nor deplore
The many days he prodigally threw
Upon their sickening vanities ! Ye few
In whom I sought for men, nor sought in vain,
Proud without pride, in friendship firm and
true,
Oh that some far-off island of the main
Held you and him you love ! The wish is but a
pain.
My wishes are all such no joy is mine,
Save thus to stray my native wilds among,
On some lone hill an idle verse to twine
Whene'er my spirit feels the gusts of song.
They come but fitfully, nor linger long,
And this sad harp ne'er yields a tone of pride ;
Us voice ne'er pour'd the battle-tide along
Since freedom sunk beneath the Saxon's stride,
And by the assassin's steel the gray-hair' d Des-
mond 1 died.
Ye deathless stories and immortal songs,
That live triumphant o'er the waste of time,
To whose inspiring breath alone belongs
To bid man's spirit walk on earth sublime,
Know his own worth, and nerve his heart to
climb
The mountain steeps of glory and of fame
How vainly would my cold and feeble rhyme
Burst the deep slumber, or light up the shame,
Of men who still are slaves amid your voice of
flame !
1 Oprnld. Karl of Desmond. The vast estate of this nobleman
In Desmond (!*<>tith Mnn*ler) was the cause of his ruin. It held
out to his enemies too strong a temptation to be resisted, ami the
chief governors of Ireland determined to seize upon It by any
in ed any overt act of high trpa-
>ient with the duty and peaceful
me private qnurrels with the rival
mrans Without having rmt
son. or done any thine Iticon*
demeanor of a subject (unle.sft JM
house of Orinond could be con
a traitor, and driven. In his 01
by letters expressive of his uns
by cTery possible mean*, lie e
strued Into such), he was declared
n defence, into a re.bi-l.ion which,
iakeo loyalty to her majesty, and
ileavored to avoid After having
undergone Incredible hardships an.! prlviitlon*, be WHS surprised
by niirht In a cabin near Tralee. by one Kelly of Morierta and
twenty-live of his kerns employed for the purpose by Ortnond.
Kelly struck off his head, which was sent to the Queen, by whoso
order It was Irnpttled on London bridge. For this barhnroas mur-
der of a helpless and persecuted old man. Kelly received a penaloa
if forty pounds a year, but was afterwards banged at Tyburn.
Yet, outcast of the nations lost one, yet
How can I look on thee nor try to save,
Or in thy degradation all forget
That 'twas thy breast that nursed me, though
a slave ?
Still do I love thee for the life you gave,
Still shall this harp be heard above thy sleep,
Free as the wind and fearless as the wave :
Perhaps in after days thou yet mayst loap
At strains unheeded now, when I lie cold and
deep.
Sad one of Desmond, could this feeble hand
But teach thee tones of freedom and of fire,
Such as were heard o'er Hellas' glorious land,
From the hi^h Lesbian harp or Chian lyre,
Thou shouldst not wake to sorrow, but aspire
To themes like theirs : but yonder se, where
hurl'd
The crescent prostrate lies the clouds retire
From freedom's heaven the cioss is wide un-
furl'd ;
Thera breaks again that light the beacon o'
the World !
Is it a dream that mocks thy cheerless doom!
Or hast thou heard, fair Greece, her voice at
last,
And brightly bursting from thy mouldering
tomb,
Hast thou thy shroud of ages from thee cast!
High swelling in Cantabria's mountain blast,
And Lusitanian hills, that summons rung
Like the Archangel's voice ; and as it pass'd,
Quick from their death-sleep many a nation
sprung
With hearts by freedom fired and hands for free-
dom strung.
Heavens! 'tis a lovely soul-entrancing sight
To see thy sons careering o'er that wave,
Which erst in Salamis' immortal fight
Bore their proud galleys 'gainst the Persian
slave :
Each billow then that was a tyrant's grave
Now bounds exulting round their gallant way
.Joyous to feel once more the free, the brav-e,
High lifted on their breast, as on that day
When Hellas' shout peal'd high along her con-
quering bay.
Nursling of freedom, from her mountain nei
She early taught thine eagle wing to soar
55G
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALL AN AX.
With eye undazzled and with fearless breast
To heights of glory never reach'd before.
Far on the cliff of time, al'l grand and hoar,
Proud of her ch-arge, thy lofty deeds she rears
With her own deathless trophies blazoned o'er,
As mind-marks for the gaze of after-years
Vainly they journey on no match for thee ap-
pears.
But be not thine, fair land, the dastard strife
Of yon degenerate race. Along their plains
They heard that call they started into life,
They felt their limbs a moment free from
chains :
The foe came on : but shall the minstrel's
strains
Be sullied by the story ? Hush, my lyre,
Leave them amidst the desolate waste that
reigns
Round tyranny's dark march of lava-fire
Leave them amid their shame their bondage,
to expire.
Oh, be not thine such strife there heaves no
sod
Along thy fields but hides a hero's head ;
And when you charge for freedom and for God,
Then then be mindful of the mightv dead!
Think that your field of battle is the bed
Where slumber hearts that never fear'd a foe;
And while you feel at each electric tread
Their spirit through your veins indignant glow,
Strong be your sabre's sway for Freedom's venge-
ful blow.
Oh ! sprung from those who by Eurotas dwelt,
Have ye forgot their deeds on yonder plain,
When, pouring through the pass, the Persian
felt
The band of Sparta was not there in vain
Have ye forgot how o'er the glorious slain
Greece bade her bard the immortal story write ?
Oh ! if your bosoms one proud thought retain
Of those who perish'd in that deathless fight,
Awake, like them be free, or sleep with names as
bright.
Relics of heroes, from your glorious bed,
Amid your broken slumbers, do you feel
The rush of war loud thundering o'er your
head?
Hear ye the sound of Hellas' charging steel,
Hear ye the victor cry The Moslem reel !
On, Greeks, for freedom, on they fly, they fiy 1
Heavens! how the aged mountains know that
peal,
Through all their echoing tops, while grand and
higli
Thermopylae's deep voice gives back the proud
reply !
Oh for the pen of him whose bursting tear
Of childhood told his fame in after-days ;
Oh for that Bard to Greece and freedom dear,
The Bard of Lesbos with his kindling lays,
To hymn, regenerate land, thy lofty praise,
Thy brave unaided strife to tell the shame
Of Europe's freest sons, who 'mid the rays
Through time's far vista blazing from thy name,
Caught no ennobling glow from that immortal
flame!
Not even the deeds of him who late afar
Shook the astonish'd nations with his might,
Not even the deeds of her whose wings of war
Wide o'er the ocean stretch their victor flight-
Not they shall rise with half the unbroken light
Above the waves of time, fair Greece, as thin ;
Earth never yet produced in Heaven's high
sight.
Through all her climates, offerings so divine
As thy proud sons have paid at Freedom's sacred
shrine.
Ye isles of beauty, from your dwelling blue,
Lift up to Heaven that shout unheard too
long ;
Ye mountains, steep'd in glc-y's distant hue,
If with you lives the memory of that song
Which freedom taught you, the proud strain
prolong,
Echo each name that in her cause hath died,
'Till grateful Greece enrol them with the
throng
Of her illustrious sons, who on the tide
Of her immortal verse eternally shall glide.
And be not his forgot, the ocean-bard,
Whose heart and harp in Freedom's cause
were strung.
For Greece self-exiled, seeking no reward,
Tyrtseus of his time, for Greece he sung :
For her on Moslem spears his breast he mm-;.
Many bright names in Hellas met renown.
But brighter ne'er in song or torv runir
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
Than his, who late for freedom laid him down,
And with the Minstrel's wreath entwined her
martyr's crown.
That Minstrel sings no more ! from yon sad isles
A voice of wail was heard along the deep :
Britannia caught the sound amid her smiles,
Forgot her triumph songs and turn'd to weep.
Vainly her grief is pour'd above his sleep,
He feels it, hears it not! the pealing roar
Of the deep thunder, and the tempest's sweep
That call'd his spirit up so oft before,
May shout to him in vain ! their Minstrel wakes
no more.
That moment heard ye the despairing shriek
Of Missolonghi's daughters ? did ye hear
That cry from all the islands of the Greek,
And the wild yell of Suli's mountaineer ?
The Illyrian starting dropp'd his forward spear,
The fierce Chimariot leant upon his gun,
From his stern eye of battle dropp'd the tear
For him who died that Freedom might be won
For Greece and all her race. 'Tis gain'd, but he
is gone.
Too short he dwelt amongst us, and too long :
Where is the bard of earth will now aspire
To soar so high, upon the wing of song?
Who shall inherit now his soul of fire,
His spirit's dazzling light? Vain man, retire,
'Mid the wild heath of Albyn's loneliest glen ;
Leave to the winds that now fors;iken lyre,
Until some angel-bard come down again
And wake once more those strains, too high, too
sweet for men.
The sun still sets along Morea's hill,
The moon still rises o'er Citha3ron's height;
But where is he, the bard whose matchless
skill
Gave fresher beauty to their march of light?
The blue ^Egean, o'er whose waters bright
Was pour'd so oft the enchantment of his
strain,
Seeks him ; and through the wet and starless
night
The Peaks-of-thunder flash and shout in vain,
For him who sung their strength he ne'er shall
sing again.
What though, descended from a lofty line,
Earth's highest honors waited his command.
And bright his father's coronet did shine
Around his brow ; he scorn'd to take his stand
With those whose names must die a nobler
band.
A deathless fame his ardent bosom fired,
From Glory's mount he saw the promised land
To which his anxious spirit long aspired,
And then in Freedom's arms exulting he expired.
You who delight to censure feeble man,
Wrapt in self-love to your own failings blind,
Presume not with your narrow view to scan
The aberrations of a mighty mind.
His course was not the path of human-kind,
His destinies below were not the same :
With passions headlong as the tempest-wind,
His spirit wasted in its own strong flame :
A wandering star of heaven, he's gone from
whence he came.
But while the sun looks down upon those isles
That laugh in beauty o'er the ^Ege;m deep,
Long as the moon shall shed her placid smiles
Upon the fields where Freedom's children
sleep
Long as the bolt of heaven, the tempest's
sweep,
With Rhodope or Atbos war shall wage,
And its triumphant sway the Cross shall keep
Above the Crescent, even from age to age
Shall Byron's name shine bright on llellas' death-
less page.
Bard of my boyhood's love, farewell to thee;
I little deem'd that e'er my feeble lay
Should wait thy doom these eyes so soon
should see
The clouding of thy spirit's glorious ray.
Fountain of beauty, on life's desert way
Too soon thy voice is hush'd thy waters
dried :
Eagle of song, too short thy pinion's sway
Career'd in its high element of pridf.
Weep ! blue-eyed Albyn, weep ! with him thy
glory died !
Oh 1 could my lyre, this inexperienced hand,
Like that high master-bard thy spirit sway,
Not such weak tributes should its touch com-
mand
Immortal as the theme should be thy lay.
But meetcr honors loftier harps shall pay.
558
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
The harps of freeboni men: enough for me,
If as I journey on life's weary way :
Mourner, I rest awhile to weep with thee,
O'er him who loved our land, whose voice would
make her free.
My country, must I still behold thy tears
And watch the sorrows of thy long dark
night J
No sound of joy thy desolation cheers,
Thine eyes have look'd in vain for freedom's
light.
Then set thy sun and wither'd all thy might,
When first you stoop'd beneath the Saxon
yoke,
Ai;d thy high harp, that call'd to freedom's
fight,
Since then forgot the strains that once it woke,
And like the Banshee's cry of death alone hath
spoke.
Is this the Atlantic that before me rolls
In its eternal freedom round thy shore ?
Hath its grand march no moral yet for souls?
Is there no sound of glory in its roar?
Must man alone be abject evermore?
Slave ! hast thou ever gazed upon that sea?
When the strong wind its wrathful billows
bore
'Gainst earth, did not their mission seem to be,
To lash thee into life, and teach thee to be free ?
But no! thine heart is broke, thine arm is
weak,
Who thus could see God's image not to sigh ;
Fftmine hath plough'd his journeys on thy
cheek,
Despair hath made her dwelling in thine eye ;
The lordly Churchman rides unheeding by,
He fattens on the sweat that dries thy brain,
The very dogs that in his kennel lie
Hold revels to thy fare! but don't complain,
lie has the cure of souls the law doth so ordain.
But you're not all abandon'd ; there are some
Whose tender bowels groan to see your case.
Ilejoice, rejoice, the men of bibles come,
There's pity beaming in their meek mild face.
Come, starve no longer now, poor famish'd
race,
A bellyful from heaven shall now be thine,
Open your mouths and chew the words of
grace ;
There is not that rent, clothes, and meat and
wine ?
Thanks to the Lord's beloved I wonder do
they dine.
Oh, ye who loved them faithfully and long,
Even when the fagot blazed the sword did
rave,
In sorrow's night who bid their hearts be
strong,
And died defending the high truths ye gave
Ye dwellers of the mountain and the cave,
If lay of mine survive the waste of time,
Your praises shall be hymn'd on land and
wave,
Till Christ's young soldiers in each distant
clime
Shall guard the Cross like you, and tread your
march sublime.
Ye watchers on the eternal city's wall*,
Ye warders of Jerusalem's high towers,
When have your nights been spent in luxury's
halls,
Or your youth's strength consumed in pleasure's
bowers \
Earth's gardens have for you no fruits, no-
flowers
Your path is one of thorns the world may
frown
And hate you, but whene'er its war-cloud
lowers,
Stand to your arras again, nor lay the-m down
Till the high Chief you serve shall call you' to-
your crown.
Could England's sons but see what I have seen,
Your wretched fare when home at night you
go,
Your cot of mud, where never sound has been
But groans of famine, of disease, and woe,
Your naked children shivering in the snow,
The wet cold straw on which your limbs re-
cline,
Saw they but these, their wealth they would
forego,
To know you still retain'd one spaik divine,
To hear your mountain shout and see your charg-
ing line.
England ! thou freest, noblest of the world,
Oh, may the minstrel never live to see
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
559
Agains 1 , thy sons the flag of green unfurlM,
Or his own land thus aim at liberty;
May their sole rivalry forever be
Such as the Gallic despot dearly knew,
When English hearts and Irish chivalry
Strove who should first be where the eagle
flew,
A.nd high the*' conquering shout arose o'er
Waterloo.
But prison'd winds will round their caverns
sweep
Until they burst them then the hills will
quake.
The lava-rivers will for ages sleep,
But nations tremble when in wrath they wake.
Erin has hearts by mountain, glen, and lake,
That wrongs or favors never can forget ;
If loved they'll die for you, but trampled, break
At last their long dark silence : you have met
Their steel in foreign field they've hands can
wield it yet.
Too long on such dark themes ray song hath
run:
Eugenio, 'tis meet it now should end.
It was no lay of gladness, but 'tis done,
I bid farewell to it and thee, ray friend.
I do not hope that the cold world will lend
To sad and selfish rhymes a patient ear :
Enough for me, if while I darkly bend
O'er ray own troubled thoughts, one heart is
near
That feels my joy or grief, with sympathy sin-
cere.
I have not suffer'd more than worthier men,
Nor of my share of ill do I complain ;
But other hearts will find some refuge, when
Above them lower the gathering clouds of
pain.
The world has vanities, and man is vain
The world has pleasures, and to these they fly.
I too have tried them, but they left a stain
Upon my heart, and as their tide roll'd by,
The cares I sought to drown, emerged with
sterner eye.
Thou hast not often seen my clouded brow :
The tear I strove with, thou hast never seen,
The load of life that did my spirit bow
Was hid beneath a calm or mirthful mien.
The wild-flower's blossom, and the dew-drops
sheen
Will fling their light and beauty o'er the spot
Where, in its cold dark chamber all unseen,
The water trickles through the lonely grot,
And weeps itself to stone, such long hath beea
my lot.
It matters not what was, or is the cause,
I wish not even thy faithful breast to know
The grief which magnet-like my spirit draws
True to itself above life's waves of woe.
The gleams of happiness I feel below,
Awhile may play around me and depart,
Like sunlight on the eternal hills of snow,
It gilds their brow but never warms their
heart.
Such cold and cheerless beam doth joy to me
impart.
The night is spent, our task is ended now.
See, yonder steals the green and yellow light,
The lady of the morning lifts her brow
Gleaming through dews of heaven, all pure
and bright,
The calm waves heave with tremulous delight,
The far Seven-Beads 1 through mists of pur-
ple smile,
The lark ascends from Inchidony's height :
'Tis morning sweet one of my native Isle,
Wild voice of Desmond, hush go rest thee for
awhile.
1 Seven Heads Dtimleeily, Dunowen, Dunoro, Puneenc, Dun-
ocwlg, Dunworly, and Dimporly. On all these headland* th
Irish had formerly duns, or castles.
560
TEE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH.
ON Albion's cliffs the sun is bright,
And still Saint George's sea:
O'er her blue hills' emerging height
Hover soft clouds ot silvery light,
As in expectancy ;
The barks that seek the sister shore
Fly gallantly the breeze before,
Like messengers of joy,
And light is every bosom's bound,
And the bright eyes that glance around
Sparkle with transport high.
Hark ! the cannon's thundering voice
Bids every British heart rejoice,
Upon this glorious day.
Slowly the lengthen'd files advance
Mid trumpet swell and war-horse prance,
While sabre's sheen and glittering lance
Blaze in the noontide ray ;
Streamer and flag from each mast-head
On the glad breeze their foldings fling ;
The bells their merry peals ring out,
And kerchiefs wave and banners flout,
And joyous thousands loudly shout,
Huzza for George our King !
'Tis night calm night, and all around
The listening ear can catch no sound.
The shouts that with departing day
Less frequent burst, have died away :
The moon slow mounts the cloudless sk;
With modest brow and pensive eye,
Thames owns her presence with delight
And trembles to her kiss of night;
Far down along his course serene
The liquid flash of oars is seen,
Advancing on with measured sweep,
Lovely to view is the time they keep :
And hark ! the voice of melody
Comes o'er the waters joyously ;
It is from that returning boat
Those sweet sounds of triumph float,
And nearer as she glides along
Mingling with music swells the song.
SONG.
Britannia, exult on thy throne of blue waters,
In the midst of thine Islands, thou queen of the
sea ;
And loud be the hymn of thy fair-bosom'd
daughters
To hail the high chief of the brave and the free.
While o'er the subject deep
Proudly your navies sweep,
Tars of old England still shout o'er the main,
'Till the green depths of ocean ring,
God save great George our King,
Honor and glory and length to his reign !
Hush'd be your war-song, ye sons of the moun-
tain,
Pibroch of Donald Dhu, mute be thy voice,
Wizzard that slept by Saint Fillan's gray foun-
tain,
With loyalty's rapture bid Scotia rejoice;
Then to your stayless spear
Albyn's brave mountaineer,
Should foeman awake your wild slogan again,
And loud o'er the battle sing,
God save great George our King,
Honor and glory and le-ngth to his reign !
Strike thy wild harp, yon green Isle of the ocean,
And light as thy mirth be the sound of its strain,
And welcome, with Erin's own burst of emotion,
The Prince that shall loose the last links of thy
chain ;
And like the joyous cry
Hellas' sons raised on high,
When they stood like their fathers all free os
the plain,
Up the glad chorus fling,
God save great George our King,
Honor and glory and length to his reign !
Chief of the mighty and the free,
Thy joyous Britain welcomes thee,
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
561
Her longing eyes have watch'd afar
The mounting of thy promised star.
Beneath its influence benign
Long may she kneel at Freedom's shrine.
Its rising o'er St. George's main
lerne hails with glad acclaim.
Dear as to Hellas' weary few
Their own blue wave roll'd full in view,
Such Erin's song of Jubilee,
And such her hopes, Prince, from thee ;
From thee, for thy young steps have stray'd
In converse with the Athenian maid,
Listen'd to Virtue's high reward
As taught by sage or sung by bard,
Smiled at Anacreon's sportive lyre,
Or glow'd at Pindar's strain of fire,
Or heard the flood of Freedom roll'd
From lips that now, alas ! are cold
Forever cold in that dark tomb
Where Britain mourns her Fox's doom.
Nurtured with these, by these refined,
She watch'd with joy thy opening mind.
Young as thou wert, she then could see
That Erin's wail was dear to thee,
And look'd with transport to the day
Would yield the sceptre to thy sway.
******
'Tis done on yonder deathless field
Ambition closed her bloody game,
Bent darkly o'er her shatter' d shield
And dropp'd her tear of flame.
Europe beheld with glistecieg eye
Her wrong avenged her fetters riven ;
And peace and mercy from on high,
Diffused once more the gifts of Heaven.
With Britain's genius hand in hand,
Long may they wait on thy command,
Long to our vows may they remain
To bless, O Prince, thy prosperous reign,
And waft Britannia's halcyon day
To every land that owns thy sway.
Yes, even to those stranger-lands
Where Niger rolls through burning sands ;
Where fragrant spirits ever sigh
On the fresh breeze of Yemen's sky ;
Or where indulgent nature smiles
On her Pelew or Friendly Isles,
Commerce and peace shall waft thy fame
And teach the world their George's name.
In yon fair land of sunny skies
Where Brahma hears her children's sighs,
And Avarice with her demon crew
Drains to the life the meek Gentoo,
Justice no more shall plead in vain,
But point to thine avenging reign.
Ganges now no more shall hear,
As on he rolls his sacred water,
The clash of arms the shout of fear
Redden no more with kindred slaughter ;
The Hindoo maid shall fearless stray
At eve his peaceful banks along,
And dance to Scotia's sprightly lay
Or weep at Erin's plaintive song,
Or sit amid Acacia bowers
That hang their cooling shade above her,
And as she twines the fairest flowers
To deck the brows of her young lover,
She'll think from whence these pleasures
came,
Look to the west and bless thy name.
Far o'er the wave where Erin draws
The sword in Heaven's best, holiest cause,
And sees her green flag proudly sail
Aloft on Chili's mountain gale,
When swells her harp with freedom's sound,
And freedom's bowl goes circling round,
Then shall the cup be crown'd to thee,
Sparkling with smiles of liberty.
The glorious task, O Prince, be thine
To guard thy Britain's sacred shrine,
To watch o'er Freedom's vestal fire,
Call forth the spirit of the lyre,
Bid worth and genius honord be,
Unbind the slave, defend the free,
And bring again o'er ocean's foam
The wandering Pargiot to his home.
Children of Pargar, are ye gone
Children of Freedom, shall her song
Echo no more your cliffs among ?
Shall barbarous Moslem rites profane
The shrines that bow'd to Issa's name ?
To guard your shores from despot's tread.
Was it in vain your fathers bled,
Till every rock and every wave
Around them was a Pargiot's grave f
Oh ! that their sons should ever roam
O'er ocean's waste to seek a home 1
6G2
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
Oh ! that the dwelling of the free
Parga ! that them shouldst sullied be
By tread of Moslem tyranny !
Greece ! thou ever honor'd name,
Even in thy bondage and thy sharne
Fondly around each youthful mind
By,all thy classic ties entwined,
How shall this lay address the free,
Nor turn aside, sweet land, to thee,
Mother of Arts and Liberty ?
From thy bright pages first I drew
That soul that makes me part of you ;
There caught that spark of heavenly fire,
If such e'er warms the minstrel's iyre,
If e'er it breathes one waking tone
O'er Freedom's slumbers 'tis thine own.
Oh ! after bondage dark and long,
Could I but hear young Freedom's song,
And scatter'd see the Moslem's pride
Before thy battle's whelming tide,
On that red field I'd gladly lie
My requiem thy conquering cry.
Heavens ! 'mid the sons of godlike sires
Is there no soul whom Freedom fires?
And is the lyre of Lesbos hung
In slavery's hall, unswept, unstrung ?
Is every glorious relic lost
Of that immortal patriot's ashes,
That, on the winds of freedom tost
Where Salamis' blue billow dashes,
Floated all burning from their pile,
And slept on continent and isle,
As if to fire with that embrace
His native land and all her race ?
It cannot be there yet remain
Some sparks of that high spirit's flame
Oh, wake them with thy kindling breath,
Oh, call a nation back from death !
Yes, captives ! yes, at his command,
Methinks I see Britannia stand,
Where stood and died the Spartan band,
W T here, rising o'er Thermopylae,
Thessalia's mountains view the sea,
Sparkling with all its sunny isles
Oh, how can slavery wear such smiles ?
And Marathon's, Plataea's plain,
And Thebes, whose heroes died in vain,
To each immortal scene about
The Queen of ocean sends her shout,
While hill and plain and isle around
Answer to Freedom's Jong-lost sound.
Sons of the mighty and the wise,
Sons of the Greeks, awake ! arise !
By all your wrongs, by all your shame,
By Freedom's self, that blessed name,
Think of the fields your fathers fought,
Think of the rights they dying bought
Hark ! hark ! they call you from their skies.
Sons of the mighty, wake arise !
And oh, my country, shall there be
From these wild chords no prayer for thce f
Land of the minstrel's holiest dream,
Land of young beauty's brightest beam,
The fearless heart, the open hand.
My own my dear my native land 1
And can the noble and the wise
A nation's rightful prayer despise ;
Can they who boast of being free
Refuse that blessed boast to thee ?
See yonder ag6d warrior brave.
Whose blood has been on sward and wave.
Is he refused his valor's meed
Because he loves his father's creed ?
Or is there in that creed alone,
What Valor, Genius, should disown ; '
To its fond votary is there given
Less of the mounting flame of Heaven ?
When his young hand essays the lyre,
Oh ! can he wake no tone of fire ?
Does war's stern aspect blanch his cheek
Does foeman find his arm more weak,
His eye less bright ? Oh, let them say
Who saw the sabre's fearful sway
Cleave its red path through many a fray ;
Who saw his minstrel banner waving
Where war's wild din was wildest raving,
And heard afar the onset cry
Of hearts th.at know to win, or die '
Oh, Britain, had we never known
The kindling breath of Freedom's zone ;
Or vanquish 'd, had we still remain'd
In slavery's deepest dungeon chain'd,
Without one ray of Freedom's sun
To wake our sighs for glories gone,
Such cheerless thraldom we might bear
With the dark meekness of despair :
But the chain'd eagle, when he sees
His mates upon the mountain breeze,
And marks their free wing upward soar
To heights his own oft reach'd before,
Again that kindred clime he seeks
Bold bird, 'tis vain, thy wild heart breaks I
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
563
monarch ! by a monarch's name,
By the high line from which you came,
By that to each proud spirit dear,
The lofty name that dies not here
With life's short day, but round the tomb
Breathes Immortality's perfume,
By Royalty's protecting hand,
Look on ray dear, my native land.
RESTORATION OP THE SPOILS OF ATHENS.
RAISE, Athens, raise thy loftiest tone,
Eastward the tempest cloud hath blown ;
Vengeance hung darkly on its wing :
It burst in ruin ; Athens, ring
Thy loudest peal of triumphing;
Persia is fallen : in smouldering heaps
Her grand, her stately city sleeps.
Above her towers exulting high,
Susa has heard the victor's cry ;
And Ecbatana, nurse of pride,
Tells where her best, her bravest died.
Persia is sad, her virgins' sighs
Through all her thousand States arise.
Along Arbela's purple plain
Shrieks the wild wail above the slain ;
Long, long shall Persia curse the clay
When, at the voice of despot sway,
Her millions march'd o'er Belle's wave
To chain vain boast the free, the brave.
Raise, Athens, raise thy triumph song !
Yet, louder yet, the peal prolong !
Avenged at length our slaughter'd sires ;
Avenged the waste of Persian fires ;
And these dear relics of the brave,
Torn from their shrines by Satrap slave,
The spoils of Persia's haughty king,
Again are thine ring, Athens, ring 1
Oh ! Liberty, delightful name,
The land that once hath felt thy flame,
That loved thy light, but wept its clouding,
Oh ! who can tell her joy's dark shrouding?
Hut if to cheer that night of sorrow
Mem'ry a ray of thine should borrow,
That on her tears and on her woes,
Uteda one soft beam of sweot repose,
)h ! who can tell her bright revealing,
Her deep her holy thrills of feeling I
Bo Athena felt, as fix'd her gaze
On her proud wealth of better days :
'Twas not the Tripod's costly frame,
Nor vase that told its artist's fame ;
Nor veils high wrought with skill divine,
That graced the old Minerva's shrine;
Nor marble bust where vigor breathed
And beauty's living ringlets wreathed.
Not these could wake that joyous tone,
Those transports long unfelt unknown
'Twas memory's vision robed in light,
That rush'd upon her raptured sight,
Warm from the fields where freedom strove
Fresh with the wreaths that freedom wove :
This bless'd her then, if that could be
If aught is blest that is not free.
But did no voice exulting raise
To that high Chief the song of praise,
And did no peal of triumph ring
For Macedon's victorious king,
Who from the foe those spoils had won ;
Was there no shout for Philips son?
No Monarch no what is thy name,
What is thine high career of fame,
From its first field of youthful pride
Where Valor fail'd and Freedom died,
Onward by mad ambition fired
'Till. Greece beneath its march expired!
Let the base herd to whom thy gold
Is dearer than the rights they sold,
In secret, to their Lord and King,
That foul unholy incense fling;
But let no slave exalt his voice
Where hearts in glory's trance rejoice :
Oh, breathe not now her tyrant's name
Oh, wake not yet Athense's shame !
Would that the hour when Xerxes' ire
Wrapt fair Athena's walls in fire,
All, all had perish'd in the blaze,
And that had been her last of days,
Gone down in that bright shroud of glory,
The loveliest wreck in after story I
564
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
Or -when her children, forced to roam
Freedom their stars, the waves their home
Near Salamis' immortal isle,
Would they had slept in victory's smile ;
Or Cheronea's fatal day,
While fronting slavery's dark array,
Had seen them bravely, nobly die,
Bosom on gushing bosom lie,
Piling fair Freedom's breast- work high,
Ere one Athenian should remain
To languish life in captive chain,
Or basely wield a freeman's sword
Beneath a Macedonian lord !
Such then was Greece, though conquer'd,
chain'd,
Some pride, some virtue, yet remain'd;
And as the sun when down he glides
Slowly behind the mountains' sides,
Leaves in the cloud that robes the hill
His own bright image burning still,
Thus Freedom's lingering flushes shone
O'er Greece, though Freedom's self was gone.
Snch then was Greece ! how fallen, how low!
Yet great even then : what is she now !
Who can her many woes deplore,
Who shall her freedom's spoils restore ?
Darkly above her slavery's night
The crescent sheds its lurid light ;
Upon her breaks no cheering ray,
No beam of freedom's lovely day ;
But there deep, shrouded in her doom,
There now is Greece a living tomb.
Look at her sons, and seek in vain
The indignant brow, the high disdain,
With which the proud soul drags her chain J
The living spark of latent fire
That smoulders on, but can't expire,
That bright beneath the lowering lashes
Will burst at times in angry flashes,
Like Etna, fitful slumbers taking,
To be but mightier in its waking.
Spirits of those whose ashes sleep
For freedom's cause in glory's bed !
Oh, do you sometimes come and weep
That that is lost for which ye bled,
That e'er barbarian flag should float
O'er your own home, in victory's pride,
That e're should ring barbarian shout
Where Wisdom taught and Valor died 1
Ob for that minstrel's soul of fire
That breathed, and Sparta's arm was strong t
Oh for some master of the lyre
To wake again that kindling song!
And if, sweet land, aught lives of thee,
What Hellas was she yet may be,
Freedom, like her to Orpheus given,
May visit yet her home her heaven.
THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM.
'Tis midnight, and November's gale
Sweeps hoarsely down Glengarav's 1 vale,
1 The following beautiful description of Glengarav and the By
of Bantry is taken from the Rev. Horace Townsend's Statistical
Survey of the County of Cork :
"The Bay of Bantry. from almost every point of view, exhibits
one of the noblest prospects, on a scale of romantic magnitude,
that imagination can well conceive. The extent of this great body
of water, from the eastern extremity to the ocean, is about twenty-
five miles; the breadth, including the islands, from six to eight
It contains, besides some small, two very large islands, differing
.extremely from each other in quality and appearance, but perfectly
uited to the respective purposes of their different situations.
Bear Island, very high, rocky, and coarse, standing a little within
the mouth of the bay, braves the fury of the western waves, and
forms, by the shelter of its li.rge body, a most secure and spacious
naven. Safe in its more retired situation, at the upper end of the
bay, the Island of Whiddy presents a surface of gentle inequalities,
covered by a soil of uncommon richness and fertility. The gran-
deur of the scene in which this noble expanse of water bears so
conspicuous a part is greatly enhanced by the rugged variety of
he surrounding mountains, particularly those on the west side,
Through the thick rain its fitful tone
Shrieks like a troubled spirit's moan,
which far exceed the rest in altitude and boldness of form.
Among these. Hungry-hill, rising with a very steep ascent from
the wuter, raises his broad and majestic head, easily distinguish-
able froin a great distance, and far surpassing all the other moun-
tains of this country in height and grandeur. The effect produced
by such an assemblage of objects can hardly be conceived, and \a
impossible to be described. The mind, filled and overborne by
a prospect so various, so extended, so sublime, sinks br neath it*
magnitude, and feeling the utter incapability of adequate exprs-
sion, rests upon the scene in silent and solemn adntirution. Th
soul must be insensible indeed which will not be moved by such
a contemplation to adore the God of nature, from whom snob
mighty works proceed. Large as the ground of this great picture
is, it comes within the scope of human sight, a circumstance upon
which the powerfulness of its impression materially depends. A
greater extension of the parts, by throwing them far from Tiew,
would diminish their effect and a reduction of their scale would
lessen their grandeur. Much and justly as Killarney is celebrated
for the beauty of its scenes, no single view it affords can vie witli
this in sublimity of character and greatness of effect.
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALL A NAN.
666
The Moon that from her cloud at eve
LookM down on Ocean's gentle heave,
And bright on lake and mountain shone,
Now wet and darkling journeys on ;
From the veil'd heaven there breaks no ray
To guide the traveller on his way,
Save when the lightning gilds awhile
The craggy peak of Sliav-na-goil,
Or its far-streaming flashes fall
Upon Glencjarav's mountain wall,
" But the place most celebrated for combining the softer graces
of the waving wood, with the wildest rudeness of mountain as-
pect, is Glengariff(the rough glen), situated on the north side of
the bay, at the head of a small hurlior or cove. The bills that
enclose Ibis romantic glen rise In great variety of rocky forms,
their sides and hollows being covered profusely with trees and
shrubs, among whicli the arbutus, rarely found to adorn our native
woods, appears in a flourishing state. Here, as at Killarney,
nature seems to have been at wanton variance with herself, and
after exciting a war between two rival powers, to have decided in
favor of the weaker party. Among stones of an immense size,
thrown together In the wildest confusion, and apparently forbid-
ding the possibility of useful produce, among bare and massive
rocks, that should seem destined to reign forever in barren deso-
lation, arises a luxuriance of sylvan growth, which art would
hardly hope for in the happiest situations. The extent of this
woody region, winding through the mountains for some miles, is
very considerable, tron was formerly smelted in this neighbor-
hood, when Umber was more abundant and less valuable. A
river, abounding with saimon and sea-trout, runs through this
glen, In dry weather (as Johnson observes of a similar situation),
'fretting over the asperities of a rocky bottom,' 1 wh"n swollen
with rains, rolling a torrent of frightful magnitude Into the bay.
It Is passed by a good stone bridge, attributed to Cromwell, and
still bearing his name.
"The last of nature's uncommon and astonishing displays that
remains to be mentioned Is the waterfall or cataract of Hunnry-
hlll, In comparison with which O'Sulllvan's Cascade at Killarney
and the waterfall at I'ower's-court, near Dublin, shrink into insig-
nificance. The eye accustomed to the various wonders of Alpine
scenery may doubtless view this stupendous fall with less emotion,
but what will the lowland inhabitant think of a river tumbled from
the summit of a mountain elevated more than 2,00i> feet above its
base and almost perpendicular in its ascent In the first part of
its progress, the side of the hill is so steep as to suffer the water
to fall from a vast height, unimpeded by the rocky projections
which the spreading base of the mountain opposes to its descent
In approaching the bottom. It thus assumes the double charac-
ter of a fall and cataract. At the back of this great mountain are
several lakes, one of which supplies the water of the fall. This
grand and singular spectacle, often to be plainly distinguished
from the town of Banlry, fourteen miles distant, appears in fall
majesty only alter heavy falls of rain, sumriently frequent In this
district to give the inhabitants numerous opportunities of seeing
It in all its glory."
This is very clear and graphic: hut It would he Injustice to the
reader to omit the following picture of Olencnrlff, by a gentleman,
a resident of Bantry, whose line poetical feeling and almost In-
tuitive pereepti'in of the beautiful in natural scenery had happily
fitted him for the task of describing this magnificent region, which
he had undertaken In the ninth number of "Bolster's Maga-
zine:''
' After visiting some of the most picturesque parts of the south-
western coast, we line-Ted a few days nmld the enchanting wilds
of Glengarlft We had the advantage of reviewing Its wood-
crowned steeps, gleaming under a cloudless sky, In alt the rich
variety of tints which the fading glory of uutumn left upon the
frail but beautiful foliage. Less Imposing in Its mountain barriers
than Killarney, and less enriched by the fanciful variety of spark-
ling islands In Its sea-views, the Inland scenery exhibits a
eharacter equally magical and partakes as much of the seclusion,
the loneliness, and the flowery wilds of fairy-land as any portion
And kindles with its angry streak
The rocky zone it may not break.
At times is heard the distant roar
Of billows warring 'gainst the shore ;
And rushing from their native hills,
The voices of a thousand rills
Come shouting down the mountain's side,
When the deep thunder's peal hath died.
How fair at sunset to the view
On its loved rock the Arbutus grew !
of the country on the borders of the lakes. The summer tourist
who pays a hurried visit of a few hours to the Glen Is by DO
means competent to pronounce an opinion upon its peculiar at-
tractions. His eye may wander with delight over the startling
irregularity of its hills and dales, but he has not time sufficient to
explore the depths and recesses of its woodland solitude, in which
the witching churms of this romantic region operate most forcibly
on the mind. It is by trending Its tangled pathways and wander-
Ing amid its secret dells that the charms of Glengaritf become
revealed in all their power. There tlie most fanciful and pic-
turesque views spread around on every side. A twilight grove,
terminating in a soft vale, whose vivid green appears as if it had
been never violated by mortal foot; a bower rich in the fragrant
woodbine, intermingled with a variety of clasping evergreens-
drooping over a miniature lake of transparent brightness ; a lonely
wild suddenly bursting on the sight, girded on all sides by grim
and naked mountains; a variety of natural avenues, leading
through the embowered wood to retreats in whose breathless
solitude the very genius of meditation would appear to reside, or
to golden glades, sonorous with the songs of a hundred foaming
rills. But what appears chiefly lo impress the mind in this se-
cluded region Is the deep conviction you feel that there is no
dramatic effect in all you behold, no pleasing illti-ioti of art; that
it is nature you contemplate, such as she is in all her wildncss and
all her beauty.
"The situation of Lord Bantry's lodge Is very picturesque; the
verdant swell on which It rises, and the tasteful ardors that sur-
round it. appear in fine relief to the frowning hills in the rear.
But although I consider what may be called the inland beauties
of Glengariff the most striking and characteristic, I Mm far from
depreciating it coiust scenery. The view of Mr. White's castel-
lated mansion and demesne from the water Is very Imposing. The
architecture of the house, which corresponds with its situation,
is in admirable keeping with the mountains hi the background.
The demesne Is laid out in very good taste, exhibiting no violent
triumph of art over nature, but that inimitable carelessness, that
touching simplicity, which shows thai she has not born subdued
and conquered, but gently wooed and won. From a wooded
steep on the old Berehaven road, to the north of Cromwell's
bridge, you may command the most comprehensive view that Is
afforded by any spot In the neighborhood of the Glen.
"On the left, you have the entire woodland sweep of Glengarlff
stretching tar to the south and east, and clothing many a hill In its
imposing verdure, but disclosing most Hgrfenl>!t< vi.-tas, through
which the mountain streams may be M-en wild \ nulling aid
sparkling in their course, tr the wc.-t. you have the lofty moun-
tains of Berehaven, with their grucofir;! outline terminated by the
wa>te of waters wild,' whilst Lord liamry's demesne lies to the
south in dim perspective. The sunset over Uotil and Hungry, the
most prominent In the western chntn of mountains, as seen from
Glungarltr, or any of the heights in the neighborhood of Bantrr,
is particularly grand. The waterfall, which Uke* a leap of some
hundred feet from the crest of the former, can sometimes be plain-
ly distinguished at a distance of iwei.ly miles, with Its illuminated
Iris. The white mists with which Its brows aie frequently
wreathed give this mountain a jiecullarly soft and graceful rhai-
actcr. On a few occasions. It has exhibited an aspect of transcend-
ent glory, having Its entire figure veiled In a transparent curtain
of the rainbow tint As you may suppose, the majority of the
mountains in the neighborhood of the Glou are crowned with
lakes; no less than 865 of these Alpine reservoir* are to be found
on the summit of one of them."
566
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
How motionless the heather laj
In the deep gorge of that wild oay !
Through the tall forest not a breeze
Disuirb'd the silence of the trees ;
O'er the calm scene their foliage red
A venerable glory shed,
And sad and sombre beauty gave
To the wild hill and peaceful wave.
To-morrow's early dawn will find
That beauty scatter'd on the wind;
To-morrow's sun will journey on
And see the forest's glory gone
The Arbutus shiver'd on the rock
Beneath the tempest's angry shock,
The monarch Oak all scathed and riven
By the red arrowy bolt, of heaven ;
While not a leaf remains behind,
Save some lone mourner of its kind,
Wither'd and drooping on its bough,
Like him who treads that valley now.
Alone he treads still on the blast
The sheeted rain is driving fast,
And louder peals the thunder's crash,
Louder the ocean's distant dash
Amid the elemental strife
He walks as reckless, as if life
Were but a debt he'd freely pay
To the next flash that cross'd his way :
Yet is there something in his air
Of purpose firm that mocks despair ;
What that, and whither he would cro
o
Through storm and darkness, none may know ;
But his unerring steps can tell,
There's not a deer in that wild dell
Can track its mazy depths so well.
He gains the shore his whistle shrill
Is answer'd ready at his will ;
In a small cove his pinnace lay
" Weigh quick, my lads, I cross the bay."
No question ask they, but a cheer
Proclaims their bosoms know not fear.
Sons of the mountain and the wave,
They shrink not from a billowy grave.
Those hearts have oft braved death before,
'Mid Erin's rocks and Biscay's roar ;
Each lightly holds the life he draws,
If it but serve his Chieftain's cause ;
And thinks his toil full well he pays,
If he bestow one word of praise.
At length they've clear'd the narrow bay
Up with the sails, away ! away !
O'er the broad surge she flies as fleet
As on the tempest's wing the sleet,
And fearless as the sea-bird's motion
Across his own wild fields of ocean.
Though winds may wave and seas o'erwhelm,
There is a hand upon that helm
That can control its trembling power,
And quits it not in peril's hour ;
Full frequently from sea to sky
That Chieftain looks with anxious eye,
But naught can be distinguish'd there
More desperate than his heart's despair.
On yonder shore what means that light
That flings its murky flame through night!
Along the margin of the ocean
It moves with slow and measured motion.
Another follows, and behind
Are torches flickering in the wind.
Hark ! heard you on the dying gale
From yonder cliffs the voice of wail ?
'Twas but the tempest's moaning sigh,
Or the wild sea-bird's lonely cry.
Hush ! there again I know it well,
It is the sad Ululla's 1 swell,
That mingles with the death-bell's toll
Its grief for p.ome departed soul.
Inver-na-marc, s thy rugged shore
Is alter'd since the days of yore,
Where once ascending from the town
A narrow path look'd fearful clown,
1 Though Byron has Wulwulla and Campbell Ollolla, I have not
hesitated to use the word, as no one has a better claim to it than
an Irishman.
Inver-na-marc (the bay of ships), the old name for Bantry
Bay. Inver (properly spelled In-mar) gives name to many places
In Ireland ; it signifies a creek or bay. Inverary, Inverness. Ac.,
In Scotland, have the same origin. This bay is so large and well
sheltered that all the ships in Europe micht lie there in perfect
security. In 1689, there was a partial engagement here between
the English fleet under Admiral Herbert and the French com-
manded by Mons. Renault, in which the former lind the worst of
it, owing to a great part of the ships being unable to come into
action. (See Wilson's Naval History.) The division of the French
fleet which came to anchor here In the winter of 1796 never at-
tempted a landing. A Bantry pilot, who ventured on board one
of their ships and remained with them for a week, said that they
spent the time in every species of amusement; their bands were
continually playing, and they were very often seen from the shore
dancing on deck. It is remarkable that it was in Irish they con-
versed with this person. They questioned him about the stnte of
the roads, which some of them appeared to know very well, and
the disposition of the people. He was treated with the greatest
kindness, and nothing but his having a family could have induced
him to leave them. By this account, whish we have hal lately
verified in the Autobiography of Nappcr Tandy, there were
great number of Irishmen in the expedition
TBE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
567
O'er the bleak cliffs which wildly gave
Their rocky bosom to the wave.
A beauteous and unrivall'd sweep
Of beach extends along the deep ;
Above is seen a sloping plain,
With princely house and fair domain,
Where erst the deer from covert dark
Gazed wildly on the anchor'd bark,
Or listen'd the deep copse among
To hear the Spanish 1 seaman's song
Come sweetly floating up the bay,
With the last purple gleam of day.
All changed, even yon projecting steep
That darkly bends above the deep,
And mantles with its joyless shade
The waste that man and time have made
There, 'mid its tall and circling wood,
In olden times an abbey stood :
It stands no more no more at even
The vesper hymn ascends to Heaven ;
No more the sound of Matin bell
Calls forth each father from his cell,
Or breaks upon the sleeping ear
Of Leim-a-tagartV mountaineer,
And bids him on his purpose pause,
Ere yet the foraying brand he draws.
Where are they now ? Go climb that height,
Whose depth of shade yields scanty light,
Where the dark alders droop their head
O'er Ard-na-mrahar's 3 countless dead,
1 This place wn formerly much frequented by the Spaniards.
It carried on a very extensive trade In pilchards with Spain, Por-
tugal, and Italy, hut for these last seventy or eighty years not t
pilchard has appeared on the coast The following two instance*,
taken from "Smith's History of Cork," prove what an inexhaust-
ible source of wealth and comfort the Irish fisheries would he if
properly encouraged :
"In 1749, Mr. Richard Mead, of Bantry, proved to the Dublin
Society that '.ie bad in that year caught and cared 850,800 fish of
different kinds, six score to the hundred; and in the preceding
year, Mr. James Young, of the same place, caught and cured
4S2, 600 herrings and 231 barrels of sprats. *
One year with another, fish is as plentiful on this coast as at the
above period.
1 Lelm-a-ugart (the priest's leap) is a wild and dangerous moun-
tain pass from Bantry into Kerry. The people dwelling about
this spot have been from time Immemorial noted crtaak drivers
or forayers. They go by the name of Glannles, or the Glen boya,
and so unsubdued, even at this day, is the spirit of their ancestors
In them, that rather than lead an Inactive life, they make frequent
tescenU upon a clan of Lowlanders called Kohanea, or boys of
the mist, not for the purpose of driving cattle, for that would not
be quite so safe In these times, but for the mere pleasure of light-
ing, or to revenge some old nffmnt. This gave rise to numerous
conflicts, until very lately, when the unwearied and persevering
exertions of the Kev. Mr. Barry, Parish Priest of Bantry, effected
what the law might attempt In vain ; fur these mountaineers,
though not living exactly beyond the leap, come within the ap-
plication of the proverbial saying, u beyond the Leap, beyond the
And nettle tall and hemlock waves
In rank luxuriance o'er the graves;
There fragments of the sculptured stone,
Still sadly spak of grandeur gone,
And point the spot, where dark and deep
The fathers and their abbey sleep.
That train hath reach'd the abbey ground,
The flickering lights are ranged around,
And resting on tho bier,
Amid the attendants' broken sighs,
And pall'd with black, the coffin lies;
The Monks are kneeling near.
The abbot stands above the dead,
With gray and venerable head,
And sallow cheek and pale.
The Miserere hymn ascends,
And its deep solemn sadness blends
With the hoarse and moaning gale.
The last "Amen" was breathed by all,
And now they had removed the pall,
And up the coffin rear'd ;
When a stern " Ilold !" was heard jiloud,
And wildly bursting through the crowd,
A frantic form appear'd.
He paused awhile and gasp'd for breath :
His look bad less of life than death,
He seem'd as from the grave
So all unearthly was his tread ;
And high above his stately head
A sable plume did wave.
Clansmen and fathers look'd aghast:
But when the first surprise was past,
Yet louder rose their grief;
For when he stood above, the dead,
And took the bonnet from his head,
All knew IveraV Chief;
No length of time could e'er erase,
Once seen, that Chieftain's form and face.
Calmly he stood amid their gaze,
While the red torches' shifting blaze,
As strong it flicker'd in the breeze,
That wildly raved among the trees,
Its fitful light upon him threw,
And Donal Comm stood full to view.
* Ard-na-mrahsr (the brethren's, or monks', height). M called
from an abbey which once stood there. The " {liberal* I 'otnlnl-
cana," In Its enumeration of the monasteries of Friar-' Minors,
thus speaks of It, " Bnntry in agro Corcagifnui, Canot/ium fun-
datum a Dermilo O'Sullifiin, circy A. 1460 T"
* Ivera th barony of Bear. I-bera la the Irish word, the ft
having the sound of t. Smith thinks the place so called from Ut
Iberl, a Spanish colony which settled originally in this quarter.
568
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
His form was tall, but not the height
Which seems unwieldy to the sight ;
His mantle, as it backward flow'd,
An ample breadth of bosom show'd ;
His sabre's girdle round his waist
A golden buckle tightly braced ;
A close-set trews display'd a frame
You could not all distinctly name
If it had more of strength or grace;
But when the light fell on his face,
The dullest eye beheld a man
Fit to be Chieftain of his clan.
His cheek, though pale, retain'd the hue
Which from Iberian blood it drew ;
His sharp and well-form'd features bore
Strong semblance to his sires of yore;
Calm, grave, and dignified, his eye
Had an expression proud and high,
And in its darkness dwelt a flame
Which not even grief like his could tame ;
Above his bent brow's sad repose,
A high heroic forehead rose,
But o'er its calm you mark'd the cloud
That wrapp'd his spirit in its shroud;
His clustering locks of sable hue,
Upon ihe tempest wildly flew.
Unreck'd by him the storm may blow ;
His feelings are with her below.
" Remove the lid," at length he cried.
None stirr'd, they thought it strange ; beside,
Her kinsman mutter'd something " Haste,
I have not breath or time to waste
In parley now Ivera's chief
May be permitted one, last, brief
Farewell with her he loved, and then,
Eva is yours and earth's again."
At length, reluctant they obey'd :
Slowly he turn'd aside his head,
And press'd his hand against his brow
Tis done at last, he knows not how :
But when he heard one piercing shriek,
A deadlier paleness spread his cheek;
Sidelong he look'd, and fearfully,
Dreading the sight he yet would see ;
Trembled his knees, his eye grew dim,
His stricken brain began to swim ;
He stagger'd back against a yew
That o'er the bier its branches threw ;
Upon his brows the dews of death
Collected, and his quick low breath
Scem'd but the last and feeble strife,
Ere yet it yield, of parting life.
There lay his bride death hath not quite
O'ershadow'd all her beauty's light ;
Still on her brow and on her cheek
It linger'd, like the sun's last streak
On Sliav-na-goila's head of snow
When all the vales are dark below
Her lids in languid stillness lay
Like lilies o'er a strearn-parch'd way,
Which kiss no more the wave of light
That flash'd beneath them purely bright;
Above her forehead, fair and young,
Her dark-brown tresses clustering hung,
Like summer clouds, that still shine on
When he who gilds their folds is gone.
Her features breathed a sad sweet tone
Caught ere the spirit left her throne,
Like that the night-wind often makes
When some forsaken lyre it wakes,
And minds us of the master hand
That once could all its voice command.
" Cold be the hand, and curst the blow,"
Her kinsman cried, "that laid thee low ;
Curst be the steel that pierced thy heart."
Forth sprang that Chief with sudden start^
Tore off the scarf that veil'd her breast
That dark deep wound can tell the rest.
He gazed a moment, then his brand
Flash'd out so sudden in his hand,
His boldest clansman backward reel'd
Trembling, the aged abbot kneel'd.^
" Is this a time for grief," he cried,
" And thou thus low, my murder'd bride f
Fool ! to such boyish feelings bow,
Far other task hath Donal now ;
Hear me, ye thunder upon high !
And thou, bless'd ocean, hear my cry !
Hear me ! sole resting friend, my sword,
Ar>d thou, dark wound, attest rny word !
No food, no rest shall Donal know,
Until he lay thy murderer low
Until each sever'd quivering limb
In its own lustful blood shall swim.
When my heart gains this poor relief,
Then, Eva, wilt thou bless thy chief.
Bless him ! no, no, that word is o'er,
My sweet one! thou can'st bless no more,
No more, returning from the strife
Where Donal fought to guard thy life
And free his native land, shalt thou
Wipe the red war-drops from his brow,
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
669
And hush his toils and cares to rest
Upon thy fond and faithful breast."
He gazed a moment on her face,
And stoop'd to take the last embrace,
And as his lips to hers he prest,
The coffin shook beneath his breast,
That heaved convulsive as 'twould break ;
Then in a tone subdued and meek,
"Take her," he said, and calmly rose,
And through the friends that round him close,
Unheeding what their love would say,
All silently he urged his way ;
Then wildly rushing down the steep
He plunged amid the breaker's sweep.
Awfully the thunder
Is shouting through the night,
And o'er the heaven convulsed and riven
The lightning-streams are bright
Beneath their fitful flashing,
As from hill to hill they leap,
In ridgy brightness dashing
Conies ou loud ocean's sweep.
Fearfully the tempest
Sings out his battle-song,
His war is with the unflinching rocks
And the forests tall and strong ;
His war is with the stately bark ;
But ere the strife be o'er.
Full many a pine, on land and brine,
Shall rise to heaven no more.
The storm shall sink in slumber,
The lightning fold its wing,
And the morning star shall gleam afar,
In the beauty of its king ;
But there are eyes shall sleep in death
Before they meet its ray ;
Avenger ! on thine errand speed,
Haste, Donal, on thy way !
Carriganassig,' from thy walls
No longer now the warder calls ;
1 The castle of Cariganass, situated npon the river Ouvane (tn
fair river), ttve miles from Bantry, was built by one of the O'Sul-
II van, who formerly possessed the entire of the country. It was
a hi^'li structure, wit!) four round flunking towers and a square
court. In Queen EH/abetb's time, it was obstinately defended
against the English forces by Daniel O'Sulltvan, surnamed Comin.
In the " Pacata Hibernia," its surrender Is thus related:
sir Charles (Wllinot), with the English regiments, overran all
Bcnre and Bantry, destroying all they could find meet for the re-
llefe of men, so as the conntrey was entirely wanted. He sent
also Cnptain Kit-mining, with his pinnace and certain* souldlera
Into O'Sulll van's Island ; he tooke there certalne boats and an
English barke, which O'Sulllvan had gotten for his transportation
Into Spalne, when he should be enforced thereunto ; they tooke
aUn from thence certalne cows and sbeepe, which were reserved
No more is heard o'er goblets bright
Thy shout of revelry at night ;
No more the bugle's merry so and
Wakes all thy mountain echoes round,
When for the foray, or the chase,
At morn rush'd forth thy hardy race
And northward as it died away
Roused the wild deer of Kaoim-an-e.
All bare is now thy mountain's side,
Where rose the forest's stately pride ;
No solitary friend remains
Of all that graced thy fair domains ;
But that dark stream still rushes on
Beneath thy walls, the swift Ouvan,
And kisses with its sorrowing wave
The ruins which it could not save.
Fair castle, I have stood at night,
When summer's moon gave all her light,
And gazed upon thee till the past
Came o'er my spirit sad and fast ;
To think thy strength could not avail
Against the Saxon's iron hail,
And thou at length didst cease to be
The shield of mountain liberty.
From Carriganassig shone that night,
Through storm and darkness, many a light,
And loud and noisy was the din
Of some high revelry within :
At times was heard the warder's song,
Upon the night- wind borne along,
And frequent burst upon the ear
The merry soldier's jovial cheer;
For their dark Chieftain in his hall
That day held joyous festival,
And show'd forth all his wealth and pride
To welcome home his beauteous bride.
Hush'd was the music's sprightly sound,
The wine had ceased to sparkle round,
And to their chambers, one by one,
The drowsy revellers had gone ;
Alone that Chieftain still remains,
And still by starts the goblet drains :
there as In a secure storehouse, and put the chnrles to the sword
that Inhabited therein. The warders of the castles of Ardea and
Carrikness. on the sixth of the same month, dispayriiig of their
master, O'Sulllvan's n-turm>, rendered both their Chstlrs and their
lives to the Qneene's mercy, PO that although he should have
animum revertmdi, ho had neither place of safelle when-tinto he
might retire, nor corn nor cattle to feed hlmselfo, much leas to up-
hold or renew any warre agsln.-t the state."
William O'Snlllvan, Esq,, had an Idea of restoring this noble
edlflco. of his ancestors, but its ruinous state presenU-d too many
difficulties for the undertaking. The entire country aronmi it
was formerly very tfcickly wooded, and bad plenty of rd neer.
570
THE POEMS OF J. J. C ALLAN AX.
He paced the hall with hurried tread,
Oft look'd behind and shook his head,
And paused and listen'd as the gile
Swell'd on his ear with wilder wail ;
And where the tapers faintly flung
Their light, and where the arras hung,
He'd start and look with fearful glance
And quivering lip, then quick advance,
And laugh in mockery of his fear,
And drink again.
" Fitz-Eustace ! here,
Close well that door and sit awhile,
Some foolish thoughts I would beguile.
Fill to my bride ; and say, didst e'er
See form so light or face so fair ?
I little deem'd this savage land
Such witching beauty could command ;
That rebel Erin's mountains wild
Could nurse McCarthy's matchless child.
Then drink with me in brimming flow
The heiress of Clan-Dona'.-Roe." 1
Fitz-Eustace quaff'd the cup, and said,
" I saw no more she's with the dead,
You best know how."
That Chieftain frown'd
And dash'd the goblet to the ground ;
" Curse on thy tongue, that deed is past
But one word more, and 'tis thy last :
Art thou t' upbraid me, also doom'd !"
He paused awhile and then resumed
" Eustace, forgive me what I say,
In sooth, I'm not myself to-day,
Some demon haunts me, since my pride
Urged me to stab that outlaw's bride :
Each form I see, each sound I hear,
Her dying threat assails my ear,
Which warn'd me I should shortly feel
The point of Donal's vengeful steel.
I know that devil's desperate ire
Would seek revenge through walls of fire.
Even now, upon the bridal night,
When bridegroom's heart beats ever li^ht,
No joy within my bosom beams.
Besides, yon silly maiden deems
That 'twas through love I sought her hand.
No, Eustace, 'twas her father's land:
He hath retainers many a one
Who with this wench to us are won.
Vou know our cause, we still must aid
1 Clandonalroe Is a small tract in Carbery, once the property of
fiie McCarthys.
As well by policy as blade.
I loathe each one of Irish birth,
As the vile worn; that crawls the earth.
But come say, canst thou aught impart
Could give some comfort to my heart;
Fell Donal Comm into our snare,
Or does the wolf still keep his lair?"
"Neither; the wolf now roams at large;
'Twas but last evening that a barge,
Well mann'd, was seen at close of day
To make Glengarav's lonely bay,
'Tis said ; but one who more can tell
Now lodges in the eastern cell ;
A monk, who loudly doth complain
Of plunder driven and brethren slain
By Donal Comm, and from the strife
This night fled here with scarcely life."
" Now dost thou lend my heart some cheer
Good Eustace, thou await me here;
I'll see him straight, and if he show
Where I may find my deadly foe,
That haunts my ways the rebel's head
Shall grace my walls."
With cautious tread
He reach'd the cell and gently drew
The bolts, that monk then met his view.
Within that dungeon's furthest nook
He lay; one hand coutain'd a book,
The other propp'd his weary head ;
Some scanty straw supplied his bed;
His order's habit coarse and gray
Told he had worn it many a day,
Threadbare and travel-soil'd ; his beads
And cross hung o'er the dripping weeds,
Whose ample folds were tightly braced
By a rough cord around his waist :
No wretch of earth seem'd lower than
That outcast solitary man.
He spoke not moved not from the floor ;
But calmly look'd to where the door
Now closed behind th' intruding knight,
Who slow advanced and held the light
Close to the captive's pallid face,
Who shrank not from his gaze : a space
St. Leger paused before he spoke,
And thus at length his silence broke
" Father, thy lodging is but rude,
Thou seem'st in need of rest and food,
If but escaped from Doual's ire,
And wasting brand and scathing fire ;
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
r,7i
But prudent reasons still demand,
And stern St. Leger's strict command,
That every stranger, friend or foe,
Be held in durance 'till he show
What, whence, and whither he would go.
For thee, if thou canst tell us right
Where that fierce outlaw strays to-night,
To-morrow's sun shall see thee freed,
With rich requital for thy meed ;
If false thy tale then, father, hope
For a short shrift and shorter rope."
He ceased, and as the Chief he eyed
With searching glance, the monk replied -
" I fear no threat, no meed I crave,
I ask no freedom but the grave.
There was a time when life was deal 1 ;
For, Saxon, though this garb I wear,
This hand could once uplift the steel,
This heart could love and friendship feel.
That love is sever'd, friends are gone,
And I am left on earth alone.
Cursed be the hand that sear'd my heart,
And smote me in the tenderest part,
Laid waste my lands, and left me roam
On the wide world without a home !
I took these weeds ; but why relate
The spoiler's ravage and my hate?
Vengeance I would not now forego
For saints above or man below.
Yes, Doual Comm ; but let me hear,
Fling the glad story to mine ear;
How fell the outlaw's beauteous bride ?
Say, was it by thy hand she died ?
'Twill be some solace, and I swear
By the all-saving sign I wear,
Before to-morrow's sun to show
To thine own eyes thy bitterest foe."
** 'Tis well !" exclaim'd the exulting chief,
" Have now thy wish, the tale is brief
Some few days since, as I pursued
A stately stag from yonder wood,
Straight northward did he bend his way,
Through the wild pass of Kaolin an 6;
Then to tue west, with hoof of pride,
He took the mountain's heathery side,
And evening saw him safely sleep
In far Gleurochty's forest deep.
Iv-iiirning from that weary chase,
We met a strange and lonely place ;
Dark-bosorn'd in the hills around,
From its dim silence rose no sound,
Except the dreary dash and flow
Of waters to the lake below.
There was an island in that lake,
(What ails thee, monk? why dost thou shako?
Why blarich'd thy cheek ? ) from thence I
brought
A richer prey than that I sought ;
It were but feeble praise to swear
That she was more than heavenly fair ;
I tore her from Finbarra's 1 shrine
Amid her tears, arid she was mine.
1 The lake of Oougaune Barra, i. ., the hollow or reeesa of
Saint Finn Barr, in the ragged territory of Ibb-Laoghaire (the
O'Leary's country). In the west of the county of Cork. In the
parent of the river Lee. It is rather of an irregular oblong form,
running from northeast to southwest, and may cover about
twenty acres of ground. Its waters embrace a small but verdant
island, of about half an acre in extent, which approaches its
eastern shore. The lake, as it. name implies, is situate in a deep
hollow, surrounded on every side (save the east, where it* super-
abundant waters are discharged) by vast and almost perpendicular
mountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected
in its waters beneath. The names of those mountain!* are Derfen
(the little oak wood), where not a tree now remains; Maolagh,
which signifies a country, a region, a map, perhaps so called from
the wide prospect which it affords; Nad ariuillar. the Kagle't
Nest, and FaoiMe nn Gougaune, i. ., the Cliffs of Oongauoe
with its steep and frowning precipices, tlie home of a hundred
echoes. Between the bases of these mountains and the margin
of the lake runs a narrow strip of land, which at the northeast
affords a few patches for coarse meadow and tillage, which sup-
port the little hamlet of Rattfinlucfut, I. .. the lake inch. Two or
three houses at this place in some sort redeem the solitude of the
scene.
" As wo approached the causeway leading to tho island," says
writer in the eighth number of ' Bolster's Magazine," who de-
scribes this place with great minuteness, " we passed a small
slated fishing lodge; beside It lay a skiff hauled up on the strand,
and at a small distance, on a little irreen eminence, a few lowly
mounds, without stone or inscription, point out the simple bury-
ing-place of the district ; their number, and the small extent of
ground co.vered, gave at a glance the census and the condition of
a thinly-peopled mountain country; and yet this unpretending
spot is as effectually the burial-place of human hopes, and feelings,
and passions; of feverish anxieties, of sorrows and agitations ; it
affords as saddening a field for contemplation, as if It covered the
space and was decked out with all the cypresses, tho willows, and
the marbles of a P4r la ChalM. It Is a meet and fitting station
for the penitentiary pilgrim, previous to his entry on his devotions
within the Island. Some broken walls mark the grave of a clergy-
man of the name of O'Mahony, who, in the beginning of hut cen-
tury, closed a life of religious seclusion here. Considering how
revered Is still his memory amongst these mountains, the shame-
ful state of neglect In which wp found hi* (rravr aMmnshed ua.
We sought In vain for the Dag mentioned by Smith In his History
of Cork,' from which he copied this Inscription : ' l/c ibi ft uo-
cfMoribu* MHin in ettdfin vocation* monnmtntnm iinj>i+-iit
Dominwt Doctor Ditrniniu* O'ittthony, prttbyUr lie ft intiig-
nii* ;' either it has been removed, or burled under the rubbish of
the place.
" A rude artificial causeway led us Into the holy Island ; at the
entrance stands a square, narrow, stone enclonro. flagged over-
head This encloses a portion of the water of the lake, which
duds admission beneath. In the busy season of the pnltern, thll
well Is frequented by pressing crowds of men, women, and cows
Tin- lame, the blind, the sick, and the sore, the barren and un
profitable, the stout bocriivgfi of either gender repair to Its heal-
ing water. In the sure hope of not celling rid of thoee lamentat!*
572
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
I woo'd her like a love-sick swain ;
I thre.-iten'd, would have forced, in vain ;
She proudly scorn'd my fond embrace,
She cursed my land and all its race,
maims and afflictions of person which form their best source of
profit, and interest the charity of the peasantry.
" We find the greater portion of the island covered by the rutns
of the small chapel with its appurtenant cloisters, and a large
square court containing eight cells arched over. This square
faces the causeway, from which a passage leads through an avenue
of trees to a terrace about live feet in height, to which we ascended
by a few steps. In the middle of the court, on a little mound,
with an ascent on each side of four stone steps, stands the shat-
tered and lime-worn shaft of a wooden cross. The number of
hair and hay tethers, halters, and spnncels titwl round it prove that
the cattle passed through the waters have done so to their advan-
tage. This court is beautifully shaded with trees. Each side
contains two circular cells, ten feet deep and eight feet high, by
fsur broad. In two of these we found some poor women at their
devotions, preparing to pass the night in watching and penitence,
for which purpose they had lighted up fires within them, and on
Inquiry we found that the practice was quite common.
" The terrace leads by a few steps down to the chapel, which
adjoins it at the north side. This little oratory, together with the
buildings belonging to it, are all in complete ruin ; they were built
on the smallest scale, and with the rudest materials, solidity not
appearing to have been at all looked to in the construction. They
are evidently very ancient. How, in so remote and secluded a
situation, the hand of the desecrator could have aver reached them
I cannot conceive; hut he has done his work well and pitilessly.
Though here, we may reasonably presume, was none of the pride
of the churchman, none of the world's wealth, nothing to tempt
rapacity ; though in this retreat, sacred ' to ever unusing melan-
choly,' dwelt none of the agitators of the land, yet the blind and
reckless fury of the fanatic found its way througli the wild and
rocky land that encloses it, and carried his polemical rancor into
the hut of the hermit.
"The oratory runs east and west; the entrance is through a
low, arched doorway in the eastern wall ; the interior is about
thirty -six feet long by fourteen broad, and the side walls by four
feet high ; so that when roofed it must have been extremely low,
being at the highest, judging from the broken gables, about twelve
feet, and then the entire lighted by the door and two small win-
dows, one in eacli gable. The wulls of the four small chambers
adjoining are all of a similar height to those of the chapel. The
entire extent is fifty-six feet in length, by thirty-six in breadth.
One or two of these consist of extremely small cells ; so that when
we consider their height, extent, and the light they enjoyed, we
may easily calculate that the life of the successive anchorites who
inhabitrd them was not one of much comfort or convenience, hut
much the reverse of silence, gloom, and mortification. Man
elsewhere loves to contend with, and, if possible, emulate nature
in the greatness and majesty of her works ; but here, as if awed
by the sublimity of surrounding objects, and ashamed of his own
real littleness, the humble founder of this desecrated shrine con-
structed it on a scale peculiarly pigmy and diminutive.
"The buildings stand at the southeast side, and cover nearly
half the island. The remainder, which is clothed with the most
beautiful verdure, is thickly shaded to the water's edge by tall
a.-h-trres. Two circular furrows at the north side of the cloisters
are pointed out as the sites of tents pitched here during the pat-
tern by the men of Bantry and their servants.
" In this island the holy anchorite and bishop, St. Finn Barr,
who flourished, I conceive, contrary to the opinion of Ware, early
In th.i sixth century, wishing to lead a life of pious retirement,
found a situation beyond all others most suitable to his desire ;
retreat as impenetrable as the imagination could well conceive,
and seemingly designed by nature for the abode of some seques-
tered anchorite, where, in undisturbed solitude, he might pour
out his soul in prayer, and hold converse ' with nature's charms,
and *ee her stores unrolled.' 8t Fin Barr, however, was reserved
tor purposes more useful to society, and for a scene where the
exnmple of his v'rtuous life might prove more extensively bene-
ficial He became the founder not only of the cathedral but of
And bade me hope for vengeance from
The sure strong arm of Donal Corura.
I stabb'd her I 'twas a deed of guilt,
But then 'twas Donal's blood I spilt."
the city of Cork, and labored successfully in the conversion of the
people of the adjacent country. A long line of successive aneho-
rites occupied h:s retreat at Gougaune, who, by their piety and
virtues, rendered its name celebrated through the island, and a
favorite pilgrimage and scene of devotion to the people. The
last of these eremitical occupants was Father Denis O'Mahony,
whose grave on the mainland I have before spoken of. The suc-
cession seems to have failed in him. He found this place a ruin^
and the times in which he lived were not calculated for its re-
edification, and a ruin has it since continued. A large tombstone-
shaped slab, which lies at the foot of a tree, contains, together
with a short history of this hermitage, directions for the devotions
of the penitent pilgrims; but Dr. Murphy, the Catholic Bishop of
Cork, and his clergy have so thoroughly discountenanced the re-
ligious visitations to this place, tnat its solitude stands little chance
of much future interruption.
"Old people remember with fond regret the time when Gon-
gaune was inaccessible to horses and almost to man ; when It was
no small probationary exercise to pilgrim' or palmer to overcome
the difficulties of the way ; when the shores of the lake, and even
some portions of the surrounding mountains, now naked and
barren, were a continued forest, which lent its gloomy shade to
deepen the natural solitude of the place. Kossalncha had then
no houses, and no clumsy whitewashed fishing-hut destroyed the
effect of the surrounding solitude and scenery; but man, with hi*
improvements, has even approached this desolate spot, and famil-
iarly squatted himself down beside its waters, cut down its woods,
smoothed its road, and given an air of society to Its solitude.
"The view from the summit of Derreen, the highest point of
the mountain-enclosure of the lake, Is beautifully magnificent
Though other mountains that I have seen may boast a prospect of
greater extent, yet it is reserved for Derreen to take in a reach of
mountain and of flood, of crag and glen, as wildly diversified, as
bold and as rugged as any over which the lofty Reeks iniiy look
down from his royal residence ; it is a splendid panoramic picture,
of the grandest dimensions and outline.
"From the Faoilte, on the preceding evenins, we had obtained
a view of the high outline of the Klllarney mountains to the
northwest; but here now, from our superior height, they arose
before us in a'll their purple grandeur, visible almost from their
basis in one long and splendid range from Clara to the lordly Rek-
ach. To the southwest appeared, In the distant horizon, the
trackless Atlantic, bounding the blue hilly shores of Ivera; and
reaching inland, the fine estuary of Bantry, checkered with 'Islets
fair.' spread its still waters to meet the lone brown valley which
ertends from the foot of Derreen. skirting Hungry-hill and Glen-
gariff to the right Wheeda, or Whiddy, Island appeared promi-
nent in this calm and reposing picture; and near the head of the
bay lay, bright and sparkling, the small mountain lake of ioc/t-o-
derry-faddd, the lough of the long oaken wood but the wood
was gone; cultivated gardens and brown pastures covered its site.
Before us lay the infant Lee, a long winding silver thread, stealing
through sterile glens, until in the distance it readied the lakes of
Inchageela, and spread itself along their rocky shores, brightening
in the morning rays. Between the chain of lakes and the head of
the Bay of Bantry lay three dark, disconnected, and cone-flsrured
mountains: Sheha, the furthest south, feeding at its base a bin*
lake, called Luch an bhric dfarig, the loch of the red trout or
charr ; the other two mountains are, Douchil, i. e., dark-wooded,
and Duush, a name which also occurs amongst the mountains of
Wicklow. Beneath us, apparently at the mountain's foot, we could
observe for a considerable distance a dark tortuous line, proceed-
ing inwards from the course of the Lee, and resembling the ir-
regular and fretted course of a small mountain stream. This was
the celebrated pass of Kaoim-an-eigh, i. e., the pass of deer,
through which a good road winds now to Bantry.
" We had heard so much of Kaim-an-eigh, that we were im-
patient to see it, and after having bade our long farewell to Derreen
and Gougaune. we descended the steep sid of the former. W
had arrived on the verge o a cliff, and on looking down, t.eheltf
THE TOEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
573
That raonk sprang forward front the bed,
Flung back his cowl, and furious said,
" Monster, behold my promise free,
'Tis Donal Comm himself you see."
He started back with sudden cry,
And raised the lantern. Oh, that eye
And vengeful smile lie knew too well;
For him not all the fiends of hell,
With tortures from their burning place,
Had half the horrors of that face.
One rush he made to gain the door
'Twas vain, that monk stood there before.
He shouted iotid, and sudden drew
A dagger which lay hid from view ;
the road winding at a great distance below, at the bottom of a
narrow strait, the deepest, the most abrupt, and romantic imagin-
able. To get on this road we (bond a matter of difficulty, from
the great general steepness and abruptness of its deep overhanging
sides, and it was after considerable lime and exertion that we
effected onr descent from rock to eras, through thorn and tangled
brier, grasping at times the long heath and furze and brambles, or
holding the dwarfy branches of the underwood, which grew
abundantly in the interstices.
"Nothing that ever I beheld in mountain scenery of glen, or
dell, or defile, can at all equal the gloomy pass in which we now
found ourselves. The separation of the mountain ground at either
side Is only Just sufficient to afford room for a road of moderate
breadth, with a fretted channel at one side for tbe waters, which,
In the winter season, rush down from the hich places above, and
meeting here, find a passage to pay a first tribute to the Lee. A
romantic or creative imagination would here find a grand and ex-
tensive field for the exercise of its powers. Every turn of the
road brings ns to some new appearance of the abrupt and shattered
walls which at either side arise up darkling to a gre.t height, and
the mind is continually occupied with the quick succession and
change of objects so interesting, resolving and comparing realities,
sometimes giving form and substance to 'airy nothings.'
' The enthusiasm of my companions was unbounded as they
slowly strided along, every faculty Intent on the scene before ttiem ;
their classic minds found ready associations everywhere; each
crag and cliff renewed classical reminiscences, and infttmet
tcvpul? 'Altn" 1 and ' Nemoroga? were flying out between them
without Intermission. They found no difficulty in fancying them-
selves in Thermopylse's far-famed strait, and having decided on
the resemblance, the location of the Polyandrium, or tomb of the
mighty Loonldas and his associate heroes, that grove 'whose
dwellers shall be themes to verse forever,' was quickly settled,
ami so was the temple of Ceres Amphyctlonis. The fountain
where the Persian horseman found the advanced guard of the
Spartans occupied in combing their hair was easily discovered in
one of the placid pools of the trickling stream. The Phocian wall
was also manifest; and to perfect the picture, they ascended again
to the head of the pass, to catch another glimpse of the Maliao
Gulf, as they called the Bay of Bantry. Time and space became
annihilated before them, and a brace of thousand years were but
a day In their Imagination. Their eager eyes sought out and
found everywhere monuments of the untorgotten brave of Greece,
nd all the burial-places of memory sent forth their phantoms of
the olden demigods to people the scene. I confess, I could not
see things In the same light. Tbe place reminded me of nearer
times our own classic middle ages and of different people; their
arche* were gray ruins, keeps, and dungeons in me. I saw but
'bristling walls,' battlemented courts, turrets, and embrazures, to
which their perverted judgments gave other names.
'While memory ran
O'er many a ye*r of guilt and strife,'
nd Creatfhmloir and Ronnozht, Kern and GallowglaM, Tory and
At Donal's breast one plunge he made :
That watchful arm threw off the blade.
But hark ! what noise comes from below,
Surely that cry hath roused the foe
They come, they come, with hurrying tramp
And clashing steel. The fallen lamp
That mountaineer snatch'd from the ground,
A moment glanced his prison round,
Heaved quickly back a massy bar
A narrow doorway flew ajar,
A moment cast the light's red glow
Upon the flood, far, far below ;
" No flight is there," St. Leger cried.
"Thou'rt mine." "Now, now, my immUVd bride,"
Rapparee, passed before me, sweeping the encumbered pass, driving
thir prey of lordly cattle down the defile : and loudly in my mind's
ear rang the hostile, shouts of the wild O'SuIlivans and the
O'Learys, their fierce hurras and fumighs ami <ifn>r>v mingling
with the rinsing of their swords and their lusty strokes on helm
and s'.iield. It is with associations of spoil, adventure, and darin;:
of chasing the red deer, the wolf, or the boar with horn and
bound that this place Is properly connected. To behold it with
other eye than that of an Irish ^enachie is a deed less worthy,
assuvedly, than to drink, as my friend ! alstaff says.
"1 think I may say that at its entrance from the Gouganne
side this pass is seen with be.st ett'ect; there its hiah cliff's are
steepest, and Che toppling crags assume their most picturesque
forms ami resemblances of piles and ancient ruins. These receive
beauty and variety from the various mosses which encrust them,
and the ilwnrf shrubs and tin ierwood. ivy, and creeping plant*,
which lend their mellow hues to soften and give effect to the
whole The arbutus, a plant most indigenous to Ki'larney and
Glengariff (Into the first of which places it has been plausibly
conjectured it had been brought from the continent by the monks
who settled in the Islands of its lakes), is not even uncommon
among the rocks of Kaoim-an-eigh. We behold itself and the
as-h and other hardy plants and shrubs with wonder crowing at
immense heights overhead, tufting crags Inaccessible to the human
foot, where we are astonished to think how they ever got there.
The London pride grows here and on tbe surrounding mountains,
as well as amongst the ruins of Gougatine Bavro, In most astonish-
ing profusion. I have seen it in great abundance on Turk and
Manserton, near Klllarney, but its plenty in the neighborhood of
the Lee far exceeds all comparison.
' A number of lesser defiles, formed by many a headlong tor-
rent or shelving cascade, shoot Inward from the pass in deep and
gloomy hollows, as yon wind along, which greatly increase the
Interest of the place; and these, forming at their entrance iiigii
round headlands, thickly covered with the most luxuriant clothing
cf long flowering heath, have at a distance the appearance of rich
overhanging woods. As we proceeded, we found the channel >(
the stream which winds along with the road blocked up in various
places with vast fragments of rock, rent in some violent convul-
sion or tempest from the cltffs around, or hurled downward in
wild sport by the presiding genius of the scene. Trophicd evi-
dences of his giant energies long choked up the now unenciunt>ere<t
defile, and told the history of bis fierce pastime during tbe many
ages that lie continued its uninterrupted lord. But the roadmaker
has successfully encroached upon Its stvage dominions, and crum-
bled his ponderous masses, and smoothed down the difficulties
which he had accumulated. The present diminished number of
these vast fragments remain, however, as a sufficient record of the
rocky chaos which Smith spoke of eighty years ago, and which
long remained the astonishment of successive travellers."
Dr. Smith's description of this place Is far from being correct,
and Is too highly colored ; a person visiting the place after having
read It would feel a little disappointed, though it is. in reality,
may be seen from the above extracts, one of the wildest and nio\
romantic retreats that can well be Imagined.
574
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
He answer'd, and with furious bound
One arm had clasp'd his foeinan round :
A moment, with a giant's might,
He shook him o'er that dreadful height ;
" Saxon ! 'tis Eva gives this grave,"
He said, and plunged him in the wave.
One piercing shriek was heard, no more ;
Up flash'd the billow dyed with gore,
When in they burst. Oh, where to fly !
He fix'd his foot and strain'd his eye,
And o'er that deep and fearful tide
Sprang safely to the farther side.
Above they crowd in wild amaze,
And by the hurrying torches' blaze
They saw where fearlessly he stood,
And down, far tost upon the flood,
St. Leger's body : " Quick ! to horse
Pursue the fiend with all your force,
'Tis Doual Comm." Light held he then
Pursuit, while mountain, wood, and glen
Before him lay. A moment's space
He ran, and in th' appointed place
His courser found. Then as his hand
Drew from the copse his trusty brand,
"Twas well I left thee here, my blade,
That search my purpose had betray'd ;
But here they come now, now, my steed,
Son of the hills ! exert thy speed,"
He said, and on the moaning wind
Heard their faint foot-tramp die behind.
'Tis morning, and the purple light
On Noc-na-ve' gleams coldly bright,
And from his heathery brow the streams
Rush joyous in the kindling beams ;
O'er hill, and wave, and forest red,
One wide blue sea of mist is spread ;
> Noo-na-ve (the hill of the deer), IB the name of the hill over
Jbo town of Bantry.
Save where more brightly, deeply blue,
Ivera's mountains meet the view,
And falls the sun with mellower streak
On Sliav-na-goilas s giant peak.
Still as its dead, is now the breeze
In Ard-na-rnrahir's weeping trees
So deep its silence, you might tell
Each plashing rain-drop as it fell.
Beneath its brow the waters wild
Are sleeping, like a merry child
That sinks from fretful fit to rest,
On its fond mother's peaceful breast
On yonder grave cold lies the turf
Besprent with rain and ocean's surf,
So purely, freshly green ;
And kneeling by that narrow bed,
With pallid cheek and drooping head,
A lonely form is seen.
Long kneels he there in speechless woe,
Silent as she who lies below
In her cold and silent room ;
The trees bang motionless above,
There's not a breath of wind to move
The dripping eagle plume ;
Well might you know that man of grief
To be Ivera's widow'd chief.
He rose at last, and as he took
Of that dear spot his last sad look,
Convulsive trembled all his frame
He strove to utter Eva's name ;
Then wildly rushing to the shore,
Was never seen or heard of more. 5
5 8Hav-na-goil (the mountain of the wild people), no*
I lo*f hill, appears, from its proximity and conical form, U> be th
I highest of that chain of mountains which runs all along the weal-
em side of Bantry Bay, and divides the counties of Cork aod
Kerry.
' Ttankl Comm made bU escape into Spain.
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
575
0*ms.
GOUGANE BARRA.
THKRE is a green island in lone Gougane Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow ;
In deep-valley'd Desmond a thousand wild foun-
tains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the
mountains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken
willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow.
As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorn-
ing,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morn-
ing.
And its zone of dark hills oh! to see them
all bright'ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of
lightning ;
And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's
deep rattle,
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the
battle ;
And brightly ths fire-crested billows are gleam-
ing.
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are scream-
ing.
Oh ! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island !
How oft when the summer sun rested on
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivora,
I Live I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home
by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards, when assembling to-
gether,
In the cleft of thy rocks or the depth of thy
heather,
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and
slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy
water !
High sons of the lyre, oh ! how proud was the
feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude steal-
ing.
Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number,
1 only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,
And mingled once more with the voice of those
fountains,
The songs even echo forgot on her mountains,
And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was
sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty
was creeping !
Lesst bard of the hills ! were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which like thee to our country
has bound me ;
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around
me,
Still, still in those wilds may young Liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and
valley ;
The star of the west may yet rise in its glory,
And the land that WAS darkest be brightest in
story.
I too shall be gone ; but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken :
Some minstrel will come, in the summer ee'a
gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is
beaming.
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that
river,
O'er the heart and the harp that arc sleeping for-
ever.
576
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN
TO A SPRIG OF MOUNTAIN HEATH.
THOU little stem of lowly heath !
Nursed by the wild wind's hardy breath,
Dost thou survive, uuconquer'd still,
Thy stately brethren of the hill ?
No more the morning mist shall break
Around Clogh-grenan's towering peak ;
The stag no more with glance of pride
Looks fearless from its hazel side ;
But there thou livest lone and free,
The hermit plant of Liberty.
Child of the mountain ! many a storm
Hath drench'd thy head and shook thy form,
Since in thy depths Clon-muire lay,
To wait the dawning of that day ;
And many a sabre, as it beam'd
Forth from its heather scabbard, gleam'd
When Leix its vengeance hot did slake
In yonder city of the lake,
And its proud Saxon fortress 1 bore
The banner green of Riery More.
Thou wert not then, as thou art now,
Upon a bondsman-minstrel's brow ;
But wreathing round the harp of Leix,
When to the strife it fired the free,
Or from the helmet battle-sprent
Waved where the cowering Saxon bent.
Yet blush not, for the bard you crown
Ne'er stoop'd his spirit's homage down,
And he can wake, though rude his skill,
The songs you loved on yonder hill.
Repine not, that no more the spring
Its balmy breath shall round thee fling :
No more the heathcock's pinion sway
Shall from thy bosom dash the spray.
More sweet, more blest thy lot shall prove :
Go to the breast of her I love,
And speak for me to that blue eye ;
Breathe to that heart my fondest sigh ;
And tell her in thy softest tone
That he who sent thee is her own.
The fortress alluded to is the Castle of Carlow, bnllt hi
the time of King .J;>hn, and still an imposing ruin. Riery More
was the Chieftain of Leix (the present Queen's County) in the time
of Elizabeth. He was brave, politic, and accomplished above his
rt'der countrymen of that period ; he stormed the Castle of Carlow,
wlich, being within the pale, belonged to the English ; they never
had a more skilful enemy in the country. Riere, Anglice Roger.
Carlow, or Cahir-lough, literally the City of the Lake. Clough-
jrenna, the sunny MU. It is near <"arlow, but in the Queen's
County Mid was formerly thickly coverwd with ok.
SPANISH WAR-SONG.
YE sons of old Iberia, brave Spaniards, up, arise ;
Along your hills, like distant rills, the voice of
battle flies ;
Once more, with threats of tyranny, come on
the host of France.
Ye men of Spain, awake again, to Freedom's fight
advance.
Like snow upon your mountains, they gather
from afar,
j To launch upon your olive-fields the avalanche
of war ;
Above the dark'ning Pyrenees their cloud of
battle flies,
To burst in thunder on your plains ; brave
Spaniards, up, arise.
O sons of Viriatus, Hispania's boast and pride,
Who long withstood, in fields of blood, the
Roman's battle- tide,
Arise again to match his deeds and kindle at his
name,
And let its light, through Freedom's fight, still
guide you on to fame.
Descendants of those heroes in Roman song
renown'd,
Whose glorious strife for Liberty with deathless
name was crown'd
Come down again, unconquer'd men, like Biscay's
ocean roar,
And show yourselves the Cantabers your fathers
were of yore.
Saguntum's tale of wonder shines bright upon
your page,
And old Numantia's story shall live through
every age :
Her children sung their farewell song, their own
loved homes they fired,
And in the blaze, 'mid Freedom's rays, all
gloriously expired.
( Two vertet of the Spanish War-nong, not in the printed
copy.)
Long, long each Spanish father his kindling
boys shall tell,
How gallantly Gerona fought, how Saragoza fell ;
Long, long, above the waves of time those death-
less names shall be
A beacon light to all who fight for home or
liberty.
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
677
Ok, offspring of that hero by Spanish hearts
adored,
Who on fche proud Morescoe bands his mountain
vengeance pourM,
Once more to waste your lovely fields coine on
the hordes of France
Descendants of Pelayo, to Freedom's fight ad-
vance.
Songs, Jjjrical Jjieets,
"SI JE TE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU."
TfatiM stanzas were suggested by an Impress on a Seal, repre-
senting a boat at sea, and a man at the holm looking up at a
*oliurj- star, with a motto Si je tprdt,j suit perdu.
SHINE on, thou bright beacon,
Unclouded and free,
From thy high place of calmness
O'er life's troubled sea ;
Its morning of promise,
Its smooth waves are gone,
And the billows rave wildly
Then, bright one, shine on.
The wings of the tempest
May rush o'er thy ray ;
But tranquil thou srailest,
Undimm'd by its sway :
High, high o'er the worlds
Where storms are unknown,
Thon dwellest all-beauteous,
All-glorious, alone.
From the deep womb of darkness
The lightning flash leaps,
O*cr the bark of my fortunes
Each mad billow e,weeps,
From the port of her safety,
By warring winds driven,
And no light o'er her course
But yon lone one of heaven.
Yet fear not, thou frail one,
The hour may be near,
When our own sunny headland
Far off shall appear :
When the voice of the storm
Shall be silent and past,
In some island of heaven
We may anchor at last.
But, bark of Eternity,
Where art thou now ?
The wild waters shriek
O'er each plunge of thy prow :
On the world's dreary Ocean,
Thus shatter'd and tost- -
Then, lone one, shine on,
"IF I LOSE THEE, I'M LOST."
HOW KEEN THE PANG.
How keen the pang when friends must part,
And bid the unwilling last adieu ;
When every sigh that rends the heart,
Awakes the bliss that once it knew !
He that has felt, alone can tell
The dreary desert of the mind,
When those whom once we loved so well
Have left us weeping here behind
When every look so kindly shed,
And every word so fondly poken,
And every smile, is faded, fled,
And leaves the heart alone and broken.
Yes, dearest maid ! that grief was mine,
When, bending o'er thy shrouded bier,
I saw the form that once was thine
My Mary was no longer there.
But on the relics pale and cold.
There sat a sweet seraphic smile,
A calm celestial grace, that told
Our parting was but for a while.
578
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY
ON ENTKRINO A CONVENT.
Tis the rose of the desert
So lovely, so wild ;
In the lap of the desert
Its infancy smiled :
In the languish of beauty
It droops o'er the thorn,
And its leaves are all wet
With the bright tears of morn.
Yet 'tis better, thou fair one,
To dwell all alone,
Than recline on a bosom
Less pure than thine own :
Thy form is too lovely
To be torn from its stem,
And thy breath is too sweet
For the children of men.
Bloom on thus in secret,
Sweet child of the waste,
Where no lips of profaner
Thy fragrance shall taste ;
Bloom on where no footstep
Unhallow'd hath trod,
And give all thy blushes
And sweets to thy God.
LINES ON A DECEASED CLERGYMAN.
BREATHE not his honor'd name,
Silently keep it ;
Hush'd be the sadd'ning theme,
In secrecy weep it ;
Call not a warmer flow
To eyes that are aching ;
Wake not a deeper throe
In hearts that are breaking.
Oh, 'tis a placid rest ;
Who should deplore it ?
Trance of the pure and blest
Angels watch o'er it :
Sleep of his mortal night,
Sorrow can't break it ;
Heaven's own morning light
Alone shall awake it.
Nobly thy course is run
Splendor is round it ;
Bravely thy fight is won
Freedom hath crown'd it ;
In the high warfare
Of heaven grown hoary,
Thou'rt gone like the summer-sun t
Shrouded in glory.
Twine twine the victor wreath,
Spirits that meet him ;
Sweet songs of triumph breathe,
Seraphs, to greet him !
From his high resting-place
Who shall him sever ?
With his God face to face,
Leave him forever.
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF AN AMIABLE AND HIGHLY
TALENTED YOUNG MAN, WHO FELL A VICTIM
TO FEVER IN THE WEST INDIES.
ALL vack'd on his feverish bed he lay,
And none but the stranger were near him ;
No friend to console, in his last sad day,
No look of affection to cheer him.
Frequent and deep were the groans he drew,
On that couch of torture turning ;
And often his hot wild hand he threw
O'er his brows, still wilder burning.
But, oh ! what anguish his bosom tore,
How throbb'd each strong pulse of emotion,
When he thought of the friends he should
never see more,
In his own green Isle of the Ocean !
When he thought of the distant maid of hi*
heart,
Oh, must they thus darkly sever
No last farewell, ere his spirit depart
Must he leave her unseen, and forever ?
One sigh for that maid his fond heart heaVed,
One prayer for her weal he breathed ;
And his eyes to that land for whose woes he had-
grieved,
Once look'd and forever were sheathed.
Till-: POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
579
On a cliff that by footstep is seldom prest,
Far seaward its dark head rearing,
A rude stone marks the place of his rest ;
*' Here lies a poor exile of Erin."
Yet think not, dear Youth, though far, far away
From thy own native Isle tliou art sleeping,
That no heart for thy slumber is aching to-day,
That no eye for thy mem'ry is weeping.
Oh! yes when the hearts that have wailed thy
young blight,
Some joy from forgetful ness borrow,
The thought of thy doom will come over their
light,
And shade them more deeply with sorrow.
And the maid who so long held her home in thy
breast,
As she strains her wet eye o'er the billow,
Will vainly embrace, as it comes from the west,
Every breeze that has swept o'er thy pillow.
AND MUST WE PART.
AND must we part ? then fare thcc well ;
But he that wails it he can tell
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art,
And ever must be to this heart :
But now 'tis vain it cannot be ;
Farewell ! and think no more ou me.
Oh ! yes this heart would sooner break,
Than one unholy thought awake ;
I'd sooner slumber into clay,
Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray :
Go free as air as Angel free,
And, lady, think no more on me.
Oh, did we meet when brighter star
Sent its fair promise from afar,
I then might hope to call thee mine,
The Minstrel's heart and harp were thine ;
But now 'tis past it cannot be:
Farewell ! and think no more on me.
Or do ! bnt let it be the hour,
When Mercy's all-atoning power
From his high throne of glory hears
Of souls like thine the prayers, the tears ;
Then, whilst you bend the suppliant knee
Then then, O Lady, think on me.
PURE IS THE DEWY <;KM.'
PURK is the dewy gem that sleeps
Within the rose's fragrant bed,
And dear the heart-warm drop that steeps
The turf where all we loved is laid ;
But far more dear, more pure than they,
The tear that washes guilt way.
Sweet is the morning's balmy breath
Along the valley's flowery side,
And lovely on the moonlit heath
The lute's soft tone complaining wide;
But still more lovely, sweeter still,
The sigh that wails a life of ill.
Bright is the morning's roseate gleam
Upon the mountains of the East,
And soft the moonlight silvery beam
Above the billow's placid rest ;
But oh, what ray ere shone from heaven
Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven I
TO
LADY the lyre thou bid'st me take,
No more can breathe the minstrel strain ;
The cold and trembling notes I wake,
Fall on the ear like plashing rain ;
For days of suffering and of pain,
And nights that lull'd no care for me,
Have tamed ray spirit, then in vain
Thon bid'st me wake my harp for thee.
But could I sweep my ocean lyre,
As once this feeble hand could sweep,
Or catch once more the thought of fire,
That lit the Mizen's stormy steep,
Or bid the fancy cease to sleep,
That once could soar on pinion free,
And dream I was not born to weep ;
Oh, then I'd wake my harp for thee.
And now 'tis on'y friendship's call
That bids my slumbering lyre awake.
It long hath slept in sorrow's hall :
Again that slumber it must seek :
1 This trifle WM oompoMd before the author rMd Uooct'l
Paradiw and the Pert
580
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
Not even the light of beauty's cheek,
Or blue eye beaming kind and free,
Can bid its mournful numbers speak :
Then, lady, ask no lay from me.
Yet if, on Desmond's mountain wild,
By glens I love, or ocean cave,
Nature once more should own her child,
And give the strength that once she gave ;
If he who lights my path should save,
And what I was I yet may be ;
Then, lady, by green Erin's wave,
I'll gladly wake my harp for thee.
STANZAS.
HOURS like those I spent with you,
So bright, so passing, and so few,
May never bless me more, farewell !
My heart can feel, but dare not tell,
The rapture of those hours of light,
Thus snatch'd from sorrow's cheerless night.
'Tis not thy cheek's soft blended hue ;
'Ti-s not thine eye of heavenly blue ;
Tis not the radiance of thy b-row,
That thus would win or charm me now ;
It is thy heart's warm light, that glows
Like sunbeams on December snows.
It is thy wit, that flashes bright
As lightning on a stormy night,
Illuming even the clouds that roll
Along the darkness of my soul,
And bidding, with an angel's voice,
The heart that knew no joy rejoice.
Too late we met too soon we part,
Yet dearer to my soul thou art
Than some whose love has grown for years,
Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears.
Farewell ! but absent, thou shall seem
The vision of some heavenly dream,
Too bright on child of earth to dwell.
It must be so My friend, farewell.
THE NIGHT WAS STILL.
TEE night was still the air was balm
Soft dews around were weeping ;
No whisper rose o'er ocean's calm,
Its waves in light were sleeping.
With Mary on the beach I stray'd,
The stars bearn'd joy above me
I press'd her hand and said, " Sweet maid,
Oh tell me, do you love me?"
With modest air she droop'd her head,
Her cheek of beauty vailing :
Her bosom heaved no word she said
I mark'd her strife of feeling ;
" Oh speak my doom, dear maid," I cried,
"By yon bright heaven above thee:"
She gently raised her eyes and sigh'd,
" Too well you know I love thee."
SERENADE.
THE blue waves are sleeping;
The breezes are still ;
The light dews are weeping
Soft tears on the hill ;
The moon in mild beauty
Looks bright from above ;
Then come to the casement,
Mary, my love.
Not a sound or a motion
Is over the lake,
But the whisper of ripples,
As shoreward they break ;
My skiff wakes no ruffle
The waters among ;
Then listen, dear maid,
To thy true lover's song.
No form from the lattice
Did ever recline
Over Italy's waters,
More lovely than thine ;
Then come to thy window,
And shed from above
One glance of thy dark eye,
One smile of thy love.
Oh ! the soul of that eye,
When it breaks from its shrond.
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALL AN AN
581
Shines beauteously out,
Like the moon from a cloud ;
And thy whisper of love,
Breathed thus from afar,
Is sweeter to me
Than the sweetest guitar.
From the storms of this world
How gladly I'd fly
To the calm of that breast,
To the heaven of that eye !
How deeply I love thee
'Twere useless to tell ;
Farewell, then, my dear one
My Mary, farewell.
ROUSSEAU'S DREAM. 1
Am "Rousseau's Dream."
LIFE for me is dark and dreary ;
Every light is quench'd and gone ;
O'er its waste, all lone and weary,
Sorrow's child, I journey on.
Thou whose smile alone can cheer me,
Whose bright form still haunts my breast,
From this world in pity bear me
To thy own high home of rest.
Hush ! o'er Leman's sleeping water,
Whispering tones of love I hear ;
Tis some fond unearthly daughter
Woos me to her own bright sphere.
Immortal beauty ! yes, I see thee,
Come, oh ! come to this wild breast 1
Oh ! I fly I burn to meet thee
Take me to thy home of rest.
WHEN EACH BRIGHT STAR IS
CLOUDED.
An u CUr Bag Dale."
WHEN each bright star is clouded that illumined
our way,
And darkly through the bleak night of life we
stray,
rlld RnniMtau,
The Apostle of affliction. Ac.
His was not the love of mortal dame
Bat of lilot beauty, &o. CHILD! HABOL*
What joy then is left us, but alone to weep
O'er the cold dreary pillow where loved onet
sleep t
This world has no pleasure that is half so dear t
That can soothe the widow'd bosom like memory'i
tear;
'Tis the desert rose drooping in moon's soft
dew,
In those pure drops looks saddest, but softest
too.
Oh, if ever death should sever fond hearts from
me,
And I linger like the last leaf on autumn's tree,
While pining o'er the dead mates all sear'd below.
How welcome will the last blast be that lays me
lowl
HUSSA THA MEASG NA RE ALT AN
MORE. 1
Mr love, my still unchanging love,
As fond, as true, as hope above,
Though many a year of pain pass'd by
Since last I heard thy farewell sigh,
This faithful heart doth still adore
Hussa tha measg na realtdn more.
What once we hoped, might then have been,
But fortune darkly frown'd between :
And though far distant is the ray
That lights me on my weary way,
I love, and shall 'till life is o'er,
Hussa tha measg na realtdn more.
Though many a light of beauty shone
Along my path, and lured me on,
I better loved thy dark bright eye.
Thy witching smile, thy spi-aking sigh :
Shine on this heart shall still adore
Hussa tha measg na realtdn mure.
1 7\cw tf ta art amitngtt On grtaUr pionttt
,582
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
acreb Subjects.
THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK.
FROM the foot of Incbidony Tuland an elevated tract of wnd
run* out into the sea and terminates in a high green bank, which
forms a pleasing contrast with the little desert behind it and the
black solitary rock immediately tinder. Tradition tells that the
Virgin came one night to this hillock to pray, and was discovered
kneeling: there by the crew of a vessel that was coming to anchor
near the place. They laughed at her piety, and made some merry
and unbecoming remarks on her beauty, upon which a storm arose
nd destroyed the ship and her crew. Since that time no vessel
has been known to anchor near the spot
Such is the story upon which the following stanzas are founded.
THE evening star rose beauteous above the fading
day,
As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came
to pray,
And hill and wave shone brightly in the moon-
light's mellow fall ;
But the bank of green where Mary knelt was
brightest of them all.
Slow moving o'er the waters a gallant bark ap-
pear'd,
And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to
the land she near'd :
To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like
a swan,
And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in
pride and beauty shone.
The Master saw our Lady as he stood upon the
prow,
And niark'd the whiteness of her robe and the
radiance of her brow ;
3er arms were folded gracefully upon her stain-
less brea&t,
And her eyes look'd up among the staus to Him
her soul loved best.
He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her
with a cheer ;
Aud on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with
laugh and jeer,
And madly swore a form so fair they never saw
before ;
And they cursed the faint and lagging breeze
that kept them from the shore.
The ocean from its bosom shook off the moon-
light sheen,
And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate
their Queen ;
And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a dark-
ness o'er the land,
And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady
on the strand.
Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning
leap'd about,
And rushing with his watery war, the tempest
gave a shout,
And that vessel from a mountain wave cams
down with thundering shock,
And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on In-
chidony's rock.
Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek
rose wild and high ;
But the angry surge swept over them and hush'd
their gurgling cry ;
And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest
pass'd away,
And down, still charing from their strife, the in-
dignant waters lay.
When the calm and purple morning shone out
on high Dunmore,
Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchi-
clony's shore ;
And to this day the fisherman shows where the
scoffers sank,
And still he calls that hillock green " the Virgin
Mury's bank."
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
588
( Ftrsg omitted/rom " Tlu Virgin J/ary'*
And from his brow she wiped the blood and
wrung his dripping hair,
And o'er the breathless sailor boy she bent her-
self in prayer,
And life came rushing to his cheek and his bosom
heaved a sigh,
And up the lifeless sailor rose in the mercy of
her eye.
MARY MAGDALEN.
To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair ;
She heard in the city that Jesus was there :
She mark'd not the splendor that blazed on their
board,
But silentlv knelt at the feet of the Lord.
The hair from her forehead, so sad and so meek,
Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd on her
cheek ;
And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame,
It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its frame.
The frown and the murmur went round through
them all,
That one so unhallow'd should tread in that
hall;
And some said the poor would be objects more
meet
For the wealth of the perfume* she shower'd on
his feet.
She mark'd but her Saviour, she spoke but in
sighs,
She dared not look up to the heaven of his eyes,
And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of
her breast,
As her lips to his sandal were throbbingly press'd.
On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow,
Tn the glance of the sunbeam, as meltcth the snow,
He look'd on that lost one her sins were for-
given,
And Mary went forth in the beauty of heaven.
SAUL,
HOLDING THE GARMENTS OK THE MUKDHREK8 Of
STEPHEN.
THE soldier of Christ to the stake was bound,
And the foes of the Lord beset him round ;
But his forehead beam'd with unearthly light,
As he laok'd with joy to his last high fight.
Beyond that circle of death was one
Whose hand was unarm'd with glaive or stone;
But the garments he held, as apart lie stood,
Of the men who were bared for the work of blood.
His form not tall, but his bearing high,
And courage sat in his dark deep eye ;
His cheek was young, and he seein'd to stand
Like one who was destined for high command.
But the hate of his spirit you well might learn
From his pale high brow so bent and stern,
And the glance that at times shot angry light,
Like a flash from the depth of a stormy night
'Twas Saul of Tarsus ! a fearful name,
And wed in the land with sword and flame ;
And the faithful of Israel trembled all
At the deeds that were wrought by the furiotu
Saul.
'Tis done ! the martyr hath slept at last,
And his victor soul to the Lord hath pass'd ;
And the murderers' hearts wax'd sore with guilt,
As they gazed on the innocent blood they spilt
But Saul went on in his fiery zeal ;
The thirst of his fury no blood could quell ;
And he went to Damascus with words of doom,
To bury the faithful in dungeon-gloom ;
When lo! as a rock by the lightning riven,
His heart was smote by a voice from heaven,
And the hater of Jesus loved nanght beside,
And died for the name of the Crucified.
THE MOTHER OF THE MACHABEES,
THAT mother view'd the scene of blood
Her six unconquer'd sons were gone
Tearless she viewed : beside her stood
Her last her youngest dearest one ;
584
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
lie look'd upon her, and he smiled
Oh ! will she save that only child '
" By all ray love, my son," she said
"The breast that nursed the womb that
bore
The unsleeping care that watch'd thee fed
'Till manhood's years required no more ;
By all I've wept and pray'd for thee,
Now, now, be firm and pity me.
" Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven,
With its high field of azure light,
Look on this earth, to mankind given,
Array'd in beauty and in might,
And think nor scorn thy mother's prayer
On ilim who said it, and they were!
" So shalt thou not this tyrant fear,
Nor recreant shun the glorious strife.
Hohold ! thy battle-field is near :
Then go, my son,, nor heed thy life ;
Go ! like thy faithful brothers die,
That I may meet you all on high."
Like arrow from the bended bow,
He sprang upon the bloody pile
Like sunrise on the morning's snow,
Was that heroic mother's smile.
He died nor fear'd the tyrant's nod
For Judah's law, and Judah's God !
MOONLIGHT.
Trs sweet at hush of night
By the calm moon to wander,
And view those isles oi light
That float so far beyond her,
In that wide sea,
Whose waters free
Can find no shore to bound them
On whose calm breast
Pure spirits rest
With all their glory round them :
Oh that my soul all free,
From bonds of earth might sever !
Oh that those isles might be
Her resting-place forever !
When all those glorious spheres
The watch of heaven are keeping,
And dews, like angels' tears,
Around are gently weeping ;
Oh who is he
That carelessly
On virtue's bound encroaches,
But then will feel
Upon him steal
Their silent sweet reproaches ?
Oh that my soul all free,
From bonds of earth might sever!
Oh that those isles might be
Her resting-place forever 1
And when in secret sighs
o
The lonely heart is pining,
If we but view those skies
With ail their bright host shining-
While sad we gaze
On their mild rays,
They seem like seraphs smiling,
To joys above,
With looks of love,
The weary spirit wiling :
Oh that my soul all free,
From bonds of earth could sevar I
Oh that those isles might be
Her resting-place forever 1
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
585
translations from tjjc |ris|j.
THOUGH the Irish are undoubtedly of a poetic temperament, yet
the popular songs of the lower order are neither numerous nor
In general possessed of much beauty. For this various causes
may be assigned ; but the most prominent is the division of lan-
guage which prevails in Ireland. English, though of late years it
is gaining ground with great rapidity, is not even yet the popular
language in many districts of the country, and thirty years since
tt was still less so. Few songs, therefore, were composed in English
by humble minstrels, and the few that I know, are of very little
value indeed in any point of view. The poets of the populace
confined themselves chiefly to Irish a tongue which, whatever
may be its capabilities, had ceased to be the langunge of the great
and polished for centuries before the poetic taste revived in
Kurope. They were compelled to use a despised dialect, which,
moreover, the political divisions of the country had rendered an
object of suspicion to the ruling powers. The government and
populace were indeed so decidedly at variance, that the topics
which the village bards were obliged to select were such as often
to render the indulgence of their poetic powers rather dangerous.
Their heroes were frequently inmates of jails or doomed to the
gibbet, and the severe criticism of the cat-o'-nine-tails might be
the lot of the panegyrist.
Wales to be sure has produced and continues to produce her
bards, though the Welsh &!so use a language differing from that
of their conquerors. But Wales is so completely dovetailed into
Englar.d, that resistance to the victorious power was hopeless, and
therefore after the first struggles not attempted. The Welsh lan-
guage was consequently no distinguishing mark of a cast deter-
mlnately hostile to the English domination, and continually the
object of suspicion. It was and is still cultivated by all classes,
though I understand not as much as formerly. The case was quite
different In Ireland. No gentleman has used Irish as his common
i/xnguage for generations; multitudes do not understand a word of
It; it was left to the lower orders exclusively, and they were de-
pressed and uneducated, and consequently wild and Illiterate.
Lot no zealous countryman of mine imagine that I am going to
Impeach the ancient fame of our bards and senacblea, or to aban-
don our claims, or 'he glories, sncb as they are, of cbe Ossianio
fragments. I mere'.y speak of the state of popular Irish poetry
during the last century or century and a half. With our ancient
minstrels I meddle not Osslan I leave to his wrangling commen-
tators and still more wrangling antiquaries; and for the bards of
in -rr modern times (those for Instance who flourished In the days
of Kiir.al>eth), I accept the compliment of Sponsor, who knew them
well and hated thorn bitterly. But the poetic sympathies of the
mlzlity minstrel of Old Mule could not allow his political feelings
to hinder htm from acknowledging, in his View of Ireland, that
he had caused several songs of the Irish bards to be translated,
tli it bo might understand them; "and surely," he says, "they
navorcd of sweet wit and good Invention, hut skilled not of the
goodly ornament* of poetry ; yea, they were sprinkled with some
pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and
e..in.'lini'8-e unto them, the which It is great pity to see abused to
ihr gracing of wickedness and vice, which with good usage would
wrve to 'lorne and beautlfle virtue."
The following songs are specimens of the popular poetry o
Inter days. I have translated them a* closely aa possible, and pre-
wiit them to the public more M literary curiosities than on any
viiier account
DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR.
In IT, one of the CVSnllivans of Bearhaven, who went by th*
name of Morty Oge, fell un.ler the vengeance of the law. Ho had
long been a turbulent character In the wild district which ho in-
habited, and was particularly obnoxious to the local authorities,
who had good reason to suspect him of enlisting men for the Irish
Brigade In the French service. In which it was said he held a
Captain's commission.
Information of his raising these " wild geese" (the name by
which such recrulfct were known) was given by a Mr. Puxley, on
whom, in consequence, O'Sullivan vowed revenge, which he exe-
cuted by shooting him on Sunday, while on his way to church.
This called for the Interposition of the higher powers, and accord-
ingly a party of military were sent round from Cork to Htuck
O'Sulltvan's house. He was daring and well armed, and the house
was fortified, so that he made an obstinate defence. At last a con-
fidential servant of his, named Scully, was bribed to wet the
powder in the guns and pistols prepared for bis defence, which
rendered him powerless. He attempted to escape; but while
springing over a high wall in the rear of his house, he received a
mortal wound in the back. They tied his body to a boat, and
dragged it in that manner through the sea from Boarhaven to
Cork, where his head was cut off and fixed on the county jail,
where It remained fur several years.
Such is the story current among the lower orders about Bear-
haven. In the version given of it in the rude chronicle of the
local occurrences of Cork, there is no mention made of Scully'*
perfidy, and perhaps that circumstance might have been added by
those by whom O'Sullivan was deemed a hero, in order to save hit
credit as much as possible. The dirge was composed by his mine,
who has made no sparing use of the energy of cursing, which the
Irish language Is by all allowed to possess.
(In the following song, Morty in Irish, Mniertach. or Mulr-
cheartach la a name very common among the old families of
Ireland. It signifies expert at sea. Og, or Oge, Is young. Where
a whole district Is peopled in a great measure by a sept of one
name, such distinguishing titles are necessary, and in some ease*
even supersede the original appellation. I-vera, or Aol-vera, It
the original name of Bearhaven ; Aol, or I, signifying an Island o
territory.)
THE suu upon Ivera
No longer shines brightly ;
The voice of her music
No longer is sprightly ;
No more to her maidens
The light dance is dear,
Since the death of our darling,
O'Sullivan Bar.
Scully ! thou false one,
You basely betray'd him,
586
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
I'n his strong hour of need,
When thy right hand should aid him
He fed thee he chid thee
You had all could delight thee ;
You left him you sold him
May heaven requite thee !
Scully ! may all kinds
Of evil attend thee;
On thy dark road of life
May no kind one befriend thee ;
May fevers long burn thee,
And agues long freeze thee !
May the strong hand of God
In hio red anger seize thee.
Had he died calmly,
I would not deplore him ;
Or if the wild strife
Of the sea-war closed o'er him ;
But with ropes round his white limbs
Through ocean to trail him,
Like a fish after slaughter !
"Tis therefore I wail him.
Long may the curse
Of his people pursue them
Scully that sold him,
And soldier that slew him ;
One glimpse of heaven's light
May they see never ;
May the hearthstone of hell
Be their best bed forever !
In the hole which the vile .hands
Of soldiers had made thee,
Unhonor'd, unshrouded,
And headless they laid thee ;
No sigh to regret thee,
No eye to rain o'er thee,
No dirge to lament thee,
No friend to deplore thee.
Dear head of my darling,
How gory and pale,
These aged eyes saw thee
High spiked on their jail !
That cheek in the summer sun
Ne'er shall grow warm,
Nor that eye e'er catch light
Bat the flash of the siorm.
A curse, blessed ocean,
Is on thy green water.
From the haven of Cork
To Ivcnt of slaughter.
Since the billows wre dyed
With the red wounds of fe;ir,
Of Muicrtach Oge,
Our O'Sullivan Bear.
THE GIRL I LOVE.
Sud i s'os an ca6in ban alaln 6g.
A large proportion of the songs I have met with are lov
songs. Somehow or other, truly or untruly, tlie Irish have ob-
tained a character for gallantry, and the peasantry, beyond doubt,
do not belie the '-soft impeachment" Tlieir modes of courtship
are sometimes amusing. The "malome Galatea petit" of Virtril
would still find a counterpart among them except that the mis-
sile of love (which I am afraid is not so poetical as tlie apple of
the pastoral, being neither more nor less than a potato) comes
first from the gentleman. He flings it, with aim designedly er-
ring, at his sweetheart; and if she returns the fire, a warmer ad-
vance concludes the preliminaries and establishes the suitor.
Courtships, however, are sometimes curried on smong them with
a delicacy worthy of a more refined stage of society, and un-
chastity is very rare. This, perhaps, is in a great degree occasioned
by their extremely early marriages, the advantage or disadvantage
of which I leave to be discussed by Mr. Malthus and his antago-
nists.
At their dances (of which they are very fond), whether a-field
or In ale-house, a piece of gallantry frequently occurs, which Is
alluded to in the following song. A young man, smitten suddenly
by the charms of a dansevxe belonging to a company to which he
is a stranger, rises, and with his best bow offers her his glass mid
requests her to drink to hiui. After due refusal, it is usually ac-
cepted, and is looked on as a good omen of successful wooing.
Goldsmith alludes to this custom of his country in the Deserted
Village:
"The coy maid, half willing to be press'd,
Shall kiss the cup, and pass it to the rest"
The parties may be totally unacquainted, and perhaps never
meet again under which circumstances it would appear that thl*
song was written.
THE girl I love is comely, straight, and tall,
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall ;
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free
Here's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er
she be !
The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek,
Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek,
Her lips like cherries on a summer tree
Here's a health to the charming maid, whoe'er
she be !
When I go to the field no youth can lighter
bound,
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes
round ;
TilE POEMS OF J. J. C ALLAN AN.
587
The barrel is full, but its heart we soon shall
see
Come, here's to that charming maid, whoe'er
she be !
Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign,
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of
Spain,
I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me
Here's a health to the maid I love, whoe'er she
be!
Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair
I'd pay,
And five times five for my love one hour each
day ;
Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its
own green tree
Then, my dear, may I drink a fond deep health
to thee !
THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL.
Is dubac 6 mo efts.
Who the hero of this song is I know not, but convicts, from
obviou> reason*, have lieon peculiar object.* of sympathy in Ire-
land. Hurling, which Is mentioned in one of the verses, Is the
principal national diversion, and is played with Intense zeal by
parish agfdnst parish, barony against barony, county against county,
or even province against province. It Is played not only by the
peasant, hut by the patrician students of the University, where it
i.> an established pastime. Twiss, the most sweeping calumniator
of Ireland, calls It. if I mistake not, the cricket of barbarians; but
though fully prepared to pay every tribute to the elegance of the
English game. I own that 1 think the Irish sport fully as civilized,
&nd much belter calculalcd for the display of vigor and activity.
Perhaps I shall offend Scottish nationality if I prefer either to gol<
which is, I think, but tritlins: compared with them. In the room
belonging to the Goif Club on the Links of Leith. there hangs a
picture of an old lord (Rosslyn), which I never could look at with-
out being struck with the disproportion between the' gaunt figure
of the peer and the petty Instrument in his hand. Strutt. in
"Sports and I'agtimes" (page 7S), eulogizes the activity of some
Irishmen, who played the irame about twenty-five years before
the publication of his work (1801), at the bnck of the British
Museum, and deduces it from the Roman harptuttum. " It was
played in Cornwall formerly," he adds; "but neither the Romans
nor the Cornibmen used a bat, or, as we call it in Ireland, a
hurly. Tku> description Ptrutt quotes from old Caivw is (julte
graphic. The late Dr. Gregory, I am told, used to be loud In
panciryritf* on the superiority of this enine, when played by the
Irish students, over that adopted by his young countrymen north
and south of the Tweed, particularly over goif, which be called
" riddling wl' a pick ;" bat enough of Una.
How hard is my fortune,
And vain my repining !
The strong rope of fate
For this young ne<-k is twining 1
My strength is departed,
My cheeks sunk and sallow,
While I languish in chains
In I he jail of Clonutala. 1
No boy of the village
Was ever yet milder ;
I'd play with a child
And my sport would be wilder;
I'd dance without tiring
From morning till even,
And the goal-ball I'd strike
To the lightning of heaven.
At my bed-foot decaying,
My hurl-bat is lying ;
Through tlie boys of the village
Mv goal-ball is dying;
My horse 'mong the neighbors
Neglected may fallow,
While- I pine in my chains
In the jail of Clonmala.
Next Sunday the patron 1
At home will be keeping,
And the young active hurlers
The field will be sweeping ;
With the dance of fair maidens
The evening they'll hallow,
While this heart once so gay
Shall be cold in Clonmala.
THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE.
On, many a day have I rnado good ale in th
glen.
That came not of stream, or malt, like the brew-
ing of men.
My bed was the ground, my roof the greenwood
above,
And the wealth that I sought one far kind
glance from my love.
Alasl on that night when the horses I drove
from the field,
That I was not near, from terror my angel to
ahicld !
1 Clonmala, i. e., the solitude of deceit, the Irish name of Clon
mel.
1 Patron Irish, Pati-uin* fetive gathering of the people on
tented ground.
588
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
She stretch'd forth her arras her mantle she
flung to the wind,
And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlaw'd lover to
find.
Oh, would that a freezing, sleet-wing'd tempest
did sweep,
And I and my love were alone far off on the deep !
I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace to
save
With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the-
wind or the wave.
'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringe*
its sides,
The maid of my heart, the fair one of heaven
resides :
I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes along,
The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of
her song.
acobite Sengs.
That the Roman Catholics of Ireland should have been Jacobites
almost to a man is little wonderful ; Indeed, the wonder would be
were it otherwise. They had lost every thing fighting for th
cause of the Stuarts, and the conquerors had made stern use of
the victory. But while various movements in favor of that un-
happy family were made in England and Scotland, Ireland was
quiet; not indeed from want of inclination, but from want of
power. The Roman Catholics were disarmed throughout the
entire land, and the Protestants, who retained a lerco hatred of
the exiled family, were armed and united. The personal influence
of the Earl of Chesterfield, who was Lord Lieutenant in 1745, and
who made himself very popular, is generally supposed to have
contributed to keep Ireland at peace in that dangerous year; but
the reason I have assigned is perhaps more substantial.
But though Jacobirfcal, even these songs will suffice to prove
that it was not out of love for the Stuarts that they were anxious
to take up arms, but to revenge themselves on the Saxons (that is,
the English generally, but in Ireland the Protestants), for the de-
feat they experienced in the days of William III., and the subse-
quent depression of their party and their religion. James II. is
universally spoken of by the lower orders of Ireland with th
almost contempt and distinguished by an appellation which is too
strong for ears polite, but which is universally given him. His
celebrated expression at the battle of the Boyne, " Oh, spare my
English subjects," being taken in the most perverse sense, instead
of obtaining for him the praise of wishing to show some lenity to
those whom he still considered as rightfully under his sceptre,
even in opposition to his cause, was, by his Irish partisans, con-
strued into a desire of preferring the English on all occasions to
them. The celebrated reply of the captive officer to William,
that "if the armies changed generals, victory would take a differ-
ent fiiie." is carefully remembered; and every misfortune that
happened in the war of the Involution is laid to 'he charge of
James's want of courage. The truth is. he appears to have dis-
pltyed little of the military qualities which distinguished him In
former days.
Th first of these three songs is a great favorite, principally from
ts beautiful air. I am sure there is scarcely a peasant in the south
ef Ireland who has not heard it The second Is the White Cock-
ade, of which the first verse is English. The third is (at least In
Irish) a strain of higher mood, and, from its style and language,
evidently written by a man of more than ordinary information.
SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN.
A Drimin d6wn dilis no sioda 1 na mbo.
(Drimin is the favorite name of a cow, by which Ireland is her*
allegorically denoted. The five ends of Erin are the flve king-
doms Munster, Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and Meath into
which the island was divided under the Milesian dynasty.)
O SAY, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kiue,
Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of
thy line ?
Too deep and too long is the slumber they take ;
At the loud call of Freedom why don't they awake?
My strong ones have fallen from the bright eye
of day,
All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay;
The cold turf is o'er them they hear not my
cries,
And since Louis no aid gives, I cannot arise.
Oh ! where art thou, Louis ? our eyes are on thee J
Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea \
In Freedom's last strife if you linger or quail,
No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael,
But should the king's son, now bereft of his
right,
Come proud in his strength for his country to
fight,
Like leaves on the trees will new people arise,
And deep from their mountains shout back to
my cries.
1 Silk of Vie Coiet an Idiomatic expression for in* tnoet
tlfal of cattle, which I have preserve^ In translating.
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
680
When the Prince, now an exile, shall come for
his own,
The isles of his father, his rights and his throne,
My people in battle the Saxons will meet,
And kick them before, like old shoes from their
feet.
O'er mountains and vaUeys they'll press on their
route,
The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout :
My sons all united, shall bless the glad day
When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased
far away.
THE WHITE COCKADE.
Tald mo gra flr fl breataib do.
KINO CHARLES he is King James's son,
And from a royal line is sprung ;
Then up with shout, and out with blade,
And we'll raise once more the white cockade.
Oh ! my dear, my fair-hair'd youth,
Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth ;
Then up with shout, and out with blade
We'll raise once more the white cockade.
My young men's hearts are dark with woe,
On my virgins' cheeks the grief-drops flow ;
The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day,
Since our rightful prince went far away.
He's gone, the stranger holds his throne,
The royal bird far off is flown ;
I'.nt up with shout, and out with blade
We'll stand or fall with the white cockade.
No more the cuckoo hails the spring,
The woods no more with the staunch-hounds
ring;
The song from the glen, so sweet before,-
Is hush'd since our Charles has left our shore.
The Prince is gone ; but he soon will come,
With trumpet sound and with beat of drum :
Then up with ghout, and out with blade ;
Huzza for the right and the white cockade !
THE AVENGER.
DA bfeacln se'n la tin bo seasta bfeie m'lntln.
OHKAVKNS! if that long-wished-for morning I
spied,
As high as throe kings I'd leap up in my pride ;
With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should
arise,
As the fires from each mountain blazed bright to
the skies.
The avenger shall lead us right on to the foo,
Our horns should sound out, and our trumpet*
should blow ;
Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high
heaven,
When our Prince was restored, and our fetter*
were riven.
chieftains of Ulster 1 when will you come forth,
And send your strong cry to the winds of the
north ?
The wrongs of a king call aloud for your steel-
Red stars of the battle O'Donnell, O'Neal !
Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings,
Up, up, like the eagle, when heavenward he
springs
Oh, break ye once more from the Saxon's strong
rule,
Lost race of MacMurchad, O'Byrne, and O'Toole !
Momonia of Druids green dwelling of song!
Where, where are thy minstrels? why sleep they
so long ?
Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before,
M'Carthy O'Brien O'Sullivan More ?
Ok, come from your hills, like the waves to the
shore,
When the storm-girded headlands are mad with
the roar !
Ten thousand hurrahs shall ascend to high heaven,
When our Prince is restored and our fetters are
riven. 1
1 The name* In this song are those of the principal families
In Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies to
the bouse of Stuart Toe reader cannot fail lo observe the strange
expectation which tbeso writers entertained of the nature of the
Pretender's designs: they call on him not to come to reinstate
himself on the throne of his fathers, but to nid thtm In doing ven-
geance on "the flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could
be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Komn Catho-
lics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts >.* of Hi.- Milesian
line, fondly deducing them from Fergus and the Celt- of Ireland.
Who the aveneer Is, whose arrival is prayed for in thin fume. I
am not sure; but circumstances too ted loin to be detailed makn
me tbtalc that the date of the song Is 1708. when a general Im-
pression prevailed that the field would be taken In favor of r.>
Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority th*&
had come forward before, his name was krpt a secret. Very
little hat been written on the history of the Jacobites of IrelMxi.
and yet I think It would be an Interesting subject. We have now
590
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE.
(FEARFLATUA O'GNIAMH was family Olamh, or bard, to the
O'Neil of Claneboy about the year 1556. The poem, of which the
following lines are the translation, commences with " Ma thruagh
mar ata'uf Goadhil")
How dinim'd is the glory that circled the Gael,
And fallen the high people of green Innisfail! 1
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore ;
And the mighty of nations is mighty no more!
Like a bark on the ocean, long shatter'd and
toss'd,
On the land of your fathers at length you are
lost;
The hand of the spoiler is strctch'd on your
plains,
And you're doom'd from your cradles to bond-
age and chains.
Oh, where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow ?
Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou
now !
That heart is now broken that never would quail,
And thy high songs are turn'd into weeping and
wail.
Bright shades of our sires! from your home in
the skies,
Oh, blast not your sons with the scorn of your
eyes !
Proud spirit of Gollam,* how red is thy cheek,
For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are
weak !
O'Neil* of the hostages Con/ whose high name
On a hundred red battles has floated to fame,
Let the long grass still sigh undisturb'd o'er thy
sleep ;
Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep.
arrived at a time when it could be done without exciting any
anery feelings.
In Momonia (Munster), Druidism appears to have flourished
most, as we may conjecture from the numerous remains of Druid-
'cal workmanship, and the names of places indicating that worship.
The records of the province are the best kept of any in Ireland,
nnd it has proverbially retained among the peasantry a character
for superior learning.
1 Innisfail the Island of Destiny one of the names of Ireland.
8 Gollamh a name of Milesius, the Spanish progenitor of the
Irish O' and Macs.
" Nial of the Nine Hostages, the heroic monarch of Ireland in
the fourth century, and ancestor of the O'Neil family.
4 Con Cead Catha Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of the
island in the second century; although the fighter of a hundred
battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fit-Ids. His valorous
rival, Owen, king of Munster, compelled him to a division of the
kingdom.
In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, nighw,
Withhold, bright sun, the reproach of thy
light;
For freedom or valor no more canst thou see
In the home of the brave, in the isle of the free.
Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd,
And oppression hath wrapp'd all your land in
its shroud,
Since first from the Brehons" pure justice you
stray'd,
And bent to the laws the proud Saxon has made.
We know not our country, so strange is her face ;
Her sons, once her glory, are now her disgrace;
Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail,
For the stranger now rules in the land of the
Gael.
Where, where are the woods that oft rung to
your cheer,
Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf
and the deer ?
Can those dark heights with ramparts all frown-
ing and riven
Be the hills where your forests waved brightly
in heaven ?
bondsmen of Egypt! no Moses appears
To light your dark steps through this desert of
tears ;
Degraded and lost ones ! no Hector is nigh
To lead you to freedom, or tea-ch you to die !
ON THE LAST DAY.
OH ! after life's dark sinful way,
How shall I meet that dreadful day,
When heaven's red blaze spreads frightfully
Above the hissing, withering sea,
And earth through al! her regions reels
With the strong, shivering fear she feels !
When that high trumpet's awful sound
Shall send its deep-voiced summons round.
And, starting from their long, cold sleep.
The living-dead shall wildly leap
Oh! by the painful path you trod,
Have mercy then, my Lord ! my God !
Brehons the hereditary judges of the Irish aepU,
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLAN.xN.
591
Ob ! thoii who on that hill of blood,
Beside thy Son it) anguish stood ;
Thou, who above this life of ill,
Art the bright star to guide us still ;
Pray that my soul, its sins forgiven,
May find some lonely home in heaven.
A LAY OF MIZEN HEAD.
The subject of the " Lay of Mizen Head" was the wreck of the
C'<mn>.rice, sloop-of-war, lost April, IS'J'J, about a mile west of
Mizon Head. All on board perished; among the rest many young
midshipmen who bad just joined the service and were going to
Join their respective ships.
IT was the noon of Sabbath, the spring-wind
swept the sky,
And o'er the heaven's savannah blue the boding
scuds did fly.
And a stir was heard amongst the waves o'er
all their fields of might,
Like the distant hum of hurrying hosts when they
muster for the fight.
The fisher mark'd the changing heaven, and high
his pinnace drew,
And to her wild and rocky home the screaming
sea-bird flew ;
But. safely in Cork haven the shelter'd bark may
rest
Within the zone of ocean hills that girds its
beauteous breast.
Amongst the stately vessels in that calm port
was one
Whose streamers waved out joyously to hail the
Sabbath sun ;
And scatter'd o'er her ample deck were careless
hearts and free,
That laugh'd to hear the rising wind, and mock'd
the frowning sea.
One yonth alone bent darkly above the heaving
tide
Ilis heart was with his native hills and with his
beauteous bride ;
And with the rush of feelings deep his manly
bosom strove,
As he thought of her he had left afar in the
spring-time of their love.
What checks the seaman's jovial mirth and cloud*
his sunny brow ?
Why does he look with troubled gaze from port-
hole, side, and prow ?
A moment 'twas a death-like pause that sig-
nal can it be?
That signal quickly orders out the Confiance to
sea.
Then there was springing up aloft and hurrying
down below,
And the windlass hoarsely answer'd to the hoarse
and wild " heave yo !"
And vows were briefly spoken then that long had
silent lain,
And hearts and lips together met that ne'er may
meet again.
Now darker lower'd the threatening sky, and
wilder heaved the wave,
And through the cordage fearfully the wind be-
gan to rave :
The sails are set, the anchor weigh'd what recks
that gallant ship ?
Blow on ! Upon her course she springs, like
greyhound from the slip.
heavens ! it was a glorious sight, that stately
ship to see,
In the beauty of her gleaming sails and her pen-
nant floating free,
As to the gale with bending tops she made her
haughty bow,
And proudly spurn'd the waves that burn'd
around her flashing prow !
The sun went down, and through the cloud*
look'd out the evening star,
And westward from old Ocean's Head 1 beheld
that ship afar.
Still onward fearlessly she flew, in her snowy
pinion-sweep,
Like a bright and beauteous spirit o'er the moun-
tains of the deep.
It blows a fearful tempest 'tis the dead watch
of the night
The Mizen's giant brow is streak'd with red nnd
angry light
> Th old bead of Klniale. Such It th meaning of tb IrUk
Dam*.
592
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
Arid by its far-illuming glance a struggling bark
I see.
Wear, wear ! the land, ill-fated one, is close be-
neath your lee !
Another flash they still hold out for home and
love and life,
And under close-reef'd topsail maintain the un-
equal strife.
Now out the rallying foresail flies, the last, the
desperate chance
Can that be she? O heavens, it is the luckless
Confiance !
Hark ! heard you not that dismal cry ? 'Twas
stifled in the gale
Oh ! clasp, young bride, thine orphan child, and
raise the widow's wail !
The morning rose iu purple light o'er ocean's
tranquil sleep ;
But o'er their gallant quarry lay the spoilers of
the deep.
THE LAMENT OF KIRKE WHITE.
'TWAS evening, and the sun's last golden beam
On that sad chamber cast its farewell gleam,
Then sunk to him, forever. Yet one streak
Of lingering radiance lit his faded cheek.
His hand was press'd to his pale, clouded brow,
Where sat a spirit that might break, not bow;
And the cold starry lustre of his eye,
Than inspiration's scarce less purely high,
Seem'd, through the mist of one o'ermastering
tear,
The herald of the minstrel's loftier sphere.
On a small table by the sufferer's bed
The sibyl leaves of song were rudely spread.
His sad eye wander'd with a dark delight
O'er scatter'd gleams of many a thought of light ;
And pride could not suppress one low deep sigh,
To thiuk when he was gone they too must die.
Fame long had woo'd him with her sunny smile
To tread her paths of glory and of toil.
His was the wreath that many vainly seek ;
His the proud temple on the mountain peak ;
But the vile shaft from some ignoble string
Brought down to earth the minstrel's soaring
wing.
They little knew, who dealt the dastard stroke,
The mind they clouded and the heart they broke
He thought of home and mother : dearer far,
He thought of her, his far-off, beauteous star.
He loved, it may be madly, but too well,
One whom he may not breathe, and dare not tell.
He could not boast the line of which he came,
Of lofty title, honor, wealth, or fame.
Hemm'd in by adverse fate, his fiery soul
Like prison'cl eagle felt its dark control :
Give but his spirit scope to win that hand
His pilgrim foot had trod earth's farthest land.
He would have courted danger on the deep,
Or 'mid the battle's desolating sweep
All, all endured, unblenching gaged even life
For one sweet word, to call that dear one wife.
What now had woman left to gaze upon
Himself a wreck, his bright hopes queuch'd
and gone ?
Some thus would live : the lightning of his mind
Shiver'd his frame, and left him with mankind
Scathed and lone ; yet stood he fearlessly
On the last wave-mark of eternity,
And as above its shoreless waste lie hung,
Thus to his harp's low tone the minstrel sung :
THE LAMENT.
Awake, my lyre, though to thy lay no voice of
gladness sings,
Ere yet the viewless power be fled that oft hath
swept thy strings ;
I feel the flickering flame of life grow cold with-
in my breast
Yet once again, my lyre, awake, and then I sink
to rest.
And must I die ? Then let it be, since thus 'tis
better far,
Than with the world and conquering fate to wage
eternal war.
Come, then, thou dark and dreamless sleep ; to
thy cold clasp I fly
From shatter'd hopes and blighted heart, and
pangs that cannot die.
Yet would I live for, oh 1 at times I feel th
tide of song
In swells of light come strong and bright my
heaving heart along ;
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
503
Yet would I live in happier day, to wake, with
master hand,
A lay that should embalm tny name in Albin's
beauteous land.
Oh, had I been in battle-field amid the charging
brave,
I then had won a soldier's fame or fill'd a soldier's
grave ;
I then had lived to call thee mine, thou all of
bliss to me,
Or smiled in death, my sweetest one, to think I
died for thee.
'Tis past, they've won my sun has set I see
ray coining night ;
1 never more shall press that hand or meet that
look of light.
Among old Albin's future bards no song of mine
shall rise.
Go, sleep, my harp, forever sleep go, leave me
to iny sighs !
They've won but, Mary, from this breast tby
love they could not part,
All freshly green it lingers round the ruin of my
heart.
One thought of me may cloud thy soul, one tear
in;iv dim thine eye,
That I have sung and loved in vain, forsaken
thus to die !
England ! O my country ! despite of all my
wrongs,
( love thee' still, my native land, thou land of
sweetest songs ;
One thought still cheers my life's last close that
I shall rest in thee,
And sleep as minstrel heart should sleep, among
the brave and free.
LINES
WKIITRN TO A YOUWO LAUY,
If ho. in thf author'i prfgtimf, find Utarfit U>* Iritlt with teant of
gallantry, proving htr potitiun liy Ihr fact o/lhrir mil ifre-
nadiiig, tin the Iluliunt, <o., do.
YKS, lady, 'tis true in our cold rugged isle
Love seldom puts on him his warm sunny smile.
No youth from his boat or the orange-tree shado
Sings at eve to his lady the sweet serenade.
Yet, 'tis not that Erin has daughters less fair
Than Italy's maids with their dark-flowing hail
And 'tis not the souls of her sons are less brave
Than the gay gondoliers on Neapoli's wave.
Saw you not when his country her banner dis-
play'd,
And 'mid victory's glad shout on high flash'd
her blade,
How that lover so true with his sprightly guitar
Grew pale at the first blast of liberty's war ?
Saw you not how, when prostrate yon eagle was
hurl'd,
Whose proud flight of conquest would compass
the world,
Our Erin rear'd o'er it her green flag on high,
And the shouts of her victor sons peal'd in the
sky?
Thus, though scorn'd and rejected, long, long
may they prove
The strongest in fight and the fondest in love !
STANZAS TO ERIN.
Competed, probably, after lie had If ft for LUbon.
STILL green are thy mountains and bright is thy
shore,
And the voice of thy fountains is heard as of
yore :
The sun o'er thy valleys, dear Erin, shines on,
Though thy bard and thy lover forever is gone.
Nor shall he, an exile, thy glad scenes forget
The friends fondly loved, ne'er again to be met
The glens where he mused on the deeds of his
nation,
And waked his young harp with a wild inspira-
tion.
Still, still, though between us may roll the broad
ocean,
Will I cherish thy name with the same deep de-
votion ;
And though minstrels more brilliant my pUce
may supply,
None loves you more fondly, more truly than I.
594
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALL AN AN.
LINES TO MISS O. D ,
Who had replied, to som* questions of Mr. CV about verte*,
that the " was getting tense, h would write no more."
YOU'RK " getting sense," you'll " write no more !''
The sweet delusive dream is o'er,
And fancy's bright and meteor ray
Is but a light that leads astray ;
No more the wreath of song you'll twine
Calm reason, common sense be thine 1
As well command the troubled sky,
When winds are loud and waves are high ;
As well call back the parted soul,
Or force the needle from the pole,
False to the star it loved so long
As turn the poet's heart from song.
If aught be true that minstrel deems
Of sister spirit in his dreams
The still pale brow's expression high
The silent eloquence of eye,
Its fitful flashes, bright and wild
Thou art and must be fancy's child.
And reason, sense are they confined
To the austere and cold of mind !
Must thoughtless folly still belong
To those who haunt the paths of song,
And o'er this vale of woe and tears
Pour the sweet strain of happier spheres ?
No, lady still let fancy spring
On her own wild and wayward wing ;
Still let the fire of genius glow,
And the strong tide of feeling flow :
The bright imaginings of youth
Are but the Titian tints of truth.
When chill November sweeps along
With its own hoarse and sullen song,
And wither'd lies the autumn's pride,
And every flower you nursed hath died ;
Whilst other hearts in ennui pine,
The poet's raptures shall be thine.
Then gaze upon the lightning's flash,
And listen to the wild wave's dash.
Others may tremble at their tone ;
Not thou their language is thine own.
Mark how the seagull wings his way
Through billow's foam anc 5 wintry spray
With tireless wing and joyous cry
Proclaims its ocean liberty !
Yes, my young friend, if I may claim
For humble bard so dear a name,
Still let thy heart revere the lyre,
Still let thy hands awake its fire,
Walk in the light that God hath given,
And make Dunmanus' wilds a heaven.
For me, believe, where'er 1 stray
Through life's uncertain, toilsome way,
Whether calm peace my lot may be,
Or toss'd on fortune's stormy sea,
I'll think upon the young, the fair,
The kind warm hearts that met me there.
LINES TO ERIN.
WHEN dulness shall chain the wild harp that
would praise thee,
When its last sigh of freedom is heard on thy
shore,
When its raptures shall bless the false heart that
betrays thee
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!
Wnen thy sons are less tame than their own
ocean waters,
When their last flash of wit and of genius is
o'er,
When virtue and beauty forsake thy young
daughters
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more !
When the sun that now holds his bright path
o'er thy mountains
Forgets the green fields that he smiled on be-
o O
fore,
When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and
thy fountains
Oh, then, dearest Erin, Fll love thee no more !
When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall
sever,
When the freedom you lost you no longer de-
plore,
When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be
sleeping forever
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more '
TIIK POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
595
WELLINGTON'S NAME.
How bless'd were the moments when liberty
found thee
The first in her cause on the fields of the brave,
When the young lines of ocean were charging
around thee
With the strength of their hills and the roar
of their wave !
Oh, chieftain, what then was the throb of thy
pride,
When loud through the war-cloud exultingly
came,
O'er the battle's red tide, which they swell'd as
they died,
The shout of green Erin for Wellington's name!
How sweet, when thy country thy garland was
wreathing,
And the fires of thy triumph blazed brightly
along,
Came the voice of its harp all its witchery breath-
ing.
And hallow'd thy name with the light of her
song !
And oh, 'twas a strain in each patriot breast
That waked all the transport, that lit all the
flame,
And raptured and blest was the Isle of the West
When her own sweetest bard sang her Wel-
lington's name !
But 'tis past thou art false, and thy country's
sad story
Shall tell how she bled and she pleaded in
vain ;
How the arm that should lead her to freedom and
glory,
The child of her bosom, did rivet her chain !
Yet think not forever her vengeance shall deep :
Wild harp that once praised him, sing louder
his shame,
And where'er o'er the deep thy free numbers
may sweep,
Bear the curse of a nation on Wellington's
name 1
THE EXILE'S FAREWELL.
ADIEU, my own dear Erin,
Receive my fond, my last adieu ;
I go, but with me bearing
A heart still fondly turn'd to you.
The charms that nature gave thee
With lavish hand, shall cease to smile,
And the soul of friendship leave thee,
E'er I forget my own green isle.
Ye fields where heroes bounded
To meet the foes of liberty;
Ye hills that oft resounded
The joyful shouts of victory,
Obscured is all your glory,
Forgotten all your former fame,
And the minstrel's mournful story
Now calls a tear at Eriu's name.
But still the day may brighten
When those tears shall cease to flow,
And the shout of freedom lighten
Spirits now so drooping low.
Then should the glad breeze blowing
Convey the echo o'er the sea,
My heart, with transport glowing,
Shall bless the hand that made thee free.
SONG.
Ai " Lkildlp of Bucban."
AWAKE tlicc, my Bessy, the morning is fair,
The breath of young roses is fresh on the air,
The sun has long glanced over mountain and
lake
Then awake from thy slumbers, my li.-ssy, awake,
Oh, come whilst the dowers are still wet with
the dew
I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you ;
The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy
sake
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.
The hare from her soft bed of heather hath gone,
The coot to the water already hath flown ;
There is life on the mountain and joy on the lake-
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
DE LA VIDA DEL CIELO.
[OF HKAVEXLT LIFE.]
(From the Spanish of Luis <le Leon.)
CI.IMK forever fair and bright,
Cloudless region of the blest,
Summer's heat or winter's blight
Comes not o'er thy fields of light,
Vielder of endless joy and home of endles? rest.
There his flock whilst fondly tending,
All unarm'd with staff or sling,
Flowers of white and purple blending
O'er his brow of beauty bending,
The heavenly Shepherd walks thy breathing fields
of spring.
Still his look of love reposes
On the happy sheep he feeds
With thine own undying roses,
Flowers no clime but thine discloses ;
And still the more they feast more freshly bloom
thy meads.
To thy hills in glory blushing
Next his charge the Shepherd guides,
And in streams all sorrow hushing,
Streams of life in gladness gushing,
His happy flock he bathes and their high food
provides.
And when sleep their eye encumbers
In the noontide radiance strong,
O '
With his calumet's sweet numbers
Lulls them in delicious slumbers,
And rapt in holy dreams they hear that 'trancing
song.
At that pipe's melodious sounding,
Thrilling joys transfix the soul ;
And in visions bright surrounding,
Up the ardent spirit bounding,
Springs on her pinion free to love's eternal goal.
Minstrel of heaven, if earthward stealing,
This ear might catch thy faintest tone,
Then would thy voice's sweet revealing
Drown my soul with holiest feeling,
And this weak heart that strays, at length be all
thine own.
Then, with a joy that knows no speaking,
I would wait thy smile on yon high shore,
And from earth's vile bondage breaking
Thy bright home, good Shepherd, seeking
Live with thy blessed flock, nor darkly wander
more.
TO THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
FAIR star of the morning.
How pure is thy beam,
Though the spirit of darkness
Half shadow its gleam !
In the host of yon heaven
No bright one doth shine
With a glory more purely
Kef ul gen t than thine.
LINES TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT
THOU dear and mystic semblance,
Before whose form I kneel,
I tremble as I think upon
The glory thou dost veil,
And ask myself, can he who late
The ways of darkness trod,
Meet face to face, and heart to heart,
Ilis sin-avenging God 1
My Judge and my Creator,
If I presume to stand
Amid thy pure and holy ones,
It is at thy command,
To lay before thy mercy's seat
My sorrows and my fears,
To vvail my life and kiss thy feet
In silence and in tears.
God ! that dreadful moment,
In sickness and in strife,
When death and hell seem'd watching
For the last weak pulse of life,
When on the waves of sin and pain
My drowning soul was to.ss'd,
Thy hand of mercy saved me then,
When hope itself was lost.
1 hear thy voice, my Saviour,
It speaks within my breast,
" Oh, come to me, thou weary one,
I'll hush thy cares to rest ;"
THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN.
597
Thi-n from the parch'd and burning waste
Of sin, where long I trod,
I come to thee, thou stream of life,
My Saviour and tuy God !
How sad were the glances
At parting we threw !
No word was there spoken
Bnt the stifled adieu ;
My lips o'er thy cold check-
All raptnrcless pass'd
'Twas the first time I press'd it
It must be the last.
But why should I dwell thu
On scenes that but pain,
Or think on thee, Mary,
"When thinking is vain?
Thy name to this bosom
Now sounds like a knell :
My fond one, my dev OD
Forever -frow si! 1
THOUGH DARK FATE HATH REFT ME.
THOUGH dark Fate hath reft me
Of all that was sweet,
And widely we sever,
Too widely to meet
Oh, yet while one life pulse
Remains in this heart,
Twill remember thec, Mary
Wherever th'i art.
POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE:
OB, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLYSIIANNON.
(A LOCAL BALLAD.)
ADIEU to Ballyshannon ! where I was bred
and born ;
Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as
nigtit and morn,
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where
every one is known,
And not a face in all the place but partly
seems my own :
There's not a house or window, there's not a
field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recol-
lect them still.
I leave my warm heart with you, though my
back I'm forced to turn
So adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding
banks of Erne !
No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter
down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly, the sal-
mon to the fall.
The boat comes straining on her net, and
heavily she creeps :
Cast off, cast off ! she feels the oars, and to
her berth she sweeps ;
Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gather-
ing up the clue,
Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among
the crew.
Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many
a joke and " yarn ;"
Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding
banks of Erne !
The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the
tide,
When all the green-hill'd harbor is full from
tide to side
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round
the Abbey Bay,
From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sand-
hills gray ;
While far upon the southern line, to guard
it like a wall,
The Leitrim mountains, clothed in blue,
gaze calmly over all,
And watch the ship sail up or down, the red
flag at her stern ;
Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding
banks of Erne !
Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them
that pull an oar,
A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point
to Mullaghmore ;
From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that
ocean-mountain steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred
in the deep ;
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round
by Tullen strand,
Level and long, and white with waves, where
gull and curlew stand ;
Head out to sea when on your lee the
breakers you discern !
Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding
banks of Erne !
Farewell Coolmore, Bundoran ! and your
summer crowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy the
Atlantic-setting sun ;
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport
among the waves ;
To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt
the gloomy caves ;
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats,
the crabs, the fish ;
Young men and maids to meet and smile,
and form a tender wish ;
POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
.7. t'.l
The sick and old in search of health, for all
things have their turn
And I must quit my native shore, and the
winding banks of Erne !
Farewell to every white cascade from the
Harbor to Belleek,
And every pool where fins may rest, and
ivy-shaded creek ;
The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where
ash and holly grow,
The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving
flood below ;
The Lough, that winds through islands under
Turaw mountain green ;
And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods,
with tranquil bays between ;
And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among
the heath and fern,
For I must say adieu adieu to the winding
banks of Erne !
The thrush will call through Camlin groves
the livelong summer day ;
The waters run by mossy cliff, and bank
with wild-flowers gay ;
The girls will bring their work and sing
beneath a twisted thorn,
Or stray with sweethearts down the path
among the growing corn ;
Along the river side they go, where I have
often been,
Oh, never shall I see again the days that I
have seen !
A thousand chances are to one I never may
return,
Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding
banks of Erne !
Adieu to evening dances, when merry neigh-
bors meet,
And the fiddle says to boys and girls, " Get
up and shake your feet !"
To " shanachus" 1 and wise old talk of Erin's
days gone by
Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and
where the bones may lie
Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with
tales of fairy power,
1 " Siuu.achu8." old torlea, historic*.
And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the
twilight hour.
The mournful song of exile is now for me to
learn
Adieu, my dear companions on the winding
banks of Erne !
Now measure from the Commons down to
each end of the Purt,
Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather, 1
wish no one any hurt ;
The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane,
the Mall, and Portnasun,
If any foe<* of mine are there, I pardon every
one.
I hope that man and womankind will do the
same by me ;
For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging
the sea.
My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and
often fondly turn
To think of Ballyshannon, and the winding
banks of Erne.
If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please
God, to cast
My golden anchor in the place where youth-
ful years were pass'd ;
Though heads that now are black and brown
must meanwhile gather gray,
New faces rise by every hearth, and old
ones drop away
Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the
world beside ;
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam,
through lands and waters wide,
And if the Lord allows me, 1 surely will
return
To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding
banks of Erne.
THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN.
(A KILLARNEY LEGEND.)
THE Abbot of Innisfallen
Awoke ere dawn of day ;
Under the dewy green leaves
Went he forth to pray.
GOO
POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGIIAM.
The lake around his island
Lay smooth and dark and deep ;
And wrapt in a misty stillness,
The mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac,
When the dawn was dim and gray
The prayers of his holy office
He faithfully 'gan say.
Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac,
When the dawn was waxing red ;
And for his sins' forgiveness
A solemn prayer he said :
Low kneel'd that holy Abbot,
When the dawn was waxing clear ;
And he pray'd with loving-kindness
For his convent-brethren dear.
Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot,
When the dawn was waxing bright ;
He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland,
He pray'd with all his might.
Low kneel'd that good old Father,
While the sun began to dart ;
He pray'd a prayer for all mankind,
He pray'd it from his heart.
The Abbot of Innisfallen
Arose upon his feet ;
He heard a small bird singing,
And oh but it sung sweet !
He heard a white bird singing well
Within a holly-tree ;
A song so sweet and happy
Never before heard he.
It sung upon a hazel,
It sung upon a thorn ;
He had never heard such music
Since the hour that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,
It sung upon a brier ;
To follow the song and hearken
This Abbot could never tire.
Till at last he well bethought him
He might no longer stay ;
So he bless'd the little white singing bird,
And gladly went his way.
But, when he came to his Abbey -walls,
He found a wondrous change ;
He saw no friendly faces there,
For every face was strange.
The strange men spoke unto him ;
And he heard from all and each
The foreign tongue of the Sassenach,
Not wholesome Irish speech.
Then the oldest monk came forward,
In Irish tongue spake he :
" Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,
And who hath given it to thee ?"
" I wear the holy Augustine's dress,
And Cormac is my name,
The Abbot of this good Abbey
By grace of God 1 am.
" I went forth to pray, at break of day ;
And when my prayers were said,
I hearken'd awhile to a little bird,
That sung above my head."
The monks to him made answer :
" Two hundred years have gone o er
Since our Abbot Cormac went through the
gate,
And never was heard of more.
" Matthias now is our Abbot,
And twenty have pass'd away.
The stranger is lord of Ireland ;
We live in an evil day."
" Now give me absolution ;
For my time is come," said he.
And they gave him absolution,
As speedily as might be.
Then, close outside the window,
The sweetest song they heard
That ever yet since the world began
Was utter'd by any bird.
POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLIN(iII A.M.
601
The monks look'd out ami saw the bird,
Its feathers all white and clean ;
And there in a moment, bc-side it,
Another white bird was seen.
Those two they oang together,
Waved their white wings, and fled;
Flew aloft, and vanished ;
But the good old man was dead.
They buried his blessed body
Where lake and greensward meet ;
A carven cross above his head,
A holly-bush at his feet;
Where spreads the beautiful water
To gay or cloudy skies,
And the purple peaks of Killarney
From ancient woods arise.
ABBEY ASAROE.
QEAT, gray is Abbey Asaroe, by Bally shan-
non town,
It has neither door nor window, the walls
are broken down ;
The carven stones lie scatter'd in brirr and
nettle-bed ;
The only feet are those that come at burial
of the dead.
A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the
tide,
Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow,
not in pride ;
The bore-tree 1 and the lightsome ash across
the portal grow,
And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey
Asaroe.
It looks beyond the harbor-stream to Bulban
mountain blue ;
It hoars the voice of Erna's fall, Atlantic
breakers too ;
1 " Bore tree." a rame for the elder-tree (lantbucu* niyra).
High ships u r " sailing past it ; the sturd)
clank of oars
Brings in the- salmon-boat to haul a net upon
the Chores ;
And this way to his home-creek, when the
summer day is done,
The weary nVher sculls his punt across tlu
setting sun ;
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, hir
cottage white below;
But gray at every season is Abbey Asaroe.
There stood one day a poor old man above
its broken bridge ;
He heard no running rivulet, he saw nc
mountain-ridge ;
He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and
view'd with misty sight
The Abbey-walls, the burial-ground with
crosses ghostly white ;
Under a weary weight of years he bow'd
upon his staff,
Perusing in the present time the former's
epitaph ;
For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure
full of woe,
This man was of the blood of them wha
founded Asaroe.
From Derry Gates to Drowas Tower, Tir-
connell broad wars theirs ;
Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and
holy abbot's prayers ;
With chanting always in the house which
they had builded high
To God and to Saint Bernard, whereto
they came to die.
At worst, no workhouse grave for him ! the
ruins of his race
Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this
their saintly place.
The fond old man was weeping ; and tremu-
lous and slow
Along the rough and crooked lane he crept
from Asaroe. 1
1 Asaroe, Kcu-Aedhorftuaidh, Cataract of Red
famou* waterfall on the river Erne, where King Hnjrh i* ald
to have been drowned about 2900 yean ago, pave name to 'i
DeiKhlx>rlng Abbey, founded in tbc twelfth century.
602
POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
THE WONDKOUS WELL.
CAME north and south and east and west,
Four Pilgrims to a mountain crest,
Each vow'd to search the wide world round,
Until the Wondrous Well be found;
For even here, as old songs tell,
Shine sun and moon upon that Well;
And now, the lonely crag their seat,
The water rises at their feet.
Said One, " This Well is small and mean,
Too petty for a village -green."
Another said, " So smooth and dumb
From earth's deep centre can it come ? "
The Third, " This water's nothing rare,
Hueless and savourless as air."
The Fourth, " A Fane I look'd to see:
Where the true Well is, that must be."
They rose and left the lofty crest,
One north, one south, one east, one west;
Through many seas and deserts wide
They wander'd, thirsting, till they died;
Because no other water can
Assuage the deepest thirst of man.
Shepherds who by the mountain dwell,
Dip their pitchers in that Well.
THE TOUCHSTONE.
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.
Quick birth of transmutation smote
The fair to foul, the foul to fair;
Purple nor ermine did he spare,
Nor scorn the dusty coat.
Of heirloom jewels, prized so much,
Were many changed to chips and clods,
And even statues of the gods
Crumbled beneath its touch.
Then angrily the people cried,
" The 'loss outweighs the profit far;
Our goods suffice us as they are;
We will not have them tried."
And since they could not so prevail
To check his unrelenting quest,
They seized him, saying " Let him test
How real it is, our jail ! "
But, though they slew him with the sword,
And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd,
Its doings could not be o'erturn'd,
Its undoings restored.
And when, to stop all future harm,
They strew'd its ashes on the breeze ;
They little guess'd each grain of these
Convey'd the perfect charm.
North, south, in rings and amulets,
Throughout the crowded world 'tis
borne ;
Which, as a fashion long outworn,
Its ancient mind forgets.
AMONG THE HEATHER
AN IRISH SONG.
ONE evening walking out, I o'ertook a mod-
est 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 ? "
" 0, 1 keep the mountain side," (she replied.)
*"' among the heather."
" Your mountain air is sweet when the days
are long and sunny,
When the grass grows round the rocks, and
the whinbloom smells like honey;
But the winter's coming fast, with its foggy,
snowy weather,
And you'll find it bleak and chill on your
hill, among the heather."
I 'OK MS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
603
She praised her mountain home and I'll
praise it too, with reason,
For .where Molly is there's sunshine, and
flow'rs at every season.
Be the moorland black or white, does it sig-
nify a feather,
Now I know the way by heart, every part,
among the heather ?
The sun goes down in haste, and the night
falls thick and stormy;
Yet I'd travel twenty miles to the welcome
that's before me
Singing hie for Eskydun, in the teeth of
wind and weather!
Love'll warm me as 1 go through the snow,
among the heather.
THE STATUETTE.
I DREAM'D that I, being dead a hundred
years,
(In dream-world, death is free from waking
fears)
Stood in a City, in the market-place,
And saw a snowy marble Statuette,
Little, but delicately carven, set
Within a corner-niche. The populace
Look'd at it now and then in passing-by,
And some with praise. " Who sculptured
it? "said I,
And then my own name sounded in my ears;
And, gently waking, in my bed I lay,
With mind contented, in the newborn day.
THE BALLAD OF SQUIRE CURTIS.
A VENERABLE whitc-hair'd Man,
A trusty man and true,
Told me this tale, as word for word
I tell this title to you.
Squire Curtis had a cruel mouth,
Though honey was on his tongue;
Squire Curtis woo'd and wedded a wife,
And she was fair and young.
But he said, " She cannot love me;
She watches me early and late;
She is mild and good and cold of mood ; "
And his liking turn'd to hate.
One autumn evening they rode through the
woods,
Far and far away:
" The dusk is drawing round," she said,
" I fear we have gone astray."
He spake no word, but lighted down,
And tied his horse to a tree;
Out of the pillion he lifted her;
" Tis a lonely place," said she.
Down a forest-alley he walk'd,
And she walk'd by his side;
" Would Heaven we were at home!" she said,
" These woods are dark and wide!"
He spake no word, but still walk'd on;
The branches shut out the sky;
In the darkest place he turn'd him round
" Tis here that you must die."
Once she shriek'd and never again:
He stabbed her with his knife;
Once, twice, thrice, and every blow
Enough to take a life.
A grave was ready; he laid her in;
II<- lill'd it up with care;
Under the brambles and fallen leaves
Small sign of a grave was there.
He rode an hour at a steady pace,
Till unto his house came Ins
On face or clothing, on foot or hand,
No stain that eye could see.
lie liolilly call'd to his serving-man,
As In- lighted at the door;
" Your Mistress is gone on a sudden jour-
ney
.May stay for a month or more.
604
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
'' In two days I shall follow her;
Let her waiting- woman know."
" Sir," said the serving- man, "My lady
Came in an hour ago."
Squire Curtis sat him down in a chair,
And moved neither hand nor head.
In there came the waiting-woman,
"Alas the day ! " she said.
"Alas! good Sir," says the waiting- woman,
"What aileth my Mistress dear,
That she sits alone without sign or word ?
There is something wrong, I fear !
" Her face was white as any corpse
As up the stair she pass'd;
She never turn'd, she never spoke;
And the chamber-door is fast.
" She's waiting for you." "A lie!" he shouts,
And up to his feet doth start;
" My wiife is buried in Brimley Holt, .
With three wounds in her heart."
They search'd the forest by lantern light,
They search'd by dawn of day;
At noon they found the bramble-brake
And the pit where her body lay.
They carried the murder'd woman home,
Slow walking side by side.
Squire Curtis he swung upon gallows-tree,
But confess'd before he died.
The venerable trusty Man
With hair like drifted snow,
Told me this tale, as from his wife
He learn'd it long ago.
THE TAIN-QUEST.
THE Tain, in Irish bardic phrase, was an heroic poem commemorative of a foray or
plundering expedition on a grander scale. It was the duty of the bard to be prepared, at
call, with all the principal Tains, among which the Tain-Bo-Cuailgne, or Cattle-Spoil
of Quelny, occupied the first place; as in it were recorded the exploits of all the personages
most famous in the earlier heroic cycle of Irish story Conor Mac Nessa, Maev, Fergus
Mac Roy, Conall Carnach, and Cuchullin (pronounced Ku-kullin}. Conor, King of Ulster,
contemporary and rival of Maev, Queen of Connaught, reigned at Emania (now the Navan,)
near Armagh, about the commencement of the Christian era. He owed his first accession
to the monarchy to the arts of his mother, Nessa, on whom Fergus, his predecessor in the
kingly office and step-father, doated so fondly that she had been enabled to stipulate, as a
condition of bestowing her hand, that Fergus should abdicate for a year in favor of her
youthful son. The year had been indefinitely prolonged by the fascinations of Nessa,
aided by the ability of Conor, who, although he concealed a treacherous and cruel disposi-
tion under attractive graces of manners and person, ultimately became too popular to be
displaced; and Fergus, whose nature disinclined him to the labors of government, had
acquiesced in accepting as an equivalent the excitements of war and the chase, and the
unrestricted pleasures of the revel. Associating with Cuchullin, Conall Carnach, Neesa,
son of Usnach, and the other companions of the military order of the Red Branch, he long
remained a faithful supporter of the throne of his step-son, eminent for his valor, gener-
osity, and fidelity, as well as for his accomplishments as a hunter and a poet.
At length occurred the tragedy which broke up these genial associations, and drove
Fergus into the exile in which he died. Deirdra, a beautiful virgin, educated by Conor
for his own companionship, saw and loved Neesa, who eloped with her, and dreading the
wrath of the king, fled to Scotland, accompanied bv his brothers and clansmen. Conor,
1'OF.MS OF SAMUEL FKUdt'SO.X. 605
contemplating the treachery he afterwards practised, acquiesced in the entreaty of his
counsellors that the sons of Usnacli should be pardoned and restored to the service of their
country; and to Fergus was confided the task of discovering their retreat and escorting
them to Emania, under security of safe-conduct. The hunting-cry of Fergus was IK-HP 1
and recognized by the exiles where they lay in green booths in the solitude of Glen Etive.
On their return to Ireland, a temptation prepared for the simple-minded convivial Fergus
detached him from his wards; and Deirdra and the Clan Usnach proceeded, under the
guardianship of his sons, Buino and Ulan, to Emania. Here they were lodged in the house
of the Ked Branch, where, although it soon became apparent that Conor intended their
destruction, they repressed all appearance of distrust in their protectors, and calmly con-
tinued playing chess, until, Buino having been bought over and Ulan slain in their de-
fence, they were at length compelled to sally from the burning edifice, and were put to
the sword; Deirdra being seized again into the king's possession. On this atrocious outrage
Fergus took up arms, as well to regain his crown as to avenge the abuse of his safe-
conduct; but Cuchullin and the principal chiefs remaining faithful to Conor, the much
injured ex-king betook himself, with others of the disgusted Ultonian nobles, to the
protection of Maev and Ailill, the Queen and King Consort of Connaught. Thus strength-
ened, the warriors of Maev made frequent incursions into the territories of Conor, in which
Keth and Beiilcu on the one hand, and Cucullin and Conall Carnach on the other, were
the most renowned actors. After many years of desultory warfare, a pretext for the in-
vasion of the rich plain of Louth arose, in consequence of a chief of the territorv of
Cuailgne having ill-treated the messengers of Maev, sent by her to negotiate the purchase
of a notable dun bull, and the great expedition was thereupon organized which forms the
subject of the Tain- Bo- Cuailgne. The guidance of the invading host, which traversed
the counties of Roscommon, Longford, and Westmeath, was at first confided to Fergus;
and much of the interest of the story turns on the conflict in his breast between his duty
towards his adopted sovereign, and his attachment to his old companions in arms and
former subjects. On the borders of Cuailgne, the invaders were encountered by Cuchullin,
who alone detained them by successive challenges to single combat, until Conor and the
Ultonian chiefs were enabled to assemble their forces. In these encounters, Cuchullin
also had the pain of combating former companions and fellow-pupils in arms; among
others, Ferdia, who had received his military education at the same school and under the
same amazonian instructress at Dun Sciah, in view of the Cuchullin hills, in Skye. In the
respite of their combat, the heroes kiss, in memory of their early affection. The name of
the ford in which they fought (Ath-Firdiadh f now Ardee, in the county of Louth) per-
petuates the memory of the fallen champion, and helps to fix the locality of these heroic
pa.-sa-.res. Maev, though ultimately overthrown at the great battle of Slewin in West-
meat h, succeeded in carrying off the spoils of Louth, including the dun hull of Cuailgne;
and with Fergus, under the shelter .of whose shield she effected her retreat through many
Bufferings and dang'-rs, returned to Croghan, the Connacian roval residence, near Klphin,
in Roscommon. Here she bore to the now aged hero (at a birth, says the story) three
sons, from whom three of the great native families still trace their descent, and from the
eldest, of whom the county of Kerry derives its name. A servant of Ailill, at the com-
mand of the king, avenged the injury done his master's bed by piercing Fergus with a
spear, while the atnlete poet swam, defenceless, bathing in Loch Kin. The earliest copies
of the Tniit-/!t>-('i'i/!/>i<' are prefaced by the wild legend of its loss and recovery in the
time of Guary. King of Connaught, in the sixth century, by Murgen, son of the chief poet
Sanchan, under circumstances which have suggested the following poem. The Ogham
characters, referred to in the piece, were formed by lines cut tally-wise on the corners of
stone pillars, and somewhat resembled Scandinavian '.Junes, examples of which, carved on
squared staves, may still he seen in several museums. The readers of the Tuin-Iin-
fiini/i/iti'. as it now exists, have to regret the overlaying of much of its heroic and pathetic
material by turgid extravagances and exaggerations, the additions apparently of later
copyists.
606
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
THE TAIN-QUEST.
" BKAR the cup to Sanchan Torpest; yield the
bard his poet's meed ;
What we've heard was but a foretaste ; lays
more lofty now succeed.
Though my stores be emptied well-nigh, twin
bright cups there yet remain,
Wia them with the Raid of Cuailgne; chant us,
Bard, the famous Tain /"
Thus, in hall of Gort, spake Guary ; for the king,
let truth be told,
Bounteous though he was, was weary giving
goblets, giving gold,
Giving aught the bard demanded ;' but, when
for the Tain he call'd,
Sanchan from his seat descended; shame and
anger fired the Scald.
" Well," he said, " 'tis known through Erin,
known through Alba, main and coast,
Since the Staft-Book's disappearing over sea, the
Tain is lost :
For the lay was cut in tallies on the corners of
the staves
Patrick in his pilgrim galleys carried o'er the
Ictian waves.
44 Well 'tis known that Erin's Ollavcs, met in Tara
Luachra's hall,' 2
Fail'd to find the certain knowledge of the Tain
amongst them all,
Though there there sat sages hoary, men who in
their day had known
All the foremost kings of story ; but the lay was
lost and gone.
** Wherefore from that fruitless session went I
forth myself in quest
Of the Tain ; nor intermission, even for hours
of needful rest,
> The exactions of the bards were so Intolerable, that the early
Irish more than Oice endeavored to rid themselves of the order,
it without success. The Aeir or satire of the bard was deemed
t.i instrument of physical mischief, capable of destroying the life
anil property, as well as the peace of inind, of the person against
whom it was directed Rather than incur its terrors, the early
Irish submitted to bardic exactions which would appear incredible,
if we did not know that even within the present generation the
same belief in the power of the Bhut (vittes) existed in the East
a The seat of the early kings of West Mnnster, in the moun-
tainous region of Desmond, site unknown : the scene of a session
of the bards in the Sixth, and of an exploit similar to the burning
of Persepolis (magna componere parvia), by Cuchullin and the
Companions of the Eed Branch, in a fit of intoxication, in the
First Century.
Gave I to my sleepless searches, till I Erin, hill
and plain,
Courts and castles, cells and churches, roam'd
and ransack'd, but in vain.
" Dreading shame on hardship branded, should
I e'er be put to own
Any lay of right demanded of me was not right-
ly known,
Over sea to Alba sped I, where, amid the hither
Gael, 3
Dalriad bards had fill'd already all Cantyre with
song and tale.
" Who the friths and fords shall reckon ; who
the steeps I cross'd shall count,
From the cauldron-pool of Brecan eastward o'er
the Alban mount ; 4
From the stone fort of Dun Britan, set o'er cir-
cling Clyde on high, 5
Northward to the thunder-smitten, jagg'd Cu-
chullin peaks of Skye ?
44 Great Cuchullin's name and glory fill'd the land
from north to south ;
Deirdra's and Clan Usnach's story rife I found
in every mouth ;
Yea, and where the whitening surges spread be-
low the Herdsman Hill, 6
Echoes of the shout of Fergus haunted all Glen
Etive still.
lar-Gael Argyle.
Corrievreakan, the maelstrom of the Orcades. Like other
famous whirlpools, it no longer answers to the ancient account of
its terrors. The picturesque force of the description in Cormac's
Glossary is enhanced by our inability to translate the whole of
some of the similes.
" Coire-Brecain, i. e., a great vortex between Ere and Alba to
the north, i. e., the conflux of the different seas, viz., the sea which
encompasses Ere at the northwest, the sea which encompasses
Alba at the northwest, and the sea to the south, between Ere and
Alba. They rush at each other after the likeness of a luaithrinde,
and each is- buried into the other like the oireel tairechta, and
they are sucked down into the gulf so as to form a gaping caul-
dron, which would receive all Ere into its wide mouth. The
waters are again thrown up, so that their belching, roaring, and
thundering are heard amid the clouds, and they boil like a cauldron
upon a fire."
Dunbarton, formerly A iL Clyde, the stone fort of the Clyde.
A feeble effort to convey something of the solitary grandeui
of the valley around Loch Etive. Had M'Culloch known the de-
tails of the noble romance, the traces of which he still found sur
viving in this retreat of the sons of Usnach, it might have added
something to his own enjoyment of tlie scene, but it could not
have increased the impress! veness of his description. "There is
a gigantic simplicity about the whole scene, which would render
the presence of these objects, and of that variety which constitute
picturesque beauty, intrusive and impertinent I know not il
Loch Etive could bear an ornament without an infringement on
that aspect of solitary vastness which it presents throughout; nor
is there ona The rocks and bays on the shore, which might else-
where attract attention, are here swallowed up in the enorraoui
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
607
" Echoes of the shout of warning heard by Us-
nach's exiled youths,
When, between the night and morning, sleeping
in their hunting-booths,
Deirdra dreamt the death-bird hooted ; Neesa,
waking wild with joy,
Cried, ' A man of Erin shouted ! welcome Fer-
gus, son of Roy !'
" Wondrous shout, from whence repeated, even
as up the answering hills
Echo's widening wave proceeded, spreads the
sound of song that fills
All the echoing waste of ages, tale and lay and
choral strain,
But the chief delight of sages and of kings was
still the Tain,
u Made when mighty Maev invaded Cuailgnia
for her brown-bright bull ;
Fergus was the man that made it, for he saw the
war in full,
And in Maev's own chariot mounted, sang what
pass'd before his eyes,
As you'd hear it now recounted, knew I but
where Fergus lies.
dimensions of tbe snrroundinp mountains, and the wide and sim-
ple expanse of tbe lake. Here also, as at Loch Corn is K and Olon
Sanirks. we experience tbe effect arising from (simplicity of form.
At the first view, the whole expanse appears comprised within a
mile or two; nor is it until we find the extremity still remote and
misty as we advance, and the aspect of every thins; remaining un-
changed, that we begin to feel and comprehend tbe vast and over-
whelming magnitude of all around. It Is hence also, perhaps, as
In that singular valley (Glen Sanicks). that there is here that sense
of eternal silence and repose, as if in this spot creation had forever
tlept, Tbe billows that are seen wlii tenlnc the shore are inaudible,
the cascade pours down the dcHivity unheard, and tbe clouds are
hurried along tbe tops of the mountains before the blast, hut no
sound of the storm reaches the ear. There is something In the
coloring of Ibis spot which is equally singular, and which adds
much to the general sublime simplicity of the whole. Rocks of
gray granite, mixed with portions of a subdued brown, rise all
round from the water's edge to the summits of CrtiHclian and
Buaclinlll Ktive (i. ., the Herdsman of Etive), whlcli last, liktt a
vu~t pyramid, crowns the whole. The unapprehended distance
lends to these solar tints an atmospheric hue which seems as if it
wore tbe local coloring of tbe scenery, and this brings the entire
landscape to one tone of sobriety and broad repose. As no form
protrudes, HO no color Intrudes itself to break in upon the consis-
tency of the character; even tbe local colors at our feet partake of
the general tranquillity ; and all around, water, rock, and bill, and
iky, is one broadness of peace and silence, a silence that speaks to
.tie eye and to tbe mind. Tbe sun shone bright, yet even tho snn
seemed not to shine: It was a. if It had never penetrated to thii
spot since the beginning of time; and. If its beams glittered on
some gray rock or silvered the ripple of tbe shore, or tbe wild-
flowers that peeped from beneath their mossy stones, tbe effect
was lost amid tbe universal line, as of a northern endless twilight
that reigned around." Tour in the Wetttrn Highland*, vol IL
" Bear me witness, Giant Bouchaill, herdsman of
the mountain drove,
How with spell and spirit-struggle many a mid-
night hour I strove
Back to life to call the author! for before I'd
bear it said,
4 Neither Sanchan knew it,' rather would I learn
it from the dead ;
"Ay, and pay the dead their teaching with the
one price spirits crave,
When the hand of magic, reaching p;ist the bar-
riers of the grave,
Drags the struggling phantom lifeward : but
the Ogham on his stone
Still must mock us undecipher'd ; grave and lay
alike unknown.
" So that put to shame the direst, here I stand
and own, King,
Thou a lawful lay rcquirest Sanchan Torpest
cannot sing.
Take again the gawds you gave me, cup nor
crown no more will I ;
Son, from further insult save me : lead me hence,
and let me die."
Leaning on young Murgen's shoulder Murgen
was his youngest son
Jeer'd of many a lewd beholder, Sanchan from
the hall has gone :
But, when now beyond Loch Lurgan, three days
thence he reach'd his home, 1
"Give thy blessing, Sire," said Murgen.
" Whither wouldst thou, son ?" " To Rome ;
" Rome, or, haply, Tours of Martin ; wheresoever
over ground
Hope can deem that tidings certain of the lay
may yet be found."
Answer'd Eimena his brother, "Not alone thou
Icav'st the west,
Though thou ne'er shouldst find another, I'll be
comrade of the quest."
Eastward, breadthwise, over Erin straightway
travell'd forth the twain,
Till with many days' wayfaring Murgen fainted
by Loch Ein :
> I.orh Lnrgan, tbe present Bay of Qalway. Tb redden-* nf
Bancban was In Bllgo.
08
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
' Dear my brother, thou art weary : I for present
aid am flown ;
Thou for my returning tarry here beside this
Standing Stone."
Shone the sunset, red and solemn : Murgen, where
he leant, observed
Down the corners of the column letter-strokes
of Ogham carved.
" 'Tis, belike, a burial pillar," said he, " and these
shallow lines
Hold some warrior's name of valor, could I
rightly spell the signs."
Letter then by letter tracing, soft he breathed the
sound of each ;
Sound and sound then interlacing, lo, the signs
took form of speech ;
Aud with joy and wonder mainly thrilling, part
a-thnll with fear,
Murgen read the legend plainly, "FERGUS, SON
OF ROY, is HEKK."
*' Lo," said he, " my quest is ended, knew I but
the spell to say ;
Underneath my feet extended, lies the man that
made the lay :
Yet, though spell nor incantation know I, were
the words but said
That could speak my soul's elation, I, mcthinks,
could raise the dead.
* Be an arch-bard's name my warrant. Murgen,
son of Sanchan, here,
Vow'd upon a venturous errand to the door-sills
of Saint Pierre,
Where, beyond Slieve Alpa's barrier, sits the
Coiirb of the keys, 1
I conjure thee, buried warrior, rise and give my
wanderings ease.
"'Tis not death whose forms appalling strew the
steep with pilgrims' graves,
Ti* nut fear of snow-slips falling, nor of ice-clefts'
azure caves
Daunts me; but I dread if Rorneward I must
travel till the Tain
Crowns my quest, these footsteps homeward I
shall never turn a<rain.
1 Th successor in an episcopal seat is designated Coarb, as the
Coiirb of Patrick. Coarb of CoJuiub Kill. io.
" I at parting left behind me aged sire and
mother dear ;
Who a parent's love shall find me ere again I
ask it here ?
Dearer too than sire or mother, ah, how deal
these tears may tell,
I, at parting, left another ; left a maid who lovei
me well.
" Ruthful clay, thy rigors soften ! Fergus, hear,
thy deaf heaps through,
Thou, thyself a lover often, aid a lover young
and true ;
Thou, the favorite of maidens, for a fair young
maiden's sake,
I conjure thee by the radiance of thy Nessa'*
eyes, awake !
" Needs there adjuration stronger ? Fergus, thou
hadst once a son :
Even than I was Illan younger whpn the glori-
ous feat was done,
When in hall of Red Branch bid'ng Deirdra and
Clan Usnach sate.
In thy guarantee confiding, though the foe was
at their gate.
"Though their guards were bribed and flying,
and their door-posts wrapp'd in flame,
Calmly on thy word relying bent they o'er the
chessman game,
Till with keen words sharp and grievous Deirdra
cried through smoke and fire,
' See the sons of Fergus leave us : traitor sons
of traitor sire !'
" Mild the eyes that did upbraid her, when young
Illan rose and spake
' If my father be a traitor ; if my brother for the
Of a bribe bewray his virtue, yet while lives the
sword I hold,
Illau Finn will not desert you, not for fire and
not for gold !'
" And as hawk that strikes on pigeons, sped on
wrath's unswerving wing
Through the tyrant's leaguering legions, smiting
chief and smiting king,
Smote he full on Conor's gorget, till ihe waves
of welded steel
Round the monarch's magic target rang their
loudest 'larum peal.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
G09
"Rang the disc where wizard hammers, miugling
iu the wavy field,
Tempest-wail aud breaker-clamors, forged the
wondrous Ocean shield,
Answering to whose stormy noises, oft as clang'd
by deadly blows,
All the echoing kindred voices of the seas of Erin
rose.
a Moan'd each sea-chafed promontory ; soar'd
and wail'd white Cleena's wave ;'
Rose the Tonn of Inver Rory, and through col-
umn'd chasm and cave
Reaching deep with roll of anger, till Dunsever-
ick's dungeons reel'd,
Roai'd responsive to the clangor struck from
Conor's magic shield.
*' Ye, remember, red wine quaffing in Dunsever-
ick's halls of glee,
Heard the moaning, heard the chafing, heard the
thundering from the sea ;
Knew that peril compass'd Conor, came, and on
Emania's plain
Found his fraud and thy dishonor; Deirdra rav-
ish'd, Ulan slain.
" Now, by love of son for father, son, who ere
he'd hear it said
1 Neither Sanchan knew it,' rather seeks to learn
it from the dead ;
Rise, and give me back the story that the twin
gold cups shall win ;
Rise, recount the great Cow-Foray ! rise for love
of Ulan Finn !
> In the Irish triads compositions In the Welsh taste the three
waves (tonnu) of Erin are, "the wave of Tuath, and the wave of
Cleena. and the fishy-streaming wave of Inver-Eory." The site
of the first Is supposed to be the great strand of the bay of Dun-
dalle ; that of the wave of Cleena (cliod/ina) is Glandore Harbor,
In the County of Cork. " It emanates from the eastern side of the
barlxir'h en trance, where the cliffs facing the south and southwest
are hollowed into caverns, of which Dean Swift has given In his
poem, Carberia Rupes, an accurate, though general, description.
When the wind is northeast, off shore, the waves resounding In
these caverns send forth a deep, loud, hollow, monotonous roar,
which in a calm night is peculiarly Impressive on the imagination,
producing sensations either of melancholy or fear." O'Donovan,
Annal* of the Four McuUrt, A. D. 1657. The wave of Inver-Kory
is now represented by the "Toons," which send forth their warn-
ing voices in almost all weathers, from the strand of Magilligan,
nenr the mouth of the river Bann. The sympathy between the
royal shield and the surrounding seas of the kingdom Is one of
those original fancies only to be found amongst a primitive and
bljbJy poetic people.
" Still he stirs not. Love of woman thou re-
gard'st not, Fergus, now :
Love of children, instincts human, care for these
no more hast thou :
Wider comprehensions, deeper insights to the
dead belong :
Since for Love thou wakest not, sleeper, yet
awake for sake of Song !
" Thou, the first in rhythmic cadence dressing
life's discordant tale,
Wars of chiefs and loves of maidens, gavest the
Poem to the Gael ;
Now they've lost their noblest measure, and in
dark days hard at hand,
Song shall be the only treasure left them in their
native land.
" Not for selfish gawds or baubles dares my soul
disturb the graves :
Love consoles, but song ennobles ; songless men
are meet for slaves :
Fergus, for the Gael's sake, waken ! never let
the scornful Gauls
'Mongst our land's reproaches reckon lack of Song
within our halls !"
Fergus rose. A mist ascended with him, and a
flash was seen
As of brazen sandals blended with a mantle'*
wafture green ;
But so thick the cloud closed o'er him, Eimena,
return'd at last,
Found not on the field before him but a mist-
heap gray and vast.
Thrice to pierce the hoar recesses faithful Eimena
essay'd ;
Thrice through foggy wildernesses back to open
air he stray'd ;
Till a deep voice through the vapors fill'd the
twilight far and near,
And the Night her starry tapers kindling, stoop'd
from heaven to hear.
Seem'd as though the skicy Shepherd back to
earth had cast the fleece
Envying gods of old caught upward from the
darkening shrines of Greece;
So the white mists curl'd and glisten'd, so from
heaven's expanses bare,
Stars enlarging lean'd and listen'd down tL
emptied depths of air.
610
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
All night long by mists surrounded Murgen lay
in vapory bars ;
All night long the deep voice sounded 'neath the
keen, enlarging stars :
But when, on the orient verges, stars grew dim
and mists retired,
Rising by the stone of Fergus, Murgen stood, a
man inspired.
" Back to Sanchan ! Father, hasten, ere the
hour of power be past ;
Ask not how obtain'd, but listen to the lost lay
found at last !"
u Yea, these words have tramp of heroes in them ;
and the marching rhyme
Rolls the voices of the Eras down the echoing
steeps of Time."
Not till all was thrice related, thrice recital full
essay 'd,
Sad and shame-faced, worn and faded, Murgen
sought the faithful maid.
" Ah, so haggard ; ah, so altered ; thou in life
and love so strong !"
" Dearly purchased," Murgen falter'd, " life and
love I've sold for song !"
" Woe is me, the losing bargain ! what can song
the dead avail ?"
" Fame immortal," murmur'd Murgen, " long as
lay delights the Gael."
" Fame, alas ! the price thou chargest not repays
one virgin tear."
"Yet the proud revenge I've purchased for my
sire I deem not dear."
So, again to Gort the splendid, when the drink-
ing boards were spread,
Sanchan, as of old attended, came and sat at
table-head.
" Bear the cup to Sanchan Torpest : twin gold
goblets, Bard, are thiue,
If with voice and string thou harpest, Tain-Bo-
Cuailgne, line for line."
" Yea, with voice and string I'll chant it." Mur-
gen to his father's knee
Set the harp : no prelude wanted, Sanchan struck
the master key,
And, as bursts the brimful river all at once from
caves of Cong,
Forth at once, and once forever, leap'd the tor-
rent of the song,
Floating on a brimful torrent, men g.o down and
banks go by :
Caught adown the lyric current, Guary, captured,.
ear and eye,
Heard no more the courtiers jeering, saw nu
more the walls of Gort,
Creeve Roe's meads instead appearing, and Ema-
nia's royal fort.
Vision chasing spiendid vision, Sanchan roll'd
the rhythmic scene;
They that mock'd in lewd derision, now, at gaze,
with wondering mien,
Sate, and, as the glorying master sway'd the
tightening reins of song,
Felt emotion's pulses faster fancies faster bound
along.
Pity dawn'd on savage faces, when for love of
captive Crunn,
Macha, in the ransom-races, girt her gravid loins,
to run 1
1 No more striking Instance of the cruelty of savage manners
can be conceived than this story of Macha, which is told with
much pathetic force and simplicity in a poem in the Dinnsenc/uit,
one of the tracts preserved in the Book of Lecan, in the B^rgi
Irish Academy. The Dinnsenchas itself is alleged to be, iu j'.rt
at least, a compilation ~i the Sixth Century.
One day thei >^ame with glowing soul,
To the assembl) of Conchobar,
The gifted man horn the eastern wave,
Crunn of the flocks, son of Adnoman.
It was then were brousht
Two steeds to which I see no equals,
Into the race-course, without concealment
At which the King of Uladh then presided.
Although there were not the peers of these
Upon the plain, of a yoke of steeds,
Crunn, the rash hairy man. said
That his wife was tleeter, though then pregnant
Detain ye the truthful man.
Said Conor, the chief of battles,
Until bis famous wife comes here,
To nobly run with my great steeds.
Let one man go forth to bring her,
Said the king of levelled stout spears,
Till she comes from the wavy sea,
To save the wise-spoken Crunn.
The woman reached, without delay,
The assembly of the greatly wounding chief*.
Her two names in Mm west, without question.
Were Bright Grian and Pure Macha.
Her father was not weak in his house,
Midir of Bri Leith, son of Celtchar ;
In his mansion in the west,
She was the sun of women-assemblies
When she had come in sobbing words,
She begged immediately for respite,
From the host of assembled clans,
Until the time of her delivery was past.
The Ultonians gave their plighted w..rd.
Should she not run no idle boast
That he should not have a prosperous relpv
From tt e hosts of swords and spears.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
(511
'Gainst the fleet Ultonian horses ; and, when
Deirdra on the road
Headlong dash'd her 'mid the corses, brimming
eyelids overflow'd.
Light of manhood's generous ardor, under brows
relaxing shone ;
When, mid-ford, on Uladh's border, young Cu-
ehullin stood alone,
Macv and all her hosts withstanding: "Now,
for love of knightly play,
Yield the youth his soul's demanding ; let the
hosts their marchiugs stay,
44 Till the death he craves be given ; and, upon
his burial-stone
Champion-praises duly graven, make his name
and glory known ;
For, in speech-containing token, age to ages never
gave
Salutation better spoken, than, 'Behold a hero's
grave. "
What, another and another, and he still for com-
bat calls ?
Ah, the lot on thee, his brother sworn in arms,
Ferdia, falls;
And the hall with wild applauses sobb'd like
women ere they wist,
When the champions in the pauses of the deadly
combat kiss'd.
Now, for love of land and cattle, while Cuchullin
in the fords
Stays the march of Connauglit's battle, ride and
rouse the Northern Lords ;
Then strict the fleet and silent dame,
A ml mM IUIIM her bair around her howl,
An. I utarleil, without terror or fail,
To join la tlie race, but not its pleasure.
The needs were brought to her eastern side,
To urge them past her In mini HIT liko;
To the Ultonlsns of accustomed victory,
The gnllant riders were men of kin.
Although the monarch's bleed* were swifter
At nil times In the unlive race.
The woman was fleeter, with no great effort.
The monarch's steeds were then the slower.
As she reached the linul iriml.
Ami nobly won the ample pledge,
Sim brought forth twin* without delay,
Itofore tin- bust* of the Ucd Branch fort,
A son and a daughter together.
She left* long-abiding curse
On the chiefs uf the Ked Brtnch
' >iurche qf Armagh, App., p. 42.
Swift as angry eagles wing them toward the plun-
der'd eyrie's call,
Thronging from Dun Dealga 1 bring them, bring
them from the Red Branch hall !
Heard ye not the tramp of armies? Ilark!
amid the sudden gloom,
'Twas the stroke of ConalPs war-mace sounded
through the startled room ;
And, while still the hall grew darker, king and
courtier, chill'd with dread,
Heard the rattling of the war-car of Cuchullin
overhead.
Half in wonder, half in terror, loth to suiy and
loth to fly,
Seem'd to each beglamor'd hearer shades of kings
went thronging by :
But the troubled joy of wonder merged at last
in mastering fear,
As they heard, through pealing thunder, "Fer-
gus, son of Roy, is here !"
Brazen-sandall'd, vapor-shrouded, moving in an
icy blast,
Through the doorway terror-crowded, up the
tables Fergus pass'd :
" Stay thy hand, harper, pardon ! cease the
wild unearthly lay !
Mnrgen, bear thy sire his guerdon." Murgcn
sat, a shape of clay.
"Bear him on his bier beside me : never more 5ft
halls of Gort
Shall a niggard king deride me ; slaves, of Sau-
chan make their sport !
But because the maiden's yearnings needs must
also be condoled,
Hers shall be the dear-bought earnings, hers th*
twin-bright cups of gold."
" Cups," she cried, " of bitter drinking, fling them
far as arm can throw !
Let them, in the ocean sinking, out of sight and
memory go !
, giving name to Dandalk. the resident* of Co-
rhullin. There are few better Hvertulned .itc in lrlr>h li.poirraphy
than that of the actual plbc of abode of this II.T... Ill* the great
earthen mound, now calle<l the t town, which MM*
imi'ly over the woods of Lord l;."l<-:i> <!rtiien un to*
left of the tr . _- I nitiilaik fr Uie north.
612
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Let the joinings of the rhythm, let the links of
sense and sound
Of the Tain-Bo perish with them, lost as though
they'd ne'er been found !"
So it comes, the lay, recover'd once at such a
deadly cost,
Ere one full recital suffer'd, once again is all but
lost :
For, the maiden's malediction still with many a
blemish-stain
Clings in coarser garb of fiction round the frag-
ments that remain.
THE ABDICATION OF FERGUS
MAC ROY.
ONCE, ere God was crucified,
I was King o'er Uladh wide :
King, by law of choice and birth,
O'er the fairest realm of Earth.
i was head of Rury's race ;
Emain was my dwelling-place ;'
Right and Might were mine ; nor less
Stature, strength, and comeliness.
Neither lack'd I love's delight,
Nor the glorious meeds of fight.
All on earth was mine could bring
Life's enjoyment to a king.
1 The petty kings of Uladb (Ulster), who reigned at Emania,
claimed to derive their pedigree through Rory More, of the line
of Ir, one of the fabled sons of Milesius, as other provincial Reguli
traced theirs to Eber and Heremon. A list, of thirty-one of these
occupants of Emania before its destruction, in A.. D. 332, compiled
from the oldest of tlie Irish annals, has been published by O'Conor
(Rer. Hib. SS., vol. ii., p. 66), in which Fergus, son of Leide, the
fourteenth in succession from Cimbaeth, the founder, has twelve
years assigned to him. ending in the year B. o. 31 ; after whom
appears Conor, son of Nessa, having a reign of sixty years.
Dr. Beeves, in his learned tract, " The Ancient Churches of Ar-
magh," has collected the native evidences of the early existence of
Emania, and of the transition of its original name Emain (ap-
pearing as ffewynna in 1374, as JSawayn in 1524, and Jf-awan in
1683) into its present corrupt form of " the Navan." The remains,
situata in the townland of Navan, and parish of Eglish, about two
miles west from Armagh, are now becoming rapidly obliterated.
A few years ago. the external circumvallation, enclosing a space
of about twelve acres, was complete. Now, through one-third of
the circuit, the rampart has been levelled into the ditch, and tlie
surface submitted to the plough. Application was made in vain
to those who might have stayed the destruction : they could not
be induced to believe that any historic monument worth preserv-
ing existed in Ireland. Yet a place with a definite history of six
hundred years ending in the Fourth Century of the Christian era,
I* not easily fcraid elsewhere on this side of the Alps.
Much I loved the jocund chase,
Much the horse and chariot race :
Much I loved the deep carouse,
Quaffing in the Red Branch House.'
But, in Council call'd to meet,
Loved I not the judgment-seat ;
And the suitors' questions hard
Won but scantly my regard.
Rather would I, all alone,
Care and state behind me thrown,
Walk the dew through showery gleam*
O'er the meads, or by the streams,
Chanting, as the thoughts might rise,
Unimagined melodies ;
While with sweetly-pungent smart
Secret happy tears would start.
Such was I, when, in the dance,
Nessa did bestow a glance,
Ami my soul that moment took
Captive in a single look.
I am but an empty shade,
Far from life and passion laid ;
Yet does sweet remembrance thrill
All my shadowy being still.
Nessa had been Fathna's spouse,
Fathna of the Royal house,
And a beauteous boy had borne him
Fourteen summers did adorn him :
Yea ; thou deem'st it marvellous,
That a widow's glance should thus
Turn from lure of maidens' eyes
All a young king's fantasies.
Yet if thou hadst known but half
Of the joyance of her laugh,
Of the measures of her walk,
Of the music of her talk,
Of the witch'ry of her wit,
Even when smarting under it,
Half the sense, the charm, the grace,
Thou hadst worshipp'd in my place.
a This appears to have been a detached fortress, in the nature at
a military barrack and hospital, depending on the principal fort
The townland of Creeve Roe, i. ., " Ked Branch," adjoining tb
Navan on the west, still preserves the name.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
613
And, besides, the thoughts I wove
Into songs of war and love,
She alone of all the rest
Felt them with a perfect zst.
" Lady, in thy smiles to live
Tell me but the boon to give,
Yea, I lay in gift complete
Crown and sceptre at thy feet"
" Not so great the boon I crave :
Hear the wish my soul would have ;"
And she glanced a loving eye
On the stripling standing by :
" Conor is of age to learn ;
Wisdom is a king's concern ;
Conor is of royal race,
Yet may*sit in Fathna's place.
" Therefore, king, if thou wouldst prove
That I have indeed thy love,
On the judgment-seat permit
Conor by thy side to sft,
"That by use the youth may draw
Needful knowledge of the Law."
I with answer was not slow,
" Be thou mine, and be it so."
I am but a shape of air,
Far removed from love's repair;
Yet, were mine a living frame
Once again, I'd say the same.
Thus, a prosperous wooing" sped,
Took I Nessa to my bed,
While in council and debate
Conor daily by me sate.
Modest was his mien in sooth,
Beautiful the studious youth,
Questioning with earnest gaze
All the reasons and the ways
In the which, and why because,
Kings administer the Laws.
Silent so with looks intent
Sat he till the year was spent.
But the strifes the suitors raised
Bred me daily more distaste,
Every faculty and passion
Sunk in sweet intoxication.
Till upon a day in court
Rose a plea of weightier sort :
Tangled as a briery thicket
Were the rights and wrongs intricate
Which the litigants disputed,
Challenged, mooted, and confuted ;
Till, when all the plea was ended,
Naught at all I comprehended.
Scorning an affected show
Of the thing I did not know,
Yet my own defect to hide,
I said, " Boy-judge, thou decide."
/
Conor, with unalter'd mien,
In a clear sweet voice serene,
Took in hand the tangled skein
And began to make it plain.
As a sheep-dog sorts his cattle,
As a king arrays his battle,
So, the facts on either side
He did marshal and divide.
Every branching side-dispute
Traced he downward to the root
Of the strife's main stem, and there
Laid the ground of difference bare.
Then to scope of either cause
Set the compass of the laws,
This adopting, that rejecting,
Reasons to a head collecting,
O*
As a charging cohort <;oes
Through and over scatter'cl foes,
So, from point to point, he brought
Onward still the weight of thought
Through all error and confusion,
Till he set the clear conclusion
Standing like a king alone,
All things adverse overthrown,
And gave judgment clear and sound :
Praises fill'd the hall around ;
Yea, the man that lost the cause
Ilardly could withhold applause.
By the wondering crowd surrounded,
1 >:it shamefaced and confounded.
Euvious ire awhile oppress'd me
Till the nobler thought possess' u me ;
614
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
And I ros-?, and on my feet
Standing by the judgment- seat,
Took the circlet from my head,
Laid it on the bench, and said
"Men of Uladh, I resign
That which is not rightly mine,
That a worthier than I
May your judge's place supply.
" Lo, it is no easy thing
For a man to be a king
Judging well, as should behoove
One who claims a people's love.
u Uladh's judgmeiU-seat to fill
I have neither wit nor will.
One is here may justly claim
Both the function and the name.
" Conor is of royal blood ;
Fair he is ; I trust him good ;
Wise he is we all may say
Who have heard his words to-d;iy.
" Take him therefore in my room,
Letting me the place assume
Office but with life to end
Of his councillor and friend."
So young Conor gain'd the crown ;
So I laid the kingship down ;
Laying with it, as it went,
All I knew of discontent.
TB E HEALING OF CON ALL CARNACH.
Conor is said to have heard of the Passion of our Lord from >
Kotnan captain sent to demand tribute at Emania. He died of a
wound inflicted by Keth, son of Mazach, and nephew of Maev,
with a ball from a sling; having been inveigled within reach of
the missile by certain Connatight ladies. His son, Forbaid, char-
acteristically avenged his death by the assassination of Maev, -whom
he slew, also with a sling, across the Shannon, while she was in
the act of bathing. Notwithstanding the repulsive character of
many of the acts ascribed to Conor, such as the cruel enforcement
of the foot-race upon Macba (O Mcentiamfuroris, ceyrae reipub-
UT.<JB gemitu prosequendam /)' and the betrayal of the sons of
Usnach, and abduction of Deirdra, the best part of Irish heroic
tradition connects itself with his reign and period, preceding by
nearly three centuries the epoch of Cormac Mac Art, and tho
Fenian or Irish Ossianic romances. The survivor of the men of
renown of Conor's era was Conall Carnach, the hero of many pic-
turesque legends, one of the most remarkable of which affords the
groundwork for tho following verses.
1 Val. Max., lib. is., De Improb. diet, etfaat.
O'ER Slieve Few, 4 with noiseless tramping through
the heavy-drifted snow,
Bealcu," Connacia's champion, in his chario*
tracks the foe ;
And anon far off discerneth, in the mountain-
hollow white,
Slinger Keth and Conall Carnach mingling, hand
to hand, in fight.
Swift the charioteer his coursers urged across the
wintry glade :
Hoarse the cry of Keth and hoarser seem'd tc
come demanding aid ;
But through wreath and swollen runnel ere the
car could reach anigh,
Keth lay dead, and mighty Conall bleeding lay
at point to die.
Whom beholding spent and pallid, Bealcu exult-
ing cried,
"Oh,thou ravening wolf of Uladh, where is now
thy northern pride ?
What can now that crest audacious, what that
pale, defiant brow,
Once the bale-star of Connacia's ravaged fields,
O
avail thee now ?"
"Taunts are for reviling women," faintly Conall
made reply :
" Wouldst thou play the manlier foeman, end
my pain and let me die.
Neither deem thy blade dishonor'd that with
Keth's a deed it share,
For the foremost two of Connaught feat enough
and fame to spare."
u No, I will not ! bard shall never in Dunseverick
hall make boast
That to quell one northern riever needed two o(
Croghan's host. 4
But because that word thou'st spoken, if but life
enough remains,
Thou shalt hear the wives of Croghan clap their
hands above thv chains.
* A mountainous district, the name of which is preserved in the
baronies of Upper and Lower Fews, on the borders of the connt'ea
of Louth and Armagh, the scene of many of the northern bardic
romances.
* Pronounced Baynl-ku.
4 Rath Croghan. the residence of the Regull of Connaught,
erected by Eochaid, father of Maev. Its remains, including stont
inscribed in the Ogham character, and apparently of coeval data,
exist two miles northwest of Tulsk, in the county Roscommou.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
615
44 Yea, if life enough but linger, that the leech
may make thee whole,
Meet to satiate the anger that beseems a warrior's
soul,
Best of leech-craft I'll purvey thee; make thee
whole as healing can ;
And in single combat slay thee, Connaught man
to Ulster man."
Binding him in five-fold fetter, 1 wrists and ankles,
wrists and neck,
To bis car's uneasy litter Bealcu upheaved the
wreck
Of the broken man and harness ; but he started
with amaze
When he felt the northern war-mace, what a
weight is was to raise.
Westward then through Breiffny's borders, with
his captive and his dead,
Track'd by bands of fierce applauders, wives and
shrieking widows, sped ;
And the chain'd heroic carcass on the fair-green
of Moy SI aught*
Casting down, proclaim'd his purpose, and bade
Lee the leech be brought.
1 This, in the expressive form of the Irish idiom, is termed "the
fettering of the five smalls." The quaint translator of Keating
(MS. Lib. R. I. A.I thus describes the performance of a similar
operation on Cuchnllin by the hero Curoi, from whom he bad
carried off the beautiful Blanaid : " dairy forthwith pursued him
Into Mounster, and overtaking them both at Sallchoyde, the two
matchless (but of themselves) champions edged of either syde by
the stinze of love towards Blanait, and impatient, each, of the
competition of a corrival about her, fell to a single combat in her
presence, which soe succeeded (as the victory in duells tryed out
to a pointe usually fallcth out of one Me) that Chury, favoured by
fortune, and not inferior for valour to any that till that time ever
U|xm equal! tearmes inett him, gaining the upperhnnd of Cuchul-
luynn, he bound him upp hand andfootew\th such npfrliyation
that, tryiiiinlng of bis tresses with his launce. (a* a marko of his
further disgrace and discomfiture), he took Blannait from thence
quietly into West Mounster." Elsewhere be uses the forcible ex-
pression in reference to the same proceeding "leaving him so
)ug<imnted, he went," Ac. Of all the translations of Keating,
this has most of the characteristic simplicity and quaintness of the
Irish Herodotus.
a A very ancient place of assembly among the Pagan Irish, and
scene of the worship of their reputed principal idol, called Crom
Cruach. From the story of Crom's overthrow by Saint Patrick,
found In what is called the tripartite life of the saint, It would ap-
pear that the stones which represented Croin and his twelve In-
ferior demons were still in aitu at the time of the composition of
that work, which Is said to be of the Sixth Century. "When
Patrick saw the idol from the water, which Is called Guttiard, and
irhen he approached near the Idol, he raised his arm to lay the
taff of Jesus on him, and It did not reach him, he (I. e., Crom)
bent back from the attempt upon his right side; for It was to the
south bis face was: and the mark of the staff lives (exists) on bis
left side still, although the staff did not leave Patrick's hand ; and
the earth swallowed the other twelve Idols to their heads; and
iv ar in that condition In commemoration of the miracle:" a
Lee, the gentle-faced physician fr.m his henU-
plot came, and said
"Healing is with God's permission : health for
life's enjoyment made :
And though I mine aid refuse not, yet, to speak
my purpose plain,
1 the healing art abuse not, making life enure to
pain.
" But assure me, with the sanction of the might-
iest oath ye know,
That in case, in this contention, Conall overcome
his foe,
Straight departing from the tournay by what
path the chief shall choose,
He is free to take his journey unmolested to the
Fews.
" Swear me further, while at healing in my charge
the hero lies,
None shall, through my fences stealing, work him
mischief or surprise;
So, if God the undertaking but approve, in six
months' span
Once again my art shall make him meet to stand
before a man r
Crom their God they then attested, Sun and
Wind for guarantees,
Conall Carnach unmolested, by what exit he
might please,
If the victor, should have freedom to depart
Connacia's bounds ;
Meantime, no man should intrude him, entering
on the hospice grounds.
Then his burden huge receiving in the hospice-
portal, Lee,
Stiffeu'd limb by limb relieving with the iron-
fetter key,
As a crumpled scroll unroll'd him, groaning deep,
till laid at length,
Wondering gazers might behold him, what a
tower he was of strength.
pregnant piece of evidence to show that even at this early time
the stone cromleac, or monumental stone circle, had been disused
as a mode of sepulture: for It Is plainly to a monument of tba?
kind the writer of the tripartite life alludes in t-his passage. Dr
(.('Donovan has Identified the plain of Moy Slaught with the Jl
trlct around the little modern vilUge of Ballymacguuran. In ta
parish of Ternpleport, and county of Oavao
616
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Spake the sons to one another, day by day, of
Bealcu
u Get thee up and spy, my brother, what the
leech and northman do."
u Lee, at mixing of a potion : Conall, yet in no
wise dead,
As on reef of rock the ocean, tosses wildly on
his bed."
"Spy again with cautious peeping: what of Lee
and Conall now ?"
u Conall lies profoundly sleeping: Lee beside,
with placid brow."
"And to-day?" "To-day he's risen; pallid as
his swathing-sheet,
He has left his chamber's prison, and is walking
on his feet."
" And to-day ?" " A ghastly figure, on his jave-
lin propp'd lie goes."
"And to-day ?" " A languid vigor through his
larger gesture shows."
" And to-day ?" " The blood renewing mantles
all his clear cheek through."
" Would thy vow had room for rueing, rashly-
valiant Bealcu !"
So with herb and healing balsam, ere the second
month w-as past,
Life's additions smooth and wholesome circling
O
through his members vast,
As you've seen a sere oak burgeon under sum-
mer showers and dew,
Conall, under his chirurgeon, fill'd and flourish'd,
spread and grew.
u I can bear the sight no longer : I have watch'd
him moon by moon :
Day by day the chief grows stronger : giant-
strong he will be soon.
Oh, my sire, rash-valiant warrior ! but that oaths
have built the wall,
Soon these feet should leap the barrier : soon this
band thy fate forestall."
"Brother, have the wish thou'st utter'd : we have
sworn, so let it be ;
But although our feet be fetter'd, all the air is
left us free.
Dying Keth with vengeful presage did bequeath
thee sling and ball,
4nd the sling may send its message where thy
ragrant glances fall.
" Forbaid was a master-slinger : Maev, when in
her bath she sank,
Felt the presence of his finger from the further
Shannon bank ;
For he threw by line and measure, practising a
constant cast
Daily in secluded leisure, till he reach'd the
mark at last. 1
" Keth achieved a warrior's honor, though 'twas
'mid a woman's band,
When he smote the amorous Conor bowing from
his distant stand.*
Fit occasion will not fail ye : in the leech's lawn
below,
Conall at the fountain daily drinks within an easy
throw."
" Wherefore cast ye at the apple, sons of mine,
with measured aim ?"
" He who in the close would grapple, first the
distant foe should maim.
1 " Oillioll, the last husband that Meauffo had, being killed by
Conall Carnath, she retyred herself to Inish Clothran. an island
lying within Loch Ryve, and afterward used dayly to bath herself
in a well standing neere the entry of the same lake, and that timeli
every morning ; and though shee thought her like washing was
eecrettly carried (on), yet, it comeing to the hearing of fforbuidhtt
vie Conchuvair, he privatly came to the well, and from ye brym
thereof taking by a lynnen thrid, which for that purpose he car-
ryed with him, the right measure and length from thence to the
other side of that lake adioneing to Ulster, and carrying that mea-
sure with him into Ulster, and by the same setting forth justly tu
like distance of ground, and at either end of that lyne fixing two
wooden stakes, with an apple at the top of one of them, he daily
afterward made it his constant exercise with his hand-bowe t
shoot at ye apple, till bi continuance he learned his lesson so per-
fect, that he never missed his ay med marke ; and shortly afterward,
BOMB general! meeting being appointed betweene them cf Ulster
and those of Connaught, on the side of the river Shannon at Innish
Clotbrain, to be near Meauffi to receive her resolutions to the
propositions moved of the other part unto them, fforbuid coming
thither with the Ulidians, his countrymen, and watching his op-
portunity, of a certain morning, spyed over ye lake Meauffe bath-
ing of herself, as she formerly accustomed to doo in the same
well, and thereupon he, to be spedd of his long-expected gaine,
fitting his hand-bowo with a stone, he therewith so assuredly
pitched at his mark, that he hitt her right in the forehead, and by
that devised sleigbt instantly killed her, when she little supposed
or feared to take leave with the world, having (as formerly Is de-
clared) had the power and command of all Connaght 83 years in
her owne handes." Keating, O'Kearney^s Version, Lib. R. 1. A..
Inis Clothrain, the scene of this shocking treachery, is now
known as Quaker's Island. Tradition preserves ' the place ot
Maev's assassination, but the Well has disappeared. See CFDono-
vari's MS. Collections for the Ordnance Survey of Ireland, Lib.
B. I. A., vol. " Roscommon."
1 The late Professor O'Curry has fixed with laudable accuracy
the locality of this act of savage warfare at Ardnurchar. i. e., " the
height of the cast," in the county of Westmeath. The whole
story of the sling-ball, of its nature and materials, of the chance
by which it came into Keth's possession, and of the use he mad
of it, forms a remarkable chapter in th history of barbar*n man-
ners. Vide O'Curry, Lecture* on the 118. Materials of Anoit-nt
Irith Hvttory, p. 5a
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
And since Kcth, his death-balls casting, rides no
more the ridge of war,
We against our summer hosting, train us for his
vacant car."
"Wherefore to the rock repairing, gaze ye forth,
my children, tell."
"'Tis a stag we watch for snaring, that frequents
the leech's well."
"I will see this stag though, truly, small may be
my eyes' delight."
And he climb'd the rock where fully lay the lawn
exposed to sight.
Conall to the green well-margin came at dawn
and knelt to drink,
Thinking how a noble virgin by a like green
fountain's brink
Heard his own pure vows one morning, far away
and long ago :
All his heart to home was turning ; and his tears
began to flow.
Clean forgetful of his prison, steep Dunseverick's
windy tower
Seem'd to rise in present vision, and his own dear
lady's bower.
Round the sheltering knees they gather, little
ones of tender years,
Tell us, mother, of our father ; and she answers
but with tears.
Twice the big drops plash'd the fountain. Then
he rose, and, turning round,
As across a breast of mountain sweeps a whirl-
wind, o'er the ground
Raced in athlete-feats amazing, swung the war-
mace, hurl'd the spear;
Bealcu, in wonder gazing, felt the pangs of deadly
fear.
Had it been a fabled griffin, suppled in a fasting
den,'
Flash'd its wheeling coils to heaven o'er a wreck
of beasts and men,
Hardly had the dreadful prospect bred his soul
more dire alarms ;
Such the fire of Conall's aspect, such the stridor
of his arms!
"This is fear," he said, "that never shook these
limbs of mine till now.
Now I see the mad endeavor ; now I mourn the
boastful vow
Yet 'twas righteous wrath impell'd me ; and a
sense of manly shame
From his naked throat withheld me wheu 'twas
offer'd to my aim.
" Now I see his strength excelling : whence he
buys it : what he pays :
'Tis a God who has his dwelling in the fount, to-
whom he prays.
Thither came he weeping, drooping, till the Well-
God heard his prayer :
Now behold him, soaring, swooping, as an eagle
through the air.
"0 thou God, by whatsoever sounds of awe thy
name we know,
Grant thy servant equal favor with the stranger
and the foe !
Equal grace, 'tis all I covet ; and if sacrificial
blood
Win thy favor, thoa shalt have it on thy very
well-brink, God !
" What and though I've given pledges not to
cross the leech's court?
Not to pass his sheltering hedges, meant I to his
patient's hurt.
Thy dishonor meant I never: never meant I to
forswear
Right divine of prayer wherever Power divine
invites to prayer.
"Sun that warm'st me, Wind that fann'st me, ye
that guarantee the oath,
Make no sign of wrath against me: tenderly ye
touch me both.
Yea, then, through his fences stealing ere to-
morrow's sun shall rise,
Well-God ! on thy margin kneeling, I will offer
sacrifice."
" Brother, rise, the skies grow ruddy : if we yet
would save our sire,
Rests a deed courageous, bloody, wondering ages
shall admire :
Hie thee to the spy-rock's summit : ready there
thou'lt find the sling ;
Ready there the leaden plummet ; and at dawn
he seeks the spring."
Ruddy dawn had changed to amber : radiant as
the yellow day,
Conall, issuing from his chamber, to the fountain
took his way :
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
There, athwart the welling water, like a fallen
pillar, spread,
Smitten by the bolt of slaughter, lay Connacia's
champion, dead.
Call the hosts! convene the judges! cite the
dead man's children both !
Said the judges, " He gave pledges Sun and
Wind and broke the oath,
And they slew him : so we've written : let his
sons attend our words."
" Both, by sudden frenzy smitten, fell at sunrise
on their swords."
Then the judges, " Ye who punish man's pre-
varicating vow,
Needs not further to admonish : contrite to your
will we bow,
All our points of promise keeping : safely let the
chief go forth."
Conall to his chariot leaping, turn'd his coursers
to the north :
In the Sun that swept the valleys, in the Wind's
encircling flight,
Recognizing holy ailies, guardians of the Truth
and Right ;
While, before his face, resplendent with a firm
faith's candic 1 ''av,
Dazzled troops of foes attendant, bow'd before
him on his way.
But the calm physician, viewing where the white
neck join'd the ear,
Said, " It is a slinger's doing : Sun nor Wind
was actor here.
Yet, till God vouchsafe more certain knowledge
of his sovereign will,
Better deem the mystic curtain hides their
wonted demons still.
" Better so, perchance, than living in a clearer
light, like me,
But believing where perceiving, bound in what I
hear and see ;
Force and change in constant sequence, changing
atoms, changeless laws ;
Only in submissive patience waiting access to the
Cause.
" And, they say, Centurion Altus, when he to
Emania came,
And to Rome's subjection call'd us, urging
Caesar's tribute claim,
Told that half the world barbarian thrills already
with the faith
Taught them by the godlike Syrian Caesar lately
put to death.
"And the Sun, through starry stages measuring
from the Ram and Bull,
Tells us of renewing Ages, and that Nature's
time is full :
So, perchance, these silly breezes even now may
swell the sail,
Brings the leavening word of Jesus westward
also to the Gael."
THE BURIAL OF KING CORMAC.
Cormac, son of Art, son of Con Cead-Catha, 1 enjoyed the sover-
eignty of Ireland through the prolonged period of forty years,
commencing from A. D. 213. During the latter part of his reisn,
he resided at Sletty. on the Boyne, being, it is said, disqualified
for the occupation of Tara by the personal bleuiish he had sus-
tained in the loss of an eye, l>y the hand of Angus " Drertil-Speir."
chief of the Desi, a tribe whose original seats were in the barony
of Deece, in the county of Meath. It."s in the time of Cormao
and his son Carbre, if we are to crs<nt the Irish annuls, that Fin,
son of Com hnl, and the Fenian heroes, celebrated by Ossian, flour-
ished. Cormac has obtained the reputation tf wisdom and learn-
ing, and appears justly entitled to the honor of having provoked
the enmity of the Pagan priesthood, by declaring his faith in a
God not made by bands of men.
" CROM CRUACH and his sub-gods twelve,"
Said Cormac, "are but carven treene ;
The axe that made them, haft or helve,
Had worthier of our worship been.
"But he who made the tree to grow,
And hid in earth the iron-stone,
And made the man with mind to know
The axe's use, is God alone."
Anon to priests of Crom was brought
Where, girded in their service dread,
They minister'd on red Moy Slaught-i-
Word of the words King Cormac said.
They loosed their curse against the king;
They cursed him in his flesh and bones ;
And daily in their mystic ring
They turn'd the maledietive stones/
1 /. e.. Hundred- Bttle.
a A pagan practice, in use among the Lusttanian as well as the
Insular Celts, and of which Dr. O'Donovan records a-n instance,
among the latter, as late as the year 1830. in the island of Inish-
murray, off the coast of Sligo. Among the places and objects of
reverence included within the pre-Christian stone Cas/itl, or cyclo-
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
G19
Till, where at meat the monarch sate,
Amid the revel and the wiuc,
He choked upon the food he ate,
At Sletty, southward of the Boyne.
High vaunted then the priestly throng;,
And far and wide they noised abroad
With trump and loud liturgic song
The praise of their avenging God.
But ere the voice was wholly spent
That priest and prince should still obey,
To awed attendants o'er him bent
Great Cormac gather d breath to say,
"Spread not the beds of Brugh for me 1
When restless death-bed's use is done :
I hit bury me at Rossnaree
And face me to the rising sun.
' For all the kings who lie in Brugh
Put trust in gods of wood and stone ;
And 'twas at Ross that first I knew
One, Unseen, who is God alone.
44 His glory lightens from the east;
His message soon shall reach our shore ;
And idol-god, and cursing priest
Shall plague us from Moy Slaught no more."
Dead Cormac on his bier they laid :
" He reign'd a king for forty years,
And shame it were," his captains said,
" He lay not with his royal peers.
pean rlta'lel of the island, he mentions the cloch.ii brfca, I. e., the
tprckled ttoiifx. ''They arc rinirid i-tones of vnrious .sizes, and
arranged In Mich order as that they cannot he easily reckoned;
and. if you believe the natives, they cannot he reckoned at all.
These stones are turned, and, if I understand them rightly, their
order changed by the inhabitants on certain occasions, when they
visit ibis shrine to with, good or evil to tlirlr neighbors." J/S.
CoUfctioimJbr 0>'dniinc Survey, Lib. K. I. A.
1 The principal cemetery of the pagan Irish kings was at Brugh,
whirb seems to have been situated on the northern bank ,f th
Boyne. A series of tumuli and sepulchral vttiiii* extends from
the neighborhood of Slane towards Droghcda. beginning, according
to the ancient tract preserved In the book of Kallyitmte (Petrie, K.
T. Trans., R. I. A., vol. zx., p. 102), with the imthie in Dagdn, at
" Bed of the Dsgda," a king of tho Tuath de Hanson, supposed,
with apparently good reason, to be the well-known tumulus now
called New Grange. TL1s and tbe neighboring cairn of Dowth
appear to be the-itnly Megalitblc sepulchres in the west of Europe
distinctly referable to persons whose names are historically pre-
served. The car vi tup wnlch cover the stones of their chambers
and galleries correspond very closely with those of the Gavrlnls
mb near Locmarlaker, In Brittany. Tho Breton Megalltlilo
monument* appear tn belong to a period long anterior to the Ro-
man Conquest ; and this resemblance between one of the latent
of that group and these t/tinni pyramids on the Boyne, ascribed by
Irish historic tradition to an early ante-Christian e|>i>-h, goes Car
to show that a foundation of fact underlies tbe earl; history of
Ireland.
"His grandsire, Hundred-Battle,
Serene in Brugh : aud, all around,
Dead kings in stone sepulchral keeps
Protect the sacred burial-ground.
O
" What though a dying man should rave
Of changes o'er the eastern sea ?
In Brugh of Boywe shall be his grave,
And not in noteless Rossnaree."
Then northward forth they bore the bier,
And down from Sletty side they drew,
With horseman and with charioteer,
To cross the fords of Boyne to Brugh.
There came a breath of finer air
That touch'd the Boyne with ruffling wing*.
It stirr'd him in his sedgy lair
And in his mossy moorland springs.
And as the burial train came down
With dirge and savage dolorous shows,
Across their pathway, broad and brown
The deep, full-hearted river rose ;
From bank to bank through all his fords,
'Neath bhickening squalls he swell'd and
boil'd ;
And thrice the wondering gentile lords
Essay'd to cross, and thrice recoil'd.
Then forth stepp'd gray-hair'd warriors four :
They said, "Through angrier Hoods than
these,
On link'd shields once our king we bore
From Dread-Spear and the hosts of Deece.
"And long as loyal will holds good,
And limbs respond with helpful thews,
Nor flood, nor fiend within thu Hood,
Shall bar him of his burial dues.''
With slanted necks they stoopM to lift ;
They heaved him up to neck and cliJH ;
And, pair and pair, with footsteps swift.
Lock'd arm and shoulder, U>re him in.
Twas brave to see them leave thn shore;
To mark the deep'ning surges rise,
And fall subdued in foam In-fore
The tension of their striding thighs.
'Twas brave, when now a spear-cast oat,
Breast-high the battling surges ran ;
620
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Fci weight was great, and limbs were stout,
And loyal man put trust in man.
But ere they reach'd the middle deep,
Nor steadying weight of clay they bore,
Nor strain of sinewy limbs could keep
Their feet beneath the swerving four.
And now they slide and now they swim,
And now, amid the blackening squall,
Gray locks afloat, with clutchings grim,
They plunge around the floating pall.
While, as a youth with practised spear
Through justling crowds bears off the ring,
Boyne from their shoulders caught the bier
And proudly bore away the king.
At morning, on the grassy marge
Of Rossnaree, the corpse was found,
And shepherds at their early charge
Entomb'd it in the peaceful ground.
A tranquil spot : a hopeful sound
Comes from the ever-youthful stream,
And still on daisied mead and mound
The dawn delays with tenderer beam.
Round Cormac Spring renews her buds :
In march perpetual by his side,
Down come the earth-fresh April Moods,
And up the sea-fresh salmon glide ;
And life and time rejoicing run
From age to age their wonted way j
But still he waits the risen Sun,
For still 'tis only dawning Day.
AIDEEN'S GRAVE.
Aideen, daughter of Angus of Ben-Edar (now the Hill of Howth),
died of grief for the loss of her husband, Oscar, son of Ossian,
who was slain at the battle of Gavra (Gowrn, near Tara, in Meatb),
A. u. 284. Oscar was entombed in the rath or earthen fortress that
occupied part of the field of battle, the rest of the slain being cast
in a pit outside. Aideen is said to have been buried on Howth,
near the mansion of her father, and poetical tradition represents
the Fenian heroes as present at her obsequies. The Cromlech in
Howth Park has been supposed to be her sepulchre. It stands
under the summits from which the poet Atharne is said to have
launched his invectives against the people of Leinster, until, by
the blighting effect of his satires, they were compelled to make
him atonement for the death of his son.
THEY heaved the stone ; they heap'd the cairn :
Said O&sian, "In a queenly grave
We leave her, 'mong her fields of fern,
Between the cliff and wave.
" The cliff behind stands clear and bare,
And bare, above, the heathery steep
Scales the clear heaven's expanse, to where
The Danaan Druids sleep. 1
" And all the sands that, left and right,
The grassy isthmus-ridge confine,
In yellow bars lie bare and bright
Among the sparkling brine.
"A clear pure air pervades the scene,
In loneliness and awe secure ;
Meet spot to sepulchre a Queen
Who in her life was pure.
" Here, far from camp and chase removed.
Apart in Nature's quiet room,
The music that alive she loved
Shall cheer her in the tomb.
"The humming of the noontide bees,
The lark's loud carol all day long,
And, borne on evening's salted breeze,
The clanking sea-bird's song,
" Shall round her airy chamber float,
And with the whispering winds and stream*
Attune to Nature's tenderest note
The tenor of her dreams.
" And oft, at tranquil eve's decline
When full tides lip the Old Green Plain, 1
The lowing of Moynalty's kine
Shall round her breathe again,
"In sweet remembrance of the days
When, duteous, in the lowly vale,
1 Irish historic tradition abounds with allusions to the Tuatha-
de-Danaans, i. e., the god-tribes of the Danaans, an early race of
conquerors from the north of Europe, versed in music and poetry,
as well as in the other then reputed arts of civilized life. They
are said to have reached the shores of the Baltic from Greece by
the same route supposed by the pseudo Orpheus to have been
taken by the Argonauts, and by which Homer also seems to have
conducted Ulysses. A Greek taste, however derived, is certainly
discoverable in the arms and monuments ascribed to this people.
Popular mythology regards the race of fafries and demons as of
Danaan origin.
* The plain of Moynalty, Magh-riealta, i. e., the plain of the
(bird) flocks, is said to have been open and cultivable from tlie
beginning; unlike the other plains, which had to be freed from
their primaeval forests by the early colonists. Hence its appella-
tion of the Old Plain. It extends over the northeastern part of
the county of Diiblia, and eastern part of Meath.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
621
" But when the wintry frosts begin,
And in their long-drawn, lofty flight,
The wild geese with their airy J
Distend the ear of night,
" And when the fierce De Danaan ghosts
At midnight from their peak come down,
When all around the enchanted coasts
Despairing strangers drown ;
M When, mingling with the wreckful wail,
From low Clontarf's wave-trampled floor
Comes booming up the burthen'd gale
The angry Sand-Bull's roar,*
w Or, angrier than the sea, the shout
Of Erin's hosts in wrath combined,
When Terror heads Oppression's rout,
And Freedom cheers behind :
"Then o'er our lady's placid dream,
Where safe from storms she sleeps, may
steal
Such joy as will not misbeseem
A Queen of men to feel :
"Such thrill of free defiant pride,
As rapt her in her battle car
At Gavra, when by Oscar's side
She rode the ridge of war,
specta if it lay In her power to perform, and that her performance*
that way were but fry day reqnitalls to tbe effectual obligation of
lovo and beholdingnesse wherein cbe was inviolably bound untc
him, and thereupon tbe king, being both desirous to continue hi*
further talking with her (such is the wonted effect produced by
love and liking, when they take any flrme footing), and wlthall
willing to flnde out whom Abe sue kindly favoured, asked her what
his name was that she soe respected, who answeared that be was
Baicklodd Brugh, and the king further questioning her whether
be was tbe same roan of that name that In Leinstor was famous
for his wealth and oppen hospitality, and she telling him that be
was tbe very same man, then, replyed the king, you are Eithne,
bis adopted daughter. I Am, sir, said shoe. In a good hour,
sayed the king, for you shall bo my maryed wife. Nay, unveil
Eithne, my disposal! lyetb not In mine owne band, but in my
ffoaterfather's power and cornaund, anto whom they both forth-
with repayring, tbe king expressed his said Intention to liairkuxl
and obtaining bis good allowance, marryed Eithne, and gratified
her ffosterfatlier with a territory of .'and lying near Tharitich
(Tarn), called Tunith OViraim. which be held during his life, and
that marryage with all requisite soletnnityes being celebrated,
Eithne afterward bore unto Cormocke a ton called Cain-dry
Lloffachair, who grow to be worthily famous and Illustrious In bis
tyme." MS. Lib. R. J. A.
The townland of Dunboyke, near Bletslngton, in the county of
Wicklow, still retnint the name of the hospitable Franklin.
' Tbe sandbaiika on either side of ije estuary of the Llffey have
obtained the nan.es of tbe North and South Bulls, from the hol-
low bellowing sound there made by the breakers, in easterly and
southerly winds. Tbe North Bull gives name to the ac^olnlnf
district of Clonuu-r Ctoritn Tarbli, I .. Bull's Meadow cele-
brated for tbe overthrow of the Dane*, A. D. 1014, by b Dfr*.!r
Irish under King BrUn Boru.
Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze,
She fill'd the fragrant pail,
" And, duteous, from the running brook
Drew water for the bath ; nor decm'd
A king did on her labor look,
And she a fairy seem'd. 1
1 A liberty has here been taken with tbe traditionary rights of
King Cormac and his wife Eithne, with whose memories the pic-
turesque idyll preserved by Keating ought properly to be asso-
ciated. Th garrulous simplicity of the original Is well reflected
In the quaint version of O'Kearny.
-Kithiu- Ollaffdha, tbe daughter of Duynluing Vic Enna Niad
was tbe mother of Cairebry Leoffiochair, she being the adopted
daughter of Buickiodd, a remarkable and much spoken off ffearmor
(for bis great wealth, ability, and bountiful! disposition of enter-
taining all sortee of people comeing to his house), who lyved in
those dayes in Leinster, and was soe addicted to oppen hospitality
that he constantly kept a cauldron in his house still on the fire
boyling of ineate, both night and day, indifferently for all them
that came to his bouse, which doubtlesse by an invitation of that
kind procured to bee many.
"Thin Buickiodd, together with his other wealth and substance,
bail seven dayryes of one hundred and forty cowes a peece, wi.h
an answerable proportion of horssrs. mares, gearrans, and other
cattle thereunto; and at length this hospitable and free man was
soe played upon in abuseing his plainene.sse and liberality by the
chleftaines and nobles of Leinster % that they frequenting with their
adherents his bouse, some would 'take away with them a drove of
bis kyne, others a great number of his stood mares and gearrans,
and others a great many of his horses, that, in requital of his free
heart, they soe fleeced bare the good mini, that they left him only
jeuvi-ii cowes and a bull of all the goods that he ever possessed ;
and finding himselfe soe ympoverisbed, lie, by a night stealth, re-
oved from Dun Boickyodd, where in his prosperity he resided,
to a certain wood lying neere Eeananas in Meatb, accompanyed
only with his wife and his said adopted daughter Kithnc, and
carryed thither his feew heades of cattle. Connock tbe king lyv-
Ing coinonly at Keauana* in those days, this honest Baickiod for
to shelter himself under his wynges and protection, erected a poor
cabyn or booty cott for himself his wife and daughter in that wood,
where lyvirige a good while in a contented course of life, Eithne
did as humbly and diligently serve him and bis wife as if she bad
been tbir slave or vassal!, their service and attendance could not
be with better care performed, and contynuing in that state, on a
day thai Cormock (the king) did ryde abroad alone by himselfe to
take /e e'.re, and the proapect of the adjacent landes and valleyes
tfl bis Mid mannor (as be was accustomed for his pleasure often to
do), Dy chance he saw that beautiful! and lovely damsel! Eithne
milking of her said ffosterfather's few cowes, which she performed
after this manner. She had two vessells, and with one of them
ahe went over the seven cowes, and filling the same with the first
parte of their inilck (as tbe cboysest parte thereof), she again went
over them with th second vessel), and milked therein their second
inilck, till by tLat allternate course she drew from them all the
niilck that tb<-y could yield, the K. all the whyle being ravished
witb his good liking of her care and excellent beauty and per-
fections, beholding of her witb admiration and astonishment, and
she not neglecting her service for his presence, bringing the milk
into the cabyn where Baicklodd and bis wife layd, returns forth
from thence again with two other cleane vessells and a boule In
her hand, and repayring to the water next adloining to the bouse,
be filled one of those vessel Is with ye water running next to the
kancke of ye ryver, and the other with the water running in the
Widdest of that streame or watercourse, and brought them both
oo filled Into the cabyn, and coming forth the third tyme with a
book In her band, she began therewith to cutt ruisbes, parting
(them) still as they fell in her way into several! bundells, the long
and short rushes asunder, and Cormock all Ibe while beholding
Ler (is one taken with the comaundlng power and captivity of
love), at length aked of her for whom shee made that selection
both of mllck, water, and rushes; whercunto she answered that
It wu done for one that sbee wa> bound to tender with better re-
din
622
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
"Exulting, down the shouting troops,
And through the thick confronting kings,
With hands on all their javelin loops
And shafts on all their strings ;
"E'er closed the inseparable crowds,
No more to part for me, and show,
As bursts the sun through scattering clouds,
My Oscar issuing so.
"No more, dispelling battle's gloom
Shall son for me from fight return ;
The great green rath's ten-acred tomb
Lies heavy on his urn. 1
" A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clay
Holds Oscar ; mighty heart and limb
7 O /
One handful now of ashes gray :
And she has died for him.
"And here, hard by her natal bower
On lone Ben Edar's side, we strive
With lifted rock and sign of power
To keep her name alive.
" That while from circling year to year,
Her Ogham-letter'd stone is seen,
The Gael sha?ll say, ' Our Fenians here
Entomb'd their loved Aideen.'
" The Ogham from her pillar stone
In tract of time will wear away ;
Her name at last be only known
In Ossian's echo'd lay.
"The long- forgotten lay I sing
May only ages hence revive
1 At this day there Is a difficulty in distinguishing the remains
of the Rath of Gavra. It appears to have stood on the slope be-
tween the hill of Tara and the river Boyne on the west Several
heroes of the name of Oscar perished in the battle of Gavra. The
Ossianic poem which celebrates the battle, whatever be its age,
assigns the rath or earthen fortress as the grave of Oscar, the son
of the bard.
We buried Oscar of the red arms
On the north side of the great Gavra :
Tocether with Oscur son ot Garraidh of the achievements.
And Oscar son of the king of Lochlann.
And him who was not nkirardly of gold,
The son of Lughaide UK; tall warrior:
We dug the cave of his sepulchre
Very wide, as became a king.
The <rraves of the Oscars, narrow dwellings of clay,
The graves of the sons of Garraidh and Oisin ;
Ami the whole extent of the groat rath
Was the grave of the mighty O>car of Baoisgne.
Transactions Os*. Sun., vol. i., p. 135.
(As eagle with a wounded wing
To soar again might strive),
" Imperfect, in an alien speech,
When, wandering here, some child of chance
Through pangs of keen delight shall icach
The gift of utterance,
" To speak the air, the sky to speak,
The freshness of the hill to tell,
Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peak
And Aideen's briery dell,
" And gazing on the Cromlech vast,
And on the mountain and the sea,
Shall catch communion with the past
And mix himself with me.
" Child of the Future's doubtful night,
Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your tires,.
Sing while you may with frank delight
The song your hour inspires.
" Sing while you mav, nor grieve to know
The song you sing shall also die ;
Atharna's lay has perish'd so,
Though once it thrill'd this sky
" Above us, from his rocky chair,
There, where Ben Edar's landward crest
O'er eastern Bregia bends, to where
Dun Almon crowns the west:
"And all that felt the fretted air
Throughout the song-distemper'd clime,
Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayer
Appeased the vengeful rhyme. 3
s The story of Atharnn is found in the traditionary collection*^
under the title Ath-cliath, i. e., Hurdle-ford. It was by him, and
for the use of his flocks, that the ford or weir of wicker-work wa
constructed across the Liffey. which anciently gave nume to Dub-
lin. The Leinster people, who Inhabited the right bank of the
Liffey, resented the invasion of their pastures, and great strifes
ensued between their king, Mesgedra, and Conor Mac Nessa, king
of Ulster, who espoused the cause of Atharna. Mesgedra was
ultimately slain by Coriall Carnacb, who was sent into Leinster in
aid of the bardic trespasser ; but Atharna's own poetical denun-
ciations were eveo more terrible to the Lcinstermen than the
swords of the lied Branch champions. "He continued." says th
tract in the Book of Ballymote, "for a full year to satirize the
Leinstermen mid bring fatalities upon them ; so that neither corn,
grass, nor foliasre grew for them that year." The miraculous pre-
tensions of the class were continued down to the Fifteenth Cen-
tury, when Sir John Stanley, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, was
popularly believed to have been despatched within a space of no
more than five weeks by an Aeir composed against him \>y Niall
"Rimer" O'Higgin, head of a bardic family in Westmeath, wlmso
cattle had been driven by the En-gHsh of Dublin. See Annals of
the Four Mutter;?, ad an. 1414, and If ardiman's Stat. of X ilk., 5ft. 11
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
G23
" Ah me, or e'er the hour arrive
Shall bid my long-forgotten tones,
Unknown One, on your lips revive,
Here by these moss-grown stones,
" What change shall o'er the scene havecross'd ;
What conquering lords anew have come ;
What lore-arm'd, mightier Druid host
From Gaul or distant Rome !
M What arts of death, what ways of life,
What creeds unknown to bard or seer,
Shall round your careless steps be rife,
Who pause and ponder here ;
"And, haply, where yon curlew calls
Athwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers
See rise some mighty chieftain's halls
Witli unimagined towers :
'And baying hounds, ai>d coursers bright,
And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen,
With courtly train of dame and knight,
Where now the fern is green.
44 Or, by yon prostrate altar-stone
May kneel, perchance, and, free from blame,
Hear holy men with rites unknown
New names of God proclaim.
" Let change as may the Name of Awe,
Let rite surcease and altar fall,
The same One God remains, a law
Forever and for all.
4 Let change as may the face of earth,
Let alter all the social frame,
For mortal men the ways of birth
And death are still the same.
4 And still, as life and time wear on,
The children of the waning days
(Though strength be from their shoulders gone
To lift the loads we raise),
"Shall weep to do the burial
Of lost ones loved; and fondly found,
"Pi- |>lln of Bn-cia comprised the flat district of Meatb. Dub-
lin. Kililare. Mini Wlrklmv. In It* modern form, Brny, the name
la i IT- i-onrlm-d to the well-known watering-place and its fltie pro-
montory of Bray Head f)un A/man 'n, it IH uld, the residence
of Finn, non of Comlial, tin- Fin Mae (%>ol of Irish. and Klngal of
hnitti-li tradition. It* name is still pr.-s.Tved in the hill nf A 'I. n,
and bardic tradition affects to itivr tin- name of lb<- -t.iiildrr l.y
mbom It was constructed. O'Curry, A pp. 578.
In shadow of the gathering nights,
The monumental mound.
" Farewell ! the strength of men is worn :
The night approaches dark and chill :
Sleep, till perchance an endless morn
Descend the glittering hill."
Of Oscar and Aideen bereft,
So Ossian sang. The Fenians sped
Three mighty shouts to heaven; and left.
Ben Edar to the dead.
THE WELSHMEN OF TIKAWLEY.
Several Welsh families, associates in the invasion ofStrongbow,
settled In the west of Ireland. Of these, the principal wlios
names have been preserved by the Iri>b antiquarians, were the
Walshes, Joyces, lleils (a quifnis Mac Halo), Lawless*-*. TVm-
lyns, Lynotts, and Barretts, which last draw their podigrri- iroin
Walynes, son of Guyiidally, the Ard JJaar, or High Steward ol
the Lordship of I'amelot, and had their chief seats in the territory
of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and county of M:ivi
Clochan-n<i-n'till, i. e., "the Blind Men's Stepping-stones." nrr
Bliil pointed out on the Duvowen river, about four miles in>rth tX
Crossmolina. in the townland of Garranard ; and Tul'l-f-mi-
Scorney, or ''Scrag's Well," in the opposite townland of Carns,
in the same barony. For a curious terrirr or applotment of the
Mac William's revenue, as acquired under the cirouuiMHnces
stated In the legend preserved by Mao Firbis, see Dr. O'Donovan's
highly-learned and interesting ' Genealogies, .fee., of Hy Fiitch-
rach," in the publications of the 7rwA Arch(H>l<>vicl &>c.irtyt
great monument of antiquarian and topographical erudition.
SCORNA BOY, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame,
To lift the Lynotts' taxes when he can if,
Rudely drew a young maid to him ;
Then the Lynotts rose and slew him,
And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him
Small your blame,
Sons of Lynott!
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
Then the Barretts to the Lynotts pro]>...si-<l a
choirr,
Saying, '' Hear, yc murderous brood, mc-n and
For this dci'd to-day yc lo<,-
Sioflit or manhood : say and choose
Which ye ki'Cp and which ivtusc ;
And ivjohv
That our mercy
you living for a warning to Tirawlex."
624
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Then the little boys of the LynoUs, weeping,
said,
'* Only leave us our eyesight in our head."
But the bearded Lynotts then
Made answer back again
* Take our eyes, but leave us men,
Alive or dead,
Sons of Wattin !"
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
So the Barretts, with sewing-needles sharp and
smooth,
Let the light out of the eyes of every youth,
And of every bearded man
Of the broken Lynott clan ;
Then their darken'd faces wan
Turning south
To the river
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clocban-na-
n'all
They drove them, laughing loud at every fall,
As their wandering footsteps dark
Fail'd to reach the slippery mark,
And the swift stream swallow'd, stark,
One and all,
As they stumbled
From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
Of all the blinded Lynotts one alone
Walk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone :
So back again they brought you,
And a second time they wrought you
With their needles ; but never got you
Once to groan,
Emon Lynott,
For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever,
Emon Lynott again cross'd the river,
Though Duvowen was rising fast,
And the shaking stones o'ercast
By cold floods boiling past ;
Yet you never,
Emon Lynott,
Falter'd once before your foemen of Tirawley !
But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood,
And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood
" Oh, ye foolish sons of Wattin,
Small atsends are these you've gotten,
For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten,
I am good
For vengeance !"
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man
Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan,
But in the manly mind,
These darken'd orbs behind,
That your needles could never find,
Though they ran
Through rny heart-strings !"
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley
"But, little your women's needles do I reck :
For the night from heaven never fell so black,
But Tirawley, and abroad
From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod, 1
I could walk it, every sod,
Path and track,
Ford and togher,
Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley.
" The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your
camp,
What Barrett among you was it held the lamp
Show'd the way to those two feet,
When, through wintry wind and sleet,
I guided your blind retreat,
In the swamp
Of Beal-an-asa ?
ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley !*'
So, leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard
The Lynott, like a red dog hunted hard,
With his wife and children seven,
'Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven,
In the hollows of Glen Nephin,
Light-debarr'd,
Made his dwelling,
Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run,
On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son,
A child of light, with eyes
As clear as are the skies
In summer, when sunrise
1 That is, from the river Moy to Blacksod Haven, in Irish, Cuan-
an-foid-duibh. The names of the baronies in this part of Mayo
and Sligo are taken from the son and grandson of Dathi, the pro-
penitor of the families of O'Dowda. Tir Kera, in Bligo, Is so
called by a softened pronunciation from FiSchra. son of .Dathi
and Tir-Awley, in like manner, from Amhalgaid, son of Filehra.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
625
Has begun ;
So the Lynott
Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength
and size,
Made him perfect in each manly exercise,
The salmon in the flood,
The dun deer in the wood,
The eagle in the cloud
To surprise,
On Ben Nephin,
Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.
With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the
bow,
With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow,
He taught him from year to year,
And train'd him, without a peer,
For a perfect cavalier,
Hoping so
Far his forethought
For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
And, when mounted on his proud-bounding
steed,
Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed ;
Like the ear upon the wheat,
When winds in autumn beat
On the bending stems, his seat ;
And the speed
Of his courser
Was the wind from Barna-na-gee 1 o'er Tirawley !
Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were
spent
(He perfected in all accomplishment),
The Lynott said : " My child,
We are over-long exiled
From mankind in this wild
Time we went
Through the mountain
To the countries lying over-against Tirawley."
So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown,
And green stream-gathering vales, they jour-
ney'd down ;
Till, shining like a star,
Through the dusky gleams afar,
The bailey of Castlebar
1 Barnt-ns-gee. I. e., the cap of tho winds, la a pass on the south-
*rn aid* of Nepbln mountain, nn the road to Castlebar.
And the town
Of Mac William
Rose bright jIx\> the wanderers of Tirawley.
" Look southward, my boy, and tell me, as we go,
What seest thou by the loch-head below."
" Oh, a stone-house, strong and great,
And a horse-host at the gate,
And their captain in armor of plate
Grand the show 1
Great the glancing !
High the heroes of this land below Tirawley !
" And a beautiful Woman-chief by his side,
Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide ;
And in her hand a pearl
Of a young, little, fair-hair'd girl."
Said the Lynott, " It is the Earl !
Let us ride
To his presence !"
And before him came the exiles of Tirawley
" God save thee, Mac William.'-' the Lynott thui
began ;
" God save all here besides of this clan ;
For gossips dear to me
Are all in company
For in these four bones ye see
A kindly man
Of the Britons
Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.
" And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows,
I come to claim a scion of thy house
To foster ; for thy race
Since William Conquer's* days,
Have ever been wont to place,
With some spouse
Of a Briton,
A Mac William Oge, to foster in Tirawley.
" And to show thee in what sort our youth are
taught,
I have hither to thy home of valor brought
This one son of my age,
For a sample and a pledge
For the equal tutelage,
In right thought,
Word, and action,
Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley."
" William Conquer," I. e., William Fits AJlm de
conqueror nf Connanght.
626
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON
When Mac William beheld the brave boy ride
and run,
Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder
spun
With a sigh, and with a smile,
He said : " I would give the spoil
Of a county, that Tibbot 1 Moyle,
My own son,
Were accomplished
Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tiraw-
ley."
When the Lady Mac William she heard him
speak,
And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek,
She said : u I would give a purse
Of red gold to the nurse
That would rear my Tibbot no worse ;
But I seek
Hitherto vainly
Heaven grant that I now have found her in Ti-
lawley !"
So they said to the Lynott : " Here, take onr bird !
And as pledge for the keeping of thy word,
Let this scion here remain
Till thou comest back again :
Meanwhile the fitting train
Of a lord
Shall attend thee
With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tiraw-
ley."
So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard,
Like a lord of the country with his guard,
Came the Lynott, before them all.
Once again over Clochan-na-n'all,
Steady-striding, erect, and tall,
And his ward
On his shoulders;
To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
Then a diligent foster-father you would deem
The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream,
To cast the spear, to ride,
To stem the rushing tide,
With what feats of body beside
Might beseem
A Mac William,
Foster'd free among the Welshmen of Tirawlev.
1 Tibbot, tht is, Theobald.
But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart
and mind ;
For to what desire soever he inclined,
Of anger, lust, or pride,
He had it gratified,
Till he ranged the circle wide
Of a blind
Self-indulgence,
Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley,
Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound,
Lynott loosed him God's leashes all unbound
In the pride of power and station,
And the strength of youthful passion,
On the daughters of thy nation,
Ail around,
Wattin Barrett !
Oh, the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley !
Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame,
Fill'd the houses of the Barretts where'er he
came;
Till the young men of the Bac
Drew by night upon Ins track,
And slww him at Cornassack *
Small your blame.
Sons of Wattin !
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
Said the Lynott : " The day of my vengeance is
drawing near,
The day for which, through many a long dark
year,
I have toil'd through grief and sin
Call ye now the Brehons in,
And let the plea begin
Over the bier
Of Mac William,
For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley. 8
1 "This is still vividly remembered in the country, and the spot
i* pointed out where Teaboid Maol Burke was killed by the Bar-
retts. The recollection of it has been kept alive in certain verses,
which were composed on the occasion, of which the following
quatrain is often repeated in the barony of Tirawley :
Tangadar Baireadiiigh, &c.
" The Barretts of the country came;
They perpetrated a deed which was not just;
They s^hc-d blood which was uoliler than wine,
At the narrow brook of Corna*ack."
O'Donovan, Tr. and Oust. ffy. Fiach., 83S n
The territory of the Bac lies over ngainst Nephin mountain
along the eastern shore of Loch Con, between it and the rivet
Moy.
* The eric was the fine for maimings and homicides. When
the first sheriff was sent into Tyrone, O'Neill demanded to kr>..\
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
627
Then the Brehons to Mac William Burke decreed
An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed ;
And the Lynott's share of the tine,
As foster-father, was nine
Ploughlands and nine score kine ;
But no need
Had the Lynott,
Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.
But rising, while all sat silent on the spot,
He said : "The law says doth it not ?
If the foster-sire elect
His portion to reject,
He may then the right exact
To applot
The short eric."
u 'Tis the law," replied the Brehons of Tirawley.
Said the Lynott : " I once before had a choice
Proposed me, wherein law had little voice ;
But now I choose, and say,
As lawfully I may,
f applot the mulct to-day ;
So rejoice
In your ploughlands
And your cattle which I renounce throughout
Tirawley.
*' And thus I applot the mulct : I divide
The land throughout Clan Barrett on every side
Equally, that no place
May be without the face
Of a foe of Wattin's race
That the pride
Of the Barretts
May be humbled hence forever throughout Ti-
rawley.
44 1 adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hall
To Mac William : in every stable I give a stall
To Mac William : and, beside,
Whenever a Burke shall ride
Through Tirawley, I provide
At his call
groomng,
Without charge from any hostler of Tirawley.
lilt *r%c beforehand, in the event, reasonably anticipated, of \><t-
tonal injury befalling him. Singular, that while modern Under-
nev <>f human life would abolish the punishment of death In cases
of hnmlrlde. It Ignores the barbarian wisdom which pave com-
pilation to the family of the victim.
"Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throe*
Ye lawlessly caused me and caused tho<*e
Unhappy shamefaced ones,
Who, their mothers expected once,
Would have been the sires of sons
O'er whose woes
Often weeping,
I have groan'd in my exile from Tirawley.
" I demand not of you your manhood ; bat I
take
For the Burkes will take it your Freedom I for
the sake
Of which all manhood's given,
And all good under heaven,
And, without which, better even
Ye should make
Yourselves barren,
Than see your children slaves throughout Tiraw
ley !
" Neither take I your eyesight from you ; as yon
took
Mine and ours : I would have you daily look
On one another's eyes,
When the strangers tyrannize
By your hearths, and blushes arise,
That ye brook,
Without vengeance,
The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Ti
rawley !
" The vengeance I design 'd, now is done,
And the days of me and mine nearly run
For, for this, I have broken faith,
Teaching him who lies beneath
This pall, to merit death ;
And my son
To his father
Stan.ls pledged for other teaching in Tirawley/
Said Mac William, " Father and son, hang thec.
high !"
And the Lynott they hang'd speedily ;
But across the salt sea water,
To Scotland, with the daughter
Of Mac William well you got her !
Did you fly,
Edmund Lindsay,
The gentlest of all the Welshmen of TirawlejJ
28
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell 1
How, through lewdness and revenge, it befell
That the sons of William Conquer
Came over the sons of Wattin,
Throughout all the bounds and borders
o
Of the land of Auley Mac Fiachra; 9
Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell,
And his valiant, Bible-guided,
Exee heretics of Clan London
Coining in, in their succession,
Rooted out both Burke and Barrett,
And in their empty places
New stems of freedom planted,
With many a goodly sapling
Of manliness and virtue ;
Which while their children cherish,
Kindly Irish of the Irish,
Neither Saxons nor Italians,
May the mighty God of Freedom
Speed them well,
Never taking
Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley.
OWEN BAWN.
"William de Burgho, third Earl of Ulster, pursued the Angli-
can policy of his day with so much severity, that the native Irish
generally withdrew from the counties of Down and Antrim, and
established themselves in Tyrone, with Hugh Boy O'Neill. Wil-
liam's rigid prohibition of intermarriages with the natives led to
his assassination by his own relatives, the Mandevillcs, at the Ford
of Belfast, A. D. 1333. The Irish then returned from beyond the
river Bann, and expelled the English from all Ulster, except Car-
rickfergus and the barony of Ards in Down : and so continued
until their subjugation by Sir Henry Sidney and Sir Arthur Chi-
chester, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
Simultaneously with the return of tire Clan Hugh-Boy in the
north, the great Anglo-Norman families of Connaught adopted
Irish names and manners, the De Burghos assuming the name of
Mac William, and all accommodating themselves to the Irish sys-
tem of life and government, in which, with few exceptions, they
continued until their subjugation by Sir Richard Bingham, in the
reign of King Henry the Eighth.
1 The writer has hardly caught the full pathos of that remark-
able passage translated below, with which Duald Mac Firbis, the
chronicler of Lecan, winds up his account of the retribution thus
singularly brought on the descendants of Wattin Barrett. u It
was in eric for hiai (Teaboid Maol Burke) that the Barretts gave
up to the Burkes eighteen quitters of land : and the share which
Lynott, the adopted father of Teaboid, asked of this eric, was the
distribution of the mulct; and the distribution he made of it was,
that it should be divided throughout all Tir-Amhalgaidh, in order
that the Burkes might be stationed in every part of it as plagues
to the Barretts, and to draw the country from them. And thus
the Burkes came over the Barretts in Tir-Amhalgaidh, and took
nearly the whole of their lands from them ; but at length the
txon heretics of Oliver Cromwell took it from them all in the
year of our Lord 1652; so that now there is neither Barrett nor
Burke, not to mention the Clan Fiachrach, in possession of any
lands there." O'Donovan, Tr. and Oust. Hy. fiach., p. 339.
1 Pronounced, Mac Eeara.
MY Owen Bawn's hair is of thread of gold spun ;
Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ;
All curl'd in a coolun the bright tresses are
They make his head radiant with beams like a
star !
My Owen Bawn's mantle is long and is wide,
To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side ;
And I'd rather face snow-drift and winter-wind
there,
Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere.
My Owen Bawn Quin is a hunter of deer,
He tracts the dun quarry with arrow and spear
Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters
flow,
Ah, there goes my love with the dun-dappled roe.
My Owen Bawn Quin is a bold fisherman,
He spears the strong salmon in midst of the
Bann ;
And rock'd in the tempest on stormy Lough
Neagh,
Draws up the red trout through the bursting of
spray.
My Owen Bawn Quin is a bard of the best,
He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest;
And the cruit 'neath his fingers rings up with a
sound,
As though angels harp'd o'er us, and fays under-
ground.
They tell me the stranger has given command
That crommeal and coolun shall cease in the
land,
That all our youths' tresses of yellow be shorn,
And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion, worn ;
That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no
more,
That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er,
That the net and the arrow aside must be laid,
For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade ;
That the echoes of music must sleep in their
caves,
That the slave must forget his own tongue for a
slave's,
That the sounds of our lips must be strange in
our ears,
And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our
tears.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
sweetheart and comfort! with thee by iny
side,
1 could love and live happy, whatever betide ;
But thou, in such bondage, wouldst die ere a
day
Away to Tir-oCn, then, Owen, away !
There are wild woods and mountains, and streams
deep and clear,
There are loughs in Tir-oe'n as lovely as here;
There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh's
hall,
And a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all !
We will dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake,
Where the sycamore shadows glow deep in the
lake ;
And the snowy swan, stirring the green shadows
there,
Afloat on the water, seems floating in air.
Away to Tir-oe'n, then, Owen, away !
We will leave them the dust from our feet for a
prey,
And our dwelling in ashes and flames for a spoil
Twill be long ere they quench them with streams
of the Foyle !
GRACE O'MALY.
The return to English rule and habits of the Anglo-Norman
families* of Connaught who had Hibernicised after the murder of
William de Burgho, was not effected without a long alienation of
the popular affections, which bad been bestowed upon them as
freely as on native rulers: " for," to tige the words of a contempo-
rary Irish chronicler, "the old chit-ruins of Erin prospered
under these princely English lords who were our chief rulers, and
who had given up their forelgnness for a pure mind, and their
surliness for good manners, and their stubbornness fur sweet mild-
ness, and who bad given up their pervcrseness for hospitality." 1
During this troubled period of transition, Omce O'Maly, lady of
Sir Kickard Burke, styled Mac William Eigliter, distinguished
herself by a life of wayward adventure, which hit* made her name,
in its Gaelic form, Grana UaiU (I. t., Orana I'n JJhailt) a per-
sonification, among the Irish peasuntry, of that social state which
they still consider preferable to the results of a more advanced
civilization. The real acts and character of the heroine are hardly
Men through the veil of imagination under which the personifled
(de* exists in the popular mind, and Is here presented.
SHE left the close-air'd land of trees
And proud Mac William's palace,
For clear, bare Clare's health-salted breeze,
Her oarsmen and her galleys :
1 O'Donovan, Tr. and Cutt. of Uy. Many, p. 136.
And where, beside the bending stratxi,
The rock and billow wrestle,
Between the deep sea and the land,
She built her Island Castle.
The Spanish captains, sailing by
For Newport, with amazement
Beheld the cannon'd longship lie
Moor'cl to the lady's casement ;
And, covering coin and cup of gold
In haste their hatches under,
They whisper'd, "Tis a pirate's hold ;
She sails the seas for plunder !"
But no : 'twas not for sordid spoil
Of bark or seaboard borough
She plough'd, with uri fatiguing toil,
The fluent-rolling furrow ;
Delighting, on the broad-back'd deep,
To feel the quivering galley
Strain up the opposing hill, and sweep
Down the withdrawing valley :
Or, sped before a driving blast,
By following seas uplifted,
Catch, from the huge heaps heaving past,
And from the spray they drifted,
And from the winds that toss'd the crest
Of each wide-shouldering giant,
The smack of freedom and the zest
Of rapturous life defiant.
For, oh ! the mainland time was pent
In close constraint and striving :
So many aims together bent
On winning and on thriving;
There was no room for generous ease,
No sympathy for candor ;
And so she left Burke's buzzing trees,
And all his stony splendor.
For Erin yet bad fields to spare,
Where Clew her cincture gathers
Isle-gemm'd ; and kindly clans were
The fosterers of her fathers :
Room there for careless feet to roam
Secure from minions' peeping,
For fearless mirth to find a home
And sympathetic weeping;
And generous ire and frank disdain
To speak the mind, nor ponder
630
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
How this in England, that in Spain,
Might suit to tell ; as yonder,
Where daily on the slippery dais,
By thwarting interests chequer'd,
State gamesters play the social chess
Of politic Clanrickard.
Nor wanting quite the lonely isle
In civic life's adornings :
The Brehon's Court might well beguile
A learned lady's mornings.
Quaint though the clamorous claim, and rude
The pleading that convey'd it,
Right conscience made the judgment good,
And loyal love obey'd it.
And music sure was sweeter far
For ears of native nurture,
Than virginals at Castlebar
To tinkling touch of courtier,
When harpers good in hall struck up
The plauxty's gay commotion,
Or pipers scream'd from pennon'd poop
Their piobroch over ocean.
And sweet to see, their ruddy bloom
Whom ocean's friendly distance
Preserved still unenslaved ; for whom
No tasking of existence
Made this one rich, and that one poor,
In gold's illusive treasure,
But all, of easy life secure,
Were rich in wealth of leisure.
Rich in the Muse's pensive hour,
In genial hour for neighbor,
Rich in young mankind's happy power
To live with little labor ;
The wise, free way of life, indeed,
That still, with charm adaptive,
Reclaims and tames the alien greed,
And takes the conqueror captive.
Nor only life's unclouded looks
To compensate its rudenwss ;
Amends there were in holy books,
In offices of goodness.
In cares above the transient scene
Of little gains and honors,
That well repaid the Island Queen
Her loss of urban manners.
Sweet, when the crimson sunsets glcw'd,
As earth and sky grew grander,
Adown the grass'd, unechoing road
Atlanticward to wander,
Some kinsman's humbler hearth to seek,
Some sick-bed side, it may be,
Or, onward reach, with footsteps meek,
The low, gray, lonely abbey :
And, where the storied stone beneath
The guise of plant and creature,
Had fused the harder lines of faith
In easy forms of nature ;
Such forms as tell the master's pains
'Mong Roslin's carven glories,
Or hint the faith of Pictish Thanes
On standing stones of Forres ;
The Branch ; the weird cherubic Beasts ;
The Hart by hounds o'ertaken ;
Or, intimating mystic feasts,
The sclf-resorbent Dragon ;
Mute symbols, though with power endow'd
For finer dogmas' teaching,
Than clerk might tell to carnal crowd
In homily, or preaching ;
Sit ; and while heaven's refulgent show
Grew airier and more tender,
And ocean's gleaming 1 floor below
Reflected loftier splendor,
Suffused with light of lingering faith
And ritual light's reflection,
Discourse of birth, and life, and death,
And of the resurrection.
But chiefly sweet from morn to eve,
From eve to clear-eyed morning,
The presence of the felt reprieve
From strangers' note and scorning ,
No prying, proud, intrusive foes
To pity and offend her :
Such was the life the lady chose ;
Such choosing, we commend her.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
G31
gallabs
0ems.
THE FAIRY THORN.
AN ULSTER BALLAD.
** GXT up, our Anna dear, from the weary spin-
ning-wheel ;
For your Other's on the hill, and your mother
is asleep :
Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a high-
land reel
Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens
cried,
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the
green ;
And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel
aside,
The fairest of the four, I ween.
They're glancing through the glimmer of the
quiet eve,
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle
bare ;
The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they
leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air :
And linking hand and hand, and singing as they
g.
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their
fearless way,
Till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely
beauty grow
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.
The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and
slim,
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters
at her knee ;
The rowan-berries cluster o'er her low head gray
and dim,
ID ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have ranged them in a
row,
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan
stem,
And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds
they go :
Oh, never caroll'd bird like them !
But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze
That drinks away their voices in echoless re-
pose,
And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted
braes,
And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the
sky
When the falcon's shadow saileth across the
open shaw,
Are hush'd the maidens' voices, as cowering down
they lie
In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above, and the grassy ground
beneath,
And from the mountain-ashes and the o.u
White-thorn between,
A Power of faint enchantment doth through tJr
beings breathe,
And they siuk down together on the greeu.
They sink together silent, and stealing side to
side,
They fling their lovely arms o'er their droop-
ing necks so fain,
Then vainly strive again their naked arms to
hide,
For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus claap'd and prostrate all, with their headf
together bow'd,
Soft o'er their bosom's beating the only hu
man sound
632
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy
crowd,
Like a river in the air, gliding round.
No scream can any raise, nor prayer can any
s*y,
But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless
three
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently
away,
By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting
locks of gold,
And the curls elastic falling, as her head with-
draws ;
They feel her sliding arms from their tranced
arms unfold,
But they may not look to see the cause :
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment
lies
Through all that night of anguish and perilous
amaze ;
A.nd neither fear nor wonder can ope their quiv-
ering, eyes,
Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of night the earth has roll'd her dewy
side,
With every haunted mountain and streamy
vale below ;
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morn-
ing tide,
The maidens' trance dissolveth so.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends
in vain
They pined away and died within the year and
day,
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.
WILLY GILLILAND.
AN ULSTER BALLAD.
UP in the mountain solitudes, and in a rebel
ring,
He has worshipp'd God upon the hill, in spite of
church and king ;
And seal'd his treason with his blood on Both-
well bridge he hath ;
So he must fly his father's land, or he must die
the death ;
For comely Claverhouse has come along, with
grim Dalzell,
And his smoking roof-tree testifies they've done
their errand well.
In vain to fly his enemies he fled his native land ;
Hot persecution waited him upon the Carrick
strand ;
His name was on the Carrick cross, a price was
on his head,
A fortune to the man that brings him in alive or
dead !
And so on moor and mountain, from the Lagan
to the Bann,
From house to house and liill to hill, he lurk'd
an outlaw'd man.
At last, when in false company he might no
longer bide,
He stay'd his houseless wanderings upon the
Collon side,
There, in a cave all underground, he lair'd his
heathy den :
Ah, many a gentleman was fain to earth like hill-
fox then !
With hound and fishing-rod he lived on hill and
stream by day ;
At night, betwixt his fleet greyhound and hia
bonny mare he lay.
It was a summer evening, and, mellowing and
still,
Glenwhirry to the setting sun lay bare from hill
to hill ;
For all that valley pastoral held neither houso
nor tree,
But spread abroad and open all, a full fair sight
to see,
From Slemish foot to Collon top lay one unbroken
green,
Save where, in many a silver coil, the river
glanced between.
And on the river's grassy bank, even from the
morning gray,
He at the angler's pleasant sport had spent the
summer day :
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
033
Ah ! manv a time and oft I've spent the summer
day from dawn,
And wonder'd, whes the sunset came, where
time and care had gone,
Along the reaches curling fresh, the wimpling
pools and streams,
Where he that day his cares forgot in those de-
lightful dreams.
His blithe work done, upon a bank the outlaw
rested now,
And laid the basket from his back, the bonnet
from his brow ;
And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee
upon the sod,
He fill'd the lonely valley with the gladsome
word of God ;
And for a persecuted kirk, and for her martyrs
dear,
And against a godless church and king he spoke
up loud and clear.
And now, upon his homeward way, he cross'd
the Collon high,
And over bush and bank and brae he sent abroad
his eye ;
But all was darkening peacefully in gray and
purple haze,
The thrush was silent in the banks, the lark upon
the braes
When suddenly shot up a blaze, from the cave's
mouth it came ;
And troopers' steeds and troopers' caps are
glancing in the same!
He couch'd among the heather, and he saw them,
as he lay,
With three long yells at parting, ride lightly
east away :
Then down with heavy heart he came, to sorry
cheer came he,
For ashes black were crackling where the green
whins used to be,
And stretch'd among the prickly coomb, his
heart's blood smoking round,
From slender nose to breast-bone cleft, lay dead
his good greyhound !
"They've slain my dog, the Philistines! they've
ta'en my bonny marc !"
He plunged into the smoky hole; no bonny
beast was there
He groped beneath his burning bed (it burn'd
him to the bone),
Where his good weapon used to be, but broad-
sword there was none ;
He reel'd out of the stifling den, and sat down
on a stone,
And in the shadows of the night 'twas thus he
made his moan
" I am a houseless outcast ; I have neither bed
nor board,
Nor living thing to look upon, nor comfort save
the Lord :
Yet many a time were better men in worse ex-
tremity ;
Who succor'd them in their distress, He now
will succor me,
He now will succor me, I know; and, by HU
holy Name,
I'll make the doers of this deed right dearly rue
the same !
" My bonny mare ! I've ridden you when Claver'se
rode behind,
And from the thumbscrew and the boot you
bore me like the wind ;
And, while I have the life you saved, on youi
sleek flank, I swear,
Episcopalian rowel shall never ruffle hair !
Though sword to wield they've left ine none
yet Wallace wight, I wis,
Good battle did on Irvine side wi' waur weapon
than this."
His fishing-rod with both his hands he griped it
as he spoke,
And, where the butt and top were spliced, in
pieces twain he broke ;
The limber top he cast away, with all its gear
abroad,
But, grasping the tough hickory butt, with spike
of iron shod,
He ground the sharp spear to a point ; then
pull'd his bonnet down,
And, meditating black revenge, set forth for Car-
rick town.
The sun shines bright on Carrick wall and Car-
rick Castle gray,
And up thine aisle, St. Nicholas, has ta'en his
morning wav,
And to the Xorth-Gate sentinel displayeth, far
and near,
634
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Sea, hill, and tower, and all thereon, in dewy
freshness clear,
Save where, behind a ruin'd wall, himself alone
to view,
Is peering from the ivy green a bonnet of the
blue.
The sun shines red on Carrick wall and Carriek
Castle old,
And all the western buttresses have changed their
gray for gold ;
And from thy shrine, Saint Nicholas, the pilgrim
of the sky
Has gone in rich farewell, as fits such royal
votary ;
Bat, as his last red glance he takes down past
black Slieve-a-true,
He leaveth where he found it first the bonnet of
the blue.
Again he makes the turrets gray stand out before
the hill ;
Constant as their foundation-rock, there is the
bonnet still !
And now the gates are open'd, and forth, in gal-
lant show,
Prick jeering grooms and burghers blythe, and
troopers in a row ;
But one has little care for jest, so hard bested is
he
To ride the outlaw's bonny mare, for this at last
is she!
Down comes her master with a roar, her rider
with a groan,
The iron and the hickory are through and
through him gone !
He lies a corpse ; and where he sat, the outlaw
sits again,
And once more to his bonny mare he gives the
spur and rein ;
Then some \\ ith sword, and some with gun, they
ride and run amain ;
But sword and gun, and whip and spur, that day
they plied in vain !
Ah ! little thought Willy Gilliland, when he on
Skerry side
Drew bridle first, and wiped his brow after that
weary ride,
That where he lay like hunted brute, a cavern'd
outlaw lone,
Broad lands and yeoman tenantry should yet be
there his own :
Yet so it was ; and still from him descendants
not a few
Draw birth and lands, and, let me trust, draw
love of Freedom too.
THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.
COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged 'tis at a
white heat now :
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased though
on the forge's brow
The little flames still fitfully play through the
sable mound,
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths
ranking round,
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands
only bare :
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work
the windlass there.
The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black
mound heaves below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at
every throe:
It rises, roars, rends all outright Vulcan,
what a glow !
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright the high
sun shines not so !
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery
fearful show,
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the
ruddy lurid row
Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men
before the foe,
As, quivering, through his fleece of flame, the
sailing monster, slow
Sinks on the anvil : all about the faces fiery
grow ;
" Hurrah !" they shout, " leap out leap out ;"
bang, bang the sledges go :
Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high
and low
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash-
ing blow ;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the railing
cinders strow
i'OEMS OF SAMUEL FEH(.UsoN'.
035
The ground around ; at every bouud, the swel-
tering fountains flow,
Aud thick and loud the swinking crowd at every
stroke pant " ho !"
Leap out, leap out, my masters ; lea), out and
lay on load !
Let's forge a goodly anchor a bower thick and
broad ;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I
bode :
I see the good ship riding all in a perilous
road
The low reef roaring on her lee the roll of
ocean pour'd
From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast
by the board,
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats
stove at the chains !
But courage still, brave mariners the bower yet
remains,
And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when
ye pitch sky high ;
Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear
nothing here am I."
Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand
keep time ;
Yom blows make music sweeter far than any
nteeple's chime :
But, while you sling your sledges, sing and let
the burthen be,
The anchor is the anvil-king, and royal crafts-
men we !
Strike in, strike in the sparks begin to dull
their rustling reel ;
O'-T hammers ring with sharper din, our work
will soon be sped.
O ir anchor soon must change his bed of fiery
rich array
f >r a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy
couch of clay ;
)ur anchor soon must change the lay of merry
craftsmen here
.''or the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and
the sighing seaman's cheer ;
Whin, weighing slow, at eve they go far, far
from love and home :
\TT sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the
ocean foam.
t' ivid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at
last:
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat
was cast :
trusted and trustwoithy guard, if thou hadst
life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath
the deep green sea !
deep-sea diver, who might then behold such
sights as thou ?
The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what
joy 'twere now
To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly
of the whales,
And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath
their scourging tails!
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-
unicorn,
And send him foil'd and bellowing back, for all
his ivory horn :
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade
forlorn ;
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his
jaws to scorn :
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid
Norwegian isles
lie lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd
miles ;
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off ht
rolls ;
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far-aston-
ish'd shoals
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply, in
a cove,
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Un-
dine's love,
To find the long-hair'd mermaidens ; or, hard by
icy lands,
To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean
sands.
O broad-arm'd Fisher of the deep, whose sports
can equal thine ?
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs
thy cable line ;
And night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory
day by day,
Through sable sea and breaker white the giant
game to play
But, shatner of our little sports ! forgive the name
I gave
A fisher's joy is to destroy thine office is to
save.
636
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou
but understand
Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who
that dripping band,
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round
about thee bend,
With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing
their ancient friend
Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with
larger steps round thee,
Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou'dst
leap within the sea !
Give honor to their memories who left the pleas-
ant strand,
To shed their blood so freely for the love of
Fatherland
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy
churchyard grave,
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing
wave
Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have
fondly sung,
Honor hirn for their memory, whose bones he
goes among !
THE FORESTER'S COMPLAINT.
THROUGH our wild wood-walks here,
Sun-bright and shady,
Free as the forest, deer,
Roams a lone lady :
Far from her castle-keep,
Down in the valley,
Roams siie, by dingle deep,
Green hoJm and alley,
With her sweet presence bright
Gladd'ning my dwelling
Oh. fair her face of light,
Past the tongue's telling !
Woe was me
E'er to see
Beauty so shining ;
Ever since, hourly,
Have I been pining !
In our blithe sports' debates,
Down by the river,
I, of my merry mates,
Foremost was ever ;
Skilfullest with my flute,
Leading the maidens
Heark'ning, by moonlight, mute,
To its sweet cadence :
Sprightliest in the dance
Tripping together
Such a one was I once
Ere she came hither !
Woe was me
E'er to see
Beauty so shining.;
Ever since, hourly,
Have I been pining!
Loud now my comrades laugh
As I pass by them ;
Broadsword and quarter-staff,
No more I ply them :
Coy now the maidens frown,
Wanting their dances ;
How can their faces brown
Win one, who fancies
Even an angel's face
Dark to be seen would
Be, by the Lily-grace
Gladd'ning the greenwood?
Woe was me
E'er to see
Beauty so shining ;
Ever since, hourly,
Have I been pining !
Wolf, by my broken bow,
Idle is lying,
While through the woods I go,
All the day, sighing,
Tracing her footsteps small
Through the moss'd cover,
Hiding then, breathless all,
At the sight of her,
Lest my rude gazing should
From her haunt scare her-
Oh, what a solitude
Wanting her, there were !
Woe was me
E'er to see
Beauty so shining ;
Ever since, hourly,
Have I been pining !
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
637
THK PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN.
THE shades of eve had cross'd the glen
That frowns o'er infant Avonmore,
When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men,
We stopp'd before a cottage door.
41 God save all here," my comrade cries,
And rattles on the raised latch-pin ;
"God save you kindly," quick replies
A clear, sweet voice, and asks us in.
We enter ; from the wheel she starts,
A rosy girl, with soft, black eyas ;
Her fluttering courtesy takes our hearts,
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.
Poor Mary, she was quite alone,
For, all the way to Glenmalure,
Her mother had that morning gone,
And left the house in charge with her.
But neither household cares, nor yet
The shame that startled virgins feel,
Could make the generous girl forget
Her wonted hospitable zeal.
She brought us, in a beechen bowl,
Sweet milk, thatsmack'd of mountain thyme,
Oat cake, and such a yellow roll
Of butter it gilds all my rhyme !
And, while we ate the grateful food
(With weary limbs on bench reclined),
Considerate and discreet, she stood
Apart, and listen'd to the wind.
Kind wishes both our souls engaged,
From breast to breast spontaneous ran
The mutual thought we stood and pledged
THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE LOCH DAN.
"The milk we drink is not more pure,
Sweet Mary bless those budding charms !
Than your own generous heart, I'm sure,
Nor whiter than the breast it warms !"
She turn'd and gazed, unused to hear
Such language in that homely glen;
But, Mary, you have naught to fear,
Though smiled on by two stranger men.
Not for a crown would I alarm
Your virgin pride by word or sign,
Nor need a painful blush disarm
My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.
Her simple heart could not but feel
The words we spoke were free from guile ;
She stoop'd, she blush'd she fix'd her w,heel
Tia all in vain she can't but smile !
Just like sweet April's dawn appears
Her modest face I see it yet
And though I lived a hundred years,
Me thinks I never could forget
The pleasure that, despite her heart,
Fills all her downcast eyes with light,
The lips reluctantly apart.
The white teeth struggling into sight,
The dimples eddying o'er her cheek
The rosy cheek that won't be still !
Oh ! who could blame what flatterers speak,
Did smiles like this reward their skill ?
For such another smile, I vow,
Though loudly beats the midnight rain.
I'd take the mountain-side e'en now,
And walk to Luggelaw again !
HUNGARY.
AUGUST, 1849.
AWAY ! would you own the dread rapture of war
Seek the host- rolling plain of the mighty Mag-
yar;
Where the giants of yore from their mansion*
come down,
O'er the ocean-wide floor play the game of re-
nown.
Hark ! hark ! how the earth 'neath their anna
mcnt reels,
In the hurricane-charge in the thunder of
wheels;
How the hearts of the forests rebound as they
pass,
In their mantle of smoke, through the quaking
morass !
638
I'OEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
God ! the battle is join'd I Lord Sabaoth, re-
joice !
Freedom thunders her hymn in the battery's
voice
Jn the soaring hurrah in the blood-stifled
moan
Sends the voice of her praise to the foot of thy
throne.
Oh ! hear, God of freedom, thy people's appeal ;
Let the edges of slaughter be sharp on their
steel,
And the weight of destruction, and swiftness of
fear,
Speed death to his mark in their bullets' career 1
Holy Nature, arise ! from thy bosom in wrath
Shake the pestilence forth on the enemy's path,
That the tyrant invaders may march by the road
Of Sennacherib invading the city of God !
As the stars in their courses 'gainst Sisera strove,
Fight, mists of the fens, in the sick air above ;
As Scamander his carcasses flung on the foe,
Fight, floods of the Theiss, in your torrents be-
low !
As the snail of the Psalmist consuming away,
Let the moon-melted masses in silence decay ;
Till the track of corruption alone in the air
Shall tell sicken'd Europe the Scythian was there !
Stay ! stay ! in thy fervor of sympathy pause,
Nor become inhumane in humanity's cause ;
If the poor Russian slave have to wrong been
abused,
Are the ties of Christ's brotherhood all to be
loosed I
The mothers of Moscow who offer the breast
To their orphans, have hearts, as the mothers of
Pest ;
Nor are love's aspirations more tenderly drawn
From the bosoms of youth by the Theiss than
the Don.
God of Russian and Magyar, who ne'er hast de-
si gn'd
Save one shedding of blood for the sins of man-
kind,
No demon of battle and bloodshed art thou,
To the war-wearied nations be pitiful now I
Turn the hearts of the kings -let the Magyar
again
Reap the harvests of peace on his bountiful plain ;
And if not with renown, with affections am)'
lives,
Send the driven serfs home to their children ami
wives !
But you fill all my bosom with tumult once
more
What! Gorgey surrender'd ! What! Bern's
battles o'er !
What ! Elaynau victorious ! Inscrutable God !
We must wonder, and worship, and bow to thy
rod.
ADIEU TO BRITTANY.
RUGGED land of the granite and oak,
I depart with a sigh from thy shore,
And with kinsman's affection a blessing invoke
On the maids and the men of Arvor.
For the Irish and Breton are kin,
Though the lights of antiquity pale
In the point of the dawn where the partings.
begin
Of the Bolg, and the Kymro, and Gael.
But, though dim in the distance of time
Be the low-burning beacons of fame,
Holy Nature attests us, in writing sublime,
On heart and on visage, the same.
In the dark-eye-lash'd eye of blue-gray.
In the open look, modest and kind,
In the face's fine oval reflecting the play
Of the sensitive, generous mind,
Till, as oft as by meadow and stream
With thy Maries and Josephs I roam,
In companionship gentle and friendly I seem,
As with Patrick and Brigid at home.
Green, meadow-fresh, streamy-b right land !
Though greener meads, valleys as fair,
Be at home, yet the home-yearning heart will-
demand,
Are they blest as in Brittany there ?
POEMS OF SAMUKL FERGUSON.
G39-
I)emand nut repining is vain :
Yet, would God. that even as thon
In thy homeliest homesteads, contented Bretagnc,
Wer the green isle my thoughts are with
now !
But I call thee not golden : let gold
Deck the coronal troubadours twine,
Where the waves of the Loire and Garomna are
rolPd
Through the land of the white wheat and
vine,
And the fire of the Frenchman goes up
To the quick-thoughted, dark-flashing eye:
While Glory and Change, quaffing Luxury's cup,
Challenge all things below and on high.
Leave to him to the vehement man
Of the Loire, of the Seine, of the Rhone
In the Idea's high pathways to march in the van,
To o'erthrow, and set up the o'erthrown :
Be it thine in the broad beaten ways
That the world'i simple seniors have trod,
To walk with soft steps, living peaceable days,
And on earth not forgetful of God.
Nor refine that thy lot has been cast
With the things of the old time before,
For to thce are committed the keys of the past,
gray, monumental Arv&r !
Yes, land of the great Standing Stones,
It is thine at thy feet to survey,
From thy earlier shepherd-kings' sepulchre-
thrones
The giant, far-stretching array ;
Where, abroad o'er the gorse-cover'd lande,
Where, along by the slow-breaking ware,
The hoary, inscrutable sentinels stand
In their night-watch by History's grave.
Preserve them, nor fear for thy charge ;
From the prime of the morning they sprung,
When the works of young Mankind were lasting
and large,
As the will they embodied was young.
I have stood on Old Sarum :' the sun,
With a pensive regard from the west.
e, 3err1c*-trM fcct
Lit the beech-tops low down in the ditch of the
Dun,
Lit the service-trees high on its crest :
But the walls of the Roman were shrunk
Into morsels of ruin aroutvl,
And palace of monarch, and minster of monk,
Were effaced from the graoey-foss'd ground.
Like bubbles in ocean, they melt,
O Wilts, on thy long-rolling plain,
And at last but the works of the hand of the
Celt
And the sweet hand of Nature remain.
Even so : though, portentous and strange,
With a rumor of troublesome sounds,
On his iron way gliding, the Angel of Change
Spread his dusky wings wide o'er thy bounds
He will pass ; there'll be grass on his track,
And the pick of the miner in vain
Shall search the dark void : while the stones of
Carnac
And the word of the Breton remain.
Farewell : up the waves of the Ranee,
See, we stream back our pennon of smoke ;
Farewell, russet skirt of the fine robe of
Rugged land of the granite and oak !
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
ON HKARINO WEEK-DAY 8KRVICK THERR, 8JIP-
TEMBEK, 1858.
FROM England's gilded halls of state
1 cross'd the Western Minster's gate.
And, 'mid the tombs of England's dead,
1 heard the Holy Scriptures read.
Tim w.ills around and pillarM piers
Had stood well-nigh seven hundred years ;
The words the priest gave forth had stood
Since Christ, and since before the Flood.
A thousand hearts around parti i.>k
The comfort of th Holy Hook ;
Ten thousand suppliant hands were spread
In lifted stone above iry head.
G40
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
In dust decay'd, the hands are gone
That fed and set the builders on ;
In heedless dust the fingers lie
That hew'd and heaved the stones on high ;
And back to earth and air resolved
The brain that plann'd and poised the vault;
But, undecay'd, erect, and fair,
To heaven ascends the builded Prayer,
With majesty of strength and size,
With glory of harmonious dyes,
With holy airs of heavenward thought,
From floor to roof divinely fraught.
Fall down, ye bars : enlarge, my soul !
To heart's content take in the whole ;
And, spurning pride's injurious thrall,
With loyal love embrace them all !
Yet hold not lightly home ; nor yet
The graves on Dunagore forget ;
Nor grudge the stone-gilt stall to change
For humble bench of Gorman's Grange.
The self-same Word bestows its clicer
On simple creatures there as here ;
And thence, as hence, poor souls do rise
In social flight to common skies.
For in the Presence vast and good
That bends o'er all our livelihood,
With humankind in heavenly cure,
We all are like, we all are poor.
His poor, be sure, shall never want
For service meet or seemly chant,
And for the Gospel's joyful sound
A fitting place shall still be found ;
Whether the organ's solemn tones
Thrill through the dust of warriors' bones,
Or voices of th.e village choir
From swallow-haunted eaves aspire,
Or, sped with healing on its wings,
The Word solicit ears of kings,
Or stir the souls, in moorland glen,
Of kingless covenanted men.
Enough for thee, indulgent Lord,
The willing ear to hear Thy Word
The rising of the burthen'd breast
And thou suppliest all the rest.
Persians anb
THE ORIGIN OF THE SCYTHIANS.
HERODOTUS (" MELPOMENE").
WHEN, o'er Riphsean wastes, the son of Jove
Slain Geryou's beeves from Erytheia drove,
Sharp nipp'd the frost, and feathery whirls of
snow
Fill'd upper air and hid the earth below.
The hero on the ground, his steeds beside,
Spread, shaggy-huge, the dun Nemean hide,
And, warmly folded, while the tempest swept
The dreary Hyperborean desert, slept
When Hercules awoke and look'd around,
The milk-white mares were nowhere to be <bund.
Long search'd the hero all the neighboring plain.
The brakes and thickets ; but he search'd in vain.
At length he reach'd a gloomy cave, and there
He found a woman as'a goddess fair ;
A perfect woman downward to the knee,
But all below, a snake, in coil'd deformity.
With mutual wonder each the other eyed :
He question'd of his steeds, and she replied :
" Hero, thy steeds within my secret halls
Are safely stabled in enchanted stalls ;
But if thou thence my captives wouldst remove,
Thou, captive too, must yield me love for love."
Won by the price, perchance by passion sway'd,
Alcides yielded to the monster maid.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
i.ll
The steeds recover'cl, and the burnish'd car
Prepared, she said : " Remember, when afar,
That, sprung from thee, three mighty sons shall
prove
Me not unworthy of a hero's love.
But wben iny babes are grown to manhood,
where
WouLdst thou thy sons should seek a father's
care f"
The soft appeal e'en stern Alcides felt
And, u Take," be said, " this bow and glittering
belt"
From his broad breast the baldrick he unslung
(A golden phial from its buckle hung),
' And, when my sons are grown to man's estate,
Him whom thou first shall see decline the weight
Of the great belt, or fail the bow to bend,
To Theban Hercules, his father, send
For tutelage ; but him whom thou shalt see
Thus bear the belt, thus bend the bow, like me,
Naught further needing, by thy side retain,
The destined monarch of the northern plain."
He went : the mighty mother, at a birth,
Gave Gelon, Agathyrs, and Scyth 1 to earth.
To early manhood grown, the former twain
Essay'd to bear the belt and bow in vain ;
And, southward banish'd from their mother's
face,
Sought lighter labors in the fields of Thrace :
While, far refulgent over plain and wood,
Herculean Scyth the glittering belt indued,
And, striding dreadful on his fields of snow,
With aim unerring twang'd his father's bow.
From him derived, the illustrious Scythian name,
And all the race of Scythian monarchs came.
THE DEATH OF DERMLD.
IRISH ROMANCE.
King Cormac bad affianced bis daughter Granla to Finn, son of
Coiniial, tbe Finn Mac Coole of Irish, and Flngal of Scottish tra-
dition. In addition to bis warlike accomplishments, Finn was
reported to have obtained the glfta of poetry, serond-sleht, and
healing, In tbe manner reform! to below. On his personal Intro-
duction, his age and aspect proved displeasing to Granla, who
threw herself on the gallantry of DtTtnid, the handsomest of Kinn's
attendant warriors, and Injured him reluctantly to fly with her.
Tbelr pursuit by Finn forms tbe subject of one of the most popn-
(at native Irish romance*. In tbe course of their wanderings.
1 In Celtic tradition, the progenitors of the Flrbolgs. Plct*, and
ftcota r*Dctlvel.
Dormid, bavins pursued a wild boar, met the fate of A dor. Is, who
appears to have been his prototype In tbe Celtic Imagination.
Finn, arriving on tbe scene just before bis rival's death, giver
ocraston to the most pathetic passage c,t the tale, which, at tbtt
point, is comparatively free from the characteristics of vulgarity
and extravagance attaching to the rest of tbe composition. Tb*
Incidents of the original are followed In rfao piece below, wliict
however, does not profes to be a translation. Tbe original mav
be perused in tbe spirited version of Mr. O'Grady : "Publication*
of the Irish Osslanic Society," vol. III., p. 185. It Is from tbl>
Dermid that Highland tradition draws the genealogy of the Claii
Campbell
"The race of brown Dorm id who slew the wild boar."
FINN on the mountain found the mangled man,
The slain boar by him. " Dermid," said the king,
" It likes me well at last to see thee thus.
This only grieves me, that the womankind
Of Erin are not also looking on :
Such sight were wholesome for the wanton eyea
So oft enaroor'd of that specious form :
Beauty to foulness, strength to weakness tnrn'd."
"Yet in thy power, if only in thy will,
Lies it^ Finn, even yet to heal me "
"How?"
" Feign not the show of ignorance, nor deem
I know not of the virtues which thy hand
Drew from that fairy's half-discover'd hall,
Who bore her silver tankard from the fount
So closely follow'd, that ere yet the door
Could close upon her steps, one arm was in ;
Wherewith, though seeing naught, yet touching
all,
Thou graspedst half the spiritual world ;
Withdrawing a heap'd handful of its gifts
Healing, and sight prophetic, and the power
Divine of poesy : but healing most
Abides within its hollow : virtue such
That but so much of water as might wet
These lips, in that hand brought, would make
me whole.
Finn, from the fountain fetch me in thy paln>>
A draught of water, and I yet shall live."
II How at these hands canst thou demand thy life,
Who took'st my joy of life ?"
" She loved thee noi :
Me she did love, and doth ; and were she here
She would BO plead with thee, that, for her sake,
Thou wouldst forgive us both, and bid mo live."
"I was a man had spent my prime of years
In war and couucil. little bless'd with love ;
(542
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Though poesy was raiue, and, in my hour,
The seer's burthen not desirable ;
And now at last had thought to ha?e man's
share
Of marriage blessings; and the King supreme,
Cormac, had pledged his only daughter mine;
When thou, with those pernicious beauty-gifts
The flashing white tusk there hath somewhat
spoil'd,
Didst win her to desert her father's house,
And roam the wilds with thee."
" It was herself,
Grania, the Princess, put me in the bonds
Of holy chivalry to share her flight.
' Behold,' she said, ' he is an aged man
(And so thou art, for years will come to all),
And I so young ; and, at the Beltane games,
When Carbry Liffacher did play the men
Of Brea, I, unseen, saw thee snatch a hurl,
And thrice on Tara's champions 1 win the goal ;
And gave thee love that day, and still will give.'
So she herself avow'd. Resolve me, Finn,
For thou art just, could youthful warrior, sworn
To maiden's service, have done else than 1 1
No : hate me not restore me give me drink."
" I will not."
" Nay, but, Finn, thou hadst not said
' I will not,' though I'd ask'd a greater boon,
That night we supp'd in Breendacoga's lodge.
Remember : we were faint and hunger-starved
From three days' flight; and even as on the
board
They placed the viands, and my hand went forth
To raise the wine-cup, thou, more quick of ear,
O'erheard'st the stealthy leaguer set without ;
And yet shouldst eat or perish. Then 'twas I,
Fasting, that made the sally ; and 'twas I,
Fasting, that made the circuit of the court ;
Three times I coursed it, darkling, round and
round ;
From whence returning, when I brought thee in
The three lopp'd heads of them that lurk'd with-
out
Thou hadst not then, refresh 'd and grateful, said
4 1 will not,' had I ask'd thee, ' Give me drink.'"
1 " On Tara's champions, 11 ar ghatra Teamhracfi. The idiom
to praeerved,
"There springs no water on this summit bald."
" Nine paces from the spot thou standest on,
The well-eye well thou know'st it bubble*
clear."'
Abash'd, reluctant, to the bubbling weH
Went Finn, and scoop'd the water in his palms ;
W'herewith returning, half-way,, came the thought
Of Grania, and he let the water spill.
"Ah me," said Dermid, "hast thon then forgot
Thy warrior-art, that oft, when helms were splity
And buckler-bosses shatter'd by the spenr,
Has satisfied the thirst of wounded men 1
Ah, Finn, these hands of thine were not so slack
That night, when, captured by the King ofThule,
Thou lay'st in bonds within the temple gato
Waiting for morning, till the observant kiivg
Should to his sun-f/od make thee sacrilice.
Close-pack'd thy fingers then, thong-drawn and
squeezed,
The blood-drops oozing under every nail,
When, like a shadow, through the sleeping
priests
Came I, and loosed thee : and the hierophant
At day-dawn coming, on the altar-?tep,
Instead of victim straighten'd to his knife,
Two warriors found, erect, for battle arm'd.*
Again abash'd, reluctant to the well
Went Finn, and scoop'd the water in his palms,
Wherewith returning, half-way, came the thought
That wrench 'd him ; and the shaken water
spril'd.
" False one, thou didst it purposely ! I swear
I saw thee, though mine eyes do fast grow dim.
Ah me, how much imperfect still is man !
Yet such were not the act of Him, whom once
On this same mountain, as we sat at eve
Thou yet mayest see the knoll that was our conch,
A stone's throw from the spot where now I lie
Thou show'dst me, shuddering, when the seer'*
fit,
Sudden and cold as hail, assail'd thy soul
In vision of that Just One crucified
For all men's pardoning, which, once again,
Thou saw'st, with Cormac, struck in Rossnaree.*
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
G43
Finn trembled, and a third time to the well
Went straight, and scoop'd the water in his
palms ;
Wherewith in haste half-way return'd, he saw
A smile on Dermid's face rclax'd in death.
THE INVOCATION.
LUCRETIUS.
JOT of the world, divine delight of Love,
Who with life-sowing footsteps soft dost move
Through all the still stars from their sliding
stands
See, fishy seas, and fruit-abounding lands ;
Bringing to presence of the gracious sun
All living things : thee blights and vapors shun,
And thine advent : for thee the various earth
Glows with the rose : for thee the murmurous
mirth
Of ocean sparkles; and, at thy repair,
Diffusive bliss pervades the placidair.
For, see, forthwith the blandness of the Spring
Begins, and Zephyr's seasonable wing
Wantons abroad in primal lustihood,
Smit with sweet pangs the wing'd aerial brood
Of pairing birds proclaim thy reign begun ;
Thence through the fields where pasturing cattle
run,
Runs the soft frenzy, all the savage kind,
Touch'd with thy tremors in the wanton wind,
Prancing the plains, or through the rushing
floods
Cleaving swift ways : thou, who through waving
woods,
Tall mountains, fishful seas, and leafy bowers
Of nestling birds, keep'st up the joyous hours,
Making from age to age, bird, beast, and man
Perpetuate life and time; aid thou my plan.
AROHCTAS AND THE MARINER.
HORAT. OD. I. 28.
MARINER.
THEE, of the sea and land and unaumm'd sand
The Mensurator
The dearth c-f some poor earth from a i'riend'k
hand
Detains, a waiter
For sepulture, here on the Matine strand ;
Nor aught the better
Art thou, Aichytas, now, in thought to har
spann'il
Pole and equator !
ARCHYTA8.
The sire of Pelops, too, though guest and hoat
Of Gods, gave up the ghost :
Beloved Tithonus into air withdrew :
And Minos, at the council-board of Jove
Once intimate above,
Hell holds ; and hell with strict embrace anew
Constrains Panthokles, for all his lore,
Though by the shield he bore
In Trojan jousts, snatch'd from the trophied
fane,
He testified that death slays naught within
The man, but nerve and skin ;
But bore his witness and his shield in vain.
For one night waits us all ; one downward road
Must by all feet be trod :
All heads at last to Prosperinc must come :
The furious Fates to Mars's bloody shows
Ca*t these : the seas whelm those :
Commix'd and close, the young and old troop
home.
Me also, prone Orion's comrade swift,
The South-wind, in the drift
Of white Illyrian waves, caught from the day:
But, shipmate, thou refuse not to my dead
Bones and unburied ln-ad,
The cheap poor tribute of the funeral clay!
So, whatsoe'er the East may foam or roar
Against the Hesperian shore,
Lot crack Veoutin'a woods, thou safe and free;
While great God Neptune, the Tarentine's trust,
And Jupiter the just,
With confluent wealth reward thy piety.
Ah ! wouldst thou leave me I wouldst thou
leave, indeed,
Thv unoffending seed
* O
Under the dead man's curse f Beware ! th
day
May come when thou shall auflct equal wrong :
Give 'twill not keep thee long
Three handfuls of sea-sand, and go toy way.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Versions from tjjc Jrisjj.
An apology is needed for the rudeness of some of the following
pieces. Irish poetical remains con^st chiefly of bardie, composi-
tions and songs of the cGun-try, of which the examples here given
could not be candidly rendered without some reflection of certain
faults of the originals. The former class have inherent vices, re-
sulting from the conditions of their production. The office of the
bard required skill in music, a retentive memory, and a knowledge
of the common forms of panegyric, rather than original genius.
A large proportion of these compositions consisted of adulatory
odes addressed to protectors and patrons. Many of the best
musical performances of Carolan are associated with words of this
character, and exhibit an incongruous union of noble sounds and
mean ideas. It has been usual, In giving him and the later harpers
the credit which they well merit for originality aim fertility in the
production of melodies, to include their odes and songs, as efforts
of poetic genius, in the c' unendation : but these portions </f the
compositions are generally made up of gross flatteries and the con-
ventionalities of the Pantheon. The images imd sentiments are in
til much alike ; and it is rarely that an original thought repays the
trouble of the translator. In celebrating some of the ladies of
families who patronized him, Carolan has, however, produced a few
pieces in which the words are not unworthy of the music, lie
was sensible of the charms of grace and virtue, and although in-
capable of distinguishing between elegant and vulgar forms of
praise, has in these instances expressed genuine sentiments of ad-
miration with a great degree of natural and affectionate tenderness
united, it must be remembered, with original and beautiful
music. One of these pieces, "Grace Nugent," 1 although too full
of the stock phrases of the adulatory school, is perhaps the most
pleasing of its class. In addressing one of his male patrons also,
in "The Cup of O'Hara," 2 he exhibits some originality in trans-
ferring to his friend's wassail-cup the praises which were usually
lavished on personal excellencies. It is among the country songs,
however, that the greatest amount and variety of characteristic
composition is found. In these we must not expect quite so much
refinement as is found in the pieces composed by the bards and
harpers, most of which have been transmitted in writing: for the
songs have only been preserved orally by the peasantry, who
would naturally prefer such versions as suited their more homely
tastes. If others of a more refined character have ever existed,
they are not now forthcoming-; but it is probable that at all times
the songs of the native Irish have been of the same homely de-
scription as those which remain: for, before the introduction of
English manners, there existed an almost complete personal
; equality among individuals of all ranks. It is still usual in some
parts of the west of Ireland for the native population to use the
Christian names of those to whom they speak, whatever may be
the rank of the person addressed. These primitive manners ad-
mitted of but little difference in the modes of expressing ideas
common to all ; and, if we make a moderate allowance for the
corruptions which most of these pieces have undergone in their
transmission through more or less numerous generations of the
populace, we shall probably be safe in taking them as approximate
indexes of the tone and taste of native Irish society, in the castle
as well as in the cabin. It has been the opinion of many judges
in criticism that such a state of manners is the one most favorable
to the development of the poetic faculty. Certainly, the lyrical
pieces produced during such a phase of society afford a fuller in-
light into the humors and genius of people than the offspring of
any other period in its progreas. It is not probable that the rural
1 See
' See [.age 19C.
populace will ever again produce any thing comparable to tn.ts*
effusions of a ruder age; though the cultivated intellect and last*
of the upper class, using the vehicle of a more copious though leu
fluent language, and applying itself to the wider range of ideas
incident to an advanced state of civilization, may fairly hope to
attain a much greater excellence: for, to say the truth, notwith-
standing the strength of passion and abundance of sentiment and
humor expressed in the country songs of the Irish, they have
little vigor of thought and but a moderate degree of art in their
structure: but not even the songs of Burns express sentiment
more charmingly. Even in those dedicated to festivity and the
chase, a sweet and delicate pathos mingles with the ordinary
topics, which it is as difficult to catch in translation, as it is in
music to define or analyze the characteristic tones nnd turns of
the melody. The general structure of the melody i>, with few
exceptions, the same in all. A writer to whom Ireland is largely
indebted in almost all the departments of art and literature. Dr.
Petrie, thus describes their peculiar arrangement: -'They ure
formed, for the most part, of four strains of equal length. The
first soft, pathetic, |nd subdued ; the second ascends in the scale,
and becomes bold, energetic, and impassioned; the third, a repe-
tition of the second, is sometimes a little varied and more florid,
and loads, often by a graceful or melancholy passage, to the fourth,
which is always a repetition of the first." Tin- same writer has
beautifully and truly compared the effect of the last part follow-
ing the bold and surcharged strains of the second and third, to the
dissolution in genial showers of a summer cloud. This progress
of the melody is often reflected in the structure of the song,
which, beginning plaintively and tenderly, mounts with the music
In vehemence, and subsides with it in renewed tenderness nt the
conclusion of the stanza. This analogy between the sentiment
and melody runs through many of the following pieces, as, tor ex-
ample, the Jittive and rustic but tender song of "The Coolun," 8
and may be observed in the passionate old strain "Cean Dubh
Urellsh," 4 where the energy of the middle part of the piece is
also associated with one of those duplications of the rhythm
which constitute a peculiar characteristic of Irish song-writing.
It is dillici.lt in English to imitate these duplications and crassi-
tudes, which give so much of its effect to the original, where,
owing to the pliancy of the sounds, several syllables are often, as
it were, fused together, and internal rhymes and correspondences
produced within the body of the line : such as, for example, in
"The Boatman:" 4
O Whillan, rough, bold-faced rock, that stoop'st o'er the bay,
Look forth at the new bark beneath me cleaving her way ;
Saw ye ever, on sea or river, 'mid the mounting of spray,
Boat made of a tree that urges through the surges like mine to-day,
On the tide-top, the tide- top T
" I remember," says Whillan, " a rock I have ever ben ;
And constant my watch, each day, o'er the sea-wave green ;
But of all that I ever of barks and of galleys have seen,
This that urges through the surges beneath you to-duy Is queen
On the tide-top, the tide-top."
It is a significant fact that some of the best of the native amatory
songs appear to have been the compositions of men in outlawry
and in misery. In the " County Leitrim," the fear of famine min-
gles with the ardor of desire; and scarcity and poverty enter
See page 19S.
See page 199.
See page 199
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
largely Into the sentiment of " Ca>hel f Munster." 1 A large
number also of this class of coinp...ltii>ii!' are songs of bumble
llf-. Some of these, uch HS " Yougliall Harbor," 7 dexpite the
rusticity of the topics, bespeak iiiucli gfii.-rous feeling and eensl-
bi Ity : am!, us rfpinls all. the observation may be made that they
are uvdded to sirain> of inusio wonderfully various, expressive,
and sweet to native ears. The production either of melodies or
nf accompanying words has now wholly ceased; mid the language
itself, within another generation, will probably be no longer spoken
In Ireland.
DEIRDRA'S FAREWELL TO ALBA.
OLD IRISH ROMANCE.*
FARKWKLL to fair Alba, high house of the sun,
Farewell to the mountain, the cliff, and the dun ;
Dun Sweeny, adieu ! for my love cannot stay,
And tarry I may not when love cries away.
Glen Vashan ! Glen Vashan ! where roebucks
run free.
Where ray love used to feast on the red deer
with me,
Where rock'd on thy waters while stormy winds
blew,
My love used to slumber Glen Vashan, adieu 1
Glcndaro ! Glendaro ! where birchen boughs
weep
Honey dew at high noon o'er the nightingale's
sleep,
Where my love used to lead me to hear the
cuckoo
'Mong the high haze"! bushes Glendaro, adieu 1
Glen Urchy ! Glen Urchy ! where loudly and
long
My love used to wake up the woods with his song,
While the son of the rock, 4 from the depths of
the dell,
Laugh'd sweetly in answer Glen Urchy, farewell !
Glen Etive ! Glen Etive! where dappled does
roam,
Where 1 leave the green sheeling I first call'd a
home;
Where with me and my true love delighted to
dwell,
The sun made his mansion Glen Etive, farewell 1
1 8 page 119. See page 111.
1 The tale of the iragtcnl fate of the BODS of Usnach, from which
till* nnd tin- following' piece bavi ben lukeii, may be seen In tb
" Transaction* of the Itierno-Celtio Society," Dublin, 1S08; and In
tj, " Atlanils." Dublin. 1S60.
(too of the rock, i. e.. Kcho.
Farewell to Inch Draynach, adieu to the roar
Of the blue billows bursting in light on the shore ;.
Dun Fiagh, farewell ! for my love cannot stay,
And tarry I may not when love cries away.
DEIRDRA'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF
USNACH.
OLD IRISH ROMANCE.
THE lions of the hill are gone,
And I am left alone alone :
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick, and faiu would sleep !
The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone alone :
Dig the grave both deep and wide.
And let us slumber side by side.
The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping :
Dig the grave, and make it read}' ;
Lay me on my true- love's body.
Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright ;
Many a day the three before me
On their linked bucklers bore me.
Lay upon the low grave floor,
'Neath each head, the blue claymore;
Many a time the noble three
Rcdden'd these blue blades for me.
Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of their greyhounds at their feet;
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay.
In the falcon's j.-ssi's throw
Hook and arrow, line an.l bow;
Never again by stream or plain
Shall the gentle woodsmen go.
Sweet companions ye were ever
Harsh to me, your sister, never ;
Woods and wilds and misty valley*
Were, with you, as good's a palace.
Oh ! to hear my true love sinking.
Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing :
646
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Like the sway of ocean swelling
Roll'd his deep voice round our dwelling.
Oh ! to hear the echoes pealing
Round our green and fairy sheeling,
When the three, with soaring chorus,
Pass'd the silent skylark o'er us.
Echo, now sleep, morn and even
Lark alone enchant the heaven !
Ardan's lips are scant of breath,
Neesa's tongue is cold in death.
Stag, exult on glen and mountain
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain
Heron, in the free air warm ye
Usnach's sons no more will harm ye !
Erin's stay no more you are,
Rulers of the ridge of war ;
Never more 'twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight !
Woe is me ! by fraud and wrong,
Traitors false and tyrants strong,
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold !
Woe to Emau, roof and wall !
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall !
Tenfold woe and black dishonor
To the foul and false Chin Conor !
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
Sick I am, and fain would sleep !
Dig the grave and make it ready,
Lay me on my true love's bodv !
THE DOWNFALL OF THE GAEL.
O'GXIVE,' BARD OF O'NEILL.
Cir. 1580.
Mr heart is in woe,
And my soul deep in trouble,
For the mighty are low,
And abased are the noble:
1 O'Ouive. new
The Sons of the Gael
Are in exile and mourning,
Worn, weary, and pale,
As spent pilgrims returning ,
Or men who, in flight
From the fiekl of disaster,
Beseech the black night
On their flight to fall faster ;
Or seamen aghast
When their planks gape asunder,
And the waves fierce and fast
Tumble through in hoarse thunder ;
Or men whom we see
That have got their death-omen
Such wretches are wo
In the chains of our foemen !
Our courage is fear,
Our nobility vileness,
Our hope is despair,
And our comeliness foulness.
There is mist on our heads,
And a cloud chill and hoary
Of black sorrow, sheds
An eclipse on our glory.
From Boyne to the Linn
Has the mandate been given,
That the children of Finn
From their country be driven.
That the sons of the king
Oh, the treason and malice!
Shall no more ride the ring
In their own native valleys ;
No more shall repair
Where the hill foxes tarry,
Nor forth to the air
Fling the hawk at her quarry
For the plain shall be broke
By the share of the stranger,
And the stone-mason's stroke
Tell the woods of their danger ;
The green hills and shore
Be with white keeps disfigured,
And the Mote of Rathmore
Be the Saxon churl's
1'OEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
047
The land of the lakes
Shall no more know the prospect
Of valleys and brakes
So transform'd is her aspect !
Who in Erin's cause would stand,
Brwthers of the avenging band,
He must wed immortal quarrel,
Pain and sweat and bloody peril.
The Gael cannot tell,
In the uprooted wild wood
And red ridgy dell,
The old nurse of his childhood :
On the mountain bare and steep,
Snatching short but pleasant sleep,
Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie,
Swooping on the Saxon quarry.
The nurse of his youth
Is in doubt as she views him,
If the wan wretch, in truth,
Be the child of her bosom.
What although you've fail'd to keep
Liffey's plain or Tara's steep,
Cashel's pleasant streams to save,
Or the meads of Croghan Maev ;
We starve by the board,
A.nd we thirst amid wassail
For the guest is the lord,
And the host is the vassal !
Want of conduct lost the town,
Broke the white-wall'd castle down,
Moira lost, and old Tallin,
And let the conquering stranger in.
Through the woods let us roam,
Through the wastes wild and barren;
O *
We are strangers at home !
We are exiles in Erin !
'Twas the want of right command,
Not the lack of heart or hand,
Left your hills and plains to-day
'Neath the strong Clan Saxon's sway.
And Erin's a bark
O'er the wide waters driven I
And the tempest howls dark,
And her side planks are riven !
Ah, had heaven never sent
Discord for our punishment,
Triumphs few o'er Erin's host
Had Clan London now to boast I
And in billows of might
Swell the Saxon before her,
Unite, oh, unite!
Or the billows burst o'er her !
Woe is me, 'tis God's decree
Strangers have the victory :
Irishmen may now be found
Outlaws upon Irish ground.
Like a wild beast in his den
Lies the chief by hill and glen,
While the strangers, proud and savage,
Cri flan's richest valleys ravage.
^Vrr ia mo t.Vin firm I nffinf*p
O'BYRNE'S BARD TO THE CLANS OF
wir.K' row
Cir. 1580.
GOD be with the Irish host,
Never be their battle lost !
For, in battle, never yet
Have they basely earn'd defeat.
Host of armor red and bright,
May ye fight a valiant fight !
For the green spot of the eai th,
For the land that gave you birth.
Treachery and violence,
Done against my people's rights
Well may mine be restless nights 1
When old Loinster's sons of fame,
Heads of many a warlike name,
Redden their victorious hilts
On the Gaul, my soul exults.
When the grim Gaul, who have conic
Hither o'er the ocean foam,
648
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
From the fight victorious go,
Then my heart sinks deadly low.
Bless the blades our warriors draw.
God be with Clan Ranclagh !
But my soul is weak for fear,
Thinking of their danger here.
Have them in thy holy keeping,
God be with them lying sleeping,
God be with them standing fighting,
Erin's foes in battle smiting !
LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE
ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE.
JOHN COLLINS DIED 1S16.
LONE and weary as I wanderM
By the bleak shore of the sea,
Meditating and reflecting
On the world's hard destiny ;
Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer,
In the quiet tide beneath,
For on slumbering spray and blossom
Breathed not out of heaven a breath.
On I went in sad dejection,
Careless where ray footsteps bore,
Till a ruin'd church before me
Open'd wide its ancient door,
Till I stood before the portals,
Where of old were wont to be,
For the blind, the halt, and leper,
Alms and hospitality.
Still the ancient seat was standing,
Built against the buttress gray,
Where the clergy used to welcome
Weary travellers on their way.
There I sat me down in sadness,
'Neath my cheek I placed my hand,
Till the tears fell hot and briny
Down upon the grassy land.
There, I said in woeful sorrow,
Weeping bitterly the while,
Was a time when joy and gladness
Reign'd vrithiu this ruin'd pile;
Was a time when bells were tinkling.
Clergy preaching peace abroad,
Psalms a-singing, music ringing,
Praises to the mighty God.
Empty aisle, deserted chancel,
Tower tottering to your fall,
Many a storm since then has beaten
On the gray head of ycur wall !
Many a bitter storm and tempest
Has your roof-tree turn'd away,
Since you first were form'd a temple
To the Lord of night and day.
Holy house of ivied gables,
That wcrt once the country's pride,
Houseless now in weary wandering
Roam your inmates far and wide.
Lone you arc to-day, and dismal,
Joyful psalms no more are heard
Where, within your choir, her vesper
Screeches the cat-headed bird.
Ivy from your eaves is growing,
Nettles round your green hearth -stone,
Foxes howl, where, in your corners,
Dropping waters make their moan.
Where the lark to early matins
Used your clergy forth to call,
There, alas ! no tongue is stirring,
Save the daw's upon the wall.
Refectory cold and empty,
Dormitory bleak and bare,
Where are now your pious uses,
Simple bed and frugal fare ?
Gone your abbot, rule and order,
Broken down your altar-stones ;
Naught see I beneath your shelter,
Save a heap of clayey bones.
Oh ! the hardship, oh ! the hatred.
Tyranny, and cruel war,
Persecution and oppression,
That have left you as you arc !
I myself once also prosper'd ;
Mine is, too, an alter'd plight ;
Trouble, care, and age have left me
Good for naught but grief to-night.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Gone, my motion and my vigor,
Gone, the use of eye and car ;
At iny feet lie friends and children,
Powerless and corrupting here :
Woe is written on my visage,
In a nut my heart would lie
Death's deliverance were welcome
Father, let the old man die.
TO TUB HARPER O'CONNELLAN.
ENCHANTER who reignest
Supreme o'er the North,
Who hast wiled the coy spirit
Of true music forth ;
In vain Europe's minstrels
To honor aspire,
When thy swift slender fingers
Go forth on the wire 1
There is no heart's desire.
Can be felt by a king,
That thy hand cannot match
From the soul of the string,
By its conquering, capturing,
Magical sway,
For, ch.irmer, thou stealest
Thy notes from a fay !
Enchanter, 1 say,
For thy magical skill
Can soothe every sorrow,
And heal every ill :
Who hear thee they praise thee;
They weep while they praise ;
For, charmer, from Fairyland
Fresh are thy lays !
GRACE NUGENT.
CAROLAK.
BRIGHTEST blossom of the Spring,
Grace, the sprightly girl I sing:
Grace, who bore the palm of mind
From all the rest of womankind.
Whomsoe'er the fates decree,
IJappy fate ! for life to be
Day and night my Coolun near,
Ache or pain need never fear !
Her neck outdoes the stately swan,
Her radiant face the summer dawn :
Ah, happy thrice the youth for whom
The fates design that branch of bloom !
Pleasant are your words benign,
Rich those azure eyes of thine :
Ye who see my queen, beware
Those twisted links of golden hair!
This is what I fain would say
To the bird-voiced lady gay,
Never yet conceived the heart
Joy which Grace cannot impart :
Fold of jewels ! case of pearls !
Coolun of the circling curls !
More I say not, but no less
Drink you health and happiness !
MILD MABEL KELLY.
CAROLAN.
WHOEVER the youth who by Heaven's decree
Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright
head of thine,
'Tis certain that he
From all sorrow is free
Till the day of his death, if a life so divine
Should not raise him in bliss above mortal de-
gree :
Mild Mabel-ni-Kelly, bright Coolun of curls,
All stately and pure as the swan on the lake;
Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls,
And the youth of the land are love-sick for
her sake !
No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land
That she knows not to sing, in a voice so en-
chanting,
That the cranes on the strand
Fall aslct-p where they stand ;
Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er
wanting
To shed its mild radiance o'er bosom or hand :
050
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSOX.
The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray,
More blue than her eye, human eye never saw,
Deceit never lurk'd in its beautiful ray,
Dear lady, I drink to you, statute yo bragh !
THE CUP OF O'UARA.
CAHOLAN.
WIRE I west in green Arran,
Or south in Glanmore,
Where the long ships come laden
With claret in store ;
Yet I'd rather than shiploads
Of claret, and ships,
Have your white cup, 0'IIara,
Up full at my lips.
But why seek in numbers
Its virtues to tell,
When O'Hara's own chaplain
lias said, saying well,
" Turlogh, 1 bold son of Brian,
Sit ye down, boy, again,
Till we drain the great cupauu
In another health to Keane."*
THE FAIR-HAIR'D GIRL.
IRISH SONG.
THK sun has set, the stars are still,
The red moon hides behind the hill ;
The tide has left the brown beach bare,
The birds have fled the upper air ;
Upon her branch the lone cuckoo
Is chanting still her sad adieu ;
And you, my fair-hair'd girl, must go
Across the salt sea under woe!
I through love have learn'd three things,
Sorrow, sin, and death it brings ;
Yet day by day my heart within
Dares shame and sorrow, death and sin :
Maiden, you have aim'd the dart
Rankling in my ruin'd heart :
1 Tnrlogh Carolan, the composer.
1 Keane O'Hara, the patron.
Maiden, may the God above
Grant you grace to grant me love !
Sweeter than the viol's string,
And the notes that blackbirds sing;
Brighter than the dewdrops rare
Is the maiden wondrous fair :
Like the silver swans at play
Is her neck, as bright as day !
Woe is me, that e'er my sight
Dwelt on charms so deadly bright 1
PASTHEEN FIN.
IRISH RUSTIC SONG.
On, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight,
Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ;
Like the apple blossom her bosom white,
And her neck like the swan's on a March morn
bright !
Then, Oro$ come with me ! come with me !
come 8 with me !
Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet !
And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl,
sweet !
Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen !
Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen,
But my lips have tasted no more, I ween,
Thau tlie glass I drank to the health of my queen !
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me!
come with me !
Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet !
And, oh ! I would go through snow and
sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl,
sweet !
Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee,
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree,
With my fair Pastheen upon my knee,
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly !
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with ine !
come with me !
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
' The emphasis is on " com*."
mi-IMS OF SAMUEL FEK<:i;s< >N.
r,r>i
And, oh ! I would go through snow aud
sleet,
If you would come with me, browu girl,
sweet !
Nine nights I lay in longing and pain,
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain,
Thinking to see you, love, once again ;
But whistle and call were all in vain !
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me 1
come with me !
Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet !
And, oh ! I would go through snow and
sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl,
sweet !
I'll leave my people, both friend and foe ;
From all the girls in the world I'll go ;
But from you, sweetheart, oh, never ! oh, no !
Till I lie in the coffin, stretch'd cold and low !
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me !
come with me !
Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet!
And, oh ! I would go through snow and
sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl,
gwect !
MOLLY A STORE.
IRISH SONG.
OH, Mary dear, oh, Mary fair,
Oh, branch of generous stem,
White blossom of the banks of Nair,
Though lilies grow on them !
You've left me sick at heart for love,
So faint I cannot see,
The candle swims the board above,
I'm drunk for love of thee !
Oh, stately stem of maiden pride,
My woe it is, and pain,
That I, thus sever'd from thy side,
The long night must remain !
Through all the towns of Innisfail
I've wander'd far and '!<!.;
But from Downpatrick to Kinsalc,
From Carlow to Kilbride,
'Mong lords and dames of high degree,
Where'er my feet have gone,
My Alary, one to equal thee
I've neve r look'd upon ;
1 live in darknees and in doubt
Whene'er my love's away,
But, were the blessed sun put out,
iler shadow would make day !
'Tis she indeed, young bud of Hiss,
And gentle as she's fair,
Though lily-white her bosom is,
And sunny-bright her hair,
And dewy-azure her blue eye,
And rosy-red her check,
Yet brighter she in modesty,
More beautifully meek !
The world's wise men from north to south
Can never cure my pain ;
But one kiss from her honey mouth
Would make me whole again 1
CASH EL OF MUNSTER.
IK1SH RUSTIC BALLAD.
I'D wed you without herds, without money, or
rich array,
And I'd wed you on a dewy morning at day-
dawn gray ;
My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far
a\vay
In Cashel town, though the bare deal board w-re
our marriage-bed this day !
Oh, fair maid, remember the green hill side,
Remember how [ hunted about the valleys wide;
Time now has worn me ; my locks are turn'd to
The ycai is scarce and I am poor, but send me
not, love, away !
Oh, deem not my blood is of base strain, my
gH
Oh, deem not my birth was as the birth of the
churl ;
Marry me, and prove me, and say *oon you will,
That noble blood is written on my right side
htill !
6">2
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
My purse 1 holds no red gold, no coin of the silver
white,
No herds are mine to drive through the long
twilight!
But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare
though I be and lone,
Oh, I'd take her with me kindly to the county
Tyrone.
Oh, my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are,
And, oh, rny girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach
you bear :
" I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom
1%,
And, oh, may no other maiden know auch re-
proach as I !"
THE COOLUN.
IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD.
On, had you seen the Coolun,
Walking down by the cuckoo's street,
With the dew of the meadow shining
On her milk-white twinkling feet !
My love she is, and my coleen oye,
And she dwells in Bal'nagar;
And she bears the pal in of beauty bright
From the fairest that in Erin are.
In Bal'nagar is the Coolun,
Like the berry on the bough her cheek ;
Bright beauty dwells forever
On her fair neck and ringlets sleek :
Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music
Than the lark or thrush at dawn,
Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing
Farewell to the setting sun.
Ris up, my boy ! make ready
My horse, for I forth would ride,
To follow the modest damsel,
Where she walks on the green hill side :
For, ever since our youth were we plighted,
In faith, troth, and wedlock true
She is sweeter to me nine times over,
Than organ or cuckoo !
For, ever since my childhood
I loved the fair and darling child ;
But our people came between us,
And with lucre our pure love defiled :
Oh, my woe it is, and my bitter pain,
And I weep it night and day,
That the coleen bawn of my early love
Is torn from my heart away.
Sweetheart and faithful treasure,
Be constant still, and trne ;
Nor for want of herds and houses
Leave one who would ne'er leave yon :
I'll pledge you the blessed Bible,
Without and eke within,
That the faithful God will provide for us.
Without thanks to kith or kin.
Oh, love, do you remember
When we lay all night alone
Beneath the ash in the winter-storm,
When the oak wood round did groan f
No shelter then from the blast had we,
The bitter blast or sleet,
But your gown to wrap about our heads,
And my coat round our feet.
YOUGHALL HARBOR.
IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD.
ONE Sunday morning, into Youghall walking r
I met a maiden upon the way ;
Her little mouth sweet as fairy music,
Her soft cheeks blushing like dawn of day !
I laid a bold hand upon her bosom,
And ask'd a kiss : but she answer'd, " No :
Fair sir, be gentle ; do not tear my mantle ;
'Tis none in Erin my grief can know.
"'Tis but a little hour since I left Yonghall,
And my love forbade me to return ;
And now my weary way I wander
Into Cappoquin, a poor girl forlorn :
Then do not tempt me ; for, alas ! I dread them
Who with tempting proffers teach girls to
roam,
Who'd first deceive us, then faithless leave us,
And send us shame-faced and barefoot home,"
" My heart and hand here ! I mean you marriage !
I have loved like you and known love's pain ;
And if you turn back now to Youghall Harbor,
You ne'er shall want house or home again :
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
653
You shall have a lace cap like any lady,
Cloak and capuchin, too, to keep you warm,
And if God please, maybe, a little baby,
By and by to nestle within your arm."
CEAN DUBH DEELISEL 1
Pur your head, darling, darling, dnrling,
Your darling bu^V head my heart above ;
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fra-
grance,
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you
love ?
Oh, many and many a young girl for me is
pining,
Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind
free,
For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows ;
But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee !
Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,
Your darling black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fra-
grance,
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you
love?
BOATMAN'S HYMN.
HARK that bear me through foam and squall,
You in the storm are my castle wall :
Though the sea should redden from bottom to
top,
From tiller to mast she takes no drop ;
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry a*-oon, my land and store !
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leorf
She dresses herself, and goes gliding on,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn ;
For God has bless'd her, gunnel and whale,
And oh ! if you saw her stretch out to the gale,
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.
Whillan,* ahoy ! old heart of stone,
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
1 Pronoonoed Onwn dfiu dttUth, 1. e., clear black bead
'' 0<> Ifor, I. e., abundantly well.
9 W hillan. rock on the shore near Blackaod Harbor
Answer me well on the bursting brine
Suw you ever a bark like mine ?
On the tide-top, the tide-top, <kc.
Says Whillan : " Since first I was made of stone,
I have look'd abroad o'er the beach alone
But till to-day, on the bursting brine,
Saw I never a bark like thine,"
On the tide-top, the tide-top, kc.
14 God of the air !" the seamen shout,
When they see us tossing the brine about ;
44 Give us the shelter of strand or rock,
Or through and through us she goes with a
shock!"
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store,
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leor !
THE DEAR OLD AIR.
MISFORTUNE'S train may chase our joys,
But not our love ;
And I those pensive looks will prize,
The smiles of joy above :
Yoor tender looks of love shall still
Delight and console ;
Even though your eyes the tear-drops fill
Beyond your love's control.
Of troubles past we will not speak,
Or future woe :
Nor mark, thus leaning check to cheek,
The stealing tear-drops flow :
But I'll sing you the dear old Irish air,
Soothing and low,
You loved so well when, gay as fair,
You won me long ago.
THE LAPFUL OF NUTS.
WIIKNE'ER I see soft hazel eyes
And nut-brown curls.
I think of those bright t.aya I spent
Among the Limerick girls ;
When up through Gratia woods I went,
Nutting with thee ;
654
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
And we plnck'd the glossy clustering fruit
From many a bending- tree.
Beneath the hazel boughs we sat,
Thou, love, and I,
And the gathered nuts lay in thy lap,
Beneath thy downcast eye :
But little we thought of the store we'd won,
I, love, or thou ;
For our hearts were full, and we dare not own
The love that's spoken now.
Oh, there's wars for willing hearts in Spain,
And high Germanic !
And I'll come back, ere long, again,
With knio-htlv fame and fee :
O f
And I'll come back, if I ever come back,
Faithful to thee,
That sat with thy white lap full of nuts
Beneath the hazel tree.
MARY'S WAKING.
SOFT be the sleep, and sweet the dreams,
And bright be the awaking,
Of Mary this mild April morn,
On my pale vigil breaking :
May weariness and wakefulness
And unrepaid endeavor,
And aching eyes like mine this day,
Be far from her forever !
The quiet of the opening dawn,
The freshness of the moraine* 1 ,
O'
Be with her through the cheerful day
Till peaceful eve returning
Shall put an end to household cares
And dutiful employment,
And bring the hours of genial mirth
And innocent enjoyment.
And whether in the virgin choir,
A joyous sylph, she dances,
Or o'er the smiling circle sheds
Her wit's sweet influences ;
May he by favoring fate assign'd
Her partner or companion,
Be one that with an angel's mind
Is fit to hold communion.
Ah me ! the wish is hard to frame !
But should some youth, more favor'd,
Achieve the happiness which I
Have fruitlessly endeavor'd,
God send them love and length of days,
And health and wealth abounding,
And long around their hearth to hear
Their children's voices sounding !
Be still, be still, rebellious heart ;
If he have fairly won her,
To bless their union I am bound
In duty and in honor :
But, out alas ! 'tis all in vain ;
I love her still too dearly
To pray for blessings which I feel
So hard to give sincerely.
HOPELESS LOVE.
SINCE hopeless of thy love I go,
Some little mark of pity show ;
And only one kind parting look bestow,
One parting look of pity mild
On him, through starless tempest wild,
Who lonely hence to-night must go, exiled.
But even rejected love can warm
The heart through night and storm :
And unrelenting though they be,
Thine eyes beam life on me.
And I will bear that look benign
Within this darkly-troubled breast to shine,
Though never, never can thyself, ah me, be mine I 1
THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND.
OLD IRISH SONG.
A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospita
cheer,
Uileacan dubh !
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the
yellow barley ear ;
Uileacan dubh f
There is honey in the trees where her misty val< ,
expand,
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
055
And her forest paths, in summer, arc by falling
waters fann'd,
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs
i' the yellow sand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the
knee,
Uileacan dubh !
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish
sea ;
Uileacan dubh !
And I will make my journey, if life ana health
but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fra-
grant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth
and high command,
Foi the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the
ground,
Uileacan dubh /
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
(fileucan dubh !
Tho creses on the water and the sorrels are at
hand.
And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music
bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i'
the forests grand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
TORNA'S LAMENT FOR CORC AND
NIALL.
rorna, chief doctor and archbnrd of Ireland, was thf last great
bard of pagan Ireland. Among the poems which have reached un
i- his lament over Core and Niall of the nine homages,' whom he
wn hound by the tie of fosterage. In its native simplicity. It pre-
riits a touching picture of minded affection, devoted loyalty, and
desolate bereavement With what natural touches tbo har.l por-
tray* the character of the royal youths, and dwells with justifiable
[.'!!. on the honor of his own position placed between them
Niall on the right side, the seat of dignity; and Con:, to whom
pride was unknown, on his left, appropriately nearer hl heart.
T if present version of this ancient relic Is as nearly literal as pos-
sible, and expressly made In deprecation of that spirit of refining
upon the original by which many of the poetical translations v>f th*
bards are characterized.
Mr foster-children were not slack ;
Core or Neal ne'er turn'd his back ;
Neal, of Tara's palace hoar,
Worthy seed of Owen More ;
Core, of Cashel's pleasant rock,
Con-cead-cahu's ' honored stock.
Joint exploits made Erin theirs
Joint exploits of high cotrpeers;
Fierce they were, and stormy strong
Neal, amid the reeling throng,
Stood terrific ; nor was Core
Hindmost in the heavy work.
Neal Mac Eochv Vivahain
Ravaged Albin, hill and plain ;
While he fought from Tara far,
Core disdained unequal war.
Never saw I man like Neal,
Making foreign foemen reel ;
Never saw I man like Core,
Swinging at the savage work;*
Never saw I better twain,
Search all Erin round again
Twain so stout in warlike deeds
Twain so mild in peaceful weeds.
These the foster-children twain
Of Torna, I who sing the strain ;
These they are, the pious ones,
My sons, my darling foster-sons !
Who duly every day would come
To glad the old man's lonely home
Ah, happy days I've spent between
Old Tara's hall and Cashel-grecn !
From Tara down to Cashtl ford.
From Cashel back to Tara's lord.
When with Neal, his regent, I
Dealt with princes royally.
If with Core perchance I were,
I was his prime counsellor.
Therefore Neal I ever set
On my right hand thus to get
Judgments grave, and weighty worda,
For the right hand loyal lords ;
But, ever on my left-hand side.
Gentle Core, who knew not pride,
That none other so might part
His dear body from my heart.
Gone is generous Core O'Yeor. woe is mel
Gone is valiant Neal O'Con woe is me!
1 Con of the hundred battles.
In the paraphrase of this elegy, by Mr. D'Alton, In ibt U!
trelsy :"
"The eye of heaven ne'er looked on one
So God-like In the field a* Tarn's lord.
Save him the eomrmle of his youth alone-
Brave Core, Usrriflc wleldrr of the iwonl "
P56
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON.
Gone the root of Tarn's stock woe is me !
Gone the head of Cashel rock woe is me !
Broken is my witless brain
Neal, the mighty king, is slain !
Broken is my brui>ed heart's core
Core, the High More, is no more ! '
Mourns Lea Con, in tribute's chain,
Lost Mac Eochy Vivahain,
And her lost Mac Lewy true
Mourns Lea Mogha,' ruined too I
UNA PHELIMY.
AX ULSTER BALLAD, A. D. 1641.
" AWAKKX, Una Phelimy,
How canst thou slumber so.
How canst thou dream so quietly
Through such a night of woe ?
'Through such a aignt of woe," tie said,
" How canst thou dreaming lie,
When the kindred of thy love lie dead,
And he must fall OL- fiyf"
She rose and to the casement came ;
"Oh, William dear, speak low ;
For I should bear my brothers' blame
Did Hugh or Angus know."
" Did Hugh or Angus, know, Una f
All, little dreamest thou
-On what a bloody errand bent,
Are Hugh and Angus now."
* Oh, what has chanced my brothers dear !
My Willia-m, tell me true !
Our God forbode that what I fear
Be that they're gone to do !"
* They're gone on bloody work, Una,
The worst we feared is done !
They've taken to the knife at last,
The massacre's begun !
1 The beautiful definition of the different feeling experienced by
Hhe loss of each, here conveyed his reason being affected by the
peat national loss sustained by the death of Niall ; wh,!le bis heart
i bruised by the loss of Core, his favorite is thus expressed in
Mr. D'Alton's version [:
"In NialPs fall my reason felt the shock;
But, oh, when Core expired, my heart was broken."
' Leath Cuin, or Con. and Leath Moirha the names of the great
northern and southern divisions of the island, of which these princes
were the respective representatives. This territoriiil division was
made in the reign of Conn of the hundred battles, A. D. ISO, and
<narked by a great wall which extended from Galway to Dublin.
"They came upon us while we slept
Fast by the sedgy Bann ;
In darkness to our beds they crept,
And left me not a man !
Bann rolls my comrades ever now
Through all his pools and fords ;
And their hearts' best blood is warm. Una,
Upon thy brothers' swords !
" And mine had borne them company,
Or the good blade I wore,
Which ne'er left foe in victory
Or friend in need before,
In theirs as in their fellows' hearts
Also had dimm'd its shine,
But for these tangling curls, Una,
And witching eyes of thine !
" I've borne the brand of flight for these,
For these the scornful cries
Of kmd insulting enemies;
But busk thee, love, and rise,
For Ireland's now no place for us ;
'Tis time to take our flight
When neighbor steals on neighbor thai,
And stabbers strike by night.
" And black and bloody the revenge
For this dark midnight's sake
The kindred of my rnurder'd friends
On thine and thee will take,
Unless thou rise and fly betimes,
Unless thou fly with me,
Sweet Una, from this land of crimes
To peace beyond the sea.
" For trustful pillows wait us there,
And loyal friends beside,
Where the broad lands of my father are.
Upon the banks of Clyde.
In five days hence a ship will be
Bound for that happy home ;
Till then we'll make our sanctuary
In sea-cave's sparry dome.
Then busk thee, Una Phelimy,
And o'er the waters come 1"
* * * *
The midnight moon is wading deep,
The land sends off the gale,
The boat beneath the sheltering steep
Hangs on a seaward sail ;
And, leaning o'er the weather-rail,
The lovers, hand in hand.
POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON
65,
Take their last look of Innisfail
" Farewell, doom'd Ireland !"
" And art thou doomed to discord still f
And shall thy sons ne'er cease
To search and struggle for thine ill,
Ne'er share thy good in peace?
Already do thy mountains feel
Avenging Heaven's ire ;
\lark hark this is no thunder peal,
That was no lightning fire !"
It was no fire from heaven he saw,
For, far from hill and dell,
O'er Gobbin's brow the mountain flaw
Hears musket-shot and yell,
And shouts of brutal glee, that tell
A foul and fearful tale,
Vhile over blast and breaker swell
Thin shrip|fj and woman's wail.
Now fill they far the upper sky,
Now down 'mid air they go,
The frantic scream, the piteous cry,
The groan of rage and woe;
And wilder iu their agony
And shriller still they grow
Now cease they, choking suddenly,
The waves boom on below.
" A bloody and a black revenge 1
Oh, Una, bless'd are we
Who this sore-troubled land can change
For peace beyond the sea ;
But for the manly hearts and true
That Antrim still retain,
Or be their banner green or blue,
For all that there remain,
God grant them quiet freedom too,
And blithe homes soon again I"
POEMS OF JOHN BANIM.
AILLEEN.
Tis not for love of gold I go,
'Tis not for love of fame ;
Though fortune should her smile bestow
And 1 may win a name,
Ailleen,
And 1 may win a name.
And yet it is for gold I go,
And yet it is for fame,
That they may deck another brow,
And bless another name,
Ailleen,
And bless another name.
For this but this, I go; for this
I lose thy love awhile,
And all the soft and quiet bliss
Of thy young, faithful smile,
Ailleen,
Of thy young, faithful smile.
I go to brave a world I hate,
And woo it o'er and o'er,
And tempt a wave, and try a fate
Upon a stranger shore,
Ailleen,
Upon a stranger shore.
Oh ! when the bays are all my own,
I know a heart will care !
Oh ! when the gold is wooed and won,
I know a brow shall wear,
Ailleen,
I know a brow shall wear !
And when, with both return'd again,
My native land to see,
I know a smile will meet me there,
And a hand will welcome me,
Ailleen,
And a hand will welcome ma
SOGGARTH AROON.
AM I the slave they say,
Soggarth aroon ?'
Since you did show the way,
Soggarth aroon,
Their slave no more to be,
While they would work with me
Ould Ireland's slavery,
Soggarth aroon ?
Why not her poorest man,
Soggarth aroon,
Try and do all he can,
Soggarth aroon,
Her commands to fulfil
Of his own heart and will,
Side by side with you stil^
Soggarth aroon ?
Loyal and brave to you,
Soggarth aroon,
Yet be no slave to you,
Soggarth aroon,
Nor, out of fear to you,
Stand up so near to you
Och ! out of fear to you !
Soggarth aroon !
Who in the winter's night,
Soggarth aroon,
When the cowld blast did biu>-
Soggarth aroon,
Came to my cabin-door,
And on my eartheu-flure
Knelt by me, sick and poor,
Soggarth aroon ?
Who, on the marriage-day,
Soggarth aroou,
Made the poor caoin gay,
Soggarth aroon
' I'l ]r; iliinr
POEMS OF JOHN JJANIM.
And did both laugh and sing,
Making our hearts to ring,
At the poor christening,
Soggarth aroon '(
Who, as friend only met,
Soggarth aroon,
Never did flout me yet,
Soggarth aroon ?
And when my hearth was dim,
Gave, while his eye did brim,
What I should give to him,'
Soggarth aroon ?
Oeh ! you, and only you,
Soggarth aroon !
And for this 1 was true to you,
Soggarth aroon ;
In love they'll never shake,
When for ould Ireland's sake
We a true part did take,
Soggarth aroon !
THE FETCH.
[la Ireland, a Fetch it) the supernatural fat-simile of some
individual, which comes to insure to ita original a happy
longevity or immediate dissolution. If Been in the morninjj,
the one event is predicted ; if In the evening, the other.
Aut/ior'i lioie.]
TUB mother died when the child was born,
And left me her baby to keep ;
I rock'd its cradle the night and morn,
Or, silent, hung o'er it to weep.
Twas a sickly child through its infancy,
He cheeks were so ashy pale ;
Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee,
Out in the sharp, fresh gale.
And then my little girl grew strong,
And laugh'd the hours away ;
Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song,
"Which lie taught her at break of day.
/
1 'I'll'- Irir-h Roman Catholic priei*( In -i]|>|><n tril by volun-
tary conlnliiilioiie from tin- dock , but here, (ur in iiumy rttfen.)
Uic pnem icveroe- the order ol iflvtfiK- and txsaUms charily
AU ihe IMHIT pcjuanl
When she wreathed her hair in thicket bow-
ers,
With the hedge-rose and hare-bell blue,
I call'd her my May, in her crown of flonon.
And her smile so soft and new.
And the rose, I thought, never shamed hoi
check,
Hut rosy and rosier made it ;
And her eye of blue did more brightly b'^ak,
Thro' the blue-bell that strove to sha^e it.
One evening I left her asleep in her smiles,
And walk'd through the mountain* lonely ;
I was far from my darling, ah ! many . u ng
miles,
And I thought of her, and her only !
She darken'd my path like a troubled drc DQ
In that solitude far and drear ;
I spoke to my child ! but she did not see/
To hearken with human ear.
She only look'd with a dead, dead eye,
And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow,
I knew her Fetch ! she was call'd to da.
And she died upon the morrow.
THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG/
You know it, now it is betray'd
This moment in mine eye
And in my young cheek's crimson shade
And in my whispi-r'd sigh ;
You know it, now yet listen, now
Though ne'er was love more true,
My plight and troth, and virgin vow,
Still, still I keep from you,
Ever
Ever, until a proof you give
How oft you've heard me say
I would not e'en his empress live,
Who idles life away
1 In tin-in- lines we ece again Mr l'mniin> tin-qualify fid
want of mastery in lyric composition ; Inn In- i- happier 1)1*0
usual throughout the last verve, particularly In the two Ci.al
line*, which are exquisitely touching iu feeliiiK, auU yerlw.1
in execution
660
1'OEMS OF JOHN BANLM.
Without one effort for the land,
In which my fathers' graven
Were hollow'd by a despot hand
To darkly close on slaves
Never !
See ! round yourself the shackles hang,
Yet come you to Love's bowers,
That only he may soothe their pang,
Or hide their links in flowers;
Sut try all things to snap them, first,
And should all fail, when tried,
fated chain you cannot burst
My twining arms shall hide
Ever!
THE RECONCILIATION.
[This ballad is paid to have been founded on a fact which
ocnrred In a remote country chapel at the time when exertions
were made to pnt down faction-fight? among the peasantry.]
THE old man he knelt at the altar
His enemy's hand to take,
And at first his weak voice did falter,
And his feeble limbs did shake;
For his only brave boy, his glory,
Had been stretch'd at the old man's
feet,
A corpse, all so haggard and gory,
By the hand which he now must greet
And soon the old man stopp'd speaking
And 'rage which had not gone by,
From under his brows came breaking
Up into his enemy's eye
And now his limbs were not shaking,
But his clench'd hands his bosom cross'd,
And he look'd a fierce wish to be taking
Revenge for the boy he had lost !
but the old man he look'd around him,
And thought of the place he was in,
And thought of the promise which bound
him,
And thought that revenge was sin
And then, crying tears, like a woman,
" Your hand ! " he said " aye hat
hand !
And I do forgive you, foeman,
For the sake of our Weeding land
POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER.
BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING.
"Paddy Cf Carroll."
BAD luck to this marching,
Pipeclaying and starching ;
How neat one must be to be kill'd by the
French !
I'm sick of parading,
Through wet and cold wading,
Or standing all night to be shot in a trench.
o o
To the tune of a fife
They dispose of your life,
You surrender your soul to some illigant
lilt;
Now I like " Garryowen" 1
When I hear it at home,
But its not half so sweet when you're going
to be kilt.
Then, though up late and early
Our pay comes so rarely,
The devil a farthing we've ever to spare ;
They say some disaster
Befell the paymaster;
OE my conscience I think that the money's
not there.
And, just think, what a blunder,
They won't let us plunder,
While the convents invite us to rob them,
'tis clear ;
Though there isn't a village
But cries, " Come and pillage !"
Yet we leave all the mutton behind for
Mounseer. 1
Like a sailor that's nigh land,
I lout* for that Island
> A favorite Irish air, and also a celebrated locality In the
city of Limerick.
' A capital Hue this the natural comment of a hungry
oldier, illustrating a Tact honorable to the British army In
the Peninsular war
Where even the kisses we steal if we please ;
Where it is no disgrace
If you don't wash your face,
And you've nothing to do but to stand at
your ease.
With no sergeant to abuse us,
We fight to amuse us,
Sure it's better beat Christians than kick %
baboon ;
How I'd dance like a fairy
To see ould Dunleary, 1
And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a
drasroon !
IT'S LITTLE FOR GLORY I CARE.
IT'S little for glory I care ;
Sure ambition is only a fable ;
I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor,
With lashins of drink on the table.
I like to lie down in the sun,
And drame when my faytures is scorchin',
That when I'm too ould for more fun,
Why, I'll marry a wife with a fortune.
And in winter, with bacon and eggs,
And a place at the turf-fire basking,
Sip my punch as I roasted my legs,
Oh ! the devil a more I'd be asking.
o
For I haven't a jaynius for work,
It was never the gift of the Bradics,
But I'd make a most illigant Turk,
For I'm fond of tol>:iee<> and
1 A landing-place in Dublin Hay now called Kinggtovru, la
commemoration of the visit of George IV.. UK " Pa*agv," In
the Cove of I'ork. k'<>e" by tin- liiuher " style and title" of
"Qiicenstown," since ihe visit of Her M;iji-iiy (ucfn Victoria.
Duuleary, of old, could aflbrd -heller but to a few n>hing-boati
under a small pier. The harbor of Kingstown has anchorage
within its capacious sweep ( masonry Tor chip* of war; ID
(act it i* one of the ilnest works in the British dominion*.
662
POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER.
LARRY M'HALE.
OH ! Larry M'Hale he had little to fear,
And never could want when the crops
didn't fail ;
He'd a house and demesne and eight hundred
a year,
Aud the heart for to spend it, had Larry
M'llftle!
The soul of a party, the life of a feast,
And an illigant song he could sing, I'll be
bail;
He would ride with the rector, and drink
with the priest,
Oh ! the broth of a boy was old Larry
M'Hale.
It's little l-'e cared for the judge or recorder, 1
Ilis house was as big and as strong as a
J ilil ;
With a cruel four-pounder, he kept all in
great order,
He'd murder the country, would Larry
M'Hale.
He'd a blunderbuss too ; of horse-pistols a
pair ;
But his favorite weapon was always a flail :
I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair,
For he handled itnately, did Larry M'Hale.
1 I forget the narae of the quaint old chronicler, \vbo, speak-
ing of the unsettled grate of Ireland, writes, " They pay the
Krng's writ rnnneth not. here, but to that I say nay: the
King's writ doth rnnue, but it rnnneth awaye."
Oiice npon a time it was nearly as much as a bailiffs life
wap worth to cross the Shannon westward iih a writ. If he
escaped with hii> life, he was sure to get rouj:li treatment any-
how. One line morning, for example, n Imilitl reitmiod tc the
policitor who had sent him into Galway with the kind's parch-
ment, and his aspect declared discomlittire : he looked singu-
larly bilious, moreover. " 1 see," said the attorney, " you did
not serve it."
" No, faith."
" Then you will return it, with an affidavit that "
" 1 can't return it," said the bailiff.
" Why not f "
" They cotch me and made me ate it."
" In it eat the parchment f "
" Every scrap of it."
" And what did you do with the seal ?"
" They made me ate that too, the villain? !"
Lrt it not be imagined, however, that we had an tne fun to
onn-elvee in Ireland, or that we can even claim originality in
oar boluses for bailiffs ; for it is recorded that a certain
" Roger Lord Clifford, who died 1327, was so obstinate and
CAreloeB of the king's displeasure, as that he caused a pur-
iiivant that served a writ upon him in the Baron's chamber,
lucre to eat and swallow down part of the wax that the said
writ was sealed with, a? rt were in contempt of the said
4mj{." Memoir of the Countess of Pembroke, JJS.
His ancestors were kings before Moses wa*
born ,
His mother descended from great Gratia
Uaile ;
He laujjh'd all the Blakes and the Frenches
O
to scorn :
They were mushrooms compared to old
"Larry M'Hale.
He sat down every day to a beautiful diiwier,
With cousins and uncles enough for a tail ;
And, though loaded with debt, oh ! the devil
a thinner
Couhi law or the sheriff make Larry
M'Hale.
With a larder supplied, and a cellar well-
stored,
None lived half so well, from Fair-Head
to Kinsale,
And he piously said, "I've a plentiful board,
And the Lord he is good to old Larry
M'llale."
So fill up your glass, and a high bumper give
him,
It's little we'd care for the tithes or repale ;
For ould Erin would be a fine country to
live in,
If we only had plenty, like Larry M'llale.
MARY DRAPER.
DOX'T talk to me of London dames,
Nor rave about your foreign rhunes,
That never lived except in drames,
Nor shone, except on paper :
I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew,
Who lived in Ballywhackmacrew,
And, let me tell you, mighty few
Could equal Mary Draper.
Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue,
Her hair was brown of deepest hue,
Her foot was small and neat to view,
Her waist was slight and taper ;
Her voice was music to your ear,
A lovely brogue, so rich and clear.
POEMS OF CIIAJILES JAMES LEVER.
663
Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear
As from sweet Mary Draper.
She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team,
Or with a fly she'd whip a stream,
Or may-be sing you " Rousseau's dream,"
For nothing could escape her ;
I've seen her, too upon my word
At sixty yards bring down her bird
Oh ! she charm'd all the Forty-third !
Did lovely Mary Draper.
And, at the spring assizes ball,
The ju-nior bar would, one and all,
For all her favorite dances call,
And Harry Deane 1 would caper ;
Lord Clare* would then forget his lore ;
King's counsel, voting Inw a bore,
Were proud to figure on the floor
For love of Mary Draper.
The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too,
Were all her slaves, and so would you,
If you had only but one view
Of such a face or shape, or
Her pretty ankles but, alone,
It's only west of old Athlone
Such girls were found and now they're
gone
So, here's to Mary Draper 1
NOW CAN'T YOU BE AISY ?
Am " ArraA. Kutty, now can't you be aityP'
OH ! what stories I'll tell when my sodger-
iug's o'er,
And the gallant Fourteenth is disbanded
Not a drill uor parade will I hear of no more,
When safely in Ireland landed.
1 Barry Deane Urady, a distinguished lawyer on the Western
Circuit.
* Lord Chancellor of Ireland, celebrated for bis hatred of
Cnrran. He carried th! feeling to the unjust and undignified
length of always treating t.iiu with disrespect in Court, to the
great injury of Curran's practice. On one occasion, when
that eminent man was addressing him. Lord Clare turned to
a pet dog beside him on the bench, and gave all the attention
to his canine favorite which he xhould have bestowed on the
counsel. Curran suddenly stopped. Lord Clare observing
this, said, "Yon may no nn, Mr. Curran I'm listening to
yon." " 1 b*?K pardon for my mistake, my Lord," replied
Outran ; " 1 "lopped, my Lord, because 1 thought your Lord-
With the blood that I spilt the Frenchmen
I kilt,
I'll drive all the girls half crazy ;
And some 'cute one will cry, with a wink of
her eye,
" Mr. Free, now why can't you be aisy ?"
I'll tell how we routed the squadrons in fight,
And destroy'd them all at " Talavera,"
And then I'll just add how we fimsh'd the
night,
In learning to dance the " Bolera ;"
How by the moonshine we drank raal wine,
And rose next day fresh as a daisy ;
Then some one will cry, with a look mighty
sly,
" Arrah, Mickey now can't you be aisy ?"
I'll tell how the nights with Sir Arthur we
spent,
Around a big fire in the air too,
Or may-be enjoying ourselves in a tent,
Exactly like Donnybrook fair too ;
How he'd call out to me " Pass the wine,
Mr. Free,
For you're a man never is lazy !"
Then some one will cry, with a wink of her eye,
" Arrah, Mickey dear can't you be aisy ?"
I'll tell, too, the .long years in fighting we
pass'd,
Till Mounseer ask'd Bony to lead him.
And Sir Arthur, grown tired of glory at last,
Begg'd of one Mickey Free to succeed him.
But, " acushla," says I, " the truth is, I'm shy !
There's a lady in Ballynacrazy !
And I swore on the book " she gave me a
look.
And cried, " Mickey now can't you be
aisy ?"
OH! ONCE WE WERE ILLIGANT
PEOPLE.
On 1 once we were illigant people,
Though we now live in cabins of mud ;
And the land that ye see from the steeple
Belong'd to us all from the flood.
My father was then king of Connanght,
My graudaunt viceroy of Tralee;
664
POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER.
But the Sassenach came, and, signs on it !
The divil an acre have we.
The least of us then were all earls,
And jewels we wore without name ;
We drank punch out of rubies and pearls
Mr. Petrie, 1 can tell you the same,
But, except some turf-mould and potatoes,
There's nothing our own we can call :
And the English bad luck to them ! hate
us,
Because we've more fun than them all !*
My grandaunt was niece to St. Kevin,
That's the reason my name's Mickey Free !
Priest's nieces but sure he's in heaven,
And his failins is nothin' to me.
And we still might get on without doctors,
If they'd let the ould island alone ;
And if purplemen, priests, and tithe-proctors
Were cramm'd down the great gun of
Athlone.
POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE,
DEAR.
Av I was a monarch in stat'e,
Like Romulus or Julius Caysar,
With the best of fine victuals to eat,
And drink like great Nebuchadnezzar,
A rasher of bacon I'd have,
And potatoes the finest was seen, sir ;
And for drink, it's no claret I'd crave,
But a keg of old Mullen's potteen, sir.
With the smell of the smoke on it still.
They talk of the Romans of ould,
Whom they say in their own times was
frisky :
1 Now Dr. Petrie. The eong was written by my eateemed
friend, the author, before my other esteemed friend, the dis-
tinguished antiquary alluded to, had the academic honor of
LL.D. appended to his name a name which has laid the
alphabet under many more contributions of the same sort.
* This is a capital idea, and most characteristic of the queer
fellow that utters it, Mister "Mickey Free,"* to whose ac-
quaintance I would recommend the reader if there be any who
does not know him already. For my own part, I will add a
wish that all the rivalries between the sister isles, for the
future, may be in the pursuit of happiness in obtaining
wnat phall give cause to laugh the most.
rule " Charles O'MaHur "
But trust me, to keep out the cowld,
The Romans' at home here like whisky.
Sure it warms both the head and the heart,
It's the soul of all rea'lin' and writin' ;
It teaches both science and art,
And disposes for love or for fightin'.
Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear.
THE BIVOUAC.
A IB" Garry t/Ktn."
Now that we've pledged each eye of
blue,
And every maiden fair and true,
And our green island home to you
The ocean's wave adorning,
Let's give one hip, hip, hip, hurra !
And drink e'en to the coming day,
W r hen squadron square
We'll all be there !
To meet the French in the morning.
May his bright laurels never fade,
Who leads our fighting fifth brigade,
Those lads so true in heart and blade.
And lamed for danger scorning ;
So join me in one hip, hurra!
And drink e'en to the coming day,
When squadron square
We'll all be there !
To meet the French in the morning.
And when with years and honors crown'd,
You sit some homeward heai-th around,
And hear no more the stirring sound
That spoke the trumpet's warning ;
You fill, and drink, one hip, hurra 1
And pledge the memory of the day,
When squadron square
They all were there
To meet the French in the morning.
* An abbreviation of Koman Catholic. The Irish peasant
used the word "Roman" in contradistinction to that of
" Protestant." An Hibernian, in a religious wrangle with a
Scotchman, said., " Ah, don't bother me any more, man ! I'll
prove to ye mine is the raal ould religion by one word. St.
Paul wrote an epistle to The Romans /but he never wrote ona
to The Protestants. Answer me that /"
POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER.
6(35
THE GIRLS OF THE WEST.
" Thady ye Gander."
You may talk, if you please,
Of the brown Portuguese,
But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam,
You nothing will meet
Half so lovely or sweet
As the girls at home, the girls at home.
Their eyes are not sloes,
Nor so long is their nose,
But between me and you, between me and
you,
They are just as alarming,
And ten times more charming,
With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.
They don't ogle a man
O'er the top of their fan
Till his heart's in a flame, his heart's in a
flame ;
But though bashful and shy,
They've a look in their eye,
That just comes tc the same, just comes to
the same.
No mantillas they sport,
But a petticoat short
Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best,
And a leg but, oh murther !
I dare not go further,
So here's to the West, so here's to the West
THE IRISH DRAGOON.
Ai " Sprig <tf ShUlelaJi."
OH, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon,
In battle, in bivouac, or in a saloon
From the tip of his spur to his bright
sabertasche.
With his soldierly gait and his bearing so
high,
His gay laughing look and his light speaking
eye,
He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench,
He springs on his saddle and chasses the
French
With his jingling spur and his bright
sabertasehe.
His spirits are high and he little knows
care,
Whether sipping his claret or charging a
square
With his jingling spur and his bright
sabertasche.
As ready to sing or to skirmish he's found,
To take off his wine or to take up his ground :
When the bugle may call him, how little he
fears
To charge forth in column and beat the
Mounseers
With his jingling spur and his bright
sabertaschc.
When the battle is over he gayly rides back
To cheer every soul in the night bivouac
With his jingling spur and his bright
sabertasche.
Oh ! there you may see him in full glory
crown'd,
And he sits 'mid his friends on the hardly-
won ground,
And hear with what feeling the toast he will
give,
As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen
live
With his jingling spur and his bright
sabertasche.
THE MAN FOR GAL WAY.
To drink a toast,
A proctor roast,
Or bailiff, as the case is ;
To kiss your wife,
Or take your life
At ten or fiftei-n paces ;
To keep game cocks, to hunt the fox,
To drink in punch the Solway,
With debts galore, but fun far inoro ;
Oh, that's "the man for Gahvuy."
With debts, <fco.
The King of Oude
Is mighty proud,
And so were onest the Cay Hare ;
G66
POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER.
But ould Giles Eyre
Would make them stare,
Av he had them with the Blazers. 1
To the divil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,
He's only a prince in a small way,
And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall ;
Oh, he'd never "do for Gal way."
With debts, &c.
Ye think the Blakes
Are no " great shakes ;"
They're all his blood relations;
And the Bodkins sneeze
At the grim Chinese,
For they come from the Phenaycians.
So fill to the brim, and here's to him
Who'd drink in punch the Sol way;
With debts galore, but fun far more ;
Oh 1 that's "the man for Gal way."
With debts, &c.
THE POPE HE LEADS A HAPPY
LIFE. 1
(From the German.)
THE Pope he leads a happy life,
He knows no cares nor marriage strife ;
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine
I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.
But yet not happy is his life
He loves no maid or wedded wife,
Nor child hath he to cheer his hope
I would not wish to be the Pope.
1 This generally implies the arbitrament of the " duello,"
blazers being a figurative term for pistols ; but in the present
case, if I remember rightly, the Blazers allude to a very break-
neck pack of hounds, so called.
1 Whether this is a close or a free translation, I know
not ; but I do know it was originally written for, and sung at,
the festive meetings of the " Burschen Club" of Dublin, by
the author ; and I cannot name that Club without many a re-
miniscence of bright evenings, and of bright friends that
made them such. Brightest among them all was my early and
valued friend Charles Lever by title " King" of the Burschen-
Bhaft, while my humbler self was honored with the title of
their " Minstrel," they having recognized in me some quali-
ties which the world was afterward good enough to acknowl-
edge. Many, indeed most of the men of that Club, have
fince become distinguished ; and what songs were written
for occasions by all of them 1 What admirable fooling of the
highest class was there 1 In the words of Hamlet, we fooled
rach other to the top of onr bent ; but over all the wildest
mirth there was a presiding good taste I never once saw vio-
Uttod. A distinguished old barrister, who had known ranch
The Sultan better pleases me,
He leads a life of jollity,
Has wives as many as he will
I would the Sultan's throne then fill
But yet he's not a happy man
He must obey the Alcoran :
And dares not taste one drop of wine--
I would not that his lot were mine.
So here I take my lowly stand,
Pll drink my own, my native land ;
I'll kiss my maiden's lips divine,
And drink the best of Rhenish wiue.
And when my maiden kisses me
I'll fancy I the Sultan be ;
And when my cheering glass I tope,
I'll fancy then I am the Pope.
THE PICKETS ARE FAST RETREAT
ING, BOYS.
AIB " The Young May Moon."
THE pickets are fast retreating, boys,
The last tattoo is beating, boys ;
So let every man
Finish his can,
And drink to our next merry meeting,
boys!
The colonel so gayly prancing, boys,
Has a wonderful trick of advancing, boys;
When he sings out so large,
" Fix bayonets and charge !"
He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys !
of the former bright days of Dublin, was onr gnest on one
occasion, and he said that he never had witnessed anything
like our festive board, since the famous "Monks of the
Screw." Oh ! merry times of the Burschenshaft, how often I
recall yon 1 and yet there is sometimes a dash of sadness in
the recollection. Too truly says the song
" The walks where we've roam'd without tiring,
The songs that together we've sung,
The jest, to whose merry inspiring
Our mingling of laughter hath rung ;
Ok, trifles like these become precious,
Embalm'd in the memory of years ; .
The smiles of the past, so remember'd,
How often they waken our tears I"
POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER.
Gf>7
Lei Mounseer look ever so big, my boys,
Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys?
When we play " Garryowen"
He'd rather go home,
For ftomi'how he's no taste for a jig, my boys.
WIDOW MALONE.
Dn> you hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone 1
Who lived in the town of Athlone ?
Ohonc !
Oh, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts,
So lovrly the Widow Malone,
Ohone 1
So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full seore,
Or more,
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store ;
From the minister down
To the clerk of the crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone I
All were courting the Widow Malone.
O
Hut BO modest wns Mistress Malone,
'Twas krown
That no one could see her alone,
O .one!
Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone !
So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare,
How quare I
It's little for blushing they care
Down there,
Put his arm round her waist
Gave ten kisses at laste
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone,
My own!"
"Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone'
And the widow they a-11 thought so shy,
My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or si:jh,
For why ?
But, " Lucius," says she,
"Since you've now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,
Ohone !
You may marry your Mary Malone."
There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong,
And one comfort, it's not very long,
But strong,
If for widows you die,
L^arn to kiss, not to sigh,
For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,
Ohone !
Oh, they're all like sweet Mistreps Malone
POEMS OF JOHN STERLING,
THE MARINERS.
RAISE we the yard, ply the oar,
The breeze is calling us swift away;
The waters are breaking in foam on the
shore;
Our boat no more can stay, can stay.
When the blast flies fast in the clouds on high,
And billows are roaring loud below,
The boatman's song, in the stormy sky,
Still dares the gale to blow, to blow.
The timber that frames his faithful boat,
Was dandled in storms on the mountain
peaks; [float,
And in storms, with bounding keel, 'twill
And laugh when the sea-fiend shrieks,
and shrieks.
And then on the calm and glistening nights,
We have tales of wonder, and joy, and fear,
The deeds of the powerful ocean sprites,
With our hearts we cheer, we cheer.
For often the dauntless mariner knows
That he must sink to the land beneath,
Where the diamond on trees of coral grows,
In emerald halls of Death, of Death.
Onward we sweep through smooth and storm;
We are voyagers all in shine or gloom;
And the dreamer who skulks by his chim-
ney warm.
Drifts in his sleep to doom, to doom.
THE DREAMER ON THE CLIFF.
OXCE more, thou darkly rolling main,
I bid thy lonely strength adieu;
And sorrowing leave thee once again,
Familiar long, yet ever new !
And while, thou changeless, boundless sea,
I quit thy solitary shore,
I sigh to turn away from thee,
And think I ne'er may greet thee more.
Thy many voices which are one,
The varying garbs that robe thy might,
Thy dazzling hues at set of stm,
Thy deeper loveliness by night;
The shades that flit with every breeze
Along thy hoar and aged brow,
What has the universe like these ?
Or what so strong, so fair as thou ?
And when yon radiant friend of earth
Has bridged the waters with her rays,
Pure as those beams of heavenly birth,
That round a seraph's footsteps blaze-
While lightest clouds at times o'ercast
The splendor gushing from the spheres,
Like softening thoughts of sorrow past,
That fill the eyes of joy with tears;
The soul, methinks, in hours like these,
Might pant to flee its earthly doom,
And freed from dust to mount the breeze,
An eagle soaring from the tomb.
Or mix'd in stainless air, to roam
Where'er thy billows know the wind,
To make all climes my spirit's home,
And leave the woes of all behind.
Or wandering into worlds that beam
Like lamps of hope to human eyes,
Wake 'mid delights we now but dream,
And breathe the rapture of the skies.
But vain the thought; my feet are bound
To this dim planet, clay to clay,
Condemned to tread one thorny round,
And chain with links that ne'er decay.
POEMS OF JOHN STERLING.
15C.O
Yet while thy ceaseless current flows,
Thou mighty main, and shrinks again,
Methinks thy rolling floods disclose
A refuge sate, at least from men.
Within thy gently heaving breast,
That hides no passions dark and wild,
My weary soul might sink to rest,
As in its mother's arms a child ;
Forget the world's eternal jars,
In murmurous caverns cool and dim,
And long, o'ertoiled with angry wars,
Hear but thy billow's distant hymn 1
THE DEAREST.
On that from far-away mountains,
Over the restless waves,
Where bubble enchanted fountains,
Rising from jewell'd caves,
I could call a fairy bird,
Who, whenever thy voice was heard,
Should come to thee, dearest !
He should have violet pinions,
And a beak of silver white,
And should bring from the sun's dominions
Eyes that would give thee light.
Thou shouldst see that he was born
In a land of gold and morn,
To be thy servant, dearest f
Oft would he drop on thy tresses
A pearl or a diamond stone,
And would yield to thy light caresses
Blossoms in Eden grown.
Round thy path his wings would shower
Now a gom and now a flower,
And dewy odors, dearest !
He should fetch from his eastern island
The songs that the Peris sing,
And when evening is clear and silent,
Spells to thy ear would bring,
And with his mysterious strain
Would entrance thy weary brain ;
Love's own music, dearest I
No Phccnix, alas ! will hover,
Sent from the morning star ;
And thou must take of thy lover
A gift not brought so far :
Wanting bird, and gem, and song,
Ah ! receive and treasure long
A heart that loves thee, dearest !
LAMENT FOR DAEDALUS.
[The subject of this poem was a celebrated scnlptoi ol
Greece, who lived, as we are told, three generations before
the Trojan war. Mankind 's indebted to him, it appears, for
the discovery of several of the mechanical powers. Daedalus
was the most ingenious artist of his time, having made statues
to which he communicated the power of motion, like ani-
mated beings. They were of two kinds, one son having a
spring which stopped them when one pleased ; while the
others, having no snch contrivance, went along to the end o'f
tbeir line, and could not be stopped. Plato and Socrates u>"d
these different statues in illustration of some of their theories.
With regard to opinion, they taught that so far as it was hu-
man, it was founded only on probabilities: but that when
God enlightened men. that which was opinion hefore, now
became science. They compared opinion to those statues
which could not be ^tapped in consequence of its instability
and constant change ; but when it is restrained and fixed by
reasoning drawn from sources which Divine Light discover*
to us, then opinion becomes science, like those statues of
Daedalus which had the governing spring added to them.
This lament is taken from an unassuming little volume of
" Poems," published by our author in 1640, and contains -ome
genuine poetry. Most of the pieces appeared in tflacktcood' i
Magazine, under the signature of " Archieus."]
WAIL for Daedalus, all that is fairest !
All that is tuneful in air or wave !
Shapes whose beauty is truest and rarest,
Haunt with your lamps and spells hig
grave !
Statues, bend your heads in sorrow,
Ye that glance 'mid ruins old,
That know not a past, nor expect a morrow
On many a moonlight Grecian wold !
By sculptured cave and darken'ti river,
Thee, Dtedalus, oft the nymphs recall $
The leaves with a sound of winter quiver,
Murmur thy name, and withering fall.
Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest
Of all that crowd on the tear-dimm'd ey,
Though, Daedalus, thou no more commandcst
New stars to that ever-widening sky.
670
POEMS OF JOHN STERLING.
Ever thy phantoms arise before us,
Our loftier brothers, but one in blood ;
By bed and table they lord it o'er us
With looks of beauty and words of good.
They tell us and show us of man victorious
O'er all that's aimless, blind, and base;
Their presence has made our nature glorious,
And given our night an illumined face.
Thy toil has won them a godlike quiet;
Thou hast wrought their path to a lovely
sphere ;
Their eyes to calm rebuke our riot.
And shape us a home of refuge here.
For Daedalus breathed in them his spirit ;
In them their sire his beauty sees ;
We too, a younger brood, inherit
The gifts and blessings bestow'd on these.
But, ah ! their wise and bounteous seeming
Recalls the more that the sage is gone ;
Weeping we wake from deceitful dreaming,
And find our voiceless chamber lone.
Daedalus, thou from the twilight tieest,
Which thou with visions hast made so
bright ;
And when no more those shapes thou seest,
Wanting thine eye they lose their light.
Ev'n in the noblest of man's creations,
Those fresh worlds round those old of
ours,
When the seer is gone, the orphan'd nations
Know but the tombs of perish'd Powers.
Wail for Daedalus, Earth and Ocean !
Stars and Sun, lament for him !
Ages, quake in strange commotion !
All ye realms of life, be dim !
Wail for Daedalus, awful voices,
From earth's deep centre mankind appal ;
Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices,
For he knows that then the mightiest
fall.
THE HUSBANDMAN.
EARTH, of man the bounteous mother,
Feeds him still with corn and wine ;
He who best would aid a brother,
Shares with him these gifts divine.
Many a power within her bosom,
Noiseless, hidden, works beneath;
Hence are seed and leaf and blossom,
Golden ear and cluster'd wreath.
These to swell with strength and beauty,
Is the royal task of man ;
Man's a king, his throne is Duty,
Since his work on earth began.
Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage,
These, like man, are fruits of earth ;
Stamp'd in clay, a heavenly mintage,
All from dust receive their birth.
Barn and mill and wine-vat's treasures.
Earthly goods for earthly lives,
These are Nature's ancient pleasures,
These her child from her derives.
What the dream but vain rebelling,
If from earth we sought to flee ?
'Tis our stored and ample dwelling,
'Tis from it the skies we see.
Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade,
Work with these as bids thy reason,
For they work -thy toil to aid.
Sow thy seed and reap in gladness !
Man himself is all a seed ;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.
LOUIS XV.
THE King with all the kingly train had left.
his Pompadour behind,
And forth he rode in Senart's wood the royal
beasts of chase to find.
That day by chance the Monarch mused,
and turning suddenly away,
He struck alone into a path that far from
crowds and courtiers lay.
POEMS OF JOHN STERLING.
U71
Tie saw the pale green shadows play upon
the brown untrodden earth ;
He saw the birds around him flit as if he
were of peasant birth ;
He saw the trees that know no king but him
who bears a woodland axe ;
He thought not, but he look'd about like
one who still in thinking lacks.
Then close to him a footstep fell, and glad
of human sound was he,
For truth to say lie found himself but mel-
ancholy companie;
But that which he would ne'er have guess'd,
before him now most plainly came ;
The man upon his weary back a coffin bore
of rudest frame.
M Why, who art thou ?" exclaim'd the King,
"and what is that I see thee bear?"
11 1 am a laborer in the wood, and 'tis a coffin
for Pierre.
Close by the royal hunting-lodge you may
have often seen him toil ;
But he will never work again, and I for him
must di<* the soil"
The laborer ne'er had seen the King, and
this he thought was but a man,
Who made at first a moment's pause and
then anew his talk began ;
"I think I do remember now, he had a
dark and glancing eye,
And 1 have seen his sturdy arm with won-
drous strokes the pickaxe ply.
"Pray tell me, friend, what accident can
thus have kill'd our good Pierre?"
" O ! nothing more than usual, sir, he died
of living upon air.
'Twas hunger kill'd the poor good man, who
long on empty hopes relied ;
He could not pay Gabelle and tax and feed
his children, so he died. "
The man stopp'd short, and then went on
" It is, you know, a common story,
Our children's food is eaten up by courtiers,
mistresses, and glory."
The King look'd hard upon the man, and
afterward the coffin eyed,
Then spurr'd to ask of Pompadour, how
came it that the peasants died ?
POEMS OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE.
GO ! FORGET ME.
Go, forget me why should sorrow
O'er that brow a shadow fling ?
Go, forget me and to-morrow
Brightly smile, and sweetly sing.
Smile though I shall not be near thee
Sing though I shall never hear thee :
May thy soul with pleasure shine,
Lasting as the gloom of mine.
Like the sun, thy presence glowing,
Clothes the meanest things in light,
And when thou, like him, art going,
Loveliest objects fade in night.
All things look'd so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee ;
By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things were too refined.
Go, 'thou vision wildly gleaming,
Softly on my soul that fell ;
Go, for me no longer beaming
Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well !
Go, and all that once delighted
Take, and leave me all benighted ;
Glory's burning, generous swell,
Fancy and the Poet's shell.
N JT a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the rampai't we hurried ;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that
was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow
bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and stranger would tread o'er
his head,
And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for re-
tiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame, fresh and
gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone
But we left him alone in his glory !
POEMS OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE
673
THE CHAINS OF SPAIN ARE
BREAKING.
TIIK chains of Spain aru breaking !
Let Gaul despair, and fly ;
Her wrathful trumpet's speaking,
Let tyrants hear, and die.
Her standard, o'er us arching,
Is burning red and far ;
The soul of Spain is marching,
JTI thunders to the war
Look around your lovely Spain,
And say, shall Gaul remain ?
Behold yon burning valley ;
Behold yon naked plain
Let us hear their drum
Let them come, let them come !
For vengeance and freedom rally,
And, Spaniards ! onward for Spain.
Remember ! remember Barossa ;
Remember Napoleon's chain
Remember your own Saragossa,
And strike for the cause of Spain
Remember your own Saragossa,
And onward ! onward ! for Spain.
OH ! SAY NOT THAT MY HEART IS
COLD.
OH ! say not that my heart is cold
To aught that once could warm it ;
That nature's form, so dear of old,
No more has power to charm it ;
Or that the ungenerous world can chill,
One glow of fond emotion,
For those, who made it dearer still,
And shared my wild devotion.
Still oft those solemn scenes I view,
In rapt and dreamy sadness ;
Oft look on those, who loved them too,
With fancy's idle gladness ;
Again I long'd to view the light,
In nature's features glowing ;
Again to trend the mountain's height,
And taste the soul's o'erflowing.
Stern duty rose, and frowning tlunj
Her leaden chain around me ;
With iron look, and sullen tongue,
He mutter'd, as he bound me
" The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven,
Unfit for toil the creature ;
These for the free, alone, are given
But, what have slaves with nature ?"
GONE FROM HER CHEEK.
GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her cheek has lost its faint perfume,
And the gloss has dropp'd from her raven
hair,
And her forehead is palo, though no longei
fair ;
And the spirit, that set in her soft, blue eye.
Is sunk in cold mortality ;
And the smile that play'd on her lip is fled,
And every grace has left the dead.
Like slaves, they obey'd her in height of
power,
But loll her, all, in her winter-hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to
die,
Shrunk from the tone of her parting sigh
And this is man's fidelity !
'Tis woman alone, with a firmer heart,
Can see all those idols of life depart ;
And love the more, and soothe, and bless
Man in his utter wretchedness.
OH, MY LOVE HAS AN EYE OF THE
SOFTEST BLUE.
OH, my love has an eye of the softest blue,
Yet it was not that that won me ;
But a little bright drop from her soul WM
there,
'Tis that that has undone me.
674
POEMS OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE.
I might have pass'd that lovely cheek,
Nor perchance my heart have left me ;
But the sensitive blush that came trembling
there,
Of my heart it forever bereft me.
I might have forgotten that red, red lip,
Yet how from that thought to sever ?
But there was a smile from the sunshine
within,
And that smile I'll remember forever.
Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay,
The elegant form that haunts me ;
"Tis the gracefully elegant mind that moves
In every step, that enchants me.
Let me not hear the nightingale sing,
Though I once in its notes delighted ;
The feeling and mind that comes whispering
forth
Has left me no music beside it.
Who could blame had I loved that face,
Ere my eye could twice explore her ;
Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there,
And her warm, warm heart, I adore her.
IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST
HAVE DIED.
IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee ;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be.
It never through my mind had pass'd
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more.
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile affain :
O 7
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak, thou dost not say
What thou ne'er leftst unsaid,
And now I feel, -as well I may,
Sweet Mary ! thou art dead.
[f thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art;,
All cold, and all serene,
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been !
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own,
But there I lay thee in thy grave
And I am now alone.
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me ;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee ;
Yet there was ronnd thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawvi,
And never can
POEMS OF JOHN ANSTER.
DIRGE SONG.
From the Irish.
LIKE the oak of the vale was thy strength
and thy height,
Thy foot like the erne of the mountain in
flight:
Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce
breath,
Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was
death !
Alas, how soon the thin cold cloud
The hero's loloody limbs must shroud !
I see thy father, full of days ;
For thy return behold him gaze ;
The hand, that rests upon the spear,
Trembles in feebleness and fear
lie shudders, and his bald, gray brow
Is shaking, like the aspen bough ;
He gazes, till his dim eyes fail
With gazing on the fancied sail :
Anxious he looks what sudden streak
Flits, like a sunbeam, o'er his cheek !
"Joy, joy, my child, it is the bark,
That bounds on yonder billow dark!"
His child looks forth with straining
eye,
And sees the light cloud sailing by:
H' 1 * gray head shakes; how sad, how
weak
That sigh ! how sorrowful that cheek I
flis bride irom her slumbers will waken and
weep,
But when shall the hero arouse him from
sleep ?
The yell of the stag-hound the clash of the
spear,
May ring o'er his tomb but the dead cannot
hear.
Once he wielded the sword, once he cheer'd
to the hound,
But his pleasures are past, and his slumber
is sound :
Await not his coming, ye sons of the
chase,
Day dawns ! but it nerves not the dead for
the race ;
Await not his coming, ye sons of the
spear,
The war-song ye sing but the dead will not
hear.
Oh ! blessing be with him who sleeps in the
grave,
The leader of Lochlin ! the young and the
brave !
On earth didst thou scatter the strength of
our foes,
Then blessing be thine, in thy cloud of repose I
Like the oak of the vale was thy strength-
and thy might,
Thy foot, like the erne of the mountain in
flight ;
Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's licrcc
breath,
Thy blade, like the blue mibt of Lego, wa
death.
THE HAKP.
CLARA, hast thou not often seen, and smiled,
A rosy child,
Deeming that none were near,
Touch with a trembling hand
Some fine- toned instrument ;
Then gaze, with sparkling eye, as on her
ear
The murmurs died, like gales, that having
fann'd
Soft summer flowers, sink s
676
POEMS OF JOHN AXSTKl:.
Half {'earing, still she lingers,
Till o'er the strings again she flings,
Less tremblingly, her fingers!
But if a stranger eye
The timid sport should spy,
Oh ! then, with pulses wild,
This rosy child
Will throb, and fly,
Turn pale and tremble, trem'ble and turn red,
And in thy bosom hide her head.
Even thus the harp to me
Hath been a plaything strange,
A thing of fear, of wonder, and of glee ;
Yet would I not exchange
This light harp's simple gear for all that
man holds dear ;
And should the stranger's ear its tones re-
gardless hear,
It still is sweet to thee !
THE EVERLASTING ROSE.
EMBLEM of hope! enchanted flower,
Still breathe around thy faint perfume,
Still smile amid the wintry hour,
And boast, even now, a spring-tide bloom :
Thine is, methinks, a pleasant dream,
Lone lingerer in the icy vale,
Of smiles that hail'd the morning beam,
And sighs more sweet for evening's gale !
Still are thy green leaves whispering
Low sounds to fancy's ear, that tell
Of mornings when the wild-bee's wing
Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell !
With thee the graceful lily vied,
As summer breezes waved her head ;
And now the snow-drop at thy side
Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red.
Well dost thou know each varying voice
That wakes the seasons, sad or gay ;
The summer thrush bids thee rejoice,
And wintry robin's dearer lay.
Sweet flower! how happy dost thou seem,
'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost !
While gathering beauty from each beam,
No hue, no grace, of thine is lost 1
Thus hope, 'mid life's severest days,
Still soothes, still smiles away dt-spair;
Alike she lives in pleasure's rays,
And cold affliction's winter air :
Charmer alike in lordly bower
And in the hermit's cell, she glows ;
The poet's and the lover's flower, .
The bosom's everlasting rose !
IF I MIGHT CHOOSE.
IF I might choose where my tired limla
shall lie
When my task here is done, the oak's green
crest
Shall rise above my grave a little mound,
Raised in some cheerful village cemetery.
And I could wish, that, with unceasing
sound,
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by-
In music through the long soft twilight
hours.
And let the hand of her, whom I love best,
Plant round the bright green grave those
fragrant flowers
In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to
rest;
And should the robin from some neighbor-
ing tree
Pour his enchanted song oh ! softly tread,
For sure, if aught of earth can soothe the
dead,
He still must love that pensive melody 1
OH ! IF, AS ARABS FANCY.
OH ! if, as Arabs fancy, the traces on thy
brow
Were symbols of thy future state, and I
could read them now,
Almost without a fear would I explore the
mystic chart,
Believing that the world were weak to
darken such a heart.
POEMS OF JOHN ANSTEK.
G77
As yet to thy untroubled soul, as yet to thy
young eyes,
The skies above are very heaven the earth
is paradise ;
The birds that glance in joyous air the
flowers that happiest be,
They toil not, neither do they spin, are they
not types of thee ?
And yet, and yet beloved child to thy
enchanted sight,
Blest art the present is, the days to come seem
yet more bright,
For thine is hope, and thine iB love, and
thine the glorious power
That gives to hope its fairy light, to love in
richest dower.
For me that twilight time is past those
sunrise colors gone
The prophecies of childhood and the
promises of dawn ;
And yet what is, though scarcely heard, will
speak of what has been,
While love assumes a gentler tone, and hope
a calmer mien
A POEM BY WILLIAM CONGKEVE.
A CATHEDRAL.
Almeria meeting her husband Alphonso, whom she had imagined to be dead, now dipguisud as the captive Omjn,
at the tomb of his father Anselmo.
Enter Almeria and Leonora.
Aim. It was a fancied noise, lor all is
hush'd.
Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice.
Aim. It was thy fear, or else some tran-
sient wind
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted
o o
aisle.
We'll listen
J^eon. Hark !
Aim. No, all is hush'd, and still as death
'tis dreadful !
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble
"Heads,
To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and im-
movable,
Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chill ness to my trembling
heart.
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy
voice ;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice my own affrights me with UB
echoes. '
Tjeon. Let us return ; the horror of thia
place,
And silence, will increase your melancholy.
Aim. It may my fears, but cannot add to-
that.
No, I will on : show me Anselmo's tomb,
Lead me o'er bones and skulls, and moulder-
ing earth
Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them,
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corptw
Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride
Of Garcia's more detested bed : that thought
O
Exerts my spirits, and my present fears
Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show
me,
Lead me, for I am bolder grown : lead on
Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again
To him, to Heavui, and my Alphonso's soul.
Leon. I go; but Heaven can tell with
what regret.
1 Thin ii> the pannage that Johnroo Admired i>o much.
"Coii-rri-vr." ho *nlil. "hn- ono finer pMire thmi any thai
call be- found In Minl<-fiH'nir "
POEMS OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.
OH! SLEEP.
OH ! sleep, awhile thy power suspending,
Weigh not my eyelids down ;
For memory, see ! with eve attending,
Claims a moment for her own.
I know her by her robe of mourning,
I know her by her faded light,
When faithful, with the gloom returning,
She comes to bid a sad good-night.
Oh ! let me here, with bosom swelling,
While she sighs o'er the time that's past
Oh ! let me weep, while she is telling
Of joys that pine, and pangs that last.
And now, oh ! sleep, while grief is streaming,
Let thy balm sweet peace restore,
While fearful hope, through tears is beaming,
Soothe to rest, that wakes no more.
THE DESERTER'S LAMENTATION.
IF, sadly thinking,
With spirits sinking,
Could more than drinking
Our griefs compose
A cure for sorrow,
From grief I'd borrow,
And hope to-morrow
Might end my woes.
But since in wailing
There's naught availing,
n o*
For death unfailing
Will strik; the blow;
Then for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry
Before we go !
A way-worn ranger,
To joy a stranger,
Through every danger
My course I've run :
Now death befriending,
His last aid lending,
My griefs are ending,
My woes are done.
No more a rover,
Or hapless lover,
Those cares are over
My cup runs low ;
Then, for that reason,
And for the season,
Let us be merry
Before we go.
THE MONKS OF THE ORDER OF
ST. PATRICK,
COMMONLY CALLED
THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. 1
WHEN St. Patrick this order establish'd,
He call'd us the " Monks of the Screw ;"
Good Rules he reveal'd to our Abbot,
To guide us in what we should do ;
1 This celebrated Society was partly political and partly coo
vivial : it consisted of two parts profiled and Iny brotbei*
POEMS OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.
679
But first he replenish'd our fountain
With liquor the best in the sky ;
And he said, on the word of a saint,
That the fountain should never run dry.
Each year, when your octaves approach,
In fall chapter convened let me find you ;
And when to the Convent you come,
Leave your favorite temptation behind
you.
And be not a glass in your Convent,
Unless on a festival, found ;
And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it
One festival all the year round.
My brethren, be chaste, till you're tempted ;
While sober, be grave and discreet ;
Aa the latter had no privileges except that of commons In the
refectory, they are unnoticed here.
The professed (by the constitution) consisted of members
of either house of Parliament, and barrister?, with the addi-
tion from the other learned professions of any numbers not ex-
ceeding a third of the whole. They assembled every Saturday
In Convent (in St. Kevin Street, Dublin), during term-time,
and commonly held a chapter before commons, at which the
Abbot presided, or in his (very rare) absence, the Prior, or
senior officer present. Upon such occasions all the members
appeared in the habit of the order, a black tabinet domino.
Temperance and Sobriety always prevailed.
Mr. Curran (who was Prior of the order) being asked one
day to sing a song, after commons, said he would give them
one of his own, and sang the following, which was adopted at
once as the charter song of the Society, and was called " The
Monks of the Screw."
This Society consisted of 66 members; and Mr. Win. Henry
Curran, In the Memoir of his father, adds, " most of them dis-
tinguished men." We think it worth while to give a few of
their names and titles. Earl of Charlemont ; Earl of Arran ;
Earl of Mornington (Duke of Wellington's father); Hussey
Bnrgh, Chief Baron ; Judge Robert Johnson ; Henry Grattan ;
John Philpot Curran ; Woolfe, Lord Eilwarden ; Lord Avon-
more ; Rev. Arthur O'Leary (Hon.). The Marquis of Town-
eend joined the Society while he was Viceroy of Ireland.
That the festive meetings of men of such high mark must
have been of more than ordinary brilliancy, one may well con-
ceive, but the most eloquent evidence of that fact was given
by Cnrran in a touching address to Lord Avonmore, while sit-
ting on the Judicial bench ; so touching, and so eloquent, as
well as happily innstrative of Curran's style, that it IB worth
recording :
" This soothing hope I draw from the dearest and tenderest
recollection* of my life from the remembrance of those attic
nights, and Chose refections of the gods, which we have spent
with those admired, and respected, and beloved companions
who have gone before us ; over whose ashes the most precious
teare of Ireland have been shed. [Here Lord Avonmore could
not refrain from bursting Into tears.] Ye, my good Lord, I
see you do not forget them. I see their sacred forms passing
In sad review before your memory. I see your pained and
softened fancy recalling those happy meetings, where the In-
nocent enjoyment of social mirth became expanded into the
nobler warmth of social virtue, and the horizon of the board
became enlarged into the horizon of man where the swelling
Heart conceived and communicated the pure and generous
purpose where my slenderer and younger taper imbibed 1U
borrowed light from the more matured and redundant fountain
And humble your bodies with fasting,
As oft as you've nothing to eat.
Yet, in honor of fasting, one lean face
Among you I'd always require ;
If the Abbot should please, he may wear tt,
If not, let it come to the Prior.*
Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren.
And with due devotion prepare,
With hands and with voices uplii'ted,
Our hymn to conclude with a prayer.
May this chapter oft joyously meet,
And this gladsome libation renew,
To the Saint, and the Founder, and Abbot,
And Prior, and Monks of the Screw !
of yours. Yes, my Lord, we can remember those nights with
out any other regret than that they can never more return, fa
' We spent them not in toys, or lust, or wine,
But search of deep philosophy,
Wit, eloquence, and poesy,
Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine 1' "-
COWLET.
Lord Avonmore, in whose breast political resentment wai
easily subdued, by the same noble tenderness of feeling which
distinguished Mr. Fox upon a more celebrated occasion, could
not withstand this appeal to his heart. At this period (1801)
there was a suspension of intercourse between him and Mr.
Cnrran ; but the moment the court rose, his Lords-hip sent for
his friend, and threw himself into his arms, declaring that
unworthy artifices had been used to separate them, and that
they should never succeed in future.
And now for an instance of Mr. Curran's humor ; and as it
arises, like the foregoing gush of eloquence, from allusions
to "The Monks of the Screw," it is evident that Society held
a very cherished place in his memory. Mr. Cnrran visited
France in 1787, and was received with distinguished welcome
everywhere. Among such receptions was one at a Convent,
thus recorded. " He was met at the gates by the Abbot and
his brethren in procession ; the keys of the Convent were
presented to him, and his arrival hailed in a Latin oration,
setting forth his praise, and theli gratitude for hi* noble pro-
tection of a suffering brother of their Church (alluding to hit
legal defence of a Roman Catholic clergyman). Their Latin
was so bad, that the stranger without hesitation replied in the
same language. After expressing his general acknowledg-
ment for their hospitality, he assured them that nothing
could be more gratifying to him than to reside a few days
among them ; that he should fuel himself perfectly at home
In their society ; for that he was by no means a stranger to the
habits of a monastic life, being himself no less than the Prior
of an order In his own country, the order of St. Patrick, or
the Monks of the Screw. Their fame, he added, might not
have reached the Abbot's ears, but he would undertake to as-
sert for them, that, though the brethren of other orders might
be more celebrated for learning how to die, the Monks of
the Screw' were, as yet, unsurpassed for knowing how to
live. As, however, humility was their great tenet and uniform
practice, he would give an example of It upon the present
occasion, and Instead of accepting all the keys which tne
Abbot so liberally offered, would merely take charge, while
he stayed, of the key of the wine-cellar."
Outran'* Hft, by hi* ton Wm. Henry Curran.
William Doyle (Master in Chancery), the Abbot, had s
remarkably large full bee. Mr. Curran's was the very reverse.
680
POEMS OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.
THE GREEN SPOT THAT BLOOMS
O'ER THE DESERT OF LIFE.
0'ERthedesertoflife,whereyou vainly pursued
Those phantoms of hope, which their
promise disown,
Have you e'er met some spirit, divinely endued,
That so kindly could say, you don't suffer
alone ?
And, however your fate may have smiled, or
have frown'd,
Will she deign, still, to share as the friend
or the wife?
Then make her the pulse of your heart ; for
you've found
The green spot that blooms o'er the desert
of life.
Does she love to recall the past moments, BO
dear,
When the sweet pledge of faith was con-
fidingly given,
When the lip spoke the voice of affection
sincere,
And the vow was exchanged, and recorded
in heaven ?
Does she wish to re-bind, what already was
bound,
And draw closer the claim of the friend
and the wife ?
Then make her the pulse of your heart ; for
you've found
The green spot that lilooms o'er the desert
of life.
POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN.
THE SACK OF MAGDEBURGII. 1
WIIEN the breach was open laid, bold AVO
mounted to the attack ;
Five times the assault was made, four times
were we beaten back.
Many a gallant comrade fell, in the desper-
ate mele'e there ;
Spod their spirits ill or well know I not,
nor do I care.
But the fifth time, up we strode o'er the
dying and the dead ;
Hot the western sunbeam glow'd, sinking in
a blaze of red.
Redder in the gory way, our deep- plashing
footsteps sank,
As the cry of " Slay, slay, slay !" echoed
fierce from rank to rank.
And we slew, and slew, and slew slew them
with unpitying sword:
Negligently could we do the commanding
of the Lord ?
The sack of thin ill-toted city occurred dnrlni; the Thirty
Year*' War. The partisans of the Kefurnmuou funned a
union as early a* nuts ; and the Catholics in opposition estab-
lished a league in 1609. Here wore the elements of an inevi-
table content, and in 1618 the stru^lu commenced. For 30
yearn, Europe wur> the battlefield of religion* factions, and
Germany wan reduced to a wildernrHn. Kiie and sword des-
Dialed it from end to end. The only result was the improve-
ment of the art of war, by the genii)* of (JuMavu* Adolphue,
and the terrible warnim: it Hfl'onU to those who stir up the
religion* animosities of a nation. The defence of Mugde-
burgh was contlded to Christian William of Brandenburg, and
the gallant Colonel Falkenbcrg, who wan cent by Gtiglavutt
AdolpbuB to itr Mipport. The inverting army of the League
was comniii '--d by Tilly, a stern i-oldier, whose boast was
that he never tasted wine, never lost his chastity, nor ever suf-
f.-ied defeat. Uustavus, however, conquered him ultimately ;
tut he had no occasion to retract hi* Ixwst, for he fell with his
defeat. At the pack of Miiplelwrjju, 'J'illy wan before the city
from March, 10.11. and was alxmt to mice the elcge. in expec-
tation ol GUMUVUH to its assistance, lint lie wn- overruled by
the flery I'appenheim, who proposed an immediate attack.
Preparations were made forthwith, and the storming com-
menced. In about *tx weekc the city fell, notwithstanding
the bravery of the garrison, and It U estimated that upward*
of 35.000 pel-sons perished.
Fled the coward fought the brave, wail'd
the mother, wept the child,
But not one escaped the glaive, man who
frown'd or babe who smiled.
There were thrice ten thousand men, when
the morning sun arose ;
Lived not thrice three hundred when sunk
that sun at evening close.
Then we spread the wasting flame, fann'd to
fury by the wind ;
Of the city, but the name nothing more is
left behind !
Hall and palace, dome and tower, lowly shed
and soaring spire,
Fell in that victorious hour which consign'd
the town to fire.
All that rose at cratiman's call to its pris-
tine dust had gone,
For, inside the shatter'd wall, left we never
stone on stone
For it burnt not till it gave all it had to yield
of spoil ;
Should not bravo soldadoes have some re-
warding for their toil ?
What the villain sons of trade had amass'd
by years of care,
Prostrate at our bidding laid, by one mo-
ment won, was there.
Then, within the burning town, 'mid the
steaming heaps of dead,
Chcer'd by sounds of hostile moan, did we
the joyous baiHpirt spread.
Laughing loud and quaffing long, with our
glorious labors o'er ;
To the sky our jocund song, told (/* city.
was no more I
82
POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN.
THE SOLDIER-BOY.
I GIVE my soldier-boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashion'd well ;
Who first the glittering falchion sway'd,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not, but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood
In which its tempering work was done ;
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun.
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
The eye which mark'd its peerless edge,
The hand thatweigh'd its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise
And still the gleaming sword remains :
. So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember, by those heartfelt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.
THE BEATEN BEGGARMAN.
(From the Greek.)
THERE came the public beggarmau, who all
throughout the town
Of Ithaca, upon his quest for alms, begged
up and down ;
Huge was his stomach, without cease for
meat and drink craved he ;
No strength, no force his body had, though
vast it was to see.
He got as name from parent dame, Arnaeus,
at his birth,
But Irus was the nickname given by gallants
in their mirth ;
For he, where'er they chose to send, their
speedy errands bore,
And now he thought to drive away Odys-
seus from his door.
" Depart, old man ! and quit the porch," he
cried, with insult coarse,
" Else quickly by the foot thou shalt be
dragg'd away by force :
Dost thou not see, how here on me their
eyes are turn'd by all,
In sign to bid me stay no more, but drag
thee from the hall?
" 'Tis only shame that holds me back ; so
get thee up and go !
Or ready stand with hostile hand to combat
blow for blow."
Odysseus said, as stern he look'd, with
angry glance, " My friend,
Nothing of wrong in deed or tongue do I to
thee intend.
" I grudge not whatsoe'er is given, how great
may be the dole,
The threshold is full large for both ; be not of
envious soul.
It seems 'tis thine, as well as mine, a wan-
derer's life to live,
And to the gods alone belongs a store of
wealth to give.
" But do not dare me to the blow, nor rouse
my angry mood ;
Old as I am, thy breast and lips might stain
my hands with blood.
To-morrow free I then from thee the day in
peace would spend,
For nevermore to gain these walls thy beaten
limbs would bend."
"Heavens! how this glutton glibly talks .'"
the vagrant Irus cried ;
" Just as an old wife loves to prate, smoked
at the chimney side.
If I should smite him, from his mouth the
shatter'd teeth were torn,
As from the jaws of plundering swine,
caught rooting up the corn.
POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINX.
683
" Come, gird thee for the fight, that, they
our contest may behold,
If thou'lt expose to younger arms thy body
frail and old."
So in debate engaged they sate upon the
threshold stone,
Before the palace' lofty gate wrangling in
angry tone.
Antonious mark'd, and with a lausch the
suitors he address'd :
" Never, I ween, our gates have seen so gay
a cause of jest ;
Some god, intent on sport, has sent this
stranger to our hall,
And he and Irus mean to fight : so set we on
the brawl."
Gay laugh'd the guests and straight arose,
on frolic errand bound,
About the ragged beggarman a ring they
made around.
Antonious cries, "A fitting prize for the
combat I require,
Paunches of goat you see are here now lying
on the tire :
" This dainty food all full of blood, and fat
of savory taste,
Intended for our evening's meal there to be
cook'd we placed.
Whichever of these champions bold may
chance to win the day,
Be he allow'd which paunch he will to
choose and bear away ;
And he shall at our board henceforth par-
take our genial cheer,
No other bcggarman allow'd the table to
come near."
They all agreed, and then upspoke the chief
of many a wile :
" Hard is it when ye match with youth age
overrun with toil ;
The belly, counsellor of ill, constrains me
now to go,
Sure to be beaten in the fight with many a
heavy blow.
"But plight your troth with solemn oath,
that none will raise his hand
My foe to help with aid unfair, while I before
him stand."
They took the covenant it had pleased
Odysseus to propose ;
And his word to plight the sacred might of
Teleraachus arose.
"If," he exclaim'd, "thy spirit bold, and
thy courageous heart,
Should urge thee from the palace gate to
force this man to part,
Thou needst not fear that any here will
strike a fraudful blow ;
Who thus would dare his hand to rear must
fight with many a foe.
" Upon me falls within these halls the
stranger's help to be ;
Antonious and Eurymachus, both wise, will
join with me."
All gave assent, and round his loins his rags
Odysseus tied ;
Then was display'd each shoulder-blade of
ample form and wide.
His shapely thighs of massive size were all to
sight confess'd,
So were his arms of muscle strong, so was
his brawny breast ;
Athene, close at hand, each limb to nobler
stature swell'd ;
In much amaze did the suitors gaze, when
they his form beheld.
" Irus un-Irused now," they said, " will catch
his sought-for woe ;
Judge by the hips which from his rags this
old man strip] >M can show."
And Irus trembled in his soul ; but soon the
servants came,
Girt him by force, and to the fight dragg'd
on his quivering frame.
There as he shook in every limb, Antonious
spoke in scorn :
"'Twere better, bullying boaster, fur, that
thou hadst ne'er boon born.
G84
POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN.
If thus thou quake and trembling shake,
o'ercome with coward fear,
Of meeting with this ag'jd man, worn down
with toil severe.,
'I warn thee thus, and shall perform full
surely what I say
If conqueror in the fight, his arm shall
chance to win the day,
Epirus-ward thou hence shalt sail, in sable
bark consign'd
To charge of Echetus the king, terror of all
mankind.
' He'll soon deface all manly trace with un-
relenting steel,
And make thy sliced-ofF nose and ears for
hungry dogs a meal."
He spoke, and witli those threatening words
fill'd Irus with fresh dread ;
And trembling more in every limb, he to the
midst was led.
Both raised their hands, and then a doubt
passYl through Odysseus' brain,
Should he strike him so, that a single blow
would lay him with the slain,
Or stretch him with a gentler touch prostrate
upon the ground:
On pondering well this latter course the wiser
one he found.
For if his strength was fully shown, he knew
that all men's eyes
The powerful hero would detect, despite his
mean disguise.
irus the king's right shoulder hit, then he
with smashing stroke
Return'd a blow beneath the ear, arid every
bone was broke.
Burst from his mouth the gushing blood;
down to the dust he dash'd,
With bellowing howl, and in the fall his
teeth to pieces crash'd.
There lay he, kicking on the earth ; mean-
while the suitors proud,
Lifting their hands as fit to die, shouted in
laughter loud.
Odysseus seized him by the foot, and dragged
him through the hall,
To porch and gate, &nd left him laid against
the boundary wall.
He placed a wand within his hand, and said,
"The task is thine,
There seated with this staff to drive away
the dogs and swine ;
"But on the stranger and the poor never
again presume
To act as lord ; else, villain base, thine may
be heavier doom."
So saying, o'er his back he flung his cloak
to tatters rent,
Then bound it with a twisted rope, and back
to his seat he Avent.
Back to the threshold, while within uprose
the laughter gay,
And with kind words was hail'd the man
who conquer'd in the fV;iy.
"May Zeus, and all tliu other gods, O
stranger ! grant thee still
Whate'er to thee most choice may be, what-
ever suits thy will.
"Thy hand has chcck'd the beggar bold,
ne'er to return again
To Ithaca, for straight shall he be sped across
the main,
Epirus-ward, to Echetus, the terror of all
mankind."
So spoke they, and the king received the
crlad of mind.
POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY,
THE IRISH RAPPAREES.
A PEASANT BALLAD OF 1691.
RIGH SHAM us he has gone to France and
left his crown behind
111 luck be theirs, both day and night, put
rumiin' in his mind !
Lord Lucan followed after, with his Slashers
brave and true,
And now the doleful knell is raised " What
will poor Ireland do ?
What must poor Ireland do?
Our luck," they say " has gone to France
What can poor Ireland do?"
0, never fear for Ireland, for she has so'gers
still, [on the hill,
For Rory's boys are in the wood and Remy's
And never had poor Ireland more loyal
hearts than these
May God be kind and good to them, the
faithful Rapparees !
The fearless Rapparees I [Rapparees !
The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish
Oh, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and
coulder than the clay !
Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since
Sarsfield's gone away ! [ag>
It's little love you bear us, for sake of long
But hould your hand, for Ireland still can
strike a deadly blow
Can strike a mortal blow
Och ! dhar-a-Clireebtk ! 'tis she that still
could strike the deadly blow !
The Master's bawn, the Master's scat, a
svyly bodayh fills;
The Master's son, an outlawed man, is rid-
ing on the hills.
But God be praised, that round him throng,
as thick as summer bees,
The swords that guarded Limerick wall his
loyal Rapparees !
His lovin' Rapparees \
Who dare say no to Rory oge, with all his
Rapparees ?
Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he racked
us long and sore
God rest the faithful hearts he broke ! we'll
never see them more !
But I'll go bail he'll break no more, while
Turagh has gallows-trees.
For why? he met one lonesome night, the
fearless Rapparees !
The angry Rapparees !
They'll never sin no more, my boys, who
cross the Rapparee !
THE IRISH CHIEFS.
OH ! to have lived like an IRISH CHIEF,
Avhen hearts were fresh and true,
And a manly thought, like a pealing bell,
would quicken them through and
through;
And the seed of a generous hope right soon
to a fiery action grew,
And men would have scorn'd to talk and
talk, and never a deed to do !
Oh ! the iron grasp,
And the kindly clasp,
And the laugh so fond and gay;
And the roaring board,
And the ready sword,
Were the types of that vanishM day.
Oh ! to have lived as Brian lived, and to die
as Brian died;
His land to win with the sword, and smile.
as a warrior wins his bride.
To knit its force in a kingly host, and rule
it with kingly prido,
And still in the girt of its guardian swords
over victor fields to ride;
686
POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY.
And when age was past,
And when death came fast,
To look with a soften'd eye
On a happy race
Who had loved his face,
And to die as a king should die !
Oh ! to have lived dear Owen's life to live
for a solemn end,
To strive for the ruling strength and skill
God's saints to the Chosen send ;
And to come at length with that holy
strength, the bondage of fraud to rend,
And pour the light of God's freedom in where
Tyrants and Slaves were denn'd ;
And to bear the brand,
With an equal hand,
Like a soldier of Truth and Right,
And, oh ! Saints, to die,
While our flag flew high,
Nor to look on its fall or flight !
Oh ! to have lived as Grattan lived, in the
glow of his manly years,
To thunder again those iron words that thrill
like the clash of spears;
Once more to blend for a holy end, our peas-
ants, and priests, and peers,
Till England raged, like a baffled fiend, at
the tramp of our Volunteers !
And, oh ! best of all,
Far rather to fall
(With a blesseder fate than he)
On a conquering field,
Than one right to yield,
Of the Island so proud and free !
Yet, scorn to cry on the days of old, when
hearts were fresh and true :
If hearts be weak, oh ! chiefly then the Mis-
sion'd their work must do.
Nor wants our day its own fit way, the want
is in you and you ;
For these eyes have seen as kingly a King
as ever dear Erin knew.
And with Brian's will,
And with Owen's skill,
And with glorious Grattan's love,
He had freed us soon
But death darken'd his noon,
And he sits with the saints above.
Oh 1 coiud you live as Davis lived kind
Heaven be his bed !
With an eye to guide, and a hand to rule,
and a calm and kingly head,
And a heart from whence, like a Holy Well,
the soul of his land was fed,
No need to cry on the days of old that your
holiest hope be sped.
Then scorn to pray
For a by-past day
The whine of the sightless dumb !
To the true and wise
Let a king arise,
And a holier day is come i
INNISHOWEN.
[Innishowen (pronounced Innishone) is a wild and pictur
esque district in the county Donegal, inhabited chiefly by the
descendants of the Irish clans, permitted tc remain in U.<-5er
after the plantation of James I. The native language, and
the songs and legends of the country, are as universal as the
people. One of the most familiar of these legends is, tLi.t a
troop of Hugh O'Neill's horse lies in magic sleep in a cave
under the hill of Aileach, where the princes of the country
were formerly installed. These bold troopers only wait to
have the spell removed to rush to the aid of their country ;
and a man (says the legend) who wandered accidentally into the
cave, found them lying beside their horses, fully armed, and
holding the bridles in their hands. One of them lifted his
head, and asked, " Is the time come ?" and when he received
no answer for the intruder was too muc'n frightened to re-
plydropped back into his lethargy. Some of the old folk
consider the story an allegory, and interpret it as they desire.]
GOD bless the gray mountains of dark Done
g al ,
God bless Royal Aileach, the pride of them
all;
For she sits evermore like a queen on her
throne,
And smiles on the valleys of Green Innis-
howen.
And fair are the vaiieys of Green
Innishowen,
And hardy the fishers that call them
their own
A race that nor traitor nor coward have
known
Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Innis-
howen.
Oh ! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear,
Like the hills that with silence and nature-
they share ;
POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY.
68-
For our God, who hath planted their home
near his own,
Breathed His spirit abroad upon fair Innis-
howen.
Then praise to our Father for wild
Innishowen,
Where fiercely forever the surges are
thrown
Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath
blown
Could shake the strong bosoms of brave
Innishowen.
See the bountiful Couldah' careering along^-
A type of their manhood so stately and
strong
On the weary forever its tide is bestown,
So they share with the stranger in fair In-
nishowen.
God guard the kind homesteads of fair
Inuishoweu,
Which manhood and virtue have chosen
for their own ;
Not long shall that nation in slavery
groan,
That rears the tall peasants of fair
Innishowen.
Like that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil
nor Dane,
Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from
her fane,
They have clung by the creed and the cause
of their own
Through the midnight of danger in true
Innishowen.
Then shout for the glories of old Innis-
howen,
The stronghold that foemen have never
o'erthrown
The soul and the spirit, the blood and
the bone,
That guard the green valleys of true
Innishowen.
Nor purer of old was the tongue of the
Gael,
When the charging aboo made the foreigner
quail ;
The Coaldah, or 'Culdaff, U the chiel rirer In the Innls-
owen mountains.
Than it gladdens the stranger in *rclcomc'tt
soft tone,
In the home-loving cabins of kind Innis-
howen.
Oh ! flourish, ye homesteads of kind
Innishowen,
Where seeds of a people's redemption
are sown ;
Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing
have grown,
To bless the kind homesteads of green
Innishowen.
When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken
band
All entranced, with their bridles and broad-
swords in hand,
Who await but the word to give Erin her
own,
They can read you that riddle in proud
Innishowen.
Hurrah for the Spaemen* of proud
Innishowen !
Long live the wild Seers of stout Innis-
howen !
May Mary, our mother, be deaf to tbeir
moan
Who love not the promise of
Innishowen 1
THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH,
1641.
[The Irish Pale resembled the borders between Scotland
and England so closely in its general character, that it is no
extravagant assumption to suppose that it mast have given
birth to a host of poems or the same class as the Border
Ballads collected by Sir Walter Scott in his own country.
The same incessant feuds, the same daring adventures, tha
same deadly hatred, and an equally poetic people to sing their
own achievement*, existed in both countries ; and if there are
few remains of our legendary and local ballads, the disuse of
the Irish language in which they were written, and the neg-
lect of our national literature since the Eli/abethan war, wll!
account for their loss without throwing the smallest doubt on
their former existence. In fact, they may be deduced as
plainly from the physical and intellectual condition of the
country, without any other evidence, as the use */ weapons
for war or castles for defence, which it needs no ruins and no
museums to establish. If they are as completely lost as the
ballads on which the early history of liome was founded, they
1 An Ulster and Scotch term signifying a person gifted wltfc
' second right" a prophet.
688
POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY.
as purely existed; and we have, In lieu of a better, that
remedy for our loss which Macaulay has so successfully
adopted in the case of his " Lays ot Ancient Rome" to sing
for our ancestors such ballads as they probably sung for
themselves. Historical songs and ballads are the best nutri-
ment for the nationality and public spirit of a country the
recollection of the men and achievements they celebrate act
oc its youth like a second conscience they become ashamed
to disgrace a land that was the mother of such men. The
memory of Wallace does more for Scotland than t he sermons.
of ten Dr. Chalmers, and Kosciusko makes every Pole respect-
able throughout the world. Scott's own legendary ballads
and poems did a thousand times more for Scotland than all he
ever collected, and Burns's " Scots wha hae" was worth a
hundred " Minstrelsies of the Border," in its national influ-
ence. The present ballad is founded on the rising of Ulster
in 1641, at the commencement of the ten years' war. We have
always denied the alleged massacre of that era, and the
atrocious calumnies on Sir Phelim O'Neill ; but that the
natives, in ejecting the English from their towns and castles,
committed various excesses is undeniable as is equally the
bitter provocation in the plunder of their properties by
James I., and the long persecution that ensued. The object
of the ballad is not to excuse these excesses, which we con-
demn and deplore, but to give a vivid picture of the feelings
of an outraged people in the first madness of successful
resistance.]
JOY ! joy ! the day is come at last, the day
of hope and pride,
And see ! our crackling bonfires light old
Bann's rejoicing tide,
And gladsome bell, and bugle-horn from
Newry's captured Towers,
Hark ! how they tell the Saxon swine, this
land is ours, is OURS !
Glory to God ! my eyes have seen the ran-
somed fields of Down,
My ears have drunk the joyful news, " Stout
Phelim hath his own."
Oh ! may they see and hear no more, Oh !
may they rot to clay,
When they forget to triumph in the conquest
of to-day.
Now, now we'll teach the shameless Scot to
purge his thievish maw,
Now, now the Courts may fall to pray, for
Justice is the Law,
Now, shall the Undertaker 1 square, for once,
his loose accounts,
We'll strike, brave boys, a fair result, from
all his false amounts.
Come, trample down their robber rule, and
smite its venal^ spawn,
Their foreign laws, their foreign church,
their ermine and their lawn;
1 The Scotch and English adventurers planted in Ulster by
James I., were called Undertakers.
With all the specious fry of fraud that robb'd
us of our own,
And plant our ancient laws again beneath
our lineal throne.
Our standard flies o'er fifty towers, o'er
twice ten thousand men,
Down have we pluck'd the pirate Red, never
to rise agen ;
The Green alone shall stream above our
native field and flood
The spotless Green, save where its folds are
geinm'd with Saxon blood !
Pity ! 7 no, no, you dare not, Priest not you
our Father dare
Preach to us now that godless creed the
murderer's blood to spare ;
To spare his blood, while tombless still our
slaughter'd kin implore
" Graves and revenge" from Gobbin-ClifFs
and Carrick's bloody shore ! s
Pity! could we "forget forgive," if we
were clods of clay,
Our martyr'd priests, our banish'd chiefs,
our race in dark decay,
And worse than all you know it, Priest
the daughters of our land,
With wrongs we blush'd to name until the
sword was in our hand !
Pity ! well, if you needs must whine, let pity
have its way,
Pity for all our comrades true, far from our
side to-day ;
The prison-bound who rot in chains, the
faithful dead who pour'd
Their blood 'neath Temple's lawless axe or
Parson's ruffian sword.
They smote us with the swearer's oath, and
with the murderer's knife,
We in the open field will fight, fairly for
land and life ;
* Leland, the Protestant historian, states that the Catholic
Priests ''labored zealously to moderate tlie excesses of war /"
and frequently protected the English by concealing them in
their places of worship, and even under their altars.
1 The scene of the massacre of the unoffending inhabit'uit*
of Island Magee by the garrison of Carrickfergus.
POEMS OF CIIAULES GAVAN DUFFY.
689
But, by the Dead and all their wrongs, and
by our hopes to-day,
One of us twain shall fight their last, or be
it we or they
They bann'd our faith, they bann'd oui lives,
they trod us into earth,
Until our very patience stirr'd tl eir bitter
hearts to mirth ;
Even this great flame that wraps them now,
not we but they have bred,
Yes, this is their own work, and now, TIISIR
WORK BE ON THEIR HEAD.
Nay, Father, tell us not of help from Lein-
ster's Norman Peers,
If we but shape our holy cause to match
their selfish fears,
Helpless and hopeless be their cause who
brook a vain delay,
Our ship is launch'd, our flag's afloat,
whether they come or stay.
I^et Silken Howth, and savage Slane still
kiss their tyrant's rod,
And pale Dunsany still prefer his Master
to his God,
Little we'd miss their fathers' sons, the
Marchmen of the Pale,
If Irish hearts and Irish hands had Spanish
blade and mail ?
Then, let them stay to bow and fawn, or
fight with cunning words ;
I fear me more their courtly acts than
England's hireling swords,
Nathless their creed they hate us still, as the
Despoiler hates,
Could they love us, and love their prey, our
kinsmen's lost estates 1
Our rude array's a jagg6d rock to smash the
spoiler's power,
Or need we aid, His aid we have who
doom'd this gracious hour ;
Of yore he led his Hebrew host to peace
through strife and pain,
And us he leads the self-same path, the self-
same goal to gain.
Down from the sacred hills whereon a SAINT*
communed with God,
Up from the vale where Bagnall'g blood
manured the reeking sod,
Out from the stately woods of Truagk,
M'Kenna's plunder'd home,
Like Malin's waves, as fierce and fast, our
faithful clansmen come.
Then, brethren, on! O'Neill's dear shade
would frown to see you pause
Our banish'd Hugh, our martyr'd Hugh, ia
watching o'er your cause
His generous error lost the land he deem'd
the Norman true ;
Oh ! forward ! friends, it must not lose the
land again in you !
THE VOICE OF LABOR.
A CHANT OP THE CITY MEETINGS, A. D. 1848
YE who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye this
sight to-day,
When stalwart trade in long brigade, be-
yond a king's array,
March'd in the blessed light of Heaven
beneath the open sky,
Strong in the might of sacred RIGHT, that
none dare ask them why
These are the slaves, the needy knaves, ye
spit upon with scorn
The spawn of earth, of nameless birth, and
basely bred as born ;
Yet know, ye soft and silken lords, were we
the thing ye say,
Your broad domains, your cofferM gains,
your lives were ours to-day 1
Measure that rank, from flank to flank; 'tis
fifty thousand strong ;
And mark you here, in front and rear,
brigades as deep and long ;
And know that never blade of foe, or Arran's
deadly breeze,
Tried by assay of storm or fray more daunt
less hearts than these ;
1 St. Patrick, whose favorite retreat *M LecaJe, In the
County Down.
GOO
POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY.
The sinewy smith, little he recks of his own
child the sword ;
The men of gear, think you they fear their
handiwork a Lord ?
And undismay'd, yon sons of trade might
see the battle's front,
Who bravely bore, nor bow'd before the
deadlier face of want.
What lack we here of show or form that
lures your slaves to death ?
Not serried bands, nor sinewy hands, nor
music's martial breath ;
And if we broke the bitter yoke our suppli-
ant race endure,
No robbers we but chivalry the Army of
the Poor.
Shame on ye now, ye lordly crew, that do
your betters wrong
We are no base and braggart mob, but mer-
ciful and strong.
Your henchmen vain, your vassal train would
fly our first defiance ;
In us- in our strong, tranquil breasts
abides your sole reliance.
Ay ! keep them all, castle and hall, coffers
and costly jewels
Keep your vile gain, and in its train the pas-
sions that it fuels.
We envy not your lordly lot its bloom or
its decayance :
But ye have that we claim as ours our
right in long abeyance :
Leisure to live, leisure to love, leisure to
taste our freedom
O ! suffering poor, O ! patient poor, how bit-
terly you need them !
"Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your
social charter,
And city slave or peasant serf, the TOILER is
its martyr.
Where Frank and Tuscan shed their sweat,
the goodly crop is theirs
If Norway's toil make rich the soil, she eats
the fruit she rears
O'er Maine's green sward there rules no lord,
saving the Lord on high ;
But we are slaves in our own land proud
masters, tell us why ?
The German burgher and his men, brother
with brothers live,
While toil must wait without your gate
what gracious crusts you give.
Long in your sight, for our own right we've
bent, and still we bend ;
Why did we bow ? why do we now ?
proud masters, this must end.
Perish the past a generous laud is this fair
land of ours,
And enmity may no man see between itt
Towns and Towers.
Come, join our bands here take our hands
now shame on him that lingers,
Merchant or Peer, you have no fear from-
labor's blistered fingers.
Come, join at last perish the past its trai
tors, its seceders
Proud names and old, frank hearts and boltt
come join and be our Leaders ;
But know, ye lords, that be your bword
with us or with our Wronger,
Heaven be our guide, for we shall bide thie
lot of shame no longer !
THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE.
O ! GIVE me back that royal dream
My fancy wrought,
When I have seen your sunny eyes
Grow moist with thought ,
And fondly hoped, dear Love, your heart
from mine
Its spell had caught ;
And laid me down to dream that dream
divine,
But true methought,
Of how my life's long task would be, to
make yours blessed as it ought.
To learn to love sweet Nature more
For your sweet sake,
To watch with you dear friend, with
you 1
Its wonders break ;
POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY.
G91
The sparkling Sprng in that bright face
to see
Its mirror make
On summer morns to hear the sweet
birds sing
By linn and lake ;
And know your voice, your magic voice,
could still a grander musut wake!
On some old shell-strewn rock to sit
In Autumn eves,
Where gray Killiney cools the torrid air
Hot Autumn weaves :
Or by that Holy Well in mountain lone,
Where Faith believes
(Fain would I believe) its secret, darling
wish
True love achieves.
Yet, O ! its Saint was not more pure than
she to whom my fond heart cleaves.
Te see the dank mid-winter night
Pass like a noon,
Sultry with thought from minds that teem'd,
And glow'd like June :
Whereto would pass in sculp'd and pic-
tured train
Art's magic boon ;
And Music thrill with many a haughty
strain
Ai.'d dear old tune,
Till hearts grew sad to hear the destined
hour to part had come so soon.
To wake the old weird world that
sleeps
In Irish lore ;
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung
By Mulla's shore;
Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple
birds
That shine and soar;
Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless
vows
That Grattan swore ;
Hie songs that once our own dear Davis
sung ah, me ! to sing no more.
To search with mother-love the gifts
Our land can boast
Soft Erna's isles, Neagh's wooded slope*,
Clare's iron coast ;
Kildare, whose legions gray our bosom
stir
With fay and ghost ;
Gray Monroe, green Antrim, purple
Glenmalur
Lene's fairy host ;
With raids to many a foreign land to learn
to love dear Ireland most.
And all those proud old victor-fields
We tlirill to name ;
Whose memories are the stars that
light
Long nights O'" shame;
The Cairn, the Dun, the Rath, the
Tower, the Keep,
That still proclaim
In chronicles of clay and stone, how
true, how deep,
Was Eire's fame.
O ! we shall see them all, with her, that dear,
dear friend we two have loved the same..
Yet ah ! how truer, tend'rer still
Methought did seem
That scene of tranquil joy, that happy
home,
By Dodder's stream ;
The morning smile, that grew a fiied
star,
With love-lit beam,
The ringing laugh, lock'd hands, and
all the far
And shining stream
Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner
than a dream.
For still to me, dear Friend, dear
Love,
Or both dear Wife,
Your image comes with serious thoughts,
But tender, rife ;
No idle plaything to caress or chide
In sport or strife ;
But my best chosen friend, companion,
guide,
To walk through life,
Link'd hand in hand, two equal, loving
friends, true husband and true wife.
692
POEMS OF CHAKLES GAVAN DUF*\.
SWEET SIBYL.
My Love is as fresh as the morning sky,
A'ly Love is as soft as the summer air,
My Love is as true as the Saints on high,
And never was saint so fair !
O, glad is my heart when I name her
name,
For it sounds like a song to me
I'll love you, it sings, nor heed their
blame,
For you love me, Astor Machree !
Sweet Sibyl ! sweet Sibyl ! my heart is wild
With the fairy spell that her eyes have
lit;
1 sit in a dream where my Love has smiled
1 kiss where her name is writ !
O, darling, I fly like a dreamy boy ;
The toil that is joy to the strong
and true,
The life that the brave for their land
employ,
I squander in dreams of you.
The face of m" Love has the chanceful lisjht
rf O O
That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring ;
The voice of my Love is a strange delight,
As when birds in the May-time sing.
0, hope of my heart 1 O, light of my
life!
O, come to me, darling, with peace
and rest !
O, come like the Summer, my own
sweet wife,
To your home in my longing breast !
Be bless'd with the home sweet Sibyl will
sway,
With the glance of her soft and queenly
eyes ;
D I happy the love young Sibyl ^rill pay
With the bre< of her tender sighs.
That hoai*: ~JL the hope of my waking
dreams
That love fills my eye with pride
There's light in their glance, there's
joy in their beams,
When I think of my own young
bride.
A LAY SERMON.
BROTHER, do you love your brother?
Brother, are you all you seem ?
Do you live for more than living ?
lias your Life a law, and scheme ?
Are you prompt to bear its duties,
As a brave man may beseem ?
Brother, shun the mist exhaling
From the fen of pride and doubt,
Neither seek the house of bondage
Walling straiten'd souls about ;
Bats ! who from their narrow spy-hole.
Cannot see a world without.
Anchor in no stagnant shallow
Trust the wide and wondrous sea,
Where the tides are fresh forever,
And the mighty currents free ;
There, perchance, O ! young Columbus
Your New World of truth may be.
Favor will not make deserving
(Can the sunshine brighten clay?)
Slowly must it grow to blossom,
Fed by labor and delay,
And the fairest bud of promise
Bears the taint of quick decay.
You must strive for better guerdons ;
Strive to be the thing you'd seem ;
Be the thing that God hath made you,
Channel for no borrow'd stream ;
He hath lent you mind and conscience ;
See you travel in their beam !
See you scale life's misty highlands
By this light of living truth !
And with bosom braced for labor,
Breast them in your manly youth ;
So when age and care have found you,
Shall your downward path be smooth.
Fear not, on that rugged highway,
Life may want its lawful zest :
Sunny glens are in the mountain,
Where the weary feet may rest,
Cool'd in streams that gush forever
From a loving mother's breast.
1'OEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY.
093
"Simple heart and simple pleasures,"
So they write life's golden rule;
Honor won by supple baseness,
State that crowns a canker'd fool,
Gleam as gleam the gold and purple
On a hot and rancid pool.
Weai no show of wit or science,
But the gems you've won, and weighM ;
Thefts, like ivy on a ruin,
Make the rifts they seem to shade :
Are you not a thief and beggar
In the rarest spoils array'd ?
Shadows deck a sunny landscape,
Making brighter all the bright :
So, my brother ! care and danger
On a loving nature light,
Bringing all its latent beauties
Out upon the common sight.
Love the things that God created,
Make your brother's need your care ;
Scorn and hate repel God's blessings,
But where love is, they are there ;
As the moonbeams light the waters,
Leaving rock and sand-bank bare.
Thus, my brother, grow and flourish,
Fearing none and loving all ;
For the true man needs no patron,
lie shall climb and never crawl :
Two things fashion their own channel
The strong man and the waterfall.
O'DONNELL AND THE FAIR FITZ-
GERALD.
A FAWN that flies with sudden spring,
A wild-bird fluttering on the wing,
A passing gleam of April sun,
She flash'd upon me, and was gone !
No chance did that dear face restore,
Nor then nor now nor evermore.
But sure, I see her in rny dreams,
With eyes where love's first dawning beams ;
And tones, like Irish Music, say
" You ask to love me, and you may ;. M
And so I know she will be mine,
That rose of princely Gcraldine.
A voice that thrills with modest doubt r
A tale of love can ill pour out ;
But, oh ! when love wore manly guise,
And warrior feats woke woman's sighs
With Irish sword, on Irish soil.
I might have won that kingly spoil.
But then, perchance, the Desmond race
Had deem'd to mate with mine disgrace ;
For mine's that strain of native blood
That last the Norman lance withstood ;
Ancl still when mountain war was waged
Their sparths among the Normans raged,
And burst through many a serried lino
Of Lacy, Burke, and Geraldine.
And yet methinks in battle press,
My love, I could not love you los> ,
For, oh ! 'twere sweet brave deeds to do
For our old, sainted land, and you !
To sweep a storm, through Barrensmore,
With Docwra's scatter'd ranks before,
Like chaff upon our northern blast ;
Nor rest till Bann's broad wares /
pass'd,
Till Inbhar sees our flashing line,
Till Darhar's lordly towers are mine,
And backward borne, as seal and sign.
The fairest maid of Gcraldine.
But, Holy Bride, 1 how sweeter still
A hunted chief on Faughart hill,
With all the raging Pale behind,
So sweet, so strange a foe to find !
Soft love to plant where terror sprung,
With honey speech of Irish tongue ;
Again to dare Clan-Gcralt's swords
For hope of some sweet, stolen wordn.
Till many a danger pass'd and gone,
My suit has sped, my Bride is won
She's proud Clan-ConnelPs Queen, and
mine,
Young Gcraldine, of Goraldine.
81. Bride, or Hrtrfd.
691
POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DTTFFY.
But sure that time is dead and gone
When worth alone such love had won,
For hearts are cold, and hands are bought,
And faith, and lore, and love are naught ?
Ah ! trust me, no ! The pure and true
The genial past may still renew ;
Still love as then ; and still no less
Strong hearts shall snatch a brave success
And to their end right onward go,
As Erna's tide to Assaroe. 1
Ob ! Saints may strive -for Martyr's crown.
And warrior watch by leaguer'd town,
But poor is all their toil to mine,
'Till won's my Bride my Geraldine !
A w*t*rflUl!n TjconBll, the O'DonneiTe watT.
POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON.
SIR TURLOLTGH, OR THE CHURCH-
YARD BRIDE. 1
THE bride she bound her golden hair
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And her step was light as the breezy air
When it bends the morning flowers so fair,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
And oh, but her eyes they danced so bright,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
As nhe long'd for the dawn of to-morrow's
light,
Her bridal vows of love to plight,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
1 In the churchyard of Erigle Truagb, in the barony of Trn-
agh, county Monaghan, there is sa!d to be a Spirit which
appears to persons whose families are there interred. Its
appearance, which is generally made in the following manner,
is uniformly fatal, being an omen of death to those who are
*o unhappy aa to meet with it. When a funeral takes place,
it watches the person who remains last in the graveyard, over
whom it possess a fascinating influence. If the loifver be a
young man, it takes the shape of a beautiful female, inspires
him with a chsnued passion, and exacts a promise to meet in
the churchyard ou a mouth from that day ; this promise is
ealed by a kiss, which communicates a deadly taint to the in-
dividual who receives it. It then disappears, and no sooner
does the young man quit the churchyard, than he remembers
the history of the spectre which is well known In the parish
sinks into despair, dies, and is buried in the place of
appointment on the day when the promise was to have Iven
fulfilled. If, on the contrary, it appears to a female, it as-
sumes the form of a young man of exceeding elegance and
beauty. Some years ago I was shown the grave of a young
person about eighteen years of age, who was t>aid to have fallen
a victim to it: and It is not more than ten months since a
man in the same parish declared that he gave the promise and
the fatal kiss, and consequently looked upon himself as lost.
He took a fever, died, and was buried on the day appointed
for the meeting, which was, exactly a month from that of the
Interview. There are several cases of the same kind men-
tioned, but the two now alluded to are the only one* that came
within my personal knowledge. It appears, however, that the
pectre does not confine its operations to the churchyard, as
there have bceL instances mentioned of its appearance at
weddings and dunces, where it never failed to secure Its vic-
tims by dancing them into pi surilic fevers. I am unable to cay
whether this is a strictly local superstition, or whether It IB
considered peculiar to other churctyurds In Ireland, or else-
where. In its female shape It somewhat resembles the Elle
Scandinavia; but I am acquainted with no account
The bridegroom is come with youthful brow,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
To receive from his Eva her virgin vow ;
" Why tarries the bride of my bosom now !**
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
A cry ! a cry ! 'twas her maidens spoke,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
"Your bride is asleep she has not awoke;
And the sleep she sleeps will be never broke,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And his cheek became like the marble stone
" l Mi, the pulse of my heart is forever gone l n
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The keen 1 is loud, it comes again,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And rises sad from the funeral-train,
As in sorrow it winds along the plain,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeovj.
of fairies or apparitions in which the sex la said to be changed,
except in that of the devil himself. The country people say
it is Death.
1 The Irish cry, or walling for the dead ; properly written
6'ooi/t, and pronounced as if written keen.' Speaking of this
practice, which still prevails in many parts of Ireland, the Kev.
A. HOPS, rector of Unngiven, in his statistical survey of that
parish, observes that " however it Hiay offend the judgment
or shock our present refinement, Its affecting cadences will
continue to find admirers wherever what is truly sad and plain-
tive can be relished or understood." It is also thus noticed in
the "Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry :" " I have
often. Indeed always, felt that there is something exceedingly
touching In the Irish cry; In fact, that It breathes the very
spirit of wild and natural sorrow. The Irish peasantry,
whenever a death takes place, are exceedingly happy In seiz-
ing apon any contingent circiimM.tncr* that may occur, and
making them subservient to the excitement of grief for the de-
parted, or the exaltation and praii-e of his character and vir-
tues. My entrance win a proof of this; for 1 had scarcely
advanced to the middle of the tlour. when my intimacy wllfc
the deceased, our Ixiyt-h sports, mid even our quarrels, wer
adverted to with a natural eloquence and patho*. that. In sptu
of my firmness, occasioned me to feel the prevailing sorrow
They spoke, or chanted, mournfully, in Irish : but tn sw
GOG
POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETOX.
And oh, but the plumes of white were fair,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
When they fl utter' d all mournful in the air,
As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer, 1
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
There is a voice that but one can hear,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And it softly pours from behind the bier,
Its note of death on Sir Turlough's ear,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The keen is loud, but that voice is low,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And it eings its song of sorrow slow,
And names young Turlough's name with woe,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed,
The fairest corpse among the dead,*
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The wreaths of virgin -white are laid,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
By virgin hands, o'er the spotless maid ;
And the flowers are strewn, but they soon
will fade
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
" Oh ! go not yet not yet away,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
Let us feel that life is near our clay,"
The long-departed seem to say,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
tarce of what they said was as follows : ' O, mavonrneen 1
you're lying low this mornin' of sorrow I lyin<* low are you,
nd does not know who it is (alluding to mo) that is etaiidin'
OTer yon, weepin' for the days you've spent together in your
youth I It's yourself, acushla agus asthorf tnachree, (the pule e
nd beloved of my heart,) that would stretch out the right hand
warmly to welcome him to the place of his birth, where you
had both been so often happy about the green hills and valleys
with each other!' They then passed on to an enumeration of his
virtues as a father, a husband, sou, and brother specified his
worth as he stood related to society in general, and his kind-
ness as a neighbor and a friend."
1 It ip usual in the North of Ireland to celebrate mass for
the dead in some green field between the house in which the
deceased lived and the graveyard. For this the shelter of a
rrove is usually selected, and the appearance of the ceremony
; highly picturesque and solemn.
' Another expression peculiarly Irish, "What a purty
corpse !" " How well she becomes death I" " You wouldn't
meet a pnrtier corpse of a summer's day t" "She bean? the
change well 1" are all phrases quite common in --Ages of death
unong the peasantry'
But the tramp and the voices of life are
gone,
Killeevy, O Killeevy
And beneath each cold forgotten stone,
The mouldering dead sleep all alone,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
But who is he who lingereth yet ?
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
The fresh green sod with his tears is wet,
And his heart in the bridal grave is set,
By the bonnie green woods of Kille^vy.
Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and
brave,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
Should bend him o'er that bridal grave,
And to his death-bound Eva rave,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy T
"Weep not weep not," said a lady fair,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
" Should youth and valor thus despair,
And pour their vows to the empty air ?"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
There's charmed music upon her tongue,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
Such beauty, bright, and warm, and young,
Was never seen the maids among,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
A laughing light, a tender grace,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
Sparkled in beauty around her face,
That grief from mortal heart might c'hase,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
" The maid for whom thy salt tears fall,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
Thy grief or love can ne'er recall ;
She rests beneath that grassy pall,
By the bonuie green woods of Killeevy.
" My heart it strangely cleaves to thee,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And now that thy plighted love is free,
Give its unbroken pledge to me,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy."
POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON.
GOT
The charm is strong upon 'furlough's eyej
Killeevy, O Killcevy!
His faithless tears are already dry,
And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
14 To thee," the charm6d chief replied,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
" I pledge that love o'er my buried bride ;
Oh ! come, and in Turlough's hall abide,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Again the funeral voice came o'er
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
The passing breeze, as it wail'd before,
And streams of mournful music bore,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
" If I to thy youthful heart am dear,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
One month from hence thou wilt meet me
here,
Where lay thy bridal, Eva's bier,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
He press'd her lips as the words were spoken,
Killoevy, O Killeevy !
And his banshee's 1 wail now far and
broken
Murmur' d " Death," as he gave the token,
By the bonnie green woods of Killcevy.
" Adieu ! adieu !" said this lady bright,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And she slowly pass'd like a thing of light
Or a morning cloud from Sir Turlough's sight,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And there's fear and grief o'er his wide
domain,
And gold for those who will calm his brain,
By the bonnie green woods of Killcevy.
"Woman of the hill." Treating of the fnperMiiinn* of
the Irish, Miae Balfour cayi>, " What rank the banthtt Imlili- In
th ccaleof cpirttnal Iwiitif*. it ii> not rnfy to determine ; l>ui
her lavorite occupation cecini 1 to be that of font-Hint; thudciiih
of the different Itraixhc* of the families over which sin- \-<-
tided, by the most pluintlvc trie*. Every family nail formerly
'.t banshee, but the belief In her existence 1* now fan fading
uvur. and in a few more yearn *he will only be reincniUcrrd
tn the gloried record* of her marvcllonn doings In day* lou^
ilnce crone by."
" Come haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagba's
pride,
Has pledged his love to the churchyard
bride,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy
The leech groan'd loud, " Come tell me thit
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
By all thy hopes of weal and bliss,
Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss ?"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"The banshee's cry is loud and long,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
At eve she weeps her funeral-song,
And it floats on the twilight breeze along,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
" Then the fatal kiss is given ; the last
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
Of Turlough's race and name is past,
His doom is seal'd, his die is cast,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
" Leech, say not that thy skill is vain ;
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain,
And half his lands thou shalt retain,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The leech has fail'd, and the hoary priest,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
With pious shrift his soul released,
And the smoke is high of his funeral- feast,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The shaixtchies now are assembled all
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
And the gongs of praise in Sir Turlough's hall,
To the sorrowing harp's dark music, fall,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
And there is trophy, banner, and plume,
Killeevy, O Killeevy I
And the pomp of death, with its darkest
gloom,
O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
(508
POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON.
The month is closed, ami Green Truagha's
pride,
Killeevy, O Killeevy !
Is married to death and, side by side,
lie slumbers now with his churchyard bride,
By the bonnve green woods of Killeevy.
A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY.
TAKE, proud ambition, take thy fill
Of pleasures won through toil or crime ;
Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill,
And give thy name to future time
Philosophy, be keen to see
Whate'er is just, or false, or vain,
Take each thy meed, but, oh ! give me
To range my mountain glens again.
Pure was the breeze that fann'd my cheek,
As o'er Knockmany's brow I went
When every lonely dell could speak
In airy music, vision sent :
False world, 1 hate thy cares and thee,
I hate the treacherous haunts of men ;
Give back my early heart to me,
Give back to me my mountain gler
How light my youthful visions shone,
When spann'd by fancy's radiant form 1
But now her glittering bow is gone,
And leaves me but the cloud and storm.
With wasted form, and cheek all pale
With heart long scarr'd by grief and pain ,
Dunroe, I'll seek thy native gale,
I'll tread my mountain glens again.
Thy brer/e once more may fan my blood,
Thy valleys all are lovely still ;
And I may stand, where oft I stood,
In lonely musings on thy hill.
But ah! the spell is gone ; no art,
In crowded town or native plain,
Can teach a crush'd and breaking heart
To pipe the song of youth again.
POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH.
A MUNSTER KEEN.
ON Monday morning, the flowers were gayly
springing,
The skylark's hymn in middle air was sing-
ing,
When, grief of griefs ! my wedded husband
left me,
And since that hour of hope and health be-
reft me.
Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &C. 1
Above the board, where thou art low re-
clining,
o *
Have parish priests and horsemen high been
dining,
And wine and usquebaugh, while they were
able,
They quaff'd with thee the soul of all the
table.
Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c.
Why didst thou die? Could wedded wife
adore thee
With purer love than that my bosom bore
thee?
Thy children's cheeks were peaches ripe and
mellow,
And threads of gold, their tresses long and
yellow.
Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c.
In vain for me are pregnant heifers lowing ;
In vain for me are yellow harvests growing;
> The keener ilooe elngfl the extpmpor* iltath-nong; the
bnrdfii of the olla^ono, or churu*. i taken up by all the
>uuii iirrn'ii t.
Or thy nine gifts of love in beauty bloom-
ing
Tears blind my eyes, and grief my .heart
consuming !
Ulia gulla, gulla g'oue ! <fcc.
Pity her plaints whose wailing voice is bro-
ken,
Whose finger holds our early wedding token,
The torrents of whose tears have drain'd
their fountain,
Whose piled-up grief on grief is past re-
counting.
Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c.
I still might hope, did I not thus behold thee,
That high Knockferin's airy peak might hold
thee,
Or Crohan's fairy halls, or Corrin's towers,
Or Lene's bright caves, or Cleana's bowers. 1
Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! fcc.
But, O ! my black despair, when thou wert
dying !
O'er thee no tear was wept, no heart was
sighing
No breath of prayer did waft thy soul to
glory ;
But lonely thou didst lie, all maim'd and
gory
Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c.
1 may your dove-like soul, on whitest
pinions,
Pursue her upward flight to God's domin-
ions,
1 i'lare* celebrated In fairy '.opocrapb?
700
POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH.
Where saints' and martyrs' hands shall gifts
provide thee
And, O, my grief I that I am not beside
thee !
Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c.
BATTLE OF CREDRAN. (1257.)
[A brilliant battle was fought by Geoffrey O'Donnell, Lord
Of Tirconnell, against the Lord Justice of Ireland, Maurice
Fitzgerald, and the English of Connaught, at Credran CilK,
Roseede, in the territory of Carburry, north of Sligo, in de-
ftence of his principality. A fierce and terrible conflict took
place, in^vhich bodies were hacked, heroes disabled, and the
strength of both sides exhausted. The men of Tirconnell
maintained their ground, and completely overthrew the Eng-
lish forces in the engagement, and defeated them with great
slaughter ; but Geoffrey himself was severely wounded, hav-
ing encountened in the fight Maurice Fitzgerald, in single
combat, in which they mortally 'vounded each other. Annals
Of the Four Masters.]
FROM the glens of his fathers O'Donnell
comes forth,
With all Cinel-Conall, 1 fierce septs of the
North
O'Boyle and O'Daly, O'Dugan, and they
That own, by the wild waves, O'Doherty's
sway.
Clan Connor, brave sons of the diadem'd
Niall,
Has pour'd the tall clansmen from mountain
and vale
M'Sweeny's sharp axes, to battle oft bore,
Flash bright in the sunlight by high Duna-
more.
Through Inis-Mac-Durin,' through Derry's
dark brakes,
Glen tocher of tempests, Slieve-snacht of the
lakes,
Bundoran of dark spells, Loch-Swilly's rich
glen,
The red deer rush wild at the war-shout of
men !
1 Clnel-Ctmall.The descendant? of Conall-Gnlban, the con
of Niall of tin- Nine Hostages, Monarch of Ireland in the fourth
century. The principality was named Tir Chonalle, or Tyr-
connell. which included the county Donegal, and ite chiefs
were the O'Dnnell.
' Districts in Donegal.
1 why through Tir-Conall, from Cuil-
dubh's dark steep,
To SamerV green border the tierce masses
sweep,
Living torrents o'er-leaping their own river
shore,
In the red sea of battle to mingle their
roar?
Stretch thy vision far southward, and *eok
for reply
Where blaze of the hamlets glares red on
the sky
Where the shrieks of the hopeless rise high
to their God
Where the foot of the Sassenach spoiler has
trod !
Sweeping on like a tempest, the Gall-Oglach*
stern
Contends for the van with the swift-footed
kern
There's blood for that burning, and joy for
that wail
The avenger is hot on the spoiler's red
trail !
The Saxon hath gathered on Credran's far
heights,
His groves of long lances, the flower of his
knights
His awful cross-bowmen, whose long iron
hail
Finds through Cota* and Sciath, the bare
heart of the Gael I
The long lance is brittle the mai!6d ranks
reel
Where the Gall-Oglach's axe hews the har-
ness of steel ;
And truer to its aim in the breast of a foe-
man,
Is the pike of a Kern than the shaft of a
bowman.
3 ftmnfr.Thv illicit-lit name of Loch Earne.
4 Gall-Off/ach or G<tl/o/vgla*x.'r\\e heavy-armed foot oi
'ier. Kern or Ceithernach. The light-armed soldier.
6 Cota. The saffron-dyed shirt of the kern, consisting of
many yards of yellow linen tfirkly plai'ed. S^iai*.. TT
I wicker shield, an its name imports.
POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH.
701
One prayer to St. Columb 1 the battle-steel
clashes
The tide of fierce conflict tumultuously
dashes ;
Surging on ward, high -heaving its billow of
blood,
While war-shout and death-groan swell high
o'er the flood !
As meets the wild billows the deep-centred
rock,
Met glorious Clan-Conall the fierce Saxon's,
shock ;
As the wrath of the clouds flash'd the axe
of Clan-Conell,
Till the Saxon lay strewn 'neath the might
of O'Donneil !
One warrior alone holds the wide bloody
field,
With barbed black charger and long lance
and shield
Grim, savage, and gory he meets their ad-
vance,
His broad shield uplifting, and couching his
lance.
Then forth to the van of that fierce rushing
throng
Rode a chieftain of tall spear and battle-axe
strong ;
His Jlracca,* and yeochal, and cochaFs red
fold,
And war-horse's housings, were radiant in
gold!
Say who in this chief spurring forth to the
fray,
The wave of whose spear holds yon arm6d
array ?
St. Oolum, or Ctilwu-CUle, t/u dove of the Church. The
patron saint of Tyrconnell, descended from Cunall Qulban.
1 llraccu. So called, from being striped with various colors,
was the tight-fitting Truis. It covered the ankles, legs, and
tnlghs, rlciug as high as the loins, and fitted so close to the
limbs as to discover every mnscle and motion of the part*
which It covered. Gtochal. The jacket made of gilded
leather, and which was sometimes embroidered with silk.
t'ocfial.A son of cloak with a large bunging collar of differ-
ent colors This garment reached to the middle of the thigh,
and was fringed with a border like shagged hair, and bring
brought over the shoulders, was fastened on the breast by a
clasp, bnckle, or brooch of silver or gold. In battle, they
wrapi>ed the Cochal several time* round the left arm a* a
ihleld.--Ho/Jxr' Drus and Armor of thr /H*Ji.
And he who stands scorning the ihousandr
that sweep,
An army of wolves over shepherdless sheep ?
The shield of his nation, brave Geoffrey
O'Donneil
(Clar-Fodhla's firm prop is the proud race
ofConall)'
And Maurice Fitzgerald, the scorner of dan-
ger,
The scourge of the Gael, and the strength
of the stranger.
The launch'd epear hath torn through target
and mail
The couch'd lance hath borne to his cropper
the Gael
The steeds driven backward all helplessly
reel;
But the lance that lies broken hath blood on
its steel !
And now, fierce O'Donneil, thy battle-axe
wield
The broadsword is shiver'd, and cloven the
shield,
The keen steel sweeps griding through proud
crest and crown
Clar-Fodhla hath triumph'd the Saxon is
down !
MARGREAD NI CIIEALLEADH.
[This ballad is founded on the story of Daniel O'Kecffe, an
outlaw, famous in the traditions of the County of Cork, where
his name Is still associated with scvenil localities. It is re-
lated tnatO'KccnVs beautiful raistresK, Margaret Kelly (Mair-
gread nl ChenlUadh), tempted by a laruc reward, undertook
to deliver him into the hands of the Knglisb soldiers; hut
O'Keefle having discovered In her possession a document re-
vealing her perfidy. In a frenzy of indignation stabbed her to
the heart with his sklan. lie lived in the time of William III.,
%nd is represented to have been a gentleman and a poet.]
AT the dance in the village
Thy white foot was fleetest;'
Thy voice 'mid the concert
Of maidens was sweetest ;
1 This is the translation of the first Hue cf a poem of two
hundred and forty-eight verses, written by Ftrgal oj; Mar mo
Obaird oo Domlnick O'Donneil, In the year 1005. The orttf
nal lino (ft
"Ualbhta K.Kjhln full riiuimlU. "-(>>( /Haft
702
POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH.
The swell of thy white breast
Made rich lovers follow ;
And thy raven hair bound them,
Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh,
Thy neck was, lost maid !
Than the ceanaban 1 whiter ;
And the glow of thy cheek
Than the monadan* brighter;
But Death's chain hath bound thee,
Thine eye's glazed and hollow
That shone like a Sun-burst,
Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh,
No more shall mine ear drink
Thy melody swelling ;
Nor thy beamy eye brighten
The outlaw's dark dwelling;
Or thy soft heaving bosom
My destiny hallow,
When thine arms twine around me,
Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
O O
The moss couch I brought thee
To-day from the mountain,
Has drank the last drop
Of thy young heart's red fountain ;
For this good skian beside me
Struck deep and rung hollow
In thy bosom of treason,
Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
With strings of rich pearls
Thy white neck was laden,
And thy fingers with spoils
Of the Sassenach maiden :
Such rich silks enrobed not
The proud dames of Mallow
Such pure gold they wore not
As Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
Alas ! that my loved one
Her outlaw would injure
Alas ! that he e'er proved
Her treason's avenger !
1 A plant found in bogs, the top of which bears a substance
resembling cotton, and as white as snow. Pronounced Cfln-
tvftn.
' The monadan is a red berry that is found on wild marsh*
mountains. It grows on an humble creeping plant.
That this right hand should make thee
A bed cold and hollow,
When in Death's sleep it laid thee,
Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh I
Arid while to this lone cave
My deep grief I'm venting,
The Saxon's keen bandog
My footsteps is scenting :
But true men await me
Afar in Duh allow.
Farewell, cave of slaughter,
And Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER.
ONE midsummer's eve, when the Bel-nies
were lighted,
And the bag-piper's tone call'd the maidens
delighted,
I join'd a gay group by the Araglin's water,
And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's
Daughter.
Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in
Kerry ?
Have you mark'd on the Galteys the black
whortle-berry,
Or ceanaban wave by the wells of Black-
water ?
They're the cheek, eye, and neck of O'Dono-
van's Daughter !
Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh's
round mountain ?
The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue
fountain ?
Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy
choir taught her ?
They've the step, grace, and tone of O'Dono-
van's Daughter!
Have you mark'd in its flight the black wing
of the raven ?
The rose-buds that breathe in the summer
breeze waven ?
POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH.
703
The pearls that lie hid under Lene's magic
water ?
They're the teeth, lip, and hair of O'Dono-
van's Daughter !
Ere the Bel-fire was dimm'd, or the dancers
departed,
I taught her a song of some maid broken-
hearted :
And that group, and that dance, and that
love-song I taught her
Haunt my slumbers at night with O'Dono-
van's Daughter.
God grant 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn that
wooes me,
God grant 'tis not Cliodhna the queen that
pursues me,
That ray soul lost and lone has no witchery
wrought her,
While I dream of dark groves and O'Dono-
van's Daughter !
If, spell-bound, I pine with an airy disorder,
Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry's wide
border ;
She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer
I've besought her,
That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's
Daughter.
BR1GIIIDIN BAN MO STORE.
[Brighldln ban mo star Is In English fair young bride, or
Bridget my treasure.. The proper sound of this phrase IB not
easily found by the mere English-speaking Irish. It IB aB If
written, " ftree.-dtieen-baion'mu-ftfiore." The proper name
Brighit, or Bride, signifies a fiery dart, and was the name of
be goddess of poetry In the Pagan days of Ireland.]
I AM a wand'ring minstrel man,
And Love my only theme,
I've stray'd beside the pleasant Bann,
And eke the Shannon's stream ;
I've piped and play'd to wife and maid
By Harrow, Suir, and Nore,
But never met a maiden yet
Like Brighidin Ban Mo Store.
My girl hath ringlets rich and rare,
By Nature's lingers wove
Loch-Carra's s\v;in is not so fair
As is her breast of Love ;
And when she moves, in Sunday sheen,
Beyond our cottage door,
I'd scorn the high-born Saxon queen
For Brighidin Ban Mo Store.
It is not that thy smile is sweet,
And soft thy voice of song
It is not that thou fleest to meet
My comings lone and long ;
But that doth rest beneath thy breast
A heart of purest core,
Whose pulse is known to me alone,
My Brighidin Ban Mo Store.
MO CRAOIBHIN CNO. 1
MY heart is far from Liffey's tide
And Dublin town ;
It strays beyond the Southern side
Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn, 1
Where Cappoquin* hath woodlands green,
Where Amhan-MhorV waters flow,
Where dwells unsung, unsought, unseen,
Mo craoibhin cno !
Low clustering in her leafy screen,
Mo craoibhin cno I
The high-bred dames of Dublin town
Are rich and fair,
With wavy plume, and silken gown,
And stately air;
Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair?
Can silks thv neck of snow?
1 Mo craoiti'iin cno literally mean* my dufttr qf nttU ; but It
figuratively signifies my nut-i/ron-n maid. It is pronounced
J/o Crttvin Kno.
1 ftioc moot DonnTht Brmon bare hiU. A lofty mountain
between the county of Tlpperary and that of Waterford, com-
manding a glorious prospect of unrivalled scenery.
Cappoquin. A romantically situated town on the H)rk-
watcr, in the county of Waterford. The Inch name denote*
the htad of th tribe <tf Conn.
4 AmJian-mAor Tht Great River. The Blark water, which
flows Into the sea at Youghal. The Irish uame li uUr*d \t
two coancln Oan- For*.
TUi
POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH.
Or measured pace, mine artless grace,
Mo craoibhin cno I
When harebells scarcely show thy trace,
Mo craoibhin cno !
I've heard the songs by Lif ^-y's wave
That maidens sung
They sung their land the Saxon's slave,
In Saxon tongue
Oh ! bring me here that Gaelic dear
Which cursed the Saxon foe,
When thou didst charm my raptured ear,
Mo craoibhin cno !
And none but God's good angels near,
Mo craoibhin cno !
I've wander'd by the rolling Lee !
And Lene's green bowers
I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea,
And Limerick's towers
And Liffey's tide, where halls of pride
Frown o'er the flood below ;
My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side,
Mo craoibhin cno !
With love and thee for aye to hide,
Mo craoibhin cno !
AILEEN THE HUNTRESS.
[The incident related in the following ballad happened
about the year 1731. Aileen, or Ellen, was daughter of M'Car-
de of Clidane, an estate originally bestowed upon this respect-
able branch of the family of M'Cartie More, by James the
seventh Earl of Desmond, and which, passing t>afu through
the confiscations of Elizabeth, Cromwell, and William, re-
mained in their possession until the beginning of the present
century. Aileen, who is celebrated in the traditions of the
people for her love of hunting, was the wife of James O'Con-
nor, of Cluaki-Tairbh, grandson of David, the founder of the
Siol-t Da, a well-known sept at this day in Kerry. This David
was grandson to Thomas MacTeige O'Connor, of Ahalahanna,
head of the second house of O'Connor Kerry, who, forfeiting
ai 1666, escaped destruction by taking shelter among his rela-
tions, the Nagles of Mouanimy.]
FAIR Aileen M'Cartie, O'Connor's young
bride,
Forsakes her chaste pillow with matronly
pride,
And calls forth her maidens (their number
was nine)
To the bawn of her mansion, a-milking the
kine.
They came at her bidding, in kirtle and
gown,
And braided hair, jetty, and golden, and
brown,
And form like the palm-tree, and step like
the fawn,
And bloom like the wild rose that circled
the bawn.
As the Guebre's round tower o'er the fane
of Ardfert
As the white hin'i of Brandon by young roes
begirt
As the moon in her glory 'mid bright stars
outhung
Stood Aileen M'Cartie her maidens among.
Beneath the rich kerchief, which matrons
may wear,
Stray'd ringleted tresses of beautiful hair ;
They waved on her fair neck, as darkly as
though
'Twere the raven's wing shining o'er Man-
gerton's snow !
A circlet of pearls o'er her white bosom
!ay,
Erst worn by thy proud Queen, O'Connor
the gay, 1
And now to the beautiful Aileen come
down,
The rarest that ever shed light in the
Laune. 1
The many-fringed falluinn* that floated be-
hind,
Gave its hues to the sun-light, its folds to
the wind
The brooch that refrain'd it, some forefather
bold
Had torn from a sea-kino- in battle-field old '
1 O'Connor, em-named " Sugach" or the Gay, was a cele-
brated chief of this race, who flourished in the fifteenth cen-
tury.
8 The river Laune flows from the Lakes of Killarney. u-i
the celebrated Kerry Pearls are found in its wat>r*
FaUuinn. The Irish mantle.
POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH.
705
Around her went bounding two wolf-dogs
of speed,
So tall in their stature, so pure in their
breed ;
While the maidens awake to the new-milk's
soft fall,
A song of O'Connor in Carraig's proud
hall.
As the milk came outpouring, and the song
came outsung,
O'er the wall 'mid the maidens a red deer
outsprung
Then cheer'd the fair lady then rush'd the
mad hound
And away with the wild stag in air-lifted
bound !
The gem-fasten'd fattuinn is dash'd on the
ba-vn
One spring o'er the tall fence and Aileen
is gone !
But morning's roused echoes to the deep
dells proclaim
The course of that wild stag, the dogs, and
the dame !
By Cluain Tairbh's green border, o'er moor-
land and height,
The red deer shapes downward the rush of
his flight
In sun-light his antlers ail-gloriously flash,
And onward the wolf-dogs and fair huntress
dash!
By Sliabh-Mis now winding (rare hunting I
ween !)
He gains the dark valley of Scota the
queen 1
Who found in ite bosom a cairn-lifted
grave,
When Sliabh-Mis first flow'd with the blood
of the brave !
1 The first battle fought between the M Montana and the
Tuathu de Danans for the empire of Ireland was at Sliabh-Mis,
in Kerry. In which Scota, an Egyptian princess, and the relict
of Melefius, was plain. A valley on the north side of Sliabh-
Mir, called Glean Scolthln, or the vale of Scota, in said to
be the place of her interment. The ancient chronicles as-
eert that this battle was fought 1200 yean before the Chris-
tian era.
By Coill-CuaighV green shelter, the hollow
rocks ring
Coill-Cuaigh, of the cuckoo's first song in the
spring,
Coill-Cuaigh of the tall oak and gale-scent-
ing spray
GOD'S curse on the tyrants that wrought thy
decay !
Now Maing's lovely border is gloriously
won,
Now the towers of tne island" gleam bright
in the sun,
And now Ceall-an AmanachV portals are
pass'd,
Where headless the Desmond found refuge
at last !
By Ard-na greach* mountain, and Avon
more's : ead,
To the Earl's proud pavilion the j^antinj^
deer fled
Where Desmond's tall clansmen spread ban-
ners of pride,
And rush'd to the battle, and gloriousl y died !
The huntress is coming, slow, breathless,
and pale,
Her raven locks streaming all wild in the
gale;
She stops and the breezes bring iolm to
her brow
But wolf-dog and wild deer, oh ! \*here are
they now?
On R&idhlan-Tigh-an-Earla, by Avonmore*s
well,
His bounding heart broken, the hunted deer
fell,
OoUl-Cvalgh the Wood of the Cuckoo, *o called fron
being the favorite haunt of the bird of summer, is now a bleak
desolate moor. The axe of the stranger laid Its honors low.
" Castle Island" or the " Island of Kerry," the stronghold
of the Fitzgeralds.
4 It was in this churchyard that the headless rcma.us of the
unfortunate Gerald, the 16th Earl of Desmond, were privately
interred. The head was can-fully pickled, and sent over to
the English queen, who bad it fixed on London bridge. This
mighty chieftain possessed more than 570,000 acres of land,
and had a train of 5(10 gentlemen of his own name and race.
At the source of the Blackwater, where he sought ref .ice from
his Inexorable foet>. Is a mountain called " Reidhlkii-Tigh-un-
Earla," or "The Plain ot the Earl's House." lie w&c slain
near Castle Island on llth November, 1383.
Ard na grvaeh, the height of the spoils or armies.
706
POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH.
And o'er him the brave hounds all gallantly
died,
In death still victorious their fangs in his
side.
'Tis evening the breezes beat cold on her
breast,
And Aileen must seek her far home in the
west :
Yet weeping, she lingers where the mist-
wreaths are chill,
O'er the red deer and tall dogs that lie on
the hill!
Whose harp at the banquet told distant and
wide,
This feat of fair Aileen, O'Connor's young
bride?
O'Daly's whose guerdon tradition hath
told,
Was a purple-crown'd wine-cup of beautiful
gold!
POEMS OF ROBERT DWYER JOYCE,
FORGET ME NOT.
(FROM "BLANID.")
" THE East Wind sprang into a lovely place,
And cried, ' I'll slay the flowers and leave
no trace
Of all their blooming in this happy spot! '
And, as before his breath the sweet flowers
died,
One little bright-eyed blossom moaned and
cried,
' woods! forget me not! forget me not!
" * woods of waving trees! living streams!
In all your noontide joys and starry dreams,
Let me, for love, let me be unforgot!
birds that sing your carols while I die,
list to me! hear my piteous cry!
Forget me not! alas! forget me not!'
"And the Gods heard her plaint and swept
away
The bitter-fanged, strong East Wind from
his prey,
And smiled upon the flower and changed
her lot,
So now that, as we mark her azure leaf,
We think of life and love and parting grief,
And sigh, ' Forget me not! forget me
not!'"
THE DOVES.
(FROM "BLAMD.")
" MY little blue doves were born,
Were born in the windy March,
Up in the tapering larch
That laughs in the light of morn:
O, so high o'er the nie;ulmv!
0, so high o'er the glen !
And they sit in the leafy shadow,
The joy and delight of men,
Cooing, with voices flowing
In melody soft and sweet,
Their necks with the rainbow glowing,
And the pink on their silver feet.
" My little doves lived together,
Unweeting of woe and pain,
Through the days of the winds and rain
And the sunny and fragrant weather;
And the lark sang o'er them in heaven,
And the linnet from banks of flowers,
And the robin chanted at even,
And the thrush in the morning hours
Carolled to cheer their wooing,
And the blackbird merry and bold
Answered their cooing, cooing
Out from the windy wold.
" When the daisy its eye uncloses,
And the cowslip glistens with dew,
And the hyacinth pure and blue
And the lilies and pearl -bright roses
Prink themselves in the splendor
Of the delicate white-foot Dawn,
' Mid the flowers and the fragrance tender
My little dove's heart was thawn
With love by the cooing, cooing
Of the gentle mate at her side,
And they married in midst of their wooing,
My bridegroom and woodland bride!"
WHAT IS THIS LOVE?
(FROM "BLAXID.")
WHAT is this love, this love that makes
My heart's warm pulses quiver?
They say it is the power that wakes
The hyacinth 'mid hazel brakes,
The lilies by the river,
708
POEMS OF ROBERT DWYER JOYCE.
And that same tiling that bids the dove
Sit in the pine-tree high above,
Its sweetheart wooing;
But oh! alas! whate'er it be,
And howsoe'er it comes to me,
It comes for my undoing!
The lily of the river side
By its sweet mate reposes
Through autumn moons and winter-tide,
To wake in love and beauty's pride
When comes the time of roses;
And in the springing of the year
The doves' sweet voices you will hear
Their vows renewing;
But oh! alas! whate'er love be,
And howsoe'er it comes to me,
It comes for my undoing!
THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK,
i.
HE grasped his ponderous hammer, he could
not stand it more,
To hear the bombshells bursting, and thun-
dering battle's roar;
He said, " The breach they're mounting, the
Dutchman's murdering crew
I'll try my hammer on their heads, and see
what that can do!
u.
*' Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up
that iron well,
'Tis Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes,
so mind not shot or shell."
"Ah, sure," cried both, " the horse can wait
for Sarsfield's on the wall,
And where you go, we'll follow, with you to
stand or fall!"
in.
The blacksmith raised his hammer, and
rushed into the street,
His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless
foe to meet
High on the breach of Limerick, with daunt-
less hearts they stood,
Where bombshells burst, and shot fell thick,
and redly ran the blood.
IV.
" Now look you, brown-haired Moran, and
mark you, swarthy Ned,
This day we'll prove the thickness of many
a Dutchman's head!
Hurrah! upon their bloody path they're
mounting gallantly;
And now the first that tops the breach, leave
him to this and me ! "
v.
The first that gained the rampart, he was a
captain brave,
A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-
stained dirk and glaive;
He pointed, and he parried, but it was all in
vain,
For fast through skull and helmet the ham-
mer found his brain!
VI.
The next that topped the rampart, he was a
colonel bold,
Bright, through the dust of battle, his hel-
met flashed with gold.
" Gold is no match for iron," the doughty
blacksmith said,
As with that ponderous hammer he cracked
his foeman's head.
VII.
" Hurrah for gallant Limerick! " black Ned
and Moran cried,
As on the Dutchmen's leaden heads their
hammers well they plied.
A bombshell burst between them one fell
without a groan,
One leaped into the lurid air, and down the
breach was thrown.
VIII.
" Brave smith! brave smith ! " cried Sarsfield,
"beware the treacherous mine!
POEMS OF THOMAS DWYER JOYCE.
709
Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or
surely death is thine!"
The smith sprang up the nun part, and leaped
the blood-stained wall,
As high into the shuddering air went foe-
men, breach, and all!
IX.
Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild
and high,
Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foe-
men through the sky;
And dark and bloody was the shower that
round the blacksmith fell;
He thought upon his 'prentice boys they
were avenged well.
On foemen and defenders a silence gathered
down;
'Twas broken by a triumph-shout that shook
the ancient town,
As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged
and slew,
And taught King William and his men what
Irish hearts could do!
Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto
the river side;
He hammered on the foe's pontoon to sink
it in the tide;
The timber it was tough and strong, it took
no crack or strain;
" Mavrone! 'twon't break," the blacksmith
roared; " I'll try their heads again! "
XII.
Hi- rushed upon the flying ranks his ham-
mer ne'er was slack,
For in through blood and bone it crashed,
through helmet and through jack;
He's ta'en a Holland captain, beside the red
pontoon,
And " Wait you here," he boldly cries; " I'll
send you back full soon!
XIII.
"Dost see this gory hammer? It cracked
some skulls to-day,
And yours 'twill crack if you don't stand
and list to what I say:
Here! take it to your cursed king, and tell
him softly too,
'Twould be acquainted with his skull, if he
were here, not you ! "
XIV.
The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew
his bellows strong;
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o'er it
sang no song.
"Ochone! my boys are dead," he cried;
" their loss I'll long deplore,
But comfort's in my heart their graves are
red with foreign gore! "
IN LIFE'S YOUNG MORNING.
TO MY WIFE.
AIR "TAe Woods in Bloom."
I.
IN life's young morning I quaffed the wine
From Love's bright bowl as it sparkling
came,
And it warms me ever, that draught divine.
When I think of thee, dearest, or name
thy name.
The night may fall, and the winds may blow
From palace gardens or place of tombs,
Yet I dream of our Love-time long ago
Beneath the yellow laburnum blooms.
ii.
Gay was the garden, bright shone the bower.
Like a golden tent 'neath the summer
skies,
The sunbeams glittered on leaf and flower.
And the light of heaven seemed in yonr
eyes;
The night may fall, and the winds may blow,
But a gladness ever my heart assumes
From that wine of love quailed long ago
Beneath the yellow laburnum blooms.
710
POEMS OF THOMAS DWYER JOYCE.
in.
O'er vale and forest dark falls the night,
Yet my heart goes back to the sun and
shine
When you stood in the glory of girlhood
bright
Neath the golden blossoms, your hand in
mine;
The night may fall, and the winds may blow,
And the greenwoods wither 'neath winter
glooms;
Yet it lives forever, that long ago,
Beneath the yellow laburnum blooms.
IV.
Through the misty night to the eye and ear
Come the glitter of flowers and the songs
of birds,
Come thy looks of fondness to me so dear,
And thy witching smiles and thy loving
words;
The night may fall and the winds may blow,
But that hour forever my soul illumes,
Our golden Love-time long ago,
Beneath the yellow laburnum blooms.
THE CANNON.
AIR "Barrack Hill.''
I.
WE are a loving company
Of soldiers brave and hearty;
We never fought for golden fee,
For faction, or for party;
The will to make old Ireland free,
That set each dauntless man on,
And banished us beyond the sea,
With our brave iron cannon.
And here's the gallant company
That fought by Boyne and Shannon,
That never feared an enemy,
With our brave iron cannon!
ii.
Come, fill me up a pint o' wine,
Until 'tis brimming o'er, boys,
Our gun is set in proper line,
And we have balls galore, boys;
Now, here's a health to good Lord Clare,
Who'll lead us on to-morrow,
When through the foe our balls will tear,
And work them death and sorrow!
And here's the gallant company
That always forward ran on
So boldly on the enemy,
With our brave iron cannon!
in.
I've brought a wreath of shamrocks here,
In memory of our own land,
'Tis withered like that island drear,
That sorrowful and lone land;
I'll hang it nigh our cannon's mouth,
To whet our memories fairly,
And there's ro flower in all the south
Could deck that gun so rarely.
And here's the gallant company
That soon shall rush each man on,
And plough the Saxon enemy
With our brave iron cannon!
IV.
At Limerick how it made them run,
The Dutchman and his crew, boys;
'Twas then I made this gallant gun
To plough them through and through,
boys;
And since that day in foreign lands
It roared triumphant ever
It blazed away, yet here it stands,
Where foeman's foot shall never!
And here's the gallant company
That soon shall rush each man on,
And break and strew the enemy
With our brave iron cannon!
v.
'Tis dinted well from mouth to breech
With many a battle furrow;
A fitting sermon it will preach
At Fontenoy to-morrow.
Then never let your spirits sink,
But stand around, each man on
This foreign slope, and we will drink
One brave health to our cannon!
POEMS OF THOMAS DWYEH JOYCE.
'11
Ami here's the gallant company
That soon shall rush each man on,
And plough the Saxon enemy
With our brave iron cannon!
THE MOUNTAIN ASH.
AIR "The Green Ash 7Y, "'
I.
THE mountain ash blooms in the wild,
Or droops above the wandering rill;
You ne'er can see
A fairer tree,
But I know one dear maiden mild
With witching form more lovely still.
ii.
The mountain ash has berries fair,
The reddest in the woodlands green;
Sweet lips I know
With redder glow
Than ever lit those berries rare
The red lips of my bosom's queen.
in.
The mountain ash has leaves of gold
When autumn browns the steep hill's side;
Of locks I dream
With brighter gleam
Of yellow in their braid and fold
Tlian e'er tinged leaf in woodland wide.
IV.
The mountain ash in winter sear
Stands bravely up when wild winds blow;
So love shall stand,
Serene and bland,
Between me and my Ellen dear,
A fadeless flower in weal or woe.
BOKO,
(FROM "BLAMD.")
" WIND of the west that bringest,
O'er wood and lea.
Verfume of flowers from my lady's bowers
And a strain and a melody,
While soft 'mid the bloom thou singest
Thy songs of laughter and sighs,
Steal in where my darling lies
With a kiss to her mouth from me!
" White Rose, when at morn thou twinest
Her lattice fair,
Wave to and fro in the fresh sun's glow
Till she wakes and beholds thee there;
When over her brow thou shinest,
Then whisper from me, and press
On her dear head one fond caress,
And a kiss on her yellow hair!
" O Rose! and Wind that found her
'Mid morning's glee!
While the noon goes by, keep ever nigh
With your beauty and melody;
With your smile and your song stay round her
Till she closes her eyelids bright;
Then give her a sweet Good-night
And a kiss on the lips from me ! "
SONG OF THE SUFFERER,
(FROM "BLANID.")
EARTH, air, and sun, and moon and star,
Of man's strange soul but mirrors are,
Bright when the soul is bright, and dark
As now, without one saving spark,
While the black tides of sorrow flow,
And I am suffering and I know !
To my sad eyes that sorrow dims
The greenest grass the swallow skims,
The flowers that once were fair to me.
The meadow and the blooming tree,
Dark as funereal garments grow,
And I am suffering, and I know !
The measured sounds of dancing feet,
The songs of wood-birds wild and sweet,
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!
POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
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 !
Misery, companion dread,
Thou art the partner of my bed.
Soul to soul will you and I
Ever on the same couch lie,
While life's bitter waters flow,
And I am suffering, and I know!
POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
THE V-A-S-E.
From the madding crowd they stand apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;
And none might tell from sight alone
In which had Culture ripest grown
The Gotham Million fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,
The Boston Mind of azure hue
Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo
For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.
*******
Long they worshipped; but no one broke
The sacred stillness, until up spoke
i
The Western one from the nameless place,
Who, blushing, said: " What a lovely vase! "
Over three faces a sad smile flew,
And they edged away from Kalamazoo.
But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word.
Deftly hiding reproof in praise,
She cries: " 'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze! "
But brief her unworthy triumph when
The lofty one from the home of Penn,
With the consciousness of two grandpapas,
Exclaims: " It is quite a lovely vahs! "
And glances around with an anxious thrill,.
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.
But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee
And gently murmurs: " Oh, pardon me!
I did not catch your remark, because
I was so entranced with that charming
vaws!"
Dies erit prcegelida
Sinistra quum Bostonia.
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.
POEMS OF .IAMKS .1 KFFKEY ROCHE.
15ase caitiffs \vlio belied her, false kinsmen
who tk-nicil lit')-,
Ye left her there alone!
My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and
thy pain:
The night that hath no morrow was brood-
ing on the main,
But lo! a light is breaking of hope for thee
again.
Ti.s Perseus' sword a-flaming, thy dawn of
clay proclaiming
Across the western main,
Ireland! my country! he comes to break
thy chain.
NETCHAIEFF.
[Xetchaieff, a Russian Nihilist, was condemned to prison
for life. Deprived of writing materials, he allowed his
finger-nail to grow until he fashioned it into a pen. With
this he wrote, in his blood, on the margins of a book, the
story of his sufferings. Almost his last entry was a note
that his jailer had just boarded up the solitary pane which
admitted a little light into his coll. The " letter written in
blood " was smuggled out of the prison and published, and
Netchaieff died very soon after. He had been ten years in
Xetehaieff is dead, your Majesty.
You knew him not, he was a common hind;
lie lived ten years in hell, and then he died,
To seek another hell, as we must think,
Since he was rebel to your Majesty.
Ten years! The time is long, if only spent
In gilded courts and palaces like thine.
K'eu courtiers, courtesans, and gilded moths
That flutter round a throne find weary hours
And days of ennui. But KetchaieiV
Counted the minutes through ten dragging
yearjs
Of pain. His soul was God's, his Ixxly man's,
To chain, :md maim, and kill; and lie is dead.
Yet something left ho that you cannot kill
The story of his hell, writ in his blood
Plebeian blood, base, ruddy, yet in hue
And substance just such blood as once we
saw
xin.ir the Kkatrinof sky road
And that blood was your sainted sire's, the
same
That fills your veins and would your face
suffuse,
Did ever tyrant know the way to blush.
The tale ? But to what end repeat
A thrice-told tale ? Netchaieff is dead.
Ten thousand others live. Go view their
lives;
See the wan captive, in his narrow cell;
Mark the shrunk frame and shoulders bowed
and bent;
The thin hand trembling, shading blinded
eyes
From unaccustomed light; the fettered
limbs;
The shuffling tread and furtive look and
start.
Bid the dank walls give up the treasured
groans,
The proud lips still withheld from mortal
ear;
Ask of the slimy stones what they have seen,
And shrank to see, polluted with the blood
Of martyred innocence youth linked to age
And both to death the matron and the
maid
Prey to the slaver's lust and driver's whip,
All gladly welcoming the silent cell
And vermin's company, less vile than man's.
See these and these in twice a score of
hells,
And faintly guess what horrors lie behind
That you can never see; and you shall guess
Why we rejoice that Netchaieff is dead
Kings cannot harm the dead
Kings cannot harm the dead.
A SAILOK'S YAIIX.
(AS NARRATED BY TI1K SK( (>M) MATE TO ONB
OP THE MARINES.)
77//.v /\ Hit' fit ft' flint /rft.t foltl to nii\
/!>/ it biffi'i-i'il tnitl ulititli-rt'il XIDI n f tin' >
To im ami m// ///rv\//m/V, Si /tt.< (Jrrt'n,
Win' ii I fir* a tinili-lfxK yontiy marine.
"14
POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
Twas the good ship Gyascutus,
All in the China seas;
With the wind a lee, and the capstan free,
To catch the summer breeze.
''Twas Captain Porgie on the deck,
To the mate in the mizzen hatch,
While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold,
Was winding his larboard watch.
" Oh, how does our good ship head to-night ?
How heads our gallant craft ? "
"Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N.,
And the binnacle lies abaft."
" Oh, what does the quadrant indicate?
And how does the sextant stand ? "
"Oh, the sextant's down to the -freezing
point,
And the quadrant's. lost a hand."
" Oh, and if the quadrant's lost a hand,
And the sextant falls so low.
It's our body and bones to Davy Jones
This night are bound to go.
"Oh, fly aloft to the garboard-strake,
And reef the spanker boom,
Bend a studding sail on the martingale,
To give her weather room.
" Oh, Boatswain, down in the for'ard hold
What water do you find ? "
" Four foot and a half by the royal gaff
And rather more behind. "
" Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes,
And each belaying pin;
Come, stir your stumps to spike the pumps.
Or more will be coming in."
They stirred their stumps, they spiked the
pumps,
They spliced the mizzen brace;
Aloft and alow they worked, but oh!
The water gained apace.
They bored a hole below her line
To let the water out,
But more and more with awful roar
The water in did spout.
Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship
And he was a lubber brave
" I've several wives in various ports,
And my life I'd like to save. "
Then up spoke the captain of marines,
Who dearly loved his prog:
" It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry,
And I move we pipes to grog. "
Oh, then 'twas the gallant second-mate
As stopped them sailors' jaw,
'Twas the second-mate whose hand had
weight
In laying down the law.
He took the anchor on his back,
And leapt into the main;
Through foam and spray he clove his way,
And sunk and rose again.
Through foam and spray a league away
The anchor stout he bore,
Till, safe at last, he made it fast,
And warped the ship ashore.
Taint much of a deed to talk about,
But a ticklish thing to see,
And something to do, if I say it, too,
For that second mate was me!
This is the tale that was told to me,
By that modest and truthful son of the sea.
And I envy the life of a second mate,
Though captains curse him and sailors hate;
For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen,
As would go and lie to a poor marine.
THE CORPORAL'S LETTER.
WHEX the sword is sheathed and the cannon
lies
Dumb and still on the parapet,
For the spider to weave his silken net
And the doves to nest in its silent mouth;
When the manly trade declines and dies,
And hearts shrink up in ignoble drouth,
When pitiful peace reigns everywhere,
What is left for old Corporal Pierre ?
I'OF.MS OF .IAMFS .IF.FFIM-Y KOCIIF.
Naught remains for an honest wight
P.ut to write for bread, as the poets do,
Beggarly scrawls for paltry sous.
The billet-doux and the angry dun
To the writing-machine are all as one.
What matter the word or sentiment ?
If the fee be paid he is well content.
To have heart in one's trade, ah! one must
fight.
" M'sieu, if you please," and a timid hand
Is laid on the soldier's threadbare sleeve.
Pierre was bearish that day, I grieve
To say, and his speech was curt,
As will happen when want or old wounds
hurt
" I wish you to write a letter, please."
"All right. Ten sous." But the little boy
Has turned away. " Morbleu! AVell, then
You haven't the money ? You think that pen
And ink and paper grow on the trees ?
Halt! Can't a soldier his joke enjoy
But you must flare up ? I understand.
A begging letter, of course. And who
Shall be favored to-day ? Dictate' M'sieu' "
"Pardon. 'Tis not ' M'sieu.' Madame,
La Sainte Vierge." The writer stopped,
And the pen from his trembling fingers
dropped;
The desk was shut with an angry slam.
" Sapristi! You little rascal, you
Would jest with the Holy Virgin, too?"
But the child was weeping, and old Pierre '
Suppressed his wrath and indulged a stare.
" My mother, M'sieu, she sleeps so long,
These two whole days, and the room is cold,
And she will not awake. It is very wrong,
I know, for a boy to be afraid
When a boy is as many as five years old.
But I was so hungry and when I prayed
And the Virgin did not come, I thought
1 'ei-haps if I sent her a letter, why"-
He paused, but old Pierre said naught,
There was something new in the old man's
throat,
And something strange in the old man's eye.
At length he took up his pen and wrote.
Long it took him to write and fold
And seal with a hand that was far from bold;
Then: "Courage, small comrade, wait and
see;
Your letter is mailed, and presently
An answer will come, perhaps, to me.
I will open my desk. Behold 'tis there!
' From Heaven,' it says ' A M'sieu Pierre.'
You do not read ? N'importe! I do.
'Tis a letter from Heaven, and all about you,
And, what? ' Mamma is in Heaven, too,
And her little boy must be brave and good
And live with Pierre.' That's understood.
While Pierre has a crust or sou to spare
There's enough for him and thee, mon cher. "
Do you think that letter came from above.
Freighted with God's and a mother's love ?
The child, at least, believed it true,
So at the last Pierre did, too,
When the Heavenly mail came once again,
To a grim old man on a bed of pain,
Whose dying eyes alone could see,
And read the missive joyfully:
He knew the Hand, and proudly smiled,
For it was as the hand of a little child.
THE WAY OF THE WORLD.
TH K hands of the King are soft and fair,
They never knew labor's stain.
The hands of the Robber redly wear
The bloody brand of Cain.
But the hands of the Man are hard and
scarred
With the scars of toil and pain
The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands
As white as a King's may be.
Barabbas with wrists unfettered stands,
For the world has made him free.
Hut Thy palms toil-worn by nails are torn,
Christ, on Calvary!
'16
POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
FOR THE PEOPLE.
WE are the hewers and delvers who toil for
another's gain,
The common clods and the rabble, stunted
of brow and brain.
What do we want, the gleaners, of the har-
vest we have reaped ?
What do we want, the neuters, of the honey
we have heaped ?
We want the drones to be driven away from
our golden hoard;
We want to share in the harvest; we want to
sit at the board;
We want what sword or suffrage has never
yet won for man,
The fruits of his toil, God-promised, when
the curse of toil began.
Ye have tried the sword and scepter, the
cross and the sacred word,
In all the years, and the kingdom is not yet
here of the Lord.
Is it useless, all our waiting? Are they
fruitless, all our prayers?
Has the wheat, while men were sleeping,
been oversowed with tares ?
What gain is it to the people that a God laid
down his life,
If, twenty centuries after, His world be a
world of strife ?
If the serried ranks be facing each other
with ruthless eyes
And steel in their hands, what profits a
Saviour's sacrifice ?
Ye have tried, and failed to rule us; in vain
to direct have tried.
Not wholly the fault of the ruler; not utterly
blind the guide.
Mayhap there needs not a ruler; mayhap we
can find the way.
At least ye have ruled to ruin; at least ye
have led astray.
What matter if king or consul or president
holds the rein,
If crime and poverty ever be links in the
bondman's chain ?
What careth the burden-bearer that Liberty
packed his load,
If Hunger presseth behind him with a sharp
and ready goad ? .
There's a serf whose chains are of paper;
there's a king with a parchment crown ;
There are robber knights and brigands in
factory, field and town.
But the vassal pays his tribute to a lord of
wage and rent;
And the baron's toll is Shylock's, with a
flesh-and-blood per cent.
The seamstress bends to her labor all night
in a narrow room;
The child, defrauded of childhood, tip-toes
all day at the loom;
The soul must starve; for the body can barely
on husks be fed;
And the loaded dice of a gambler settle the
price of bread.
Ye have shorn and bound the Samson and
robbed him of learning's light;
But his sluggish brain is moving; his sinews
have all their might.
Look well to your gates of Gaza, your privi-
lege, pride and caste!
The Giant is blind and thinking, and his-
locks are growing fast.
POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY,
GLOUCESTER HARBOR.
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.
Nothing to them is the golden
Curve of the sands, or the olden
Haunt of the town;
Little they reck of the peaceful
Chiming of bells, or the easeful
Sport on the down:
The orchards no longer are cherished;
The charm of the meadow has perished:
Dearer, ay me!
The solitude vast unbefriended,
The magical voice and the splendid
Fierce will of the sea.
Beyond them, by ridges and narrows
The silver prows speed like the arrows
Sudden juid fair;
Like the hoofs of Al Borak the wondrous,
Lost in the blue and the thund'rous
Depths of the air;
On to the central Atlantic,
Where passionate, hurrying, frantic
Elements meet;
To the play and the calm and commotion
Of the treacherous, glorious ocean,
Cruel and sweet.
In the hearts of the children forever
She fashions their growing endeavor,
The pitiless sea;
Their sires in her caverns she stayeth,
The spirits that love her she slayeth,
And laughs in her glee.
Woe, woe, for the old fascination!
The women make deep lamentation
In starts and in slips;
Here always is hope unavailing,
Here always the dreamers are sailing
After the ships!
PRIVATE THEATRICALS.
You were a haughty U'auty, Polly,
(That was in tin- play,)
I was the lover melancholy;
(That was in the play.)
And when your fan and you receded,
And all my passion lay unheeded,
If still with tenderer words I pleaded.
That was in the play!
I met my rival at the gateway,
(That was in the play,)
And so we fought a duel straightway:
(That was in the play.)
But when Jack hurt my arm unduly,
And you rushed over, softened newly,
And kissed me, Polly! truly, truly,
\\ - that in the play?
"18
POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.
BROTHER BARTHOLOMEW.
BROTHER BARTHOLOMEW, working-time,
Would fall into musing and drop his tools;
Brother Bartholomew cared for rhyme
More than for theses of the schools;
And sighed, and took up his burden so,
Vowed to the Muses, for weal or woe.
At matins he sat, the book on his knees,
But his thoughts were wandering far away;
And chanted the evening litanies
AVatching the roseate skies grow gray,
Watching the brightening starry host
Flame like the tongues at Pentecost.
"A foolish dreamer, and nothing more;
The idlest fellow a cell could hold; "
So murmured the worthy Isidor,
Prior of ancient Nithiswold;
Yet pitiful, with dispraise content,
Signed never the culprit's banishment.
Meanwhile Bartholomew went his way
And patiently wrote in his sunny cell;
His pen fast travelled from day to day;
His books were covered, the walls as well.
"But for the monk that I miss, instead
Of this lazy rhymer!" the Prior said.
Bartholomew dying, as mortals must,
Not unbelov'd of the cowled throng,
Thereafter, they took from the dark and dust
Of shelves and of corners, many a song
That cried loud, loud to the farthest day,
How a bard had arisen and passed away.
Wonderful verses! fair and fine,
Rich in the old Greek loveliness;
The seer-like vision, half divine;
Pathos and merriment in excess:
And every perfect stanza told
Of love and of labor manifold.
The King came out and stood beside
Bartholomew's taper-lighted bier,
And turning to his lords, he sighed:
" How worn and wearied doth he appear,
Our noble poet, now he is dead! "
" tireless worker! " the Prior said.
A BALLAD OF METZ.
LEON went to the wars, true soul without a
stain;
First at the trumpet-call; thy son, Lorraine!
Never a mighty host thrilled so with one
desire;
Never a past crusade lit nobler fire.
And he, among the rest, marched gaily in
the van,
No braver blood than his since time began.
And mild and fond was he, and sensitive as
a leaf.
Just Heaven! that he was this, is half my
grief.
We followed where the last detachment led
away,
At Metz, an evil-starred and bitter day;
Some of us had been hurt in the first hot
assault,
Yet will was shaken not, nor zeal at fault.
/
We hurried on to the front; our banners
Avere soiled and rent;
Grim riflemen, gallants all, our captain sent.
A Prussian lay by a tree rigid as ice, and
pale,
Crawled thither, out of the reach of battle-
hail.
His cheek was hollow and white, parched was
his swollen lip;
Tho' bullets had fastened on their leaden
Tho' ever he gasped and called, called faintly
from the rear,
What of it? And all in scorn I closed mine-
ear.
The very colors he wore, they burnt and
bruised my sight;
The greater his anguish, so was my delight.
We laughed a savage laugh, who loved our-
land too well,
Giving its enemies hate unspeakable:
P<KMs
I.MO(iK\ (JUNKY.
But Li'on, kind heart, poor heart, clutched
me around the arm :
" lie faints for water! " he said; " it were no
harm
To soothe a wounded man already on death's
rack."
He seized his brimming gourd, and hurried
back.
The foeman grasped it fiercely. 'Xeath his
wild eye's lid
Something coiled like a snake, glittered and
hid.
He raised his shattered frame up from the
grassy ground,
And drunk with the loud, mad haste of a
thirsty hound.
Leon knelt by his side, one hand beneath
his head;
Scarce kinder the water than the words he
said.
He rose and left him, stretched at length on
the grassy plot,
The viper-like flame in his eyes remembered
not.
Leon with easy gait strode on; he bared his
hair,
Swinging his army cap, humming an air.
Just as he neared the troops, there by the
purpled stream
Good God! a sudden snap, and a lurid gleam.
I wrenched my bandaged arm with the hor-
ror of the start:
I /on was low at my feet, shot thro' the heart.
Do you think an angel told whose hands the
<li'c<l had done? [one.
To the Prussian we dashed back, mute, every
Do you think we stopped to curse, or wail-
ing feebly, stood ?
Do you think we spared who shed his friend's
sweet blood ?
Ha! vengeance on the fiend! we smote him
as if hired,
I most of them, and more when they grew
tired.
I saw the deep eye lose its dastard, steely
blue:
I saw the trait'rous breast pierced thro' and
thro.'
His musket, smoking yet, unhanded, lay
beside;
Three times three thousand deaths that
Prussian died.
And he, our lad, our dearest, lies, too, upon
the plain:
teach no more Christ's mercy, thy sons,
Lorraine!
THE RIVAL SINGERS.
Two marvellous singers of old had the city
of Florence,
She that is loadstar of pilgrims, Florence the
beautiful,
Who sang but thro' bitterest envy their ex-
quisite music,
Each for o'ercoming the other, as fierce as
the seraphs
At the dread battle pro-mundane, together
down-wrestling.
And once when the younger, surpassing the
best at a festival,
Thrilled the impetuous people, singing so
rarely!
That up on their shoulders they raised him.
and carried him straightway
Over the threshold, 'mid ringing of belfries
and shouting,
Till into his pale cheek mounted a color like
morning
(For he was Saxon in blood) that made more
resplendent
The gold of his huir for an aureole round and
above him,
720
POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.
Seeing which, called his adorers aloud, thank-
ing Heaven
That sent down an angel to sing for them,
taking their homage;
While this came to pass in the city, one
marked it, and harbored
A purpose which followed endlessly on, like
his shadow.
Therefore at night, as a vine that aye clam-
bering stealthily
Slips by the stones to an opening, came the
assassin,
And left the deep sleeper by moonlight, the
Saxon hair dabbled
With red, and the brave voice smitten to
death in his bosom.
Now this was the end of the hate and the
striving and singing.
But the Italian thro' Florence, his city
familiar,
Fared happily ever, none knowing the crime
and the passion,
AVinning honor and guerdon in peaceful and
prosperous decades,
Supreme over all, and rejoiced with the
cheers and the clanging.
Carissima ! what ? and you wonder the
world did not loathe him ?
Child, he lived long, and was lauded, and
died very famous.
AN EPITAPH FOR WENDELL
PHILLIPS.
OF the avengers of the right,
The city's race magnificent,
Here sleeps the last, his splendid light
For lives oppressed benignly spent.
All scorn he dared, all sorrow bore:
Now hang your bays beside his door.
W T ho shall in simple state endure
Like him, thrice incorruptible ?
Who shame his valiant voice and sure,
The strength of all our citadel ?
Or turn upon tyrannic men
That haughty, holy glance again ?
Here does he sleep; and hence in grief
\Ve heavily looked toward the sea,
Nor with the passion of belief
Descried one other such as he;
Then shattered his great shield, and knew
The king was dead ! the kingdom, too.
THE CALIPH AND THE BEGGAR.
SCOKNER of the pleading faces
In the first year of his reign,
From the lean c*rowd and its traces,
Down the open orchard-lane,
Walked young Mahmoud in his glory,
In his pomp and his disdain;
And above all oratory,
Music's sweetness, ocean's might,
Fell a voice from branches hoary:
" He whose heart is at life's height,
Who has wisdom, fame, and riches,
Islam's greatest, dies this night."
And he crossed the rampart-ditches
Blinded, and confused, and slow,
Till, from palace nooks and niches
Frowned his ghostly sires a-row,
And their turrets triple-jointed
Shook with tempests of his woe.
Long past midnight, disanointed,
Prone upon his breast he lay,
Warring on that hour appointed.
But behold! at break of day,
As if Heaven itself had spoken,
Blown across the bannered bay,
Over mart and mosque outbroken,
Came the silver, solemn chime
For some parted spirit's token !
Mahmoud, with free breath sublime
Summoned one whose snow-locks heaving
Made the vision of hoar Time;
POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN.
721
Ami the rod tides of thanksgiving
On his brow, he rose and said:
" In my city of the living
Which, proclaimed of bells, is dead?"
And the graybeard answered: " Master,
One who yesternight for bread,
At thy gateway's bronze pilaster,
Begged in vain: blind Selim, he,
Victim of the old disaster."
And the speaker suddenly
Looked on his hard lord with wonder,
For his tears were strange to see.
Then again, where boughs asunder
Held the wavy orchard tent
Sun-empurpled clusters under
In changed mood the Caliph went;
And anew heard sounds upgather,
<_ hidings with caressings blent,
As the voice once of his father:
" Haughty heart ! not thou wert wise,
Rich, beloved; Selim rather
Islam's prince in Allah's eyes:
Even the Meek, in his great station,
Freehold had of Paradise ! "
*******
Lo ! when plague- winds' desolation
Pierced Bassora's burning wall,
Circled with a kneeling nation
Whom his mercies held in thrall,
Died the Caliph, whispering tender
Counsel to his liegemen tall:
" One last service, children ! render
Me, whose pride the Lord forgave;
Not by our supreme Defender,
Not beside the holy wave,
Not in places where my race is
Lay me I but in Selim's grave."
POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN,
WAITING.
IN a grey cave, where comes no glimpse of
sky,
Set in the blue hill's heart full many a
mile,
Having the dripping stone for canopy,
Missing the wind's laugh and the good
sun's smile,
I, Fionn, with all my sleeping warriors lie.
In the great outer cave our horses are,
Carved of grey stone, with heads erect,
amazed,
46
Purple their trappings, gold each bolt and
bar,
One fore foot poised, the quivering thin
ears raised ;
.Mcthinks they scent the battle from afar.
A frozen hound lies by each warrior's feet.
Ah, Bran, my jewel ! Bran, my king of
hounds !
I >({) throated art thou, mighty flanked, and
fleet :
Dost thou remember how with giant
bounds [heat?
Did'st chase the red deer in the noontide
722
POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN.
I was a king in ages long ago,
A mighty warrior, and a seer likewise,
Still mine eyes look with solemn gaze of woe
From stony lids adown the centuries,
And in my frozen heart I know, I know.
A giant I, of a primeval race,
These, great-limbed, bearing helm and
shield and sword,
My good knights are, and each still awful
face
Will one day wake to knowledge at a
word
O'erhead the groaning years turn round
apace.
Here with the peaceful dead we keep our
state ; .
Some day a cry shall ring adown the
lands :
"The hour is come, the hour grown large
with fate."
He knows who hath the centuries in His
hands
When that shall be till then we watch and
wait.
The queens that loved us, whither be they
gone,
The sweet, large women with the hair as
gold,
As though one drew long threads from out
the sun ?
Ages ago, grown tired, and very cold,
They fell asleep beneath the daisies wan.
The waving woods are gone that once we
knew,
And towns grown grey with years are in
their place ;
A little lake, as innocent and blue
As my queen's eyes were, lifts a baby face
Where once my palace towers were fair to
view.
The fierce old gods we hailed with worship-
ing,
The blind old gods, waxed mad with sin
and blood,
Laid down their godhead as an idle thing
At a God's feet, whose throne was but a
Rood,
His crown wrought thorns, His joy long
travailing.
Here in the gloom I see it all again,
As ages since in visions mystical
I saw the swaying crowds of fierce-eyed men,
And heard the murmurs in the judgment
hall,
0, for one charge of my dark warriors then !
Nay, if He willed, His Father presently
Twelve star -girt legions unto Him had
given.
I traced the blood-stained path to Calvary,
And heard far off the angels weep in
Heaven ;
Then the Rood's arms against an awful sky.
I saw Him when they pierced Him, hands
and feet,
And one came by and smote Him, this
new King,
So pale and harmless, on the tired face,
sweet ;
He was so lovely, and so pitying,
The icy heart in me began to beat.
Then a strong cry the mountain heaved
and swayed
That held us in its heart, the groaning
world
Was reft with lightning, and in ruins laid,
His Father's awful hand the red bolts
hurled,
And He was dead I trembled, sore afraid.
Then I upraised myself with mighty strain
In the gloom, I heard the tumult rage
without,
I saw those large dead faces glimmer plain,
The life just stirred within them and
went out,
And I fell back, and grew to stone again.
So the years went on earth how fleet they
be, [pace,
Here in this cave their feet are slow of
1'UK.MS UK KATHARINE TYNAN.
And I grow old, and tired exceedingly:
I would the sweet earth were my dwelling-
place
Shamrocks and little daisies wrapping me !
There I should lie, and feel the silence sweet
As a meadow at noon, where birds sing
in the trees;
To mine ears should come the patter of little
feet,
And baby cries, and croon of summer
seas,
And the wind's laughter in the upland
wheat.
Meantime, o'erhead the years were full and
bright,
With a kind sun, and gold wide fields of
corn ;
The happy children sang from morn to
night,
The blessed church bells rang, new arts
were born,
Strong towns rose up and glimmered fair
and white.
Once came a wind of conflict, fierce as hail,
And beat about my brows: on the east-
ward shore,
Where never since the Vikings' dark ships
sail,
All day the battle raged with mighty roar ;
At night the victor's fair dead face was pale.
Ah! the dark years since then, the anguished
cry
That pierced my deaf ears, made my hard
eyes weep,
From Erin wrestling in her agony,
\Vhile we, her strongest, in a helpless
sleep
Liy, as the blood-stained years trailed slowly
by.
iiid often in those years the East was drest
In phantom fires, that mocked the dis-
tant dawn,
ien Murkest night her bravest and her
lirst
Were led to die, while I slept dumbly
on,
With the whole mountain's weight upon my
breast.
Once in my time, it chanced a peasant hind
Strayed to this cave. I heard, and burst
my chain
And raised my awful face stone-dead and
blind,
Cried, "Is it time?" and so fell back
again,
I heard his wild cry borne adown the wind.
Some hearts wait with us. Owen Roe
O'Neill,
The kingliest king that ever went un-
crowned,
Sleeps in his panoply of gold and steel
Keady to wake, and in the kindly ground
A many another's death-wounds close am 1
heal.
Great Hugh O'Neill, far off in purple Rome,
And Hugh O'Donnell, in their stately
tombs
Lie, with their grand fair faces turned to
home :
Some day a voice will ring adown the
glooms,
" Arise, ye Princes, for the hour is come ! "
And these will rise, and we will wait them,
here,
In this blue hill-heart in fair l)onegal:
That hour shall sound the clash of sword
and spear,
The steeds shall neigh to hear their mas-
ters' call,
And the hounds' cry shall echo shrill and
clear.
None. This poem treats of A legend well known among
the peasantry of the north of Ireland, which recount* how
a hand of Irish warriors of the |>rimrviil time lit- in armour,
and frozen in u<lrathlv sleep, in one of the hill-caverns of
l>onegal highlands, there to await the hour of Ireland's
redemption, when the\ will come forth to do battle fur
her under the leadership of the giant Finn. The legend
further prophesies I hat m the hour of victory the phantom
knights and their leader will IK- claimed liy I teat h. from
whom thev ha\e iM'en so long withheld, that they will re-
ceive at last hurial in holy earth, and that the li ill-cavern
will know them no more.
724
POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN.
TWO WAYFARERS.
ONE with a sudden cry
Crieth: " Lord ! and whence is this to me
That in my daily pathway I should see
Even Thee, Lord, coming nigh,
With Thy still face and fair,
And the divine deep sorrow in Thine eyes,
And Thy eternal arms stretched loving- wise
As on the Cross they were ?
" If I had only known
How I should meet Thee this day face to
face,
I had made all my life a praying-place
For this hour's sake alone :
Now am I poor indeed
I who have gathered all things most forlorn,
Pale earthly loves, and roses wan with
thorn ;
See how my weak hands bleed ! "
ONE bendefch low, and saith :
*'Lo ! My hands bleed likewise, and I am
God.
Oome, heart of Mine ! wilt tread the path
I trod,
The desert way of death ?
Come, bleeding hands ! and take
My thorns that bring new toil and weari-
ness,
Days of grey pain, and nights of sore dis-
tress,
Come ! for My great love's sake.
"Yet if thou fearest to come,
Speak ! I can give thee fairest earthly things,
Love, and sweet peace in shelter of love's
wings,
By pleasant paths of home,
And thou wilt still be Mine.
Choose thou thy path ! My way is dark, I
know,
Yet through the moaning wind, and rain,
and snow
My feet should go with thine."
'One groweth wan and grey,
Dieth a space the trembling heart in him,
Then .he doth lift his weary eyes and dim,
With ashen lips doth say :
" With Thee the desert sands !
How could I turn from Thee, Thou flower
of Pain !
Or trouble Thee with weepings loud and
vain
And wringing of the hands ?
' ' If the rose were my share,
And Thine the thorn, how could I lift mine
eyes
One day, in gold-green fields of Paradise,
To Thine eyes dreamy fair
That muse on Calvary ?
Under the sad straight brows Thy gaze would
say:
' Now, heart ! in what dark hour of night
or day
Hast thou kept watch with Me ? ' '
AN ANSWER.
I SAID, " The year hath nothing left to
bring,"
And wearied of the grey November skies,
For that I mourned for dead and vanished
spring,
And rose-lit summer's flowery argosies ;
For that I yearned for golden primrose days,
For tender skies, for thrush's passionate
strain,
To hear again, 'mid leafy springtide ways,
The sweet small footsteps of the silvern
rain.
I said, " The glory of the year is gone,
The very sunlight hath a tinge forlorn,
The spectral trees loom, desolate and wan,
Of their late regal robes bereft and shorn.
Where the white lilies plumed their radiant
heads,
And the geranium flashed a scarlet
flame
Stretch now all brown and bare the garden
beds,
Dead are all fair sweet things since winter
came. "
POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN.
And as I spake, lo! in the glimmering West
A paly streak of stormy sunset gold.
And near me, in all beauteous colors drest
The gentle flower that fears nor frost nor
cold,
The brave chrysanthemum; there, to my
heart,
Said I, with joy, " Though 'tis not always
May,
The bounteous mother tires not of her part,
Her strong white hands bear gifts for
every day."
FRAANGELICO AT FIESOLE.
HOME through the pleasant olive woods at
even
He seest the patient milk-white oxen go;
Without his lattice doves wheel to and fro,
A great moon climbs the wan green fields of
heaven.
An hour since, the sun-veil whereon are
graven
Gold bells and pomegranates in scarlet show
Parted, and lo! the city's spires of snow
Flushed like an opal, and the streets gold
paven !
Then the night's purple fell and hid the rest,
And this monk's eyes filled with the happy
tears
That come to him beholding all things fair:
A bird's flight over wan skies to the nest ;
The great sad eyes of beasts, the silk wheat
ears,
Flowers, or the gold dust on a baby's hair.
II.
In his small cell he hath high company,
Tin* angels make it their abiding-place;
Their grave eternal eyes 'neath brows of
grace
Watch hi in at work, their great wings silently
Wrap him around with peace; and it may
be
That looking from his work a minute's space,
The sudden blue eyes of an angel's face
His happy startled eyes are raised to see. .
Down through the shadowy corridor they
glide,
Their wings auroral trailing soft and slow,
Each still face like a moon-lit lily in June;
They kiss with fair pale lips the canvas wide,
Whereon his colours like dropped jewels
glow
Against a gold ground pale as the harvest
moon.
EASTERTIDE.
To me sweet Easter cometh fair and bright,
Bringing exceeding joyaunce and delight,
For the new time comes, clothed as a
bride,
And the sad grey days vanish utterly :
Comes the young Spring, knee-deep in shin-
ing flowers,
And the old earth rejoiceth through the
hours:
She hath forgotten her fairest ones that
died,
When the fierce winter blighted flower
and tree.
Somewhere while small glad waters croon
song,
And a soft wind is captive all day long,
I know the violet's feet are lately set,
And the pale primrose star of hope
hath risen.
About the land the grave large hills are blue.
And the great trees grow emerald green of
hue.
For now each curled babe-leaf begins to
fret,
Waking and stirring in its cradle-prison.
Now from our slow delicious northern spring.
In paschal days my thoughts are wandering
Unto that Orient land, bloom-bright and
warm:
Where the dear Jesus walked in days of
old;
726
POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN.
I think all things, in these dim mystic days,
Grew fair with full delight before his face,
Bloomed the grey desert, azure grew the
storm,
And the skies shone in newer rose and
gold.
The air was sweet with music of harp-strings,
And the white sudden flash of angels' wings,
As the high sentinels passed that guarded
Him.
The birds sang faint for rapture in the
sky,
The small meek flowers about His pathway
lay
flushed with desire that in some gracious
day
He in His healing hands might gather
them,
Or that beneath His feet their hearts
might lie.
OLIVIA AND DICK PRIMROSE.
A KUSTIC maiden, delicately fair,
With sweet mute lips and eyes serene and
mild,
That look straight sunward, while with gen-
tle air
Clings to her side a little loving child,
Linking a chain of daisies; this is all,
And yet methinks old memories bestir
At sight of this maid-lily, fair and tall,
Sweet as the rose the dainty hands of her
Enclose in careless chains and happy thrall.
I see the- gentle vicar, old and kind,
The good house-mother, quick to blame
arid praise,
All the quaint story rises to my mind,
The meadow bank that bloomed with
flowering days:
And in the hay-field, now I seem to see
Olivia stand with happy downcast eyes,
Singing with simple girlish minstrelsy ;
While o'er the ethereal blue of summer
skies
Long feathery lines of cloud float restfully.
*****
He sang of happy homes, who home had
none,
Of sweet hearth joys whose way was lone
and bleak,
And oft his voice rang out with truest tone
When wintry winds froze tears upon his
cheek.
A deathless fount of joy was ever springing
From out his bright child-nature pure and
sweet,
Soft comforting and surest healing bringing ;
And when earth's sharpest thorns had
pierced his feet
His way was gladdened with his inward
singing.
THE LARK'S WAKING.
PASSIONATE heart ! before the day is born,
When the faint rose of dawn a shut bud lies,
Dost thou not wait, hid in gold spears that
rise
Sweet and bejewelled with the dews of
morn,
Till the low wind of daybreak in the corn
Moves all the silken ears with languorous
sighs,
And the fair sun rides up the Eastern skies,
Clad in bright robes of state right kingly
worn ?
Then dost thou cleave the air on rapturous
wing,
Where the far east, with roseate splendours
fraught,
Tells that no more can night enshroud thy
king,
Or the pale stars his empire set at naught-
Higher and higher, till the clear skies ring
With the wild amorous greeting thou hast
brought.
I'OK.MS OF KATHARIXK TYNAN.
CHARLES LAMP..
DEAR heart ! from dim Elizabethan days
Surely thy feet strayed to our garish noon ;
Thou shouldst have walked beneath a yel-
lowing moon,
In some old garden's green enchanted ways,
With Herrick and Ben Jon son; while in
praise
Of his lady trilled the nightingale's full
tune,
And he grown still, these sang, 'neath skies
of June,
That bent to hear, catches and roundelays.
In fair converse, thou might'st have wan-
dered
With Burton's self, the master whose rare
thought
Makes Melancholy glad the heart like wine ;
In thy earth -day, those high compeers were
dead ;
How pleasant was their laughter, had they
caught
The sallies of thy humour, quaint and fine !
Ah ! never Autumn's wealth of golden
dowers,
Atones for joy that all the fresh June fills,
The purple-hearted solemn passion-flowers,
The slender shafts of moon-born lilies tall,
The most fair paleness of the daffodils,
The cool June sky which beauty sheds o'er
all.
AUGUST OR JUNE.
IN the rich Autumn weather,
When royal August visits the fair land,
Coming with pomp and coloured pageantry,
Flinging around him with a lavish hand,
Gold on the gorse and purple on the heather,
Across the land as far as eye can see,
Under his tread all yellow grows the wheat,
All purple every belt of perfumed clover.
Purple and gold, fit carpet for his feet,
This harmony of colouring and light,
And all the happy span- he passes over.
Grows fruitful, fair, and pleasant to the sight .
In these luxuriant days,
Have we no sorrow for the fair June hours
\Ve thought so sweet, the skies we denned
so blue,
The glad young world so prodigal of flowers,
Of form most perfect, and most fair of Inn-;'
ila\e we forgotten all the leaf-hung ways?
FAINT-HEARTED.
I STAND where two roads part :
Lord ! art Thou with me in the shadows
here?
I cannot lift my heavy eyes to see.
Speak to me if Thou art !
I tremble, and my heart is cold with fear ;
Dark is the way Thou has appointed me.
From the bright face of day
It winds far down a valley dark as death,
And shards and thorns await my shrink-
ing feet ;
An icy mist and grey
Comes to me, chilling me with awful
breath ;
How canst Thou say Thy yoke is light
and sweet ?
Nay, these are pale who go
Down the grey shadows; each one, tired
and worn,
Bearing a cross that galleth him full
sore;
And blood of this doth flow.
And that one's pallid brows are rayed with
thorn,
And eyes are blind with weeping ever-
more.
Still they press onward fast,
And the shades compass them; now. far
away,
I see a great hill shaped like Calvary :
Will they come there at last ' J .
A reflex from some far fair perfect day
Touches the high clear faces goldenly.
rss
POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN.
Ah ! yonder path is fair,
And musical with many singing birds,
Large golden fruit and rainbow-coloured
flowers
The wayside branches bear ;
The air is murmurous with sweet love-
words,
And hearts are singing through the
happy hours.
Nay, I shall look no more.
Take Thou my hands between Thy firm
fair hands
And still their trembling, and I shall
not weep.
Some day, the journey o'er,
My feet shall tread the still safe evening-
lands,
Arid Thou canst give to Thy beloved,
sleep.
And though Thou dost not speak,
And the mists hide Thee, now I know
Thy feet
Will tread the path my feet walk
wearily ;
Some day the veil will break,
And sudden looking up, mine eyes shall
meet
Thine eyes, and lo ! Thine arms shall
gather me.
THOKEAU AT WALDEN.
A LITTLE log-hut in the woodland dim,
A still lake, like a bit of summer sky,
On the glad heart of which great lilies lie.
"Ah!" he had said, "the Naiads, white
of limb."
In those green glooms fair shapes did come
to him,
He saw a Dryad's sheeny drapery
Shimmer at dusk, he heard Pan pipe hereby
A lusty strain to fauns and satyrs grim.
For that he was fair Nature's leal knight
She loved him, taught him all her gram-
marye,
All the quaint secrets of her magic clime;
He heard the unborn flowers' springing
footsteps light,
And the wind's whisper of the enchanted
sea,
And the birds sing of love, and pairing-
time.
n.
Seeking this sage in fair fraternity
Came Hawthorne here and Emerson, I know.
happy woods, that watched them to and
fro!
Thrice happy woods, that hearkened to the
three!
Yet, my rare Thoreau! a thought comes
to me
Of one sweet soul you missed, who long ago
When through Assisi's streets, with eyes
aglow
And worn meek face, and lips curved ten-
derly.
So for God's dumb things was this great
heart stirred,
Called he the happy birds his sisters sweet,
The fish his brethren, blessed them, prayed
with them.
Now, my sweet-hearted Pagan ! had you
heard,
You would have wept upon his wounded
feet,
And craved a blessing from the hands of
him.
A SAD YEAR.
1882.
THE last month being come,
December, in sad guise of deathly white,
I counted with sore heart the sons of light
Whose wise lips had grown dumb
Since the last New Year's morn,
And thought Death's harvest had been full
and wide,
POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN.
Ami fair and rich the grain his sweeping
Had gathered to the barn. [scythe
Three poets died in Spring
We wept the dear dead singer of the West,
Who lay with sweet wet violets on his breast
When leaves were bourgeoning;
A poet spirit fled
From Irish shores, in Resurrection days;
And England twined wan immortelles with
For one beloved grey head.* [hays
And, as the year went by, [feast
Death called our best and dearest to his
Poet and artist, ruler, sage and priest,
A goodly company.
The Spring's flowers waxed pale,
Summer cast rue for roses in her path,
And the lone Autumn brought its meed of
And sad was Winter's tale. [death,
And so my heart was tired [^in-
Counting the loss, and knowing not the
In the year's cradles many a babe hath lain;
And who shall be inspired
To tell our hearts that weep
What gifts the sweet small hands bring far-
off years ? [tears
We know but this that " they who sow in
In shining joy shall reap."
A SONG OF SUMMER.
OH, sweet it is in summer,
When leaves are fair and long,
To lie amid lush, scented grass,
When- gold and grey the shadows pass,
A swift, unresting throng;
And hear low river voices
Sing o'er the shining sands,
That seem a glory garb to wear
Of emerald and jacinth rare,
The work of fairy hands;
And see afar the mountains, heaven-kissed,
Shine through the white rain's silvery-
sheeted mist.
* Tin- world l..st in this year Longfellow, D. F. McCarthy,
and Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Oh, fair the balmy morning,
When gay the sun doth ride,
And white plumes sail against the blue,
And all the land is fresh with dew,
And sweet the hay- fields wide!
Yet fairer windless evening
When the pale vesper star
Parts her long veil of dusky hair,
And looks with gentle eyes and fair
From palaces afar,
And sings the nightingale to tranced skies
Of love and pain and all high mysteries.
A BIRD'S SONG.
CHILL was the air, for yet the year was
young, [with rain ;
Wan was the sky, the clouds were fresh
A bird, from where his small, soft nest was
hung,
Sang very joyously a tender strain.
For he had seen, near where a giant oak
Stretched out its Titan branches, strong
and sure,
Close-sheltered, in a quiet moss-grown nook,
A dainty April garden liloom secure.
And there he saw the sun-born crocus, tail.
Shine out in 'broidered bravery of gold :
The violet no longer Winter's thrall-
Begin her purple mantle to unfold.
He saw the primrose star rise palely fair
From where the mosses thickly, softly
prow,
And, delicately gleaming in the air. [snow.
The snowdrop's fairy robe of green and
And oh! with sudden flush of life and
heat,
The grey March world for him was
charmed to May: [sweet.
And then rang out in bird-notes, fresh and
A jocund carol in the clear cold day.
lie heard the soft wind whisper from the
\\Vst
The promise of the Summer's blossoming:
And gleefully he sang from out his nest
A herald welcome to the coming Spring.
POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY,
(WILLIAM EDGAR.)
ODE.
WE 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 for ever, 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.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself in our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
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.
They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising:
They had no divine foreshowing
Of the laud to which they are going;
But on one man's soul it hath broken,
A light that doth not depart ;
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
. Wrought flame in another man's heart.
And therefore to-day is thrilling
With a past day's late fulfilling;
And the multitudes are enlisted
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
The dream that was scorned yesterday.
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,
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.
Great hail! we cry to the comers
From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring iis hither your sun and your summers,
And renew our world as of yore ;
You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
And things that we dreamed not before:
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more.
I'OKMS OF ARTHUR O'SII AU(J HNKSSV (WILLIAM KIXJAK).
rsi
SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER.
I FOUND a fellow-worker when I deemed
I toiled alone:
My toil was fashioning thought and sound,
and his was hewing stone;
I worked in the palace of my brain, lie in
the common street,
And it seemed his toil was great and hard,
while mine was great and sweet.
I said, fellow- worker, yea, for I am a
worker too,
The heart nigh fails me many a day, but
how is it with you ?
For while I toil great tears of joy will some-
t lines fill my eyes,
And when I form my perfect work it lives
and never dies.
I carve the marble of pure thought until
the thought takes form,
Until it gleams before my soul and makes
the world grow warm;
Until there comes the glorious voice and
words that seem divine,
And the music readies all men's hearts and
draws them into mine.
And yet for days it seems my heart shall
blossom never more,
And the burden of my loneliness lies on me
very sore:
Therefore, hewer of the stones that pave
base human ways,
How canst thou bear the years till death,
made of such thankless days?
Then he replied : Ere silnrise, when the
pale lips of the day
Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at
warmth of the first ray,
A great thought rose within me, how, while
men asleep had lain,
The thousand labours of the world had
grown up once again.
'I he sun grew on the world, and on my soul
1 1 if thought grew too
A great appalling sun, to light my soul the
long day through.
I felt the world's whole burden for a moment,
then began
With man's gigantic strength to do the
labour of one man.
I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hun-
dred men,
The worker with the chisel and the worker
with the pen
The restless toilers after good, who sow and
never reap,
And one who maketh music for their souls
that may not sleep.
Each passed me with a dauntless look, and
my undaunted eyes
Were almost softened as they passed with
tears that strove to rise
At sight of all those labours, and because
that every one,
Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my
little were undone.
They passed me, having faith in me, and in
our several ways, [days:
Together we began to-day as on the other
I felt their mighty hands at work, and as
the day wore through,
Perhaps they felt that even I was helping
somewhat too:
Perhaps they felt, as with those liands they
lifted mightily
The burden once more laid upon the world
so heavily,
That while they nobly held it as each man
can do and bear,
It did not wholly fall my side as though no
man were there.
And so we toil together many a day from
morn till night.
I in the lower depths of life, they on the
lovely height :
For though the eommon stones are mine.
and they have lofty cares,
Their work begins where this leaves oil. and
mine is part of theirs.
And 'tis not wholly mine or theirs I think
of through the day.
732 POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY (WILLIAM EUGAR).
But the great eternal thing we make to-
gether. I and they;
For in the sunset I behold a city that Man
owns,
Made fair with all their nobler toil, built of
my common stones.
Then noonward, as the task grows light
with all the labour done,
The single thought of all the day becomes
a joyous one;
For, rising in my heart at last, where it
hath lain so long,
It thrills up seeking for a voice, and grows
almost a song.
But when the evening comes, indeed, the
words have taken wing,
The thought sings in me still, but I am all
too tired to sing;
Therefore, you, my friend, who serve the
world with minstrelsy,
Among our fellow-workers' songs make that
one song for me.
A PARABLE OF GOOD DEEDS.
A WOMAN, sweet, but humble of estate,
Had suddenly, by Providence or fate,
Good fortune ; for a rich man made her wife,
And raised her to a high and sumptuous
life,
With gold to spare and pleasurable things.
Himself being great, in the employ of kings,
Earning an ample wage and fair reward,
He led his days like any lord,
That made him rank among that country's
lords;
But little pity had he for the poor,
Nor cared to help them : rather from his
door
Bidding his servants drive them shamefully,
Till all knew better than from such as he
To beg for food; and only year by year
Some wanderer out of other lands drew
near
His hated house. Riches corrode the heart
That hath not its own sweetness set apart.
But in his wife no inward change was
wrought
Sweet she remained, and humble in her
thought.
And lo! one day, when, at the king's behest,
This man was gone, there came and asked
for rest
A certain traveller, sad and very worn
AVith wayfaring, whose coat, ragged and
torn
By rock and bramble, showed the fashion
strange
Of distant countries where the seasons change
A different way, and men and customs too
Are strange; and though the woman hardly
knew
His manner of speech, seeing his weary
face,
She thought of toiling kinsfolk in the place
Where she was born, and knew what heavi-
ness.
It was to fare all day beneath the stress
Of burning suns, and never stay to slake
The bitter thirst or lay one down to take
A needful rest, the natural due of toil ;
So she dealt kindly, and gave wine and oil,
And bade the stranger comfort him and stay
And sleep beneath that roof upon his way:
That hour the sweetness of her fettered soul
Was like the stored-up honey of a whole
Summer in one rich hive; and secretly
She wept for joy to think that she might be
Helpful to one in need. So when her lord
Returning chided her, she bore his word
Meekly, and in her spirit had content.
A long while after that, a poor man, bent
And weak with hunger, wandered there*
and prayed
A little succour for God's sake, who made
The rich and poor alike, and every man
To love his fellow. But the servants ran
And beat him from the house, along the
lane,
Back to the common road. Ah ! with what
She saw it, but durst never raise her voice
POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SHAT'criXHSSY (WILLIAM KDfJAR).
733
Against her husband's rule! Then with no
noise
She went out from the house into the street,
And, like a simple serving- maid, bought
meat
And bread, and hurried to and fro to find
And feed the starving man. That day the
kind,
Pitiful heart within her ached full sore,
And much she grieved, thus little and no
more
'Twas hers to do to ease so great a woe,
As home she went again, that none might
know.
Then at another time it chanced tliat one,
AVliose brother, if 'twas truth he told, had
run
Into the den of robbers unawares,
And lay a prisoner, sought that house of
theirs,
Having fared thus and thus with others
first,
To gather gold enough to go and burst
His bonds. And lo! her husband gave him
nought,
But bade him lie again to those he caught
With such a shallow tale. But she was
stirred
Greatly within; and rather would have
erred,
And been a trickster's dupe, than let depart,
Unhelped, a brother with a bleeding heart.
And so when none was nigh, she gathered
all
The store of gifts and gold that she could
call
1 ler own, and gave it to the man. Ah, dear
And blissful seemed that brother's thanks
to hear.
A good wife with her husband now some
span
Of years she dwelt, and had one fair child
born,
And life grew easier to her every morn ;
For living with such sweetness day by day,
The hardest heart will change, and put a win-
Some of its meanness. So it did not fail
But that her husband softened, and the tale
Of poor folks' wrongs would strike upon his
ear [hear.
With a new sound that once he could not
At length he died, and riches with him
ceased; [released
The king's pay came no more, and scarce
From greedy creditors: when all was sold.
The woman and the child with little gold,
A meagre sum against hard want and shame,
Went forth, to find the land from whence.
she came.
The world was drear to them, and very hard,
E'en as to others. Luckless or ill-starred
Their wanderings seemed. One day their
gold was spent,
And helpless, in a sad bewilderment,
The woman sat her down in sore distress
In the lone horror of the wilderness.
Then the child cried for food, and soon
again
More piteously for drink, and all in vain.
And the poor woman's heart of love was
wrung
With agony; all hopelessly she hung
Her head upon her breast, and said "Ah me!
Life is no longer, child, for such as we ;
For I am penniless, and men give nought
To those tliat cannot buy! "
Then there was brought
An answer in her ear Avhich said, " Not so,
But thou art even rich: look up and know ! "
Therewith she looked and saw three persons,
fair
And shining as God's angels, standing there
Beside her in the way.
One gave the child
Drink from a jewelled cup; one held high.
piled
With richest foods and fruit, a goodly tray.
And bade him eat; the third did stoop and lay
A purse upon her lap, the gold in which
Sufficient was to make a poor man rich.
And when oVrwhelmed with joy. and in
amaze,
POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SIIAUGHNESSY (WILLIAM EDGAR).
Seeing the loveliness beyond all praise
Of those three persons, on her knees she sank
To worship them for angels, and to thank
The God that sent them to her in her need,
They said, "0 woman, kneel not to us in-
deed,
But thank thyself; for we were wrought
by thee,
And this the loveliness that thou dost see,
Half wondering, is thine own, the very light
And beauty of thy soul, for just so bright
We are as thou didst make us; and at last
Dost thou not know us ? is all memory past
Of three good deeds that in prosperity
Thou didst? Those three good deeds of
thine are we.'*
And then they walked before her, and she
went
And found her home, and lived in great
content.
A FALLEN HERO.
THEY found him dead upon the battle-field.
One said, "A hard man, and with scarce a
heart;
There lay his strength, a man who could not
yield.
For, after all, too many, playing a part
Of judge or warrior in the Avorld, strong-
armed,
Or with the mental sinews stoutly set
To the far-reaching thought, have faltered,
charmed
To softness and half purpose when they
met
The sweet appeal of individual lives,
Or vanquished by the look of wounded
foes.
This man was iron. Who has striven strives
Where the cause leads him; where that
is, who knows ?
Content with partial good the cooler crowd,
Using its heroes, step aside, well served,
Waits for another; and the applause, so
loud,
So general once, grows fainter more re-
served
Around his steps who, holding first the flag
In a well-honoured fight, is left to wage
The war alone, above him a red rag
With now his name upon it. So, 'twas a
rage
Urged this man on; good, evil, grew but in
dreams,
The changeless opposites; and to com^
rades, shamed
Or timely fallen away, the man now seems
Well-nigh the contrary of the thing h&
named. "
Another said, "Ay, seems to such as these
W T ho fought for half the goal the goal
was good,
Immense, remote, a blessing that may ease
The world some ages hence; half-way
was food,
Content, a crumb for lesser lives to gain
He gained and spurned it to them. For
the rest,
The future man may count his death not
vain,
Finding him in Time's strata, as with
crest
Frenzied and straining jaws and limbs, some
old
Imbedded dragon lies defiant still
In an unfinished fight. If such pass cold
Mid the dwarfed folk whose generations
fill
Their striding steps, their soul is all the sun
Gilding the dawn and lengthening out the
span
Of yet unrisen days, when men may run
To greater heights and distances of man."
A third said, " Yet to fall, as this one hath,
Not with the earlier laurel newly earned,
Nor having cleared the later doubtful path,
But with a red sword firmly clutched and
turned
Against the heart of his time, is no fair fate.
He who now drives a hundred men to
death [hate
Is bound to show the thousand saved; else
1'OKMS OF AKTIiril O'SIIAUGIINKSSV (WILLIAM EDGAR).
736
And scorn will quickly blow him such a
breath
No flowers will grow about his memory,
No goodly praise sit well upon his name.
The men, who for his shadow could not see
The peaceful sun of half their days, cry
shame
Against him; lives he stinted of their love,
Denying his own, lopping the tender
boughs
And leaflets that the trunk might rise above
Its fellows, spoil the glory on his brows,
Accuse him just as surely with their tears
And ruin as with words that seemed too
weak.
" Better, perhaps, out of the hopes and fears
That round the generation's life, to speak
And win assent of every lesser man,
Or, fighting, only wrest from that dark
foe,
The Future, jealous holding all she can
For hers unborn, some moderate trophy,
no
Abiding portion; dazzled, men will praise,
While that great gift the dream-led seeker
strives [raise
To gain and give them, scarcely they may
Their hearts to the great love of all their
lives."
So spake they round one fallen in a fight,
W hence most had turned away, deeming
the good
A doubtful one, the further path too rife
With thrusts across the common ground,
where stood
Friend and foe mingled. Half praise, almost
blame
One and another uttered, as they gazed
Down at the dead set face, and named the
name
That once upon their foremost banner
biased,
But late flashed fitfully on distant quest
Strained past endurance. Bitterness still
wrought
Somewhat within their hearts, or memory
prest
Maybe upon them with some late look
fnmght
With passing scorn, and these the feet that
rushed
Onward, too reckless of weak lives that
hide
Along the wayside of the world had
crushed.
But lo 1 a woman wrung her hands and cried,.
"Ah, my beloved ! ah, the good, the
true ! "
And clasped him lying on the ground, and
kept
Her arms about him there. She only knew
The passion of the man, and when he wept.
BLACK MARBLE.
SICK of pale European beauties, spoiled
By false religions, all the cant of priests
And mimic virtues, far away I toiled
In lawless lands, with savage men and
beas fsi
Across the bloom-hung forest, in the way
Widened by lions or where the winding
snake
Had pierced, I counted not each night and
day,
Till, gazing through a flower-encumbered
brake,
I crouched down like a panther watching
prey-
Black Venus stood beside a sultry lake.
The naked negress raised on high her arms.
Round as palm-saplings; onp-flfaapedeithei
breast,
Unchecked by needless shames or cold
alarms,
Swelled, like a burning mountain, with
the zest
Of inward life, and lipped itself with fire:
Fashioned to crush a lover or a foe,
Her pi-oiid limbs owned their strength,,
her waist its span,
736
POEMS OF KEY. ABEAM J. RYAN.
Her fearless form its faultless curves. And
lo!
The lion and the serpent and the man
Watched her the while with each his own
desire.
IN THE OLD HOUSE.
IN the old house where we dwelt
No care had come, no grief we knew,
No memory of the Past we felt,
No doubt assailed ns when we knelt ;
It is not so in the new.
In the old house where we grew
From childhood up, the days were dreams,
The summers had unwonted gleams,
The sun a warmer radiance threw
Upon the stair. Alas ! it seems
All different in the new !
Our mother still could sing the strain
In earlier days we listened to;
The white threads in her hair were few,
She seldom sighed or suffered pain.
Oh, for the old house back again !
It is not so in the new.
POEMS OF REV, ABRAM J, RYAN,
"THE POET-PRIEST OF THE SOUTH."
THE CONQUERED BANNER.
FUEL that Banner, for 'tis weary;
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary;
Furl it, fold it, it is best;
For there's not a man to wave it,
And there's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it;
And its foes now scorn and brave it;
Furl it, hide it let it rest!
Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered ;
And the valiant hosts are scattered
Over whom it floated high.
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it;
Hard to think there's none to hold it;
Hard tha.t those who once unrolled it
Now must furl it with a sigh.
Furl that Banner! furl it sadly!
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly,
And ten thousands wildly, madly,
Swore it should forever wave;
Swore that foeman's sword should never
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever,
Till that flag should float forever
O'er their freedom or their grave!
Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it,
And the hearts that fondly clasped it,
Cold and dead are lying low;
And that Banner it is trailing!
While around it sounds the wailing
Of its people in their woe.
For, though conquered, they adore it !
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it !
Weep for those who fell before it !
1'OKMS OF REV. ABRAM J. RYAN.
i37
Pardon tliose who trailed and tore it !
But, oh ! wildly they deplore it,
Now who furl and fold it so.
Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory,
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory,
And 'twill live in song and story,
Though its folds are in the dust:
For its fame on brightest pages,
Penned by poets and by sages,
Shall go sounding down the ages
Furl its folds though now we must.
Furl that Banner, softly, slowly !
Treat it gently it is holy
For it droops above the dead.
Touch it not unfold it never,
JJet it droop there, furled forever,
For its people's hopes are dead!
SENTINEL SONGS.
WHEN falls the soldier brave,
Dead at the feet of wrong,
The poet sings and guards his grave
With sentinels of song.
Songs, march! he gives command,
Keep faithful watch and true;
The living and dead of the conquered land
I hive now no guards save you.
Gray ballads! mark ye well!
Thrice holy is your trust !
Go! halt by the fields where warriors fell;
Rest arms! and guard their dust.
List! Songs! your watch is long,
The soldiers' guard was brief ;
Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong,
Ye may not seek relief.
Go! wearing the gray of grief !
Go! watch o'er the dead in gray!
Go! guard the private and guard the chief,
And sentinel their clay!
47
And the songs, in stately rhyme
And with softly-sounding tread,
Go forth, to watch for a time a time
Where sleep the Deathless Dead.
And the songs, like funeral dirge,
In music soft and low,
Sing round the graves, whilst hot tears surge
From hearts that are homes of woe.
What tho' no sculptured shaft
Immortalize each brave?
What tho' no monument epitaphed
Be built above each grave ?
When marble wears away
And monuments are dust,
The songs that guard our soldiers' clay
Will still fulfill their trust.
With lifted head and steady tread,
Like stars that guard the skies,
Go watch each bed where rest the dead,
Brave songs, with sleepless eyes.
* * * *
When falls the cause of Right,
The poet grasps his pen,
And in gleaming letters of living light
Transmits the truth to men.
Go! Songs! he says who sings;
Go! tell the world this tale;
Bear it afar on your tireless wings;
The Right will yet prevail.
Songs! sound like the thunder's breath!
Boom o'er the world and say:
Brave men may dit Right has no death!
Truth never shall pass away!
Go! sing thro' a nation's sighs!
Go! sob thro' a people's tears!
Sweep the horizons of all the skies,
And throb through a thousand years I
And the songs, uith brave, sad face,
Go proudly down their way,
Wailing the loss of a conquered race
And waiting an Easter-day.
rss
POEMS OF REV. ABRAM J. RYAN.
Away! away! like the birds,
They soar in their flight sublime;
And the waving wings of the poet's words
Flash down to the end of time.
When the flag of justice fails,
Ere its folds have yet been furled,
The poet waves its folds in wails
That flutter o'er the world.
MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD.
GATHER the sacred dust
Of the warriors tried and true,
"Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust
And fell in a cause, though lost, still just,
And died for me and you.
Gather them one and all,
From the private to the chief,
Come they from hovel or princely hall,
They fell for us, and for them should fall
The tears of a Nation's grief.
Gather the corpses strewn
O'er many a battle plain;
From many a grave that lies so lone,
Without a name and without a stone,
Gather the Southern slain.
We care not whence they came
Dear in their lifeless clay!
Whether unknown, or known to fame,
Their cause and country still the same;
They died and wore the Gray.
Wherever the brave have died,
They should not rest apart;
Living, they struggled side by side,
Why should the hand of Death divide
A single heart from heart ?
Gather their scattered clay,
Wherever it may rest;
Just as they inarched to the bloody fray,
Just as they fell on the battle day,
Bury them breast to breast.
The f oeman need not dread
This gathering of the brave;
Without sword or flag, and with soundless
tread,
We muster once more our deathless dead,
Out of each lonely grave.
The foeman need not frown,
They all are powerless now;
We gather them here and we lay them down,.
And tears and prayers are the only crown
We bring to wreathe each brow.
And the dead thus meet the dead,
While the living o'er them weep;
And the men by Lee and Stonewall led,
And the hearts that once together bled,,
Together still shall sleep.
SONG OF THE MYSTIC.
I WALK down the Valley of Silence
Down the dim, voiceless valley alone !
And I hear not the fall of a footstep
Around me, save God's and my own;
And the hush of my heart is as holy
As hovers where angels have flown !
Long ago was I weary of voices
Whose music my heart could not win;-
Long ago was I weary of noises
That fretted my soul with their din;
Long ago was I weary of places
Where I met but the human and sin.
I walked in the v/orld with the worldly;
I craved what the world never gave;
And I said: " In the world each Ideal,
That shines like a star on life's wave,
Is wrecked on the shores of the Real,
And sleeps like a dream in a grave."
And still did I pine for the Perfect,
And still found the False with the True;
I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven,
But caught a mei*e glimpse of its Blue:
And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal
Veiled even that glimpse from my view.
POEMS OF REV. ABRAM J. RYAN.
739
And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human;
And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men;
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar
And I heard a voice call me : since then
I walk down the Valley of Silence
That lies far beyond mortal ken.
Do yon ask what I found in the Valley ?
'Tis my Try sting Place with the Divine.
And I fell at the feet of the Holy,
And above me a voice said: " Be mine."
And there arose from the depths of my spirit
An echo " My heart shall bo thine."
Do you ask how I live in the Valley?
I weep and I dream and I pray.
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops
That fall on the roses in May;
And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers,
Ascendeth to God night and day.
In the hush of the Valley of Silence
I dream all the songs that I sing;
And the music floats down the dim Valley,
Till each finds a word for a wing,
That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge,
A message of Peace they may bring.
But far on the deep there are billows
That never shall break on the beach;
And I have heard songs in the Silence,
That never shall float into speech;
And I have had dreams in the Valley,
Too lofty for language to reach.
And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley
Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred!
And they wear holy veils on their faces,
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard:
They pass through the Valley like Virgins,
Too pure for the touch of a word !
Do you ask me the place of the Valley,
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care?
It lieth afar between mountains
And (Jod and His angels are there:
And one is the dark mount of Sorrow,
And one the bright mountain of Prayer!
LINES 1875.
Go down where the wavelets are kissing the
shore,
And ask of them why do they sigh ?
The poets have asked them a thousand times
o'er,
But they're kissing the shore as they kissed
it before.
And they're sighing to-day and they'll sigh
evermore. [reply,
Ask them what ails them: they will not
But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why!
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? [I.
The waves will not answer you; neither shall
Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless
deep,
When the night stars are gleaming on high,
And hear how the billows are moaning in
sleep,
On the low-lying strand by the surge-beaten.
steep. [sweep.
They're moaning forever wherever they
Ask them what ails them: they never reply;
They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell
why !
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?
The waves will not answer you; neither
shall I.
Go list to the breeze at the waning of day,
When it passes and murmurs " Good-bye.""
The dear little breeze how it wishes to stay
Where the flowers are in bloom, where the
singing birds play; [way.
How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome
Ask it what ails it; it will not reply,
Its voice is a sad one, it never told why.
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh?
The breeze will not answer you; neither
shall I.
Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from
their lair,
When the shout of the storm rends the sky:
They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro'
the air
And they blight witli their breath all tin-
lovely and fair,
740
POEMS OF REV. ABRAM J. RYAN.
And they groan like the ghosts in the " land
of despair."
Ask them what ails them: they never reply;
Their voices are mournful, they will not tell
why.
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?
The blasts will not answer you; neither shall
I.
Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side,
Or list where the rivers rush by;
The streamlets which forest trees shadow
and hide,
And the rivers that roll in their oceanward
tide,
Are moaning forever wherever they glide;
Ask them what ails them: they will not
reply.
On sad-voiced they flow, but they never
tell why.
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?
Earth's streams will not answer you; neither
shall I.
Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea,
And the voices that sound in the sky;
Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me
There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in
each key,
And thousands of sighs swell their grand
melody.
Ask them what ails them: they will not
reply.
They sigh sigh forever but never tell why.
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ?
Their lips will not answer you; neither will
I!
THE SONG OF THE DEATHLESS
VOICE.
' TWAS the dusky Hallowe'en
Hour of fairy and of wraith,
When in many a dim-lit green,
'Neath the stars' prophetic sheen
As the olden legend saith,
All the future may be seen,
And when, an older story hath
Whate'er in life hath ever been
Loveful, hopeful, or of wrath,
Cometh back upon our path.
I was dreaming in my room,
' Mid the shadows, still as they;
Night, in veil of woven gloom
Wept and trailed her tresses gray
O'er her fair, dead sister Day.
To me from some far-away
Crept a voice or seemed to creep
As a wave-child of the deep,
Frightened by the wild storm's roar.
Creeps low-sighing to the shore.
Very low and very lone
Came the voice with song of moan.
This, weak-sung in weaker word,
Is the song that night I heard.
* * *
How long, alas ! How long !
How long shall the Celt chant the sad song
of hope
That a sunrise may break on the long
starless night of our past ?
How long shall we wander and wait on the
desolate slope
Of Tabors that promise our Transiigura-
tion at last ?
How long, Lord ! How long !
How long, Fate ! How long !
How long shall our sunburst reflect but the
sunset of Right
When gloaming still lights the dim imme-
morial years?
How long shall our harp's strings, like winds
that are wearied of night,
Sound sadder than meanings in tones all
a- trembling with tears?
How long, Lord! How long!
How long, Right ! How long!
How long shall our banner, the brightest that
ever did flame
In battle with wrong, droop furled like a
flag o'er a grave ?
How long shall we be but a nation with only
a name
POEMS OF REV. AH I! AM J, 1,'YAN.
741
Whoso history clanks with the sounds of
the chains that enslave ?
How long, Lord! How long!
How long! Alas, how long!
How long shall our isle be ti Golgotha, out
in the sea
"With a Cross in the dark, oh, when shall
our Good Friday close ?
How long shall thy sea that beats round thee
bring only to thee
The wailiugs, Erin! that float down the
waves of thy woes?
How long, Lord! How long!
How long! Alas, how long!
How long shall the cry of the wronged,
Freedom! for thee
Ascend all in vain from the valleys of sor-
row below?
How long ere the dawn of the day in the
ages to be
When the Celt will forgive, or else tread
on the heart of his foe ?
How long, O Lord ! How long!
* * *
Whence came the voice ? Around me gray
silences fall:
And without in the gloom not a sound is
astir 'neath the sky;
And who is the singer? Or hear I a singer
a tall? '
Or, hush! Is't my heart athrill with some
deathless old cry ?
Ah! blood forgets not in its flowing its fore-
fathers' wrongs
They are the heart's trust, from which
we may ne'er be released:
Blood keeps in its throbs the echoes of all
the old songs,
And sings them the best when it flows
thro' the heart of a priest.
Am I not in my blood as old as the race
whence I sprung?
In the cells of my heart feel I not all its
ebb and its flow ?
And old as our race is, is it not still forever
as young
As the youngest of Celts in whose breaM
Erin's love is aglow ?
The blood of a race that is wronged beats the
longest of all;
For long as the wrong lasts, each drop of
it quivers with wrath:
And sure as the race lives no matter what
fates may befall
There's a Voice with a Song that forever
is haunting its path.
Aye, this very hand that trembles thro' this
very line
Lay hid, ages gone, in the hand of some
forefather-Celt,
With a sword in its grasp if stronger not
truer than mine
And I feel, with my pen, what the old
hero's sworded-hand felt
The heat of the hate that flashed into flames
against wrong
The thrill of the hope that rushed like a.
storm on the foe;
And the sheen of that sword is hid in the
sheath of the song
As sure as I feel thro' my veins the pun-
Celtic blood flow.
The ties of our blood have been strained o'er
thousands of years,
And still are not severed, how mighty
soever the strain;
Theclialice of time o'erflows with the streams
of our tears,
Yet just as the shamrocks, to bloom, need
the clouds and their rain,
The faith of our fathers, our hopes and the
love of our isle
Need the rain of our hearts that falls from
our grief-clouded eyes
To keep them in bloom, while for ages wo
wait for the smile
Of Freedom that some day ah, some day!
shall light Erin's skies.
742
POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL.
Our dead are not dead who have gone, long
ago, to their rest ;
They are living in us whose glorious race
will not die
Their brave buried hearts are still beating on
in each breast
Of the child of each Celt in each clime
' neath the infinite sky.
Many days yet to come may be dark as the
days that are past,
Many voices may hush, while the great
years sweep patiently by.
But the voice of our race shall live sounding
down to the last,
And our blood is the bard of the song that
never shall die.
POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL
IRELAND, MOTHER!
VEIN of my heart, light of mine eyes,
Pulse of my life, star of my skies,
Dimmed is thy beauty, sad are thy sighs,
Fairest and saddest, what shall I do for thee ?
Ireland, mother!
Vain, ah, vain is a woman's prayer;
Vain is a woman's hot despair;
Naught can she do, naught can she dare,
I am a woman, I can do naught for thee;
Ireland, mother!
Hast thou not sons, like the ocean-sands ?
Hast thou not sons with brave hearts and
hands ?
Hast thou not heirs for thy broad, bright
lands ?
What have they done, or what will they do
for thee ?
Ireland, mother!
Were I a man from thy glorious womb,
I'd hurl the stone from thy living tomb;
Thy grief should be joy, and light thy gloom,
The rose should gleam 'mid thy golden
broom,
Thy marish wastes should blossom and
bloom;
I'd smite thy foes with thy own long doom,
While God's heaped judgments should round
them loom;
Were I a man, lo! this would I do for thee,
Ireland, mother!
SHE IS NOT DEAD!
'Ireland is a corpse on the dissecting-table."
WHO said that thou wast dead, darling of
my heart ?
My fairest one amid the daughters,
My lily brooding on the waters,
Who said that thou wast dead, and I from
thee must part?
Who said that thou wast dead, and called me
from thy side ?
Bright saint and queen of my devotion,
POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL.
743
My spotless, priceless pearl of ocean,
My bitter ban shall rest upon the knaves who
lied!
They said that thou wast dead, tho' fair thy
beauty shone,
My sweet Undine gently gleaming
Thro' crystal mists of tear-drops stream-
ing,
That catcli the iris-tints from Aphrodite's
zone.
They said that thou wast dead, oh, chosen
one of Fate,
My sovereign lady proud and peerless,
My swan-like Valkyr wild and fearless,
My deathless maid whose soul recks not for
love or hate.
They said that thou wast dead, they wiled me
far from thee;
But ah! my heart was sadly pining,
Its tendrils still around thee twining,
Drew back my soul in bonds, as uoonbeams
draw the sea.
And then I saw that still the life was in thine
eyes,
sweet ! most loved, most sorrow-laden!
The flashes from thy ravished Aidenn
Played o'er thy face like lightnings o'er the
twilight skies.
And then I knew at last that thou could'st
never die,
O sister of the great Immortals,
That standest hard by Freedom's portals,
Until an unseen lland shall open from on
high.
Lo ! roses red thy lovers strew before thy
shrine,
Dipped deep in blood from heart-veins
flowing,
With hues of death and passion glowing,
Yet thou regardest not, for thou wast born
divine.
Lo! roses white thy lovers strew before thy
feet,
Bright blossoms of pure lives and holy;
But thy firm eyes look upward solely,
Our love can bring no offerings that for thee
are meet.
Thou art our queen, we bare our bosoms to
thy tread;
Thy empty throne for thee is waiting;
Tread on, all heedless still of love or hat-
ing!
Enough for us who kneel, to know thou art
not dead.
IRELAND.
SHE turns and tosses on her couch of pain,
Where cruel hands have stretched her,
spent and worn;
And by her side the weary watchers strain
Sad eyes to catch a gleam of lialting morn.
She moans, and every moan a true heart
rends,
She sighs, the fever hot in every limb,
" Ah, God, whose love the humblest wretch
befriends,
Bid daylight break upon my eyelids dim! "
Oh! long the night! and many a time and
oft,
We've thought, with throbbing pulse,
" The dawn draws nigh! "
We've seen the clouds, illusive, break aloft,
And then with tenfold blackness mock
the eye.
Oh, long the night, and fierce the fever's
pain!
Once nmiv \vr see pale glimmerings, far
off, play;
We've hoped so oft, \vc dare not hope again,
And yet, if this indeed, at last, were Day*
744
POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL.
WHAT SHALL WE WEEP FOR?
"Woe is me now! for my soul is wearied be-
cause of murderers. Jeremiah.
SHALL we weep for thce, my mother,
shall we weep for the martyred land,
For the queen that is prone in ashes, struck
down by a robber's hand ?
Shall we weep for the fair green banner,
drowned deep in a sea of tears,
For the golden harp that is broken, and
dumb with the rust of years?
Shall we weep for the children banished, or
for those crushed down to the brute,
Crushed out of the semblance of human,
while Justice sits blind and mute ?
For the peasant that died in torments, for
the hero that battling fell,
For the martyr that slowly rotted in the
voiceless dungeon cell ?
For the famine, the filth, and fever, the lash,
and the pitchcap, and sword,
For the homeless, coffinless corpses, flung
out on their native sward ?
For the strong man that crept from prison,
old, helpless, and blind, to die,
For the soldier that bled for England, 'neath
many a hostile sky,
Whom England, delighting to honor, gifts of
chains and a dungeon gave,
Till his brave heart broke with its anguish,
and he staggered from cell to grave ?
Shall we weep for these, my brothers ?
my brothers in pain and in love,
For these who have suffered and perished,
and shine as the stars above ?
Lo ! yonder, like white-hot beacons, they
light up the path we should tread;
Pure flames on the heavenly watch-towers,
shall we weep for those happy dead ?
Nay, not for mother or children, nor for
centuries' woes we'll weep,
But we'll weep for the vengeance coming,
that waits, but shall never sleep.
Let us weep for the hand that's bloody with
many an innocent life;
Let us weep for those who have trampled
the defenceless down in the strife;
For the heart the Lord hath hardened, with
triumph, and spoil, and crown,
For the robber whose plundered kingdoms
never see the sun go down;
For the Scarlet Woman that's drunken with
the blood und tears of her slaves,
Who goes forth to slay with a psalm-tune,
and builds her churches on graves;
For her sons who rush out to murder, and
return with plunder and prayer,
Lifting up to the gentle Saviour, the red
hands that never spare;
For these, and the doom that is on them,
the spectre ghastly and gray,
Looming far in the haunted future, where
Nemesis waits her prey
Let us weep, let us weep, my brothers! We
have heard but a whisper fall,
But we know the voice of the tempest, be it
ever so still and small.
To their God of Cant and Slaughter, they
shall cry in their hour of need,
But the true God shall rise and break them
as one that breaketh a reed.
Weep not for the wronged, but the wronger,
the despot whom God hath cursed
Holding off awhile till the floodgates of His
gathering wrath have burst,
For the wronged a moment's anguish, for
the wronger damnation deep,
He that soweth the wind shall surely for
harvest the whirlwind reap.
I'OKMS OF FANNY PAKXKLL
MICHAEL DAVITT.
OUT from the grip of the slayer,
Out from the jaws of hate,
Out from the den of bloodhounds,
Out from Gehenna's gate;
Out from the felon's bondage,
Out from the dungeon keep,
Out from the valley of shadows,
Out from the starless deep,
Out from the purging tortures,
Out from the sorrow and stress,
Out from the roaring furnace,
Out from the trodden press,
He has come for a savior of men,
lie has come on a mission of glory,
He has come to tell us again
The olden evangelist's story !
Now blessed the poor upon earth,
Now blessed the hungry and weeping.
For they shall have plenty for dearth,
With joy returning and reaping;
Now blessed the outcast and slave,
Now blessed the scorned and the hated,
The knights of the Gibbet and Grave,
The mourners in ashes prostrated;
For they shall arise from the dust,
Though scattered and buried for aeons;
They shall know that Jehovah is just,
From Golgotha coming with paeans.
Back to the grip of the slayer,
P:;ek to the jaws of hate,
Back to the den of bloodhounds,
Back to Gehenna's gate;
Back to the dungeon's threshold
Now may Christ the brave soul keep!
Back to the valley of shadows,
Hack to the starless deep,
Back to the doom of martyrs,
Back to the sorrow and stress,
Back to the fiery furnace,
Back to the bloody press,
lie has gone for a leader of men,
He has gone on a kingly mission, [pen,
With the prophet's fate-driven tongue and
Heralding all our hopes' fruition.
Thrice blessed the looser of chains !
Thrice blessed the friend of the friendless !
The High-Priest whom Heaven ordains
To sacrifice bitter and endless.
Thrice blessed the loved of the vile,
The mean and the abject and lowly !
On him shall the Highest One smile,
The earth that he treads shall be holy;
Thrice blessed the consecrate hands
That beckon to Liberty's portal
The poor and despised of the lands,
'Mid raptures and splendors immortal I
Out of the slime and the squalor,
Out of the slough of despond,
Out of the yoke of Egypt,
Out of the gyve and bond;
Out of the Stygian darkness,
Out of the place of tombs,
Out of the pitiful blindness,
Out of the gulfs and glooms,
Up to the heights of freedom,
Up to the hills of light,
Up to the holy places,
Where the dim eyes see aright,
Up to the glory man hides from man,
Up to the banned and shrouded altar,
Rending the veil and breaking the ban,
With the hands that shall never falter,
Up to the truth in its inmost shrine,
Leading the serfs that crouch and grovel,
Turning the troubled waters to wine.
Building a fane in every hovel:
Ever and ever facing the day.
Up and on to the radiance o'er him,
lie has gone to tread the martyr's way.
With the martyr's cross before him:
But the great white Star of Freedom's birth,
Shall arise for the darkest nation,
And the bound, the blind, the maimed of
earth,
From his ashes shall draw salvation.
TO MY FELLOW-WOMEN,
LAST at the Cross, and first at the Grave.
and first at the Rising too !
Is there nothing left for your hearts to feel,
or left for your hands to do ?
746
POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL.
Have you lost your crown of the days of old,
as the mates of noble men ?
Are you faint and fearful and witless now,
who were bold as the she-lions then ?
Are you playthings now, who were heroes'
guides? are you dolls, who were
queens on earth ?
Have you stepped with a simper from your
thrones, and strangled your souls at
birth ?
Priestess and prophetess shrined of yore,
have you naught of their breath di-
vine?
Vala of North and Sybil of South, have
they perished in all their line ?
Have you heard of the warrior queens who
shed on your country's dawn a glow ?
Of Scota and Eire and Meabhdh, who flash
from the shadows of long ago ?
When the mothers of Erin fed their babes
from the sword- point bright and bare,
And the Druidess flew in the battle's van, by
the burning torches' glare ?
Have you heard of the maiden saints who
bore the Lamp of the Holy Chrism,
While the glory streamed from their hal-
lowed hands o'er the heathen's dark
abysm ?
Of the " Mary of Ireland," pure and wise,
and Ida, the blessed nun,
Like the Heralds of Pars,* sent forth be-
fore, to usher the bursting sun ?
Have you heard of the woman fair and foul,
o'er whose shame no softening veil
Shall ever be drawn by the mournful years,
while they hear her lost land's wail ?
Yea, hers was the crime, and yours is the
stain till Erin shall rise up crowned,
When the women of Erin loose the chain
that the hands of a woman bound.
But bitter the ban, and black the brand,
that is heavy upon your brows,
While your country cries and your sisters
starve, and never an hour ye rouse;
* Pars Persia.
But ye sweep in your silks and laces here,
in your new-found honors proud,
While "over the stream" the corpse-lips
call, from many a woman's shroud.
Remember the olden times, when the Lord
looked down on the Hebrew dames,
Who walked with the tinkling feet, and
loved the glory that only shames;
How He gave them for robes a sackcloth, for
a girdle He gave a rent,
And for beauty He gave a burning, and a
stench for a delicate scent.
They heard not the groans of the poor, and
they saw not the wreck of their land,
They smiled to the lordly oppressor, and
fawned to the plunderer's hand;
Till God rose up in His wrath, and smote
the crown of each haughty head,
And on the road that the beggar had trod,
made the mincing feet to tread.
The Lord is living, the Lord that judged,
that humbled the wanton then ;
Each speeding moment His word goes out,
like the clarion's peal to men.
But their ears are deaf, they will not hear,
till the stars shall topple and fall,
And the pride of earth shall shrivel and
pass, and be seen no more at all.
Then tlie Voices that tempt, the Voices that
stun, shall be mute for evermore,
The Voices that drown the shriek of the
poor, when the burden presses sore,
They shall cease, the quibble and gibe and
lie, the casuist's bloodless sneers,
And the voice of God shall speak on alone,
thro' the everlasting years.
sisters ! tenderest hearts on earth, are
your bosoms turned to stone ?
cruel sisters ! have you no ears for a dy-
ing people's moan ?
cruel sisters ! have you no eyes for the
tears pressed out by wrong ?
The tears that the world is weary to see,
they have flowed so fast und Ions;.
1'OFMS OF FANNY I'AIIX KLI..
The dropping of tears the dripping of blood
oh, the world is sick at heart !
It points to us with an angry scorn, saying,
" See how they stand apart !
Tis all for glitter, or all for greed, or all for
a mushroom's rise;
Shall strangers pity or help when these go
by with averted eyes ? "
Far down the echoing aisles of the Past
comes the tread of stately feet,
Where Jewess and Pagan and Christian
shrined in an equal glory meet;
There Judith walks with the virgin Joan,
and Miriam chants of Egypt's seas,
And she that bore the Gracchi is there, and
she that suckled the Maccabees.
Is there never a name on all our roll of noble
women and fair,
That is worthy the lustre of such as these to
grandly win and wear ?
Sliall a woman's hand be the first to raise
the banner that leads the free
In every land that hath rent its bonds, save
alone, Erin, in thee ?
The sisters whose palms ye would scarcely
touch, whose palms are rugged with
toil,
From penury's store they have given like
queens, and poured out the wine and
oil;
The hot Irish heart, is it dead in the breasts
of you who have gold and power ?
Can never a lady of all put on the woman
again for an hour ?
Nay, well I know that the patriot's path
hath naught of delight to show;
Nay, well I know that for woman and man
the thorns of the martyr grow;
The trail of blood from the pilloried feet
that climb 'mid cursing and scorn,
Points ever the way, and the one straight
way, that leads to the hills of morn.
The King of the children of men hath spread
1 1 is feast for you and for me;
Ye must cat of an ashen l>iv;ul. and drink
the wiiiu from a bitter tree;
Who would sup with the Lord in Paradise
must taste of the pariah's food,
Who would rest with the Lord in Paradise,
must carry with Him the Kood.
Oh, women of Ireland, make you a name tliat
the world shall hear and thrill !
Oh, women of Ireland, this is no time for
babbling or sitting still ;
No time is it now to doubt and quail, there
is holiest work to do,
The harvest of Fate is ripe this day, and God
and your country have need of you.
JOHN DILLON.
" Pater nobilis, fllius nobillor."
LIKE Spain's young Cid of yore, methought
I saw thee rise,
The mystic inner glow thro' thy pale fea-
tures shining;
Rodrigo's fiery soul was leaping from thine
eyes,
Spain's Red-Cross flag with blazoned sham-
rocks round thee twining.
I heard thee speak, and dreamed of Galahad
the chaste,
Of Launcelot the brave, and Arthur's
kingly glory;
Mailed shadows on thy form the helm and
hauberk placed,
And bade thee forth, to take up knight-
hood's broken story.
The voice of Art McMurrough thunderel
thro' thy tongue,
Of John the Proud, whose true neart
Bloody Bess disdaining
By those twin snakes of craft and greed to
death was stung
Whose rank trail still the banners of the
Scot is staining.
Methought the murdered Desmond raised
. his blotxl-seoreil throat
Uptowered the Three (ireat Hurls, who
fought and fled despairing;
POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL.
Forth gleamed our Owen Eoe who first the
Roundheads smote,
Then died, with single arm his country's
flag upbearing.
Around thee still I saw the great souls
thronging fast,
Grattan, the golden-tongued, whose breast
with storms was swelling;
The Geraldine, of all his race's heroes, last,
With wild Norse blood against the Saxon
churl rebelling.
Wolfe Tone! ah! let the head be bowed,
the voice be hushed!
See you the livid veins that gape with
mournful quiver?
Martyr, self-slain! the blood that from thy
sad heart gushed,
'Twixt Celt and Saxon flows, a black and
bridgeless river.
Tread softly yet again! we stand on holy
ground!
Emmet, our nation's Bayard, 'gainst for-
lorn hope hoping;
In him some knight of Aiteach's grot, long
slumber-bound,
Woke up, with baffled fingers for the dead
Past groping,
A giant Form I saw that loomed out dim
and vast,
A great, broad brow of might, yet stamped
with endless yearning;
O'Connell! thou whose labors all men's have
o'er-past,
Though for thy guerdon only failure's
anguish earning.
Fret not thy noble heart ! no hero fails in
vain;
Lo! Sampson in his wreck the Pagan hosts
o'er-throwing;
Lo! Herakles, the half -god, rent with such
vast pain,
As only they who serve their race win "right
of knowing.
Behold Prometheus! lover of the darkened
world; '
The grim gods cursed with death the flume
he gave for blessing.
Yet to his rock of torture by their ven-
geance hurled
He only smiled, his soul in triumph still
possessing.
And on they came! Lo, Davis ! he whose
meteor soul
As in Elijah's fiery chariot, heavenward
sweeping,
Threw down the patriot's mantle and the
poet's scroll,
That Erin's mournful Genius still un-
touched is keeping.
Yet more ! the men who thro' the white-hot
furnace walked,
Like Rome's live torches, quenched in
pain's last radiation
Mitchel, whose tongue the thunders of the
war-god talked,
Teaching the one old way where lies the
serf's salvation.
O'Brien, he who smote his fellows on the-
face,
The clan of lordlings, born from rapine
and oppression,
And, turning, stung with grand disdain of
caste and race,
Went out and joined the patriots' pariah
procession.
And still they came, till space shall fail to
tell their names;
Thousands of hero shades around thy
young head sweeping;
The air was filled with splendors, as when
heavenly flames
O'er apostolic brows the Spirit's watch
were keeping
Thy sponsors these, young chief, thy com-
rades to the fray;
In all their pangs and joys thou shalt be
made partaker;
1'OKMS OF FANNY PARNELL.
749
They shall be there to choke the landlord
from his prey,
They shall be there to give the lie to peer
and Quaker.
The path before thy feet climbs brightening
to the stars;
These champion souls that fell shall never
bid thee falter;
Better to strive and fall, decked but with
warfare's scars,
And immolate e'en Fame, on Freedom's
holy altar.
Ah ! darkly lies Gethsemane around thee
now !
In bloody sweat the kings of earth must
write their story,
But on the Mount, high o'er the clouds, thy
wounded brow,
Like Gabriel's who slew the Worm, shall
shine in glory.
BUCKSHOT FORSTER.
"Your hands are defiled with blood, and your
fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies,
your tongue hath uttered perversities." Isaiah.
O FALLEN inheritor of a glorious faith,
By martyr souls unspotted handed down,
Behold up-looming sadly Fox's stern-browed
wraith,
Sore stricken for his blood-polluted crown !
Behold the tongue-pierc'd Naylor of the fiery
heart,
And brain with sacred frenzy all dis-
traught !
The stately shade of Penn, who chose the
outcast's part,
So hotly in his breast Love's magic
wrought !
Penn, who has taught a wolfish world that
love can reign
"Where hate and rapine gnash decrepit jaws;
Penn, who has taught a knavish world that
truth can gain
The savage mind to serve her own swtvt
laws.
clean-lipped founder of a race of Nature's
kings !
Men of the steadfast will and gentle word,
Men to whose helping hands the crushed
wretch ever clings,
Whose feet in mercy's ways are ever
spurred,
From them the red-skin learned some white
men could be true,
Some Christians yet could scorn the tongue
of guile;
Not Tlieij betrayed the heathen of the tawny
hue,
To add new treasures to the Christian's
pile.
Far o'er the ocean rose a cry from myriad
lips,
From myriad dying lips that moaned for
bread;
Oh! fast on Irish backs fell England's scor-
pion whips,
And hard on Irish hearts the crushing
Saxon tread.
But these men heard; their sires had fled
from England's hate,
That cruel Motherland that knew the in
not,
With feet love-shod and hands to bounty
consecrate,
They fought back death in many a helot's
cot.
men of men ! not tongue of mine can tell
your praise,
True servants of the Christ, you shone for
all;
Yet as in loveliest rose-hearts, oft our start led
gaze
On some foul birth of wriggling slime will
fall,-
750
POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL.
So falls our gaze on one, who on your snowy
roll
Leaves thick and dark a blot of lasting
shame,
He who for power's tenure sells his faith and
soul,
And bears a bloody label to his name,
The man of peace, the man of truth, 'mid
Saxon friends,
Who bless the day they found their smooth-
faced tool;
The man of lies, the man of blood, when
Saxon ends
Demand that force and fraud again shall
rule !
The man of murder ! hark, from many a
reddened field,
I hear the shrieks of butchered serfs up-
rise:
Stand forth, Assassin ! with thy crimson
hands revealed;
That guiltless blood thy name to Heaven
cries.
Ay, Buckshot Forster ! baptized thus in bit-
ter jest,
Angels at God's stern bar shall call thee
so:
"With measure thou hast meted, God shall
fill thy breast,
And mercy such as thine, thy soul shall
know.
" 'Twere more humane," thus meant thy
pharisaic speech,
" To slay a hundred than to slay but one ! "'
New doctrines to delight thy masters thou
canst preach;
Let Cromwell blush, and own himself out-
done!
That grim old warrior slew, but never whined
that love,
Love for his victims, drove him forth to
slay;
'Twas not the gentle mercy dropping from
above,
That urged him raging on his helpless
prey.
Go on, Friend! and make our land one
peaceful grave;
Thus shall the lustre of thy greatness
blaze;
A little buckshot thus a suffering land shall
save, ,
And wreathe thy Quaker hat with Hay-
nau's bays.
POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY,
THE FAME OF THE CITY.
A GREAT rich city of power and pride,
With streets full of traders, and ships on the
tide;
With rich men and workmen and judges
and preachers,
The shops full of skill and the schools full
of teachers.
The people were proud of their opulent town:
The rich men spent millions to bring it re-
nown,
The strong men built and the tradesmen
planned,
The shipmen sailed to every land,
The lawyers argued, the schoolmen taught,
And a poor shy Poet his verses brought,
And cast them into the splendid store.
The tradesmen stared at his useless craft;
The rich men sneered and the strong men
laughed ;
The preachers said it was worthless quite;
The schoolmen claimed it was theirs to write;
But the songs were spared, though they
added nought
To the profit and praise the people sought,
That was wafted at last from distant climes;
And the townsmen said: "To remotest
times
We shall send our name and our greatness
down ! "
The boast came true; but the famous town
ll:i'l a lesson to learn when all was told:
The nations that honored cared nought for
its gold,
Its skill they exceeded an hundred-fold;
It had only been one of a thousand more,
Had the songs of the Poet been lost to its
store.
Then the rich men and tradesmen and
schoolmen said
They had never derided, but praised instead;
And they boast of the Poet their town has
bred.
HEART-HUNGER.
THERE is no truth in faces, save in children:
They laugh and frown and weep from na-
ture's keys;
But we who meet the world give out false
notes,
The true note dying muffled in the heart.
0, there be woful prayers and piteous wail-
ing
That spirits hear, from lives that starve for
love !
The body's food is bread; and wretches' cries
Are heard and answered: but the spirit's
food
Is love; and hearts that starve may die in
agony
And no physician mark the cause of death.
You cannot read the faces; they are masks,
Like yonder woman, smiling at the lips,
Silk-clad, bejewelled, lapped with luxury,
And beautiful and young ay, smiling at
the lips,
But never in the eyes from inner light:
A gracious temple hung with flowers with-
out
Within, a naked corpse upon the stones !
0, years and years ago the hunger came
The doRort-tliirst for love she prayed for
love
POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
She cried out in the night-time of her soul
for love !
The cup they gave was poison whipped to
froth.
For years she drank it, knowing it for death;
She shrieked in soul against it, but must
drink:
The skies were dumb she dared not swoon
or scream.
As Indian mothers see babes die for food,
She watched dry-eyed beside her starving
heart,
And only sobbed in secret for its gasps,
And only raved one wild hour when it died !
Pain, have pity ! Numb her quivering
sense;
Fame, bring guerdon ! Thrice a thousand
years
Thy boy-thief with the fox beneath his cloak
Hath let it gnaw his side unmoved, and held
the world;
And she, a slight woman, smiling at the lips,
With repartee and jest a corpse-heart in
her breast !
JACQUEMINOTS.
I MAY not speak in words, dear, but let my
words be flowers,
To tell their crimson secret in leaves of
fragrant fire;
They plead for smiles and kisses as summer
fields for showers,
And every purple veinlet thrills with ex-
quisite desire.
0, let me see the glance, dear, the gleam of
soft confession
You give my amorous roses for the tender
hope they prove;
And press their heart-leaves back, love, to
drink their deeper passion,
their sweetest, wildest perfume is the
whisper of my love !
My roses, tell her, pleading, all the fondness
and the sighing,
All the longing of a heart that reaches
thirsting for its bliss,
And tell her, tell her, roses, that my lips
and eyes are dying
For the melting of her love-look and the
rapture of her kiss.
MY NATIVE LAND.
IT chanced to me upon a time to sail
Across the Southern Ocean to and fro;
And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale
Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go.
And months of dreamy joys, like joys in
sleep,
Or like a clear, calm stre.im o'er mossy
stone,
Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless
sweep,
And left us yearning still for lands un-
known.
And when we found one, for 'tis soon to find
In thousand-isled Cathay another isle,
For one short noon its treasures filled the
mind,
And then again we yearned, and ceased
to smile-
And so it was, from isle to isle we passed,
Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or
lips;
And when that all was tasted, then at hist
We thirsted sore for draughts instead of
sips.
I learned from this there is no Southern land
Can fill with love the hearts of Northern
men.
Sick minds need change; but, when in health
they stand
'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home
again.
And thus with me it was: the yearning
turned
From laden airs of cinnamon away,
POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
And stretched far westward, while the full
heart burned
With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay !
My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief !
My land, that has no peer in all the sea
For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf,
If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me.
New loves may come with duties, but the
first
Is deepest yet, the mother's breath and
smiles:
Like that kind face and breast where I was
nursed
Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.
WESTERN AUSTRALIA.
O BEAUTEOUS Southland ! land of yellow air,
That hangeth o'er thee slumbering, and
dotli hold
The moveless foliage of thy valleys fair
And wooded hills, like aureole of gold.
O thou, discovered ere the fitting time,
Ere Nature in completion turned thee
forth !
Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime,
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous
North.
land, God made thee wondrous to the eye !
But His sweet singers thou hast never
heard;
1 If left thee, meaning to come by-and-by,
And give rich voice to every bright-winged
bird.
lie painted with fresh hues thy myriad
flowers,
But left them scentless: ah ! their woful
dole,
sad reproach of their Creator's pow-
ers,
To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul.
He gave thee trees of odorous, precious wood ;
But midst them all, bloomed not one tree
of fruit.
He looked, but said not that His work was
good,
When leaving thee all perfumeless and
mute.
He blessed thy flowers with honey: every
bell
Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearn-
ing wist;
But no bee-lover ever notes the swell
Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be kist.
strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art
more
Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could
paint
For others' eyes the glory of the shore
Where last I saw thee; but the senses
faint
In soft delicious dreaming when they drain
Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art.
All sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain
The spouse who comes to wake thy sleep-
ing heart.
WAITING.
HE is coming ! he is coming ! in my throb-
bing breast I feel it;
There is music in my blood, and it whis-
pers all day long,
That my love unknown comes toward me !
Ah, my heart, he need not steal it.
For I cannot hide the secret that it mur-
murs in its song !
the sweet bursting flowers! how they
open, never blushing,
Laying bare their fragrant bosoms to the
kisses of the sun !
And the birds I thought 'twas poets only
iv;id their tender gushing,
But I hear their pleading stories, and I
knw them every one.
754
POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'KEILLY.
"He is coming!" says my heart; I may
raise my eyes and greet him;
I may meet him any moment shall I
knpw him when I see ?
And my heart laughs back the answer I
can tell him when I meet him,
For our eyes will kiss and mingle ere he
speaks a word to me.
0, I'm longing for his coming in the dark
my arms outreaching;.
To hasten you, my love, see r I lay my
bosom bare !
Ah, the night-wind ! I shudder, and my
hands are raised beseeching
It wailed so light a death-sigh that passed
me in the air !
LIVING.
To toil all day and lie worn-out at night;
To rise for all the years to slave and sleep,
And breed new broods to do no other thing
In toiling, bearing, breeding life is this
To myriad men, too base for man or brute.
To serve for common duty, while the brain
Is hot with high desire to be distinct;
To fill the sand-grain place among the stones
That build the social wall in million same-
ness,
Is life by leave, and death by insignificance.
To live the morbid years,with dripping blood
Of sacrificial labor for a Thought;
To take the dearest hope and lay it down
Beneath the crushing wheels for love of
Freedom;
To bear the sordid jeers of cant and trade,
And go on hewing for a far ideal,
This were a life worth giving to a cause,
If cause be found so worth a martyr life.
But highest life of man, nor work nor sacri-
fice,
But utter seeing of the things that be !
To pass amid the hurrying crowds, and watch
The hungry race for things of vulgar use;
To mark the growth of baser lines in men;
To note the bending to a servile rule;
To know the natural discord called disease
That rots like rust the blood and souls of
men;
To test the wisdoms and philosophies by
touch
Of that which is immutable, being clear,
The beam God opens to the poet's brain;
To see with eyes of pity laboring souls
Strive upward to the Freedom and the-
Truth,
And still be backward dragged by fear and
ignorance;
To see the beauty of the world, and hear
The rising harmony of growth, whose shade
Of undertone is harmonized decay;
To know that love is life that blood is one
And rushes to the union that the heart
Is like a cup athirst for wine of love;
Who sees and feels this meaning utterly,
The wrong of law, the right of man, the
natural truth,
Partaking not of selfish aims, withholding
not
The word that strengthens and the hand that
helps;
Who waits and sympathizes with the pettiest
life,
And loves all things, and reaches up to God
With thanks and blessing he alone is living..
HER REFRAIN.
" Do you love me ? " she said, when the skies
were blue,
And we walked where the stream through
the branches glistened;
And 1 told and retold her my love Avas true,
While she listened and smiled, and smiled
and listened.
" Do you love me ?" she whispered,when days
were drear,
And her eyes searched mine with a patient
yearning;
I'oK.MS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
755
And I kissed her, renewing the words so
dear,
While she listened and smiled, as if slowly
learning.
" Do you love me?" she asked, when we sat
at rest
By the stream enshadowed with autumn
glory;
Her cheek had been laid as in peace on my
breast,
But she raised it to ask for the sweet old
story.
And I said: " I will tell her the tale again
I will swear by the earth and the stars
above me ! " [prove
And I told her that uttermost time should
The fervor and faith of my perfect love;
And I vowed it and pledged it that nought
should move;
While she listened and smiled in my face,
and then
She whispered once more, " Do you truly
love me?"
"He will not come." "He's not a fool.'"
" The men
Who set the savage free must face the
blame."
A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then
Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon
came.
Silent and stern a woman at his heels;
He motions to the brave, who stays hei-
tread.
Next minute flame the guns; the woman
reels
And drops without a moan Dixon is dead.
A SAVAGE.
I >i XON, a Choctaw, twenty years of age,
Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl;
Tried and condemned, the rough-beards
curb their rage,
And watch him stride in freedom from
the hall.
"Return on Friday, t<> l><- xhot to death!"
So ran the sentence it was Monday night.
Tin- dead man'&comradesdrew a well-pleased
breath ;
Then all night long the gambling dens
were bright.
The days sped slowly; but the Friday came,
And lloeked the miners to the shooting-
ground;
They chose six riflemen of deadly aim
And with low voices sat and lounged
round.
LOVE'S SECRET.
LOVE found them sitting in a woodland place,
His amorous hand amid her golden tresses;
And Love looked smiling on her glowing face
And moistened eyes upturned to his ca-
resses.
"0 sweet," she murmured, "life is utter
bliss!"
" Dear heart," he said, "our golden cup
runs over ! "
"Drink, love," she cried, "and thank the
gods for this ! "
He drained the precious lips of cup and
lover.
Love blessed the kiss; but, ere he wandered
thence,
The mated bosoms heard this benediction:
"Love lies within tlw brimming bowl of sense:
Who /vr/'.s- ////A- full ha* joy who drains^
affliction."
They heard the rustle as he smiling fled:
She reached her hand to pull the roses
blowing.
He stretched to take the purple grapes o'er-
head;
Love whispered back, "JVay, keep their
beauties growing."
756
POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
They paused, and understood: one flower
alone
They took and kept, and Love flew smil-
ing over.
Their roses bloomed, their cup went brim-
ming on
She looked for Love within, and found
her lover.
LOVE'S SACRIFICE.
LOVE'S Herald flew o'er all the fields of
Greece,
Crying: " Love's altar waits for sacrifice ! "
And all folk answered, like a wave of peace,
With treasured offerings and gifts of price.
Toward high Olympus every white road filled
With pilgrims streaming to the blest
abode;
Each bore rich tribute, some for joys fulfilled,
And some for blisses lingering on the road.
The pious peasant drives his laden car;
The fisher youth bears treasure from the
sea;
A wife brings honey for the sweets that are;
A maid brings roses for the sweets to be.
Here strides the soldier with his wreathed
sword,
No more to glitter in his country's wars;
There walks the poet with his mystic word,
And smiles at Eros' mild recruit from
Mars.
But midst these bearers of propitious gifts,
Behold where two, a youth and maiden,
stand:
She bears no boon; his arm no burden lifts,
Save her dear finger pressed within his
hand.
Their touch ignites the soft delicious fire,
Whose rays the very altar- flames eclipse;
Their eyes are on each other sweet desire
And yearning passion tremble On their lips.
So fair so strong ! Ah, Love ! what errant
wiles
Have brought these two so poor and so
unblest ?
But see ! Instead of anger, Cupid smiles;
And lo ! he crowns their sacrifice as best !
Their hands are empty, but their hearts are
filled;
Their gifts so rare for all the host suffice:
Beore the altar is their life-wine spilled
The love they long for is their sacrifice.
AT FREDERICKSBURG. DEC. 13,
1862.
GOD send us peace, and keep red strife away;
But should it come, God send us men and
steel !
The land is dead that dare not face the day
When foreign danger threats the common
weal.
Defenders strong are they that homes defend;
From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar.
Well blest the country that has sons to lend
From trades of peace to learn the trade of
war.
Thrice blest the nation that has every son
A soldier, ready for the warning sound;
Who marches homeward when the fight is
done,
To swing the hammer and to till the
ground.
Call back that morning, with its lurid light,
When through our land the awful war-
bell tolled;
When lips were mute, and women's faces
white
As the pale cloud that out from Sumter
rolled.
Call back that morn: an instant all were
dumb,
. As if the shot had struck the Nation's life;
1'uKMS OF JOHN" lioYLE O'RKILLY.
Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the call-
in g drum,
And men streamed in to meet the coming
strife.
They closed the ledger and they stilled the
loom,
The plough left rusting in the prairie
farm;
They saw but "Union" in the gathering
gloom;
The tearless women helped the men to
arm;
Brigades from towns each village sent its
band:
German and Irish every race and faith;
There was no question then of native land,
But love the Flag and follow it to death.
No need to tell their tale: through every age
The splendid story shall be sung and said;
But let me draw one picture from the page
For words of song embalm the hero dead.
The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are
planted,
Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible
brow ;
The word has been passed that the stormers
are wanted,
And Burnside's battalions are mustering
now.
The armies stand by to behold the dread
meeting;
The work must be done by a desperate
few;
The black-mouthed guns on the height give
them greeting
From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade
in view.
Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles
behind them
Are Georgia militia an Irish brigade
Their caps have green badges, as if to remind
them
Of all the brave record their country has
made.
The stormers go forward the Federals cheer
them ;
They breast the smooth hillside the black
mouths are dumb;
The riflemen lie in the works till they i.ear
them,
And cover the stormers as upward they
come.
Was ever a death-march so grand and so
solemn ?
At last, the dark summit with flame is
enlineil;
The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed
column,
That reels from the height, leaving hun-
dreds behind.
The armies are hushed there is no cause
for cheering:
The fall of brave men to brave men is a
pain.
Again come the stormers ! and as they are
nearing
The flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back
again.
And so till full noon come the Federal
masses
Flung back from the height, as the cliff
flings a wave;
Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle
passes,
No wavering rank till it steps on the
grave.
Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall
is lifted,
The green of the hillside no longer is seen :
The dead soldiers lie as the sea-weed is
drifted,
The earthworks still held by the badges
of green.
Have they quailed ? is the word. No: again
they are forming
Again comes a column to death and d---
feat!
What is it in these who shall now do tin-
storming
That makes every Georgian spring to his
feet?
"0 God ! what a pity !" they cry in their
POV
As rifles are readied and bayonets made
758
POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
" 'Tis Meagher and his fellows ! their caps
have green clover;
'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of
the fight ! "
Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag
before them,
With Meagher at their head, they have
dashed at the hill !
Their foemen are proud of the country that
bore them;
But, Irish in love, they are enemies still.
Out rings the fierce word, " Let them have
it ! " the rifles
Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of
the foe:
[t is green against green but a principle
stifles
The Irishman's love in the Georgian's
blow.
The column has reeled, but it is not de-
feated;
In front of the guns they re-form and at-
tack;
Six times they have done it, and six times
retreated;
Twelve hundred they came, and two hun-
dred go back.
Two hundred go back with the chivalrous
story;
The wild day is closed in the night's sol-
emn shroud;
A thousand lie dead, but their death was a
glory
That calls not for tears the Green Badges
are proud !
Bright honor be theirs who for honor were
fearless,
Who charged for their flag to the grim
cannon's mouth;
And honor to them who were true, though
not tearless,
Who bravely that day kept the cause of
the South.
The quarrel is done God avert such another;
The lesson it brought we should evermore
heed:
Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother,
No matter what birth or what race or what
creed.
RELEASED JANUARY, 1878.*
THEY are free at last ! They can face the
sun;
Their hearts now throb with the world's
pulsation ;
Their prisons are open their night is done;
'Tis England's mercy and reparation !
The years of their doom have slowly sped
Their limbs are withered their ties are
riven;
Their children are scattered, their friends
are dead
But the prisons are open the "crime"
forgiven.
God ! what a threshold they stand upon:
The world has passed on while they were
buried ;
In the glare of the sun the}^ walk alone
On the grass-grown track where the crowd
has hurried.
Haggard and broken and seared with pain,
They seek the remembered friends and
places:
Men shuddering turn, and gaze again
At the deep-drawn lines on their altered
faces.
What do they read on the pallid page ?
What is the tale of these wof ul letters ?
A lesson as old as their country's age,
Of a love that is stronger than stripes and
fetters.
In the blood of the slain some dip their blade,
And swear by the stain to follow:
But a deadlier oath might here be made,
On the wasted bodies and faces hollow.
Irishmen ! You who have kept the peace
Look on these forms diseased and broken:
Believe, if you can, that their late release,
When their lives are sapped, is a good-will
token.
* On the 5th of January, 1878, three of the Irish political
prisoners, who had been confined since 1866, were set at lib-
erty. The released men were received by their fellow-
countrymen in London. " They are well," said the report,
" but they look prematurely old."
POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
759
Their hearts are the bait on England's hook;
For this are they dragged from her hope-
less prison;
She reads her doom in the Nations' book
She fears the day that has darkly risen;
She reaches her hand for Ireland's aid
Ireland, scourged, contemned, derided;
She begs from the beggar her hate has made;
She seeks for the strength her guile di-
vided.
She offers a bribe ah, God above !
Behold the price of the desecration:
The hearts she has tortured for Irish love
She brings as a bribe to the Irish nation !
O, blind and cruel ! She fills her cup
With conquest and pride, till its red wine
splashes:
But shrieks at the draught as she drinks it
up
Her wine has been turned to blood and
ashes.
We know her our Sister ! Come on the
storm !
God send it soon and sudden upon her:
The race she has shattered and sought to
deform
Shall laugh as she drinks the black dis-
honor.
A NATION'S TEST.
HEAD AT THE O'CONNELL CENTENNIAL IN BOSTON,
ON AUGUST 6, 1875,
A NATION'S greatness lies in men, not acres;
One master-mind is worth a million hands.
No royal robes have marked the planet-
shakers,
But Samson-strength to burst the ages'
bands.
The might of empire gives no crown super-
nal
Athens is here but where is Macedon ?
A dozen lives make Greece and Rome eter-
nal,
And England's fame might safely rest on
one.
Here test and text are drawn from Nature's
preaching:
Afric and Asia half the rounded earth
In teeming lives the solemn truth are teach-
ing*
That insect-millions may have human
birth.
Sun-kissed and fruitful, every clod is breed-
ing
A petty life, too small to reach the eye:
So must it be, with no Man thinking, lead-
ing,
The generations creep their course and die.
Hapless the lands, and doomed amid the
races,
That give no answer to this royal test;
Their toiling tribes will droop ignoble faces,
Till earth in pity takes them back to rest
A vast monotony may not be evil,
But God's light tells us it cannot be good;
Valley and hill have beauty but the level
Must bear a shadeless and a stagnant
brood.
IT.
I bring the touchstone, Motherland, to thee,
And test thee trembling, fearing thou
shouldst fail;
If fruitless, sonless, thou wert proved to be,
Ah, what would love and memory avail ?
Brave land ! God has blest thee !
Thy strong heart I feel,
As I touch thee and test thee
Dear land ! As the steel
To the magnet flies upward, so rises thy
breast,
With a motherly pride to the touch of the
test.
in.
See
she smiles beneath the touchstone,
looking on her distant .youth.
Looking down her line of leaders and of
workers for the truth.
reo
POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.
Ere the Teuton, Norseman, Briton, left the
primal woodland spring,
When their rule was might and rapine, and
their law a painted king;
When the sun of art and learning still was
in the Orient;
When the pride of Babylonia under Cyrus'
hand was shent;
When the sphinx's introverted eye turned
fresh from Egypt's guilt;
When the Persian bowed to Athens; when
the Parthenon was built;
When the Macedonian climax closed the
Commonwealths of Greece;
W r hen the wrath of Eoman manhood burst
on Tarquin for Lucrece
Then was Erin rich in knowledge thence
from out her Ollamh's store
Kenned to-day by students only grew her
ancient Senchus More;*
Then were reared her mighty builders, who
made temples to the sun
There they stand the old Round Towers
showing how their work was done:
Thrice a thousand years upon them sham-
ing all our later art
Warning fingers raised to tell us we must
build with reverent heart.
Ah, we call thee Mother Erin ! Mother thou
in right of years;
Mother in the large fruition mother in the
joys and tears.
All thy life has been a symbol we can only
read a part:
God will flood thee yet with sunshine for
the woes that drench thy heart.
All thy life has been symbolic of a human
mother's life:
Youth's sweet hopes and dreams have van-
.ished, and the travail and the strife
Are upon thee in the present; but thy work
until to-day
Still has been for truth and manhood and
it shall not pass away:
* " Senchus More," or Great Law, the title of the Brehon
Laws, translated by O'Donovan and O'Curry. Ollamh
Tola, who reigned 900 years B. c., organized a trien-
nial parliament at Tara, of the chiefs, priests, and bards,
who digested the laws into a record called the Psalter of
Justice lives, though judgment lingers an-
gels' feet are heavy shod
But a planet's years are moments in th' eter-
nal day of God !
TV.
Out from the valley of death and tears,
From the war and want of a thousand years.
From the mark of sword and the rust of
chain,
From the smoke and blood of the penal hn\ P.
The Irish men and the Irish cause
Come out in the front of the field again !
What says the stranger to such a vitality ?
What says the statesman to this nationality?
Flung on the shore of a sea of defeat,
Hardly the swimmers have sprung to their
feet,
When the nations are thrilled by a clarion-
word,
And Burke, the philosopher-statesman, is
heard.
AVhen shall his equal be ? Down from the
stellar height
Sees he the planet and all on its girth
India, Columbia, and Europe his eagle-
sight
Sweeps at a glance all the wrong upon
earth.
Ra,ces or sects were to him a profanity:
Hindoo and Negro and Kelt were as one;
Large as mankind was his splendid humanity,
Large in its record the work he has done.
v.
What need to mention men of minor note,
When there be minds that all the heights-
attain ?
What school -boy knoweth not the hand that
wrote
" Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the
plain?"
What man that speaketh English e'er can
lift
Tara. Ollamh Fola founded schools of history, medicine,
philosophy, poetry, and astronomy, which were protected
by his successors. Kimbath (450 B.C.) and Hugony (300 B.C. )
also promoted the civil interests of the kingdom in a re-
markable manner.
1'oF.M:' (>F .J<>! IN I5OYLK (TKKILLY.
rei
His voice 'mid scholars, who hath missed
the lore
Of Berkeley, Curran, Sheridan, and Swift,
The art of Foley and the songs of Moore ?
Grattan and Flood and mmet where is he
That hath not learned respect for such as
these ?
Who loveth humor, and hath yet to see
Lover and Prout and Lever and Maclise ?
VI.
Great men grow greater by the lapse of time:
We know those least whom we have seen
the latest;
And they, 'mong those whose names have
grown sublime,
Who worked for Human Liberty, are
greatest.
And now for one who allied will to work,
And thought to act, and burning speech
to thought;
Who gained the prizes that were seen by
Burke
Burke felt the wrong O'Connell felt, and
fought.
Ever the same from boyhood up to death
His race was crushed his people were de-
famed;
He found the spark, and fanned it with his
breath,
And fed the fire, till all the nation flamed !
He roused the farms he made the serf a
yeoman;
He drilled his millions and he faced the
foe;
But not with lead or steel he struck the foe-
man:
Reason the sword and human right the
blow.
He fought for home but no land-limit
bounded
O'Connell's faith, nor curbed his sympa-
thies;
All wrong to liberty must be confounded,
Till men were chainless as the winds and
seas.
He fought for faith but with no narrow
spirit;
With ceaseless hand the bigot laws he
smote;
One chart, he said, all mankind should in-
herit,
The right to worship and the right to
vote.
Always the same but yet a glinting prism:
In wit, law, statecraft, still a master- hand;.
An " uncrowned king," whose people's love
was chrism;
His title Liberator of his Land !
" His heart's in Rome, his spirit is in heav-
en"
So runs the old song that his people sing;
A tall Round Tower they builded in Glas-
nevin
Fit Irish headstone for an Irish king !
VII.
Motherland ! there is no cause to doubt
thee;
Thy mark is left on every shore to-day.
Though grief and wrong may cling like robes
about thee,
Thy motherhood will keep thee queen al-
way.
In faith and patience working, and beliaving
Not power alone can make a noble state:
Whate'er the land, though all things else
Unless it breed great men, it is not great.
Go on, dear land, and midst the generations
Send out strong men to cry the word aloud ;
Thy niche is empty still amidst the nations
Go on in faith, and God must raise tin
cloud.
POEMS OF LADY WILDE,
THE BROTHERS.*
A SCENE FEOM '98.
" Oh! give me truths,
For I am weary of the surfaces,
And die of inanition." EMERSON.
'Tis midnight, falls the lamp-light dull and
sickly
On a pale and anxious crowd,
Through the court, and round the judges,
thronging thickly,
With prayers, they dare not speak aloud.
Two youths, two noble youths, stand pris-
oners at the bar
You can see them through the gloom
In the pride of life and manhood's beauty,
there they are
Awaiting their death doom.
n.
All eyes an earnest watch on them are keep-
ing,
Some, sobbing, turn away,
And the strongest men can hardly see for
weeping,
So noble and so loved were they.
Their hands are locked together, those young
brothers,
As before the judge they stand
They feel not the deep grief that moves the
others,
For they die for Fatherland.
in.
They are pale, but it is not fear that whitens
On each proud, high brow,
For the triumph of the martyr's glory
brightens
Around them even now.
* The patriot brothers John and Henry Sheares, who were
"hanged, drawn and quartered " in 1798.
They sought to free their land from thrall
of stranger;
Was it treason ? Let them die;
But their blood will cry to Heaven the
Avenger
Yet will hearken from on high.
IV.
Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely
human,
The base Informer bends,
Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true
men,
While he clasped their hand as friends.
Aye, could fondle the young children of his
victim
Break bread with his young wife
At the moment that for gold his perjured
dictum
Sold the husband and the father's life.
v.
There is silence in the midnight eyes are
kaeping
Troubled watch till forth the jury come;
There is silence in the midnight eyes are
weeping
Guilty ! is the fatal uttered doom.
For a moment, o'er the brothers' noble faces,
Came a shadow sad to see;
Then, silently, they rose up in their places,
And embraced each other fervently.
VI.
Oh ! the rudest heart might tremble at such
sorrow,
The rudest cheek might blanch at such a
scene:
Twice the judge essayed to speak the word
to-morrow
Twice faltered, as a woman he had been.
POEMS OF LADY WILDE.
763
To-morrow ! Fain the elder would have
spoken,
Prayed for respite, tho' it is not Death he
fears;
But, thoughts of home and wife his heart
hath broken,
And his words are stopped by tears.
VII.
But the youngest oh, he spake out bold
and clearly:
I have no ties of children or of wife;
Let me die but spare the brother who more
dearly
Is loved by me than life.
Pale martyrs, ye may cease, your days are
numbered;
Next noon your sun of life goes down;
One day between the sentence and the scaf-
fold-
One day between the torture and the
crown !
VIII.
A hymn of joy is rising from creation;
Bright the azure of the glorious summer
sky;
But human hearts weep sore in lamentation,
For the Brothers are led forth to die.
Aye, guard them with your cannon and your
lances
So of old came martyrs to the stake;
Aye, guard them see the people's flashing
glances,
For those noble two are dying for their
sake.
IX.
Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever;
Ah ! methinks, had I been there,
Pd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever
The sword should touch their hsiir.
It falls ! there is a shriek of lamentation
From the weeping crowd around ;
They're stilled the noblest hearts within
the nation
The noblest heads lie bleeding on the
ground.
x.
Years have passed since that fatal scene of
dying,
Yet, lifelike to this day,
In their coffins still those severed heads are
Kept by angels from decay.
Oh ! they preach to us, those still and pallid
features
Those pale lips yet implore us, from their
graves,
To strive for our birthright as God's crea-
tures,
Or die, if we can but live as slaves.
THE VOICE OF THE POOR.
i.
WAS sorrow ever like to our sorrow ?
Oh, God above !
Will our night never change into a morrow
Of joy and love ?
A deadly gloom is on us waking, sleeping,
Like the darkness at noontide,
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping
By the Crucified.
n.
Before us die our brothers of starvation:
Around are cries of famine and despair !
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salva-
tion
Where oil ! where ?
If the angels ever hearken, downward bend-
ing*
They arc weeping, we are sure.
At the litanies of human groans ascending
From the crushed hearts of the poor.
in.
When the human rests in love upon the
human,
All grief is light;
But who bonds one kind glance to illumine
Our life-long night ?
POEMS OF LADY WILDE.
The air around is ringing with their laugh-
ter
God has only made the rich to smile;
But we in our rags, and want, and woe
we follow after,
Weeping the while.
IV.
And the laughter seems but uttered to de-
ride us.
When oh ! when
Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us
From other men ?
Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us ?
Will misery for ever lay us low ?
All are eager with their insults, but to save
us,
None, none, we know.
v.
We never knew a childhood's mirth and
gladness,
Nor the proud heart of youth, free and
brave;
Oh ! a deathlike dream of wretchedness and
sadness,
Is life's weary journey to the grave.
Day by day we lower sink and lower,
Till the Godlike soul within,
Falls crushed, beneath the fearful demon
power
Of poverty and sin.
VI.
So we toil on, on with fever burning
In heart and brain;
So we toil on, on through bitter scorning,
Want, woe, and pain:
We dare not raise our eyes to the blue
Heaven,
Or the toil must cease
We dare not breathe the fresh air God has
given
One hour in peace.
VII.
We nmst toil, though the light of life is
burning,
Oh, how dimj
We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning
Our eyes to Him
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly say-
ing,
With scarce moved breath,
While the paler hands, uplifted, aid the
praying,
" Lord, grant us Death ! "
BUDRIS AND HIS SONS.
FROM THE RUSSIAN.
I.
SPRING to your saddles, and spur your fleet
horses;
Time for ye, children, to seek your life
courses.
(Thus spake old Budris, the Lithuan
brave. )
Never your father's sword rusted in leisure,
Never his hand failed to grasp the rich
treasure; [grave.
But now my feeble frame sinks to the
ii.
Three paths from Wilna to plunder Avill lead
ye;
Eide forth, my sons each a path I aread ye
Thus will your booty be varied and rare.
Olgard, go thou and despoil the proud Prus-
sian;
Woiwod, Kiestut, be thy prey the Russian
Vitald the lances of Poland may dare.
in.
From Novgorod Veliki * come back to me
never
Without the rich dust of the Tartar's gold
river;
Bring the sables of Yakutsk, so costly and
fine,
And the silver of Argun they dig from the
mine,
The gems of Siberia and far Kolivun
So saints speed the ride of the bold Lithuaii I
* Novgorod, the great.
1'OKMS OF LADY \VILDK.
IV.
In the cursed Prussian land there is wealth
for the bold: [gold;
Ha, boy ! never shrink from their ducats of
Take their costly brocades, where the golden
thread flashes, [dashes:
The amber that lies where the Baltic wave
Be the prize but as rich as your forefathers
won, [my son.
And the gods of old Litwa * will guard thee,
No gold, my young
share,
Where the plains of
But their lances are
;ire keen,
And their maidens
So speed forth, my
the ride
That brings a fair
v.
Vitald, will fall to thy
[bare;
the Polac lie level and
bright, and their sabres
[seen:
the loveliest ever were
son, and good luck to
[bride.
Polenese home for thy
VI.
Not the azure of ocean, or stars of the sky,
Can rival the color or light of her eye;
Like the lily in hue, when its first leaves
unfold, [go^;
Is the bosom on which fall her tresses of
Fine and slender her form as the pines of
the grove, [and love.
And her cheek and her lips glow with beauty
VII.
By three paths from Wilna, the young men
are roaming,
Day after day Budris looks for their coming
But day after day he watcheth in vain.
No steed from the high-road, no lance from
the forest,
He watcheth and waiteth in anguish the
sorest
"Alas ! for my brave sons, I fear they are
slain ! "
VIII.
The snow in the valley falls heavy and fast
Through the forest a horseman comes dash-
ing at last,
* Lithuania
With his mantle wrapped closely to guard
from the cold:
" Ha, Olgard ! hast brought me the ducats
of gold ?
Let's see is it amber thou'st won for thy
ride?" [bride 1"
" Oh, father no, father a young Polish
IX.
The snow on the valley falls heavier still,
A horseman is seen rushing down from the
hill;
Wrapped close in his mantle some rich
treasure lies
" How now, my brave son hast thou
brought me a prra- ?
Is it silver of Argun thou'st won for thy ride ?
Come show me!" "No, father a young
Polish bride ! "
x.
Faster and thicker the snow-showers fall
A horseman rides fiercely through sm>\v-
flakes and all;
Budris sees how his mantle is clasped to his
breast [the feast !
" IIo, slaves! 'tis enough, bid our friends to
111 ask no more questions, whatever betides.
Well drain a full cup to the three Polish
brides ! "
SULEIMA TO HER LOVER.
FROM THE TURKISH.
THOU reck'nest seven Heavens; I but one:
And thou art it, Beloved ! Voice ami hand.
Ami eye and mouth, are but the angel band
Who minister around that highest throne
Thy godlike heart. And there I reign su-
preme,
And choose, at will, the angel who I deem
\Vi!l sing the sweetest, words I love to hear
Tlrnt short, sweet son^. whose echo clear
Will last throughout eternity:
" I love thee
How I love thee ! "
'66
POEMS OF LADY WILDE.
A LA SOMBRA DE MIS CABELLOS.
FROM THE SPANISH. SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
MY love lay there,
In the shadow of my hair,
As my glossy raven tresses downward flow;
And dark as midnight's cloud,
They fell o'er him like a shroud:
Ah ! does he now remember it or no ?
With ,a comb of gold each night
I combed my tresses bright; [fro;
But the sportive zephyr tossed them to and
So I pressed them in a heap,
For my love whereon to sleep:
Ah ! does he now remember it or no ?
He said he loved to gaze
On my tresses' flowing maze,
And the midnight of my dark Moorish eyes;
And he vowed 'twould give him pain
Should his love be all in vain;
So he Avon me with his praises and his sighs.
Then I flung my raven hair
As a mantle o'er him there,
Encircling him within its mazy flow;
And pillowed on my breast,
He lay in sweet unrest.
Ah! does he now remember it or no?
THE ITINERANT SINGING GIRL.
FROM THE DANISH.
FATHERLESS and motherless, no brothers
have I,
And all my little sisters in the cold grave lie;
Wasted with hunger I saw them falling
dead
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
Friendless and loverless I wander to and fro,
Singing while my faint heart is breaking fast
with woe,
Smiling in my sorrow, and singing for my
bread
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
Harp clang and merry song by stranger door
and board,
None ask wherefore tremble my pale lips at
each word;
None care why the color from my wan cheek
has fled
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed.
Smiling and singing still, tho' hunger, want,
and woe,
Freeze the young life-current in my veins as
I go;
Begging for my living, yet wishing I we^e
dead
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed
THE POET AT COURT.
i.
HE stands alone in the lordly hall
He, with the high, pale brow;
But never a one at the f estiva 1
Was half so great I trow.
They kiss the hand, and they bend th< knee,
Slaves to an earthly king;
But the heir of a loftier dynasty
May scorn that courtly ring.
11.
They press, with false and flattering vords*
Around the blood-bought throne;
But the homage never yet won by swords
Is his the anointed one !
His sway over every nation
Extendeth from zone to zone;
He reigns as a god o'er creation
The universe is his own.
in.
No star on his breast is beaming,
But the light of his flashing eye
Reveals, in its haughtier gleaming,
The conscious majesty.
For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow-^
Away with that golden thing !
Your fealty was never yet due till now
Kneel to the god-made King !
POEMS OF KATHARINE CONWAY.
TWO VINES.
BY the garden-gate sprang a flowering vine,
And it sprouted and strengthened in shower
and shine.
It reached out tendrils on every side
There was none to prune, there was none to
guide.
So it wavered and fell from its tender trust
And trailed its bright blossoms down in the
dust.
Within the garden its sister-vine
O'er many a friendly branch did twine.
Both were fed with the same sweet dew,
Both in the same kind sunlight grew.
But one was tended with fondest care,
And its blooming gladdened the garden fair:
While the other, as fragrant and pure and
sweet,
Was trodden under by passing feet.
Days go by till the summer is fled.
The year is waning, and both are dead.
THE FIRST RED LEAF.
IT gleams amid the foliage green,
While earth is fair and skies serene:-
A little, fluttering, scarlet leaf,
The herald of a coming grief.
It saith to summer Even so.
Thy fading-time is near, I trow;
And I am conic to whisper tlieo
Of gloomy days that yet must be.
A little longer wear thy crown,
Nor lay thy blooming sceptre down,
And in the sun's benignant smile
Forget thy fears a little while.
I shall not see thee pass away
Swift is my coming, brief my stay.
Scarce doth the blessed daylight shine
On beauty shorter-lived than mine.
But know that thou art past thy prime:
It draweth near thy fad ing-time
I am the herald of thy grief,
The first red leaf, the first red leaf.
REMEMBERED.
RKMEMBERED thus, my dearest! remem-
bered ! can it be
That, after all my waywardness, I'm still so
dear to thee ?
Though changed thy outward seeming, that
thy heart no change hath known,
And the love I thought had left me is still
my own my own?
1 remembered ! but I said, " I, too, can
be unheeding."
With smiling eyes and aching heart I stilled
sweet memory's pleading
Or dreamed I stilled it murmuring, " Soon
shall my strength atone
For the cares and joys he shares not, and the
triumphs won alone."
One word from thee, beloved, and the pent-
up fount's unsealed,
And all my self-deceiving to sense and soul
aled,
768
POEMS OF KATHARINE CONWAY.
And all that lonesome, toilsome past clear-
pictured unto me, [for thee !
O it never had a day, dear, unlit by prayer
Fore'er divided ? yea, for earth; but our
lives have wider scope,
And the bonds between us strengthen with
our strong supernal hope.
For oh, my friend, my dearest, how God's
love halloweth [face of Death !
This love that, unaffrighted, looks in the
IN EXTREMIS.
DYING ! who says I am dying ? Come here,
come close to the bed,
Look at me don't speak in whispers;
there's worse than death to dread.
I'm weak, but that is the pain; and this
fluttering breath !
But 'twas often the same before; it surely
is not death.
Raise the curtain a little; it can't be dusk,
I know, [an hour ago.
For I heard the bells ring noontime scarcely
Why are you here alone? 'Tis passing
strange indeed,
If there's none but you to tend me in my
saddest, sorest need.
Only a year since I came here, a proud and
happy bride,
Scorning for you all else on earth yea, and
in Heaven, beside;
False to the Faith of my fathers, my child-
hood's blessed Faith,
And all for the short-lived love of a man
and now the end is death.
Is this fast-ripened harvest too bitter for
your reaping,
That you stand like a very woman, wringing
your hands and weeping?
You love me ? Would I had never listened
to lover's vow ! [now ?
What is your love to me if it cannot help me
Pray? Do you bid me pray? A seemly
counsel, ay,
Sweefr prayer ! ah, not for me ! Do you
know what it is to die ?
Do you know my rending pain ! this chill
fast-gathering gloom ?
Or my helpless, desperate fear of the Judg-
ment and the Doom ?
Mock me not with your tears ! leave me
don't you see
How I yearn for the light, and all the while
you are keeping the light from me !
The love that we called undying in this aw-
ful shadow dies:
lost, lost years when I craved no light but
the baneful light of your eyes !
Hark to the rushing of wings ! shapes 01
horror and dread,
What would ye have of me that ye crowd
around my bed?
Closer, closer ! Ah, God, but in vain I
cry to Thee,
Even as I forsook Thee hast Thou forsaken
me !
THE HEAVIEST CROSS OF ALL.
I'VE borne full many a sorrow, I've suffered
many a loss
But now, with a strange, new anguish, I
carry this last dread cross;
For of this be sure, my dearest, whatever
thy life befall,
The cross that our own hands fashion is the
heaviest cross of all.
Heavy and hard I made it in the days of my
fair strong youth,
Veiling mine eyes from the blessed light,
and closing my heart to truth.
Pity me, Lord, whose mercy passeth my
wildest thought,
For I never dreamed of the bitter end of the
work my hands had wrought !
POEMS OF MAKY E. BLAKE.
In the sweet morn's flush and fragrance I
wandered o'er dewy meadows
And I hid from the fervid noontide glow in
the cool, green, woodland shadows;
And I never recked as I sang aloud in my
weird and wilful glee,
Of the mighty woe that was drawing near
to darken the world for me.
But it came at last, my dearest, what need
to tell thee how ?
Mayst never know of the wild, wild woe that
my heart is bearing now !
Over my summer's glory crept a damp and
chilling shade,
And I staggered under the heavy cross that
my sinful hands had made.
I go where the shadows deepen, and the end
seems far off yet
God keep thee safe from the sharing of this
woful late regret !
For of this be sure, my dearest, whatever
thy life befall,
The crosses we make for ourselves, alas ! are
the heaviest ones of all !
WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION.
HEART of the Patriot touched by Freedom's
kindling breath,
Pouring its burning words from lips by
passion fired ! [of death !
S \vord of the Soldier drawn in the awful face
Bounteous pen of the Scholar tracing its
theme inspired !
Wealth of the rich man's coffers, help of the
poor man's dole !
Strength of the sturdy arm and might of
the Statesman's fame,
These be fit themes for praise, in days that
tried the soul. [of woman's name ?
But where in the list is room for mention
For hers are the virtues cast in finer and
gentler mould;
In quiet and peaceful paths her nature
% finds its scope.
Stronger in loving than hating, fond where
the man is bold,
She works with the tools of patience and
wonderful gifts of hope !
Hers are the lips that kiss, the hands that
nurse and heal,
The tender voice that speaks in accents
low and sweet;
What hath her life to do with clash of mus-
ket and steel,
Who sits at the gate of home with chil-
dren about her feet ?
Nay ! In the sturdy tree is there one sap ut
the root,
That mounts to the stately trunk and fills
it with power and pride,
And one for the tender branch that bour-
geons in flower and fruit,
Casting its welcome shadow on all who
rest beside ?
Nay ! When the man is called the woman
must swiftly rise.
Ready to strengthen and bless, ready to
follow or wait;
Ready to crush in her heart the anguish of
tears and sighs,
the message of God in the blind
decrees of Fate !
POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE.
So, in days of the past, when Liberty raised
her voice,
Weak as a new-born babe in the cradle
who wakes and calls,
And the tremulous accents ran through the
beautiful land of her choice
As into the heart of the mother the cry of
her infant falls
So did hand of the woman reach to hand of
the man,
Helping with comfort and love, steeling
his own for the strife;
Till the calm of his steadfast soul through his
wavering pulses ran,
And the blow of the husband's arm was
nerved from the heart of the wife.
Wearing a homespun gown, or ruling with
easy sway
The world of fashion and pride, gilded by
fortune's sun,
Eich or poor, who asks, as we read the record
to-day?
Lowly or great, who cares how the poor
distinctions run ?
Hallowed be every name in the roll of honor
and fame,
Since on hearthstone and field they kindled
the sacred fire,
Since with fostering breath they nurtured
Liberty's flame
And set it aloft on the heights to which
heroes' feet aspire.
Molly of Monmouth, staunch in the place of
her fallen brave,
Drowning the cry of defeat in the lusty
roar of her gun;
Eebecca, the Lady of Buckhead, who, eager
for Freedom, gave
Home of her heart to the burning, and
smiled when the work was done;
Abigail Adams of Quincy, noble of soul and
race, [taff and pen;
Reader of men and books, wielder of dis-
Martha Wilson of Jersey, moving with
courtly grace;
Deborah Samson, fighting side by side
with the men;
Frances Allen, the Tory, choosing the better
part
Led by Ethan the daring, to follow his
glorious way;
Elizabeth Zane of Wheeling, timid, yet brave
of heart,
Bearing her burden of powder through
smoke and flame of the fray !
Each, on the endless list, through length
and breadth of the land,
Winning her deathless place on the golden.
scroll of time,
Fair as in old Greek days the women of
Sparta stand
Linked with the heroes' fame and sharing
their deeds sublime.
Stronger than we of to-day, in nerve and
muscle and will,
Braver than we of to-day the burden of
women to bear,
Glad from their wholesome breasts the soft
mouths of children to fill,
Holding the crown of the mother as
proudest that women could wear;
Asking no larger sphere than that in which
bravely shine
Sunshine of home and heart, stars of duty
and love;
Full of a purer faith that rested in Trust
Divine [Heaven above.
And lifted their simple lives to glory of
Plain of speech and of dress, as fitted their
age and place,
Meet companions for men of sterner creed
and frame;
Yet knowing the worth of a word, and fair
with the old-time grace,
That perfumes like breath of a flower the
page that holds their name;
Trained within closer bounds to question
issue and cause,
Small the reach of their thought to the
modern student looks; ,
But the stream within narrower banks runs
deeper by nature's laws,
And theirs was a wiser lore than the shal-
low knowledge of books.
I'OKMS ()! MARY F, liLAKK.
771
Not in the Forum's seats and aping the
wrangler's course
Did they strive with barbed word the tar-
get of right to reach,
But moulding the will of their kind with
eloquent, silent force,
Stronger than sting of the pen, deeper
than clamor of speech;
Honor they taught, and right, and noble
courage of truth.
Strength to suffer and bear in holy Lib-
erty's need;
Framing through turbulent years and fiery
season of youth,
Soul for the valor of thought hand for
the valor of deed.
Well that with praise of the brave song of
their triumph should blend !
Well that in joy of the land fame of their
glory find part !
For theirs is the tone of the chord that holds
its full strength to the end,
When music that dies on the ear still lin-
gers and sings in the heart.
Letter and word may die, but still the spirit
survives,
Rounding in ages unborn each frail dis-
torted plan;
And fittest survival is that when souls of
mothers and wives
Bloom in immortal deeds through life of
child and man.
HOW IRELAND ANSWER 1. 1 >.
A TRADITION OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
Wn KKKSO'ER in song or story
Runs one theme of ancient glory,
Whereso'er in word or action lives one spark
for Freedom's shrine,
Read it out before the people,
Ring it loud in street and steeple,
'Till the hearts of those who listen thrill be-
neath its power divine !
And, as lives immortal, gracious,
The great deed of young Horatius,
Or that gauntlet of defiance flung by Tell in
Gessler's face,
So for him who claims as sireland
The green hills of holy Ireland,
Let the speech of old John Parnell speak its
lesson to his race
*******
'Twas in days when, sore tormenting,
With a malice unrelenting,
England pushed her youngest step-child past
endurance into strife,
'Till with weak, frail hands uplifted
With but hate and courage gifted
She began the desperate struggle that should
end in death or life.
'Twas the fourth long year of fighting;
Want, and woe, and famine, biting,
Nipped the heart-strings of the " Rebels,"
chilled their pulse with cold despair;
Southern swamp and Northern mountain
Fed full streams to war's red fountain.
And the gloom of hopeless struggle darkened
all the heavy air.
Lincoln's troops in wild disorder,
Beaten on the Georgian border;
Five score craft, off Norfolk harbor, scuttled
deep beneath the tide;
Hessian thieves, in swaggering sallies,
Raiding fair New England valleys,
While before Savannah's trenches, brave
Pulaski, fighting, died '
Indian allies warwhoops raising
Where Wyoming's roofs are blazing;
Clinton, full of pomp and bluster, sailing-
down on Charleston:
And the people, faint with striving,
Worn with aimless, sad contriving.
Tired at last, of Freedom's battle, heedless if
'tis lost or won !
Shall now England pause in mercy,
When the fro/en plains of .Jersey
Tracked with blood, show pathways trodden
by bare feet of wounded men ?
'72
POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE.
When the drained and tortured nation
Holds no longer gold or ration
To upbuild her broken fortune, or to fill her
veins again ?
Nay ! but striking swift and surely,
Now to gain the end securely,
Stirling asks for re-inforcements volunteers
to speed the cause ;
And King George, in mandate royal,
Speeds amid his subjects loyal,
Calls for dutiful assistance to avenge his
outraged laws.
In the name of law and order,
Sends across the Irish border
To the wild and reckless spirits of whose
daring well he knows:
" Ho ! brave fools who fight for pleasure !
Here is chance for fame and treasure ;
Teach those brazen Yankee devils the full
force of Irish blows."
Old John Parnell, cool and quiet,
Strange result on Celtic diet
Colonel he of volunteers, and well beloved
chief of men,
Reads the royal proclamation,
Answers for himself and nation
Ye who heed the voice of honor, list the
ringing words again:
" Still, as in her ancient story,
Ireland fights for right and glory !
Still her sons, through blood and danger,
hold unstained their old renown;
But by God who reigneth o'er me,
By the Motherland that bore me,
Never Irish gold or valor helps to strike a
patriot down ! "
*******
Thus, 'mid themes immortal, gracious,
Like the deed of young Horatius,
Or that gauntlet of defiance flung by Tell in
Gessler's face,
Let the Celt who claims as sireland
'The green hills of holy Ireland,
Place the speech of old John Parnell, for the
glory of his race.
WITH A FOUR-LEAFED CLOVER.
LOVE, be true to her ! Life, be dear to her !
Health, stay close to her ! Joy, draw near to
her !
Fortune, find what your gifts can do for her;
Search your treasure-house through and
through for her;
Follow her steps the wide world over,
You must ! for here is the Four-leafed
clover !
THE FIRST STEPS.
TO-NIGHT as the tender gloaming
Was sinking in evening's gloom,
And only the blaze of the firelight
Brightened the dark'ning room,
I laughed with the gay heart gladness
That only to mothers is known,
For the beautiful brown-eyed baby
Took his first steps alone !
Hurriedly mnning to meet him
Came trooping the household band,
Joyous, loving, and eager
To reach him a helping hand,
To watch him with silent rapture,
To cheer him with happy noise, -
My one little fair-faced daughter
And four brown romping boys.
Leaving the sheltering arms
That fain would bid him rest
Close to the love and the longing,
Near to the mother's breast,
Wild with daring and laughter,
Looking askance at me,
He stumbled across through the shadows
To rest at his father's knee.
Baby, my dainty darling,
Stepping so brave and bright
With flutter of lace and ribbon
Out of my arms to-night,
Helped in thy pretty ambition
With tenderness blessed to see,
Sheltered, upheld, and protected
How will the last steps be ?
I'OKMS <)! MARY K. I'.LAKK.
Sec, we are all beside you
Urging and beckoning on,
Watching lest aught betide you
Till the safe, near goal is won,
Guiding the faltering footsteps
That tremble and fear to fall
How will it be, my darling,
With the last sad step of all ?
Nay ! shall I dare to question,
Knowing that One more fond
Than all onr tenderest loving
Will guide the weak feet beyond !
And knowing beside, my dearest,
That whenever the summons, 'twill be
But a stumbling step through the shadow,
Then rest at the Father's knee !
THE LITTLE SAILOR KISS.
KISSES they are plenty
As blossoms on the tree !
And be they one or twenty
They're sweet to yoii and me;
And some are for the forehead, and some are
for the lips,
And some are for the rosy cheeks, and some
for finger tips,
And some are for the dimples, but the
sweetest one is this,
When the bonny, bonny bairnie, gives his
little sailor kiss.
I will kiss this sailor,
This sailor lad so true !
1 would not kiss a tailor,
A carpenter, or nailer,
But I will kiss this sailor
With bonny eyes of blue!
With a sonsy smile, and yellow hair to snare
the sunbeams in,
With a laughing mouth, and a rosy cheek,
and a dimple in the chin.
Throe years old, and a heart of gold ah,
who would want to miss
The chance to meet my darling with his little
sailor kiss.
For then the tiny fingers
Creep softly to your face,
With a touch that thrills and lingers;
And the rosy palms find place
To come pressing and caressing with sweet
and clinging touch,
Not teasing you too little, and yet not over
much;
While full of love and laughter the pretty
blue eyes glow,
And red lips tightly puckered pout roguishly
below,
tell me, ye who know it, is there in this
world such bliss
As when the bonny bairnie gives his little
sailor kiss !
OUR RECORD.
WHO casts a slur on Irish worth, a stain on
Irish fame,
Who dreads to own his Irish blood or wear
his Irish name,
Who scorns the warmth of Irish hearts, the
clasp of Irish hands?
Let us but raise the vail to-night and shame
him as he stands.
The Irish fame ! It rests enshrined within
its own proud light,
Wherever sword or tongue or pen has fash-
ioned deed of might;
From battle charge of Fontenoy to ( rattan's
thunder tone,
It holds its storied past on high, unrivaled
and alone.
The
tide has
Irish blood ! Its crimson
watered hill and plain
Wherever there were wrongs to crush, or
freemen's rights to gain;
No dastard thought, no coward fear, has
held it tamely l>y
When there were noble deeds to do, or noble
deaths to die !
774
POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE.
The Irish heart ! The Irish heart ! God
keep it fair and free,
The fullness of its kindly thought, its wealth
of honest glee,
Its generous strength, its ardent faith, its
uncomplaining trust,
Though every worshiped idol breaks and
crumbles into dust.
And Irish hands, aye, lift them up; em-
browned by honest toil,
The champions of our western world, the
guardians of the soil;
When flashed their battle swords aloft, a
waiting world might see
What Irish hands could do and dare to keep
a nation free.
They bore our starry flag above through bas-
tion, gate, and wall,
They stood before the foremost rank, the
bravest of them all;
And when before the cannon's mouth they
held the foe at bay,
O never could old Ireland's heart beat
projider than that day !
So when a craven fain would hide the birth-
mark of his race,
Or slightly speak of Erin's sons before her
children's face,
Breathe no weak word of scorn or shame,
but crush him where he stands
With Irish worth and Irish fame, as won by
Irish hands.
A DEAD SUMMER.
WHAT lacks the summer ?
Not roses blowing,
Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife,
Nor green things gay with the bliss of grow-
ing*
Nor glad things drunk with the wine of
life,
Nor flushing of clouds in blue skies shining,
Nor soft wind murmurs to rise and fall,
Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twin-
ing,
Three little buds I miss, no more,
That blossomed last year at my garden
door,
And that is all.
What lacks the summer ?
Not waves a-quiver
With arrows of light from the hand of
dawn,
Nor drooping of boughs by the dimpling
river,
Nor nodding of grass on the windy lawn,
Nor tides unswept upon silver beaches,
Nor rustle of leaves on tree-tops tall,
Nor dapple of shade in woodland reaches,
Life pulses gladly on vale and hill,
But three little hearts that I love are
still,
And that is all.
What lacks the summer ?
O light and savor,
And message of healing the world above !
Gone is the old-time strength and flavor,
Gone is its old-time peace and love !
Gone is the bloom of the shimmering mead-
ows,
Music of birds as they sweep and fall,
All the great world is dim with shadow,
Because no longer mine eyes can see
The eyes that made summer and life for
me,
And that is all.
SONNET.
To- DAY amid the sobbing of the rain,
While gaunt November with pale finger
tips
Proffers the cup of doom to Nature's lips
And scowling mocks her bitter moan of pain,
I cannot mark the strife 'twixt life and death
For joy of one fair thought that dwells
with me,
A summer hillside, sleeping by the sea,
POKMS OF MARY E. BLAKE.
Made glad with bloom and song-birds' voice-
ful breath;
Fair as a dream that fills a winter's night
With peace and love, it stirs my waking
hours
With hum of brown bees deep in chaliced
flowers,
With blue waves dancing in the golden light,
And one swift flight of swallows drifting
by,
Blown like a cloud across the summer sky !
DEAD.
DEAD ! That is the word
That rings through my brain till it crazes !
Dead, while the Mayflowers bud and
blow,
While the green creeps over the white
of the snow,
While the wild woods ring with the song of
the bird,
And the fields are a-bloom with daisies !
See ! Even the clod
Thrills, with life's glad passion shaken;
The vagabond weeds with their vagrant
train
Laugh in the sun and nod in the rain,
The blue sky smiles like the eye of God,
Only my dead do not waken !
Dead ! There is the word
That I sit in the darkness and ponder !
Why should the river, the sky, and the
sea
Babble of summer and joy to me,
While a strong true heart with its pulse un-
stirred
Lies hushed in the silence yonder ?
Lord ! Lord ! How long
Ere we rise to Thy heights supernal
Ere the soul may read what Thy spirit
saith;
" Life that must fade, is not life but
death.
Lift up thine eyes, soul ! Be strong;
For Death is the Life Eternal ! "
JILLEN ANDY.
When O'Donovan Rossa was in prison in England, he wrote
the powerful and deeply pathetic poem of " Jillen Andy," a
study from Irish life which he who reads can never forget.
In his "Prison Life," Rossa says: " Jillen Andy lived at the
other side of the street in Rosscarberry when I was a child.
Her husband, Andy Hayes, was a linen weaver and worked
for my father ere I was born. He died, too, before I came
into the world, but when I did come I think I formed the
acquaintance of Jillen as soon as I did that of my mother.
Jillen was left a widow with four helpless children, and all
the neighbors were kind to her. The eldest of the sons
listed, and the first sight I got of a ' red-coat ' was when he
came home on furlough. The three other sons were Char-
ley, Thade and Andy. Charley died in '65. Andy 'listed,
and died in Bombay, and Thade and his mother fell victims
to the famine of '47. Thade met me one day, and spoke to
me as I state in the following lines. I went to the grave-
yard with him. I dug, and he shovelled up the earth till
the grave was about two feet deep. Then he talked about
its being deep enough, that there would be too great a load
on her, and that he could stay up and ' watch ' her for
some time. By-and-by we saw four or five men coming in
the church-gate with a door on their shoulders bearing the
cofftnless Jillen. She was laid in the grave. Her head did
not rest firmly on the stone on which it was pillowed, and
as it would turn aside and rest on the cheek when I took
my hands away from it, one of the men asked me to hand
him the stone. I did so, and covering it with a red spotted
handkerchief he took out of his pocket, he gave it to me
again and I settled Jillen's head steadily on it. Then 1 was
told to loose the strings, to take out a pin that appeared, to
lay her apron over her face, and come up. To this day I can
see how softly the man handled the shovel, how quietly he
laid the earth down at her feet, how the heap kept rolling
and creeping up until it covered her head, and how the big
men pulled their hats over their eyes."
"It takes an Irishman or Irishwoman," Rossa says,
"brought up among the Irish-speaking people, to under-
stand several passages in 'Jillen Andy ' " -
" He'd walk the ' eeriest ' place a moonlight night."
On a moonlight night the fairies are out most.
" He'd whistle in the dark even in bed."
Whistling in the dark brings on the fairies particularly
whistling in bed.
" Untie the night-cap string, unloose that lace,
Take out that pin," &c.
To tie anything, or pin anything around a corpse, and
bury the corpse so pinned or tied, prevents the spirit from
coming to see us keeps the spirit tied and in prison in the
other world.
" Tears would disturb poor Jillen in her last long sleep."
If you cry over a corpse in Ireland, every tear you drop
on the corpse's clothes will burn a hole in those clothes in
the other world. All strings are cut or loosed and all pins-
taken out before the corpse is put in the coffin.
" COME to the graveyard, if you're not afraid,
I'm going to dig my mother's grave, she's
dead,
And I want some one that will bring the
spade,
For Andy's out of home, and Charlie's
sick in bed."
Thade Andy was a simple-spoken fool,
With whom in early days I loved to stroll.
He'd often take me on his back to school,
And make the master laugh himself, he
was so droll.
In songs and ballads he took great delight,
And prophecies of Ireland yet being freed,.
And singing them by our fireside at night,
I learned songs from Thade before I
learned to read.
And I have still "by heart" his "Colleen
Fhune,"
His " Croppy Boy," his " Phoenix of the
Hall,"
And I could "rise" his " Kising of the
Moon,"
If I could sing in prison cell or sing at all.
He'd walk the "eeriest" place a moonlight
night,
He'd whistle in the dark even in bed;
In fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quite
As fearless of a ghost as any ghost of
Thade.
POEMS OF O'DONOVAN BOSS4
Now in the dark churchyard we work aw:iy.
The shovel in his hand, in mine the spade,
And seeing Tliado cry I cried myself that
day,
For Thade was fond of me and I was fond
of Thade.
But after twenty years why now will such
A bubbling spring up to my eyelids start?
Ah ! there be things that ask not leave to
touch
The fountain of the eyes or feelings of the
heart.
" This load of clay will break her bones, I
fear,
For when alive she was'nt over strong.
We'll dig no deeper, I can watch her here
A month or so, sure nobody will do me
wrong."
Four men bear Jillen on a door 'tis light,
They have not much of Jillen but her
frame.
No mourners come, for 'tis believed the sight
Of any death or sickness now begets the
same.
And those brave hearts that volunteer to
touch
Plague-stricken death are tender as they're
brave,
They raise poor Jillen from her tainted
couch,
And shade their swimming eyes while lay-
ing her in the grave.
I stand within that grave, nor wme nor deep,
The slender, wasted body at my feet;
What wonder is it if strong men will weep
O'er famine-stricken Jillen in her winding-
sheet.
Her head I try to pillow on a stone,
But it will hang one side, as if the breath
Of famine gaunt into the corpse had blown,
And blighted in the nerves the ri<rid
strength of death.
" Hand me that stone, child." In his hands
'tis placed;
Down-channelling his cheeks are tears like
rain;
The stone within his handkerchief is cased,
And then I pillow on it Jillen's head again.
" Untie the nightcap string," " Unloose that
lace,''
" Take out that pin," " There, now, she's
nicely rise,
But lay the apron first across her face,
So that the earth won't touch her lips or
blind her eyes.
" Don't grasp the shovel too tightly there,
make a heap,
Steal down each shovelful quietly there,
let it creep
Over her poor body lightly; friend, do not
weep,
Tears would disturb old Jillen in her last,;
long sleep."
And Thade was faithful to his watch and
ward; [h:
Where'er he'd spend the day, at night he'd
With his few sods of turf to that churchyard.
Where he was laid himself before the
month was past.
Then Andy died a soldiering in Bombay,
And Charlie died in Ross the other day,
Now, no one lives to blush because I say
That Jillen Andy went uncoffined to the
clay.
E'en all are gone that buried Jillen, save
One banished man who dead alive remains,
The little boy that stood within the grave
Stands for his country's cause in England's
prison chains.
How oft in dreams that burial scene appears.
Through death, eviction, prison, exile,
home.
Through all the suns and moons of twenty
years
And oh ! how short these years compared
with years to come.
POEMS OF O'DONOVAN ROSSA.
Some things are strongly on the mind im-
pressed,
And others faintly imaged there, it seems;
And this is why, when reason sinks to rest,
Phases of life do show and shadow forth
in dreams.
And this is why in dreams I see the face
Of Jillen Andy looking in my own,
The poet-hearted man the pillow case,
The spotted handkerchief that softened
the hard stone.
Welcome those memories of scenes of youth,
That nursed my hate of tyranny and
wrong,
That helmed my manhood in the path of
truth,
And help me now to suffer calmly and be
strong.
And suffering calmly is a trial test,
When at the tyrant's foot and felon-drest,
When State and master jailer do their best,
To make you feel degraded, spiritless, op-
prest.
When barefoot before Dogberry, and when
He mocks your cause of 'prisonment, and
speaks
Of "Thieves," "State orders/' "No dis-
tinctions " then,
Because you speak at work hard bread
and board for weeks.
Or when he says, " Too well you're treated,
for
Times were you'd hang;" "You were
worse fed at home; "
" You can't be more degraded than you are; "
"You should be punished also in the world
to come."
When sneer, and jeer, and insult follow fast,
And heavenward you look, or look him
down,
He rages and commands you to be classed
And slaved amongst the slaves of infamied
renown.
When England worthy of the mean and
base
Smites you when bound, flings outrage in
your face,
When hand to hand with thieves she gives
you place,
To scoff at freedom for your land and
scattered race:
To suffer calmly when the cowardly wound,
From wanton insult, makes the veins to
swell
With burning blood, is hard, though doubly
bound
In prison within prison a blacker hell in
hell.
The body starved to break the spirit down,
That will not bend beneath the scourging
rod;
The dungeon dark that pearls the prisoner's
crown,
And stars the suffering that awakens Free-
dom's God.
Thus all who ever won had to endure
Thus human suffering proves good at last,
The painful operation works the cure,
The health-restoring draught is bitter to
the taste.
'Tis suffering for a trampled land, that suf-
fering
Bears heavenly fruit, and all who ever trod
In Freedom's path, found heavenly help
when offering
Their sacrifice of suffering to Freedom's
God.
MY PRISON CHAMBER IS IRON
LINED.
"The following verses," says Rossa, "strung together
during the cold nights and hungry days in the blackhole of
Chatham Prison, will show how much my mind was filled
with the Englishmen's Bible hypocrisy :
MY prison chamber now is iron lined,
An iron closet and an iron blind.
But bars, and bolts, and chains can never
bind
To tyrant's will the freedom-loving mind.
I -n K.MS OK O'DONOVAN BOSSA,
Beneath the tyrant's heel we may be trod,
We may be scourged beneath the tyrant's
rod,
But tyranny can never ride rough-shod
O'er the immortal spirit-work of God.
And England's Bible tyrants are, Lord !
Of any tyrants out the crudest horde,
Who'll chain their Scriptures to a fixture
board
Before a victim starved, and lashed, and
gored.
They tell such tales of countries far away,
How in Japan, and Turkey, and Cathay,
A man when scourged is forced salaams to
pay,
While they themselves do these same things
to-day.
The bands, the lash, the scream, the swoon,
the calm,
The minister, the Bible, and the psalm,
The doctor then the bloody seams to balm,
" Attention, 'tention," now for the salaam.
I don't salaam them and their passions roll,
Again they stretch me in the damp black-
hole,
Again they deal to me the famine dole,
To bend to earth the heaven-created soul.
Without a bed or board on which to lie,
Without a drink of water if Fm dry,
Without a ray of light to strike the eye,
But 8 ne vacant, dreary, dismal sky.
The bolts are drawn, the drowsy hinges
creak,
The doors are groaning, and the side walls
shake,
The light darts in, the day begins to break,
Ho, prisoner! from your dungeon dreams
awake.
Attention, "'tention," "'tention," now is
cried,
The English master jailer stands outside.
And he's supposed to wear tin- lion's hide,
But I will not salaam his royal pride.
" Rossa, salute the Governor," cries one,
The Governor cries out "Come on, come
on,"
My tomb is closed, I'm happy they are gone,
Well as happy as I ever feel alone.
Be calm, my soul, let state assassins frown,
'Tis chains and dungeons pearl a prisoner's
crown,
'Tis suffering draws God's choicest blessings
down,
And gives to freedom's cause its fair re-
nown.
Rossa adds the following " Secret instructions from the
authorities to the prison governor:"
That we are base assassins he says so
And liars and hypocrites: 'tis well to know
That he's at least an unrepenting foe.
To cast him out as far as we can throw,
Is now our bounden duty. This we owe
To England's Majesty. Then keep him low,
Yet treat him doctorly be sure and slow
Leaving no record anywhere to show
That aught but nature gave the conquering
blow;
And once cast out from this our heaven be-
low,
What care we if to heaven above he go!
A VISIT FROM MY WIFE.
In July, 1870, while O'Donovan Rossa was in Chatham
Prison, England, he was allowed a visit from his wife. !!
says : "It was as curious a position as ever a married couple
were seen in, to see us sitting in this glass house with Prin-
cipal Warder King as s-iitry outside the glass cl<x>r; and
was it not a curious place for her to reproach me with in-
gratitude because I never wrote a line of poetry for her
since we were married? When I went to my cell that
eveningl wrote the following lim-s."
A SINGLE glance, and that glance the first.
And her image was fixed in my mind and
nursed;
And now it is woven with all my schemes,
And it rules the realm of all my dreams.
One of Heaven's best gifts in an earthly
mould.
With a fiiruri' Apprllos might paint of old
780
POEMS OF O'DONOVAN KOSSA.
All a maiden's charms with a matron's
grace,
And the blossom and bloom of the peach in
her face.
And the genius that flashes her bright black
eye
Is the face of the sun in a clouded sky;
She has noble thoughts she has noble
aims
And these thoughts on her tongue are spark-
ling gems.
With a gifted mind and a spirit meek
She would right the wronged and assist the
weak;
She would scorn dangers to cheer the brave,
She would smite oppression and free the
slave.
Yet a blighted life is my loved one's part,
And a death -cold shroud is around her heart,
For winds from the " clouds of fate" have
blown
That force her to face the hard world alone.
And a daughter she of a trampled land,
With its children exiled, prisoned, banned;
And she vowed her love to a lover whom
The tyrant had marked for a felon's doom.
And snatched from her side ere the honey-
moon waned:
In the- dungeons of England he lies en-
chained; [slave
And the bonds that bind him "for life" a
Are binding his love to his living grave.
He would sever the link of such hopeless
love,
Were that sentence "for ever" decreed
above. [life
For the pleasures don't pay for the pains of
To be living in death with a widowed wife.
A single glance, and that glance the first,
And her image was fixed in my mind and
nursed,
And now she's the woof of my worldly
schemes, [dreams.
And she sits enthroned as the queen of my
A VISIT TO MY HUSBAND IN
PRISON.
MAY, 1866.
WITHIN the precincts of the prison bounds,
Treading the sunlit courtyard to a hall,
Roomy and unadorned, where the light
Thro' screenless windows glaringly did fall.
Within the precincts of the prison walls,
With rushing memories and bated breath.
With heart elate and light swift step that
smote
Faint echoes in this house of living death.
Midway I stood in bright expectancy,
Tightly I clasped my babe, my eager sight
Restlessly glancing down the long, low room
To where a door bedimmed the walls' pure
white.
They turned the noiseless locks; the portal
fell [room
With clank of chain wide open, and the
Held him my wedded love. My heart stood
still [doom.
AVith sudden shock, with sudden sense of
My heart stood still that had with gladsome
bound [pear
Counted the moments ere he should ap-
Drew back at sight so changed, and shivering
waited,
Pulselessly waited while his steps drew
near !
Oh ! for a moment's twilight that might hide
The harsh tanned features once so soft
and fair !
The shrunken eyes that with a feeble flash
Smiled on my presence and his infant's
there !
Oh ! for a shadow on the cruel sun
That mocked thy father, Baby, with his
glare;
Oh ! for the night of nothingness or death
Ere thou, my love, this felon garb should
wear !
* Written by Mrs. O'Donovan Rossa after a visit to her
husband in Millbauk Prison, London.
I 'oK MS OF O'DONOVAN IIOSSA.
It needed not these passionate, pain-wrung
words, [lips,
Falling with sad distinctness from thy
To tell a tale of insult, abject toil,
And day-long labor hewing Portland
steppes !
It needed not, my love, this anguished
glance,
This fading fire within thy gentle eyes,
To rouse the torpid voices of my heart,
Till all the sleeping heavens shall hear
their cries.
('<x\ of the wronged, and can Thy vengeance
sleep ? [day ?
And shall our night of anguish know no
And can Thy justice leave our souls to weep
Yet, and yet longer o'er our land's decay !
Must we still cry " How long, Lord, how
long?"
For seven red centuries a country's woe
lias wept the prayer in tears of blood, and
still
Our tears to-night for fresher victims flow !
EDWARD DUFFY.*
THE world is growing darker to me darker
day by day,
The stars that shone upon life's paths arc
vanishing away,
Some setting and some shifting, only one
that changes never,
'Tis the guiding star of liberty that blazes
bright as ever.
Liberty sits mountain high, and slavery has
birth
In the hovels, in the marshes, in the lowest
dens of earth;
The tyrants of the world pitfall-pave the
path between,
And o'ershadow it with scaffold, prison,
block and guillotine.
* An Irish patriot and fellow-prisoner who died In un
Kn;,'lisli jirison.
The gloomy way is brightened when we walk
with those we love.
The heavy load is lightened when we bear
and they appro \
The path of life grows darker to me as I
journey on,
For the truest hearts that travel led it un-
failing one by one.
The news of death is saddening even in fes-
tive hall,
But when 'tis heard through prison bars, 'tis
saddest then of all,
Where there's none to share the sorrow in
the solitary cell,
In the prison, within prison a blacker hell
in hell.
That whisper through the grating has
thrilled through all my veins,
" Duffy is dead ! " a noble soul has slipped
the tyrant's chains,
And whatever wounds they gave him, their
lying books will show,
How they very kindly treated him, morelike
a friend than foe.
For these are Christian Pharisees, the hypo-
crites of creeds,
With the Bible on their lips, and the devil
in their deeds,
Too merciful in public gaze to take our lives
away,
Too anxious here to plant in us the seed of
life's decay.
Those Christians stand between us and tin-
God above our bond.
The sun and moon they prison, and with-
hold the daily bread.
Entomb, enchain, and starve us, that tin-
mind they may control,
And queneh the tire that burns in the over-
living soul.
To lay your bead upon the block for faith in
Freedom's God.
To fall in light for Freedom in the land your
fathers trod:
POEMS OF O'DONOVAX 110SSA.
For Freedom on the scaffold high to breathe
your latest breath,
Or anywhere 'gainst tyranny is dying a noble
death.
Still, sad and lone, was yours, Ned, 'mid the
jailers of your race,
With none to press the cold white hand, with
none to smooth the face;
With none to take the dying wish to home-
land friend or brother,
To kindred mind, to promised bride, or to
the sorrowing mother.
I tried to get to speak to you before you
passed away,
As you were dying so near me, and so far
from Castlerea,
But the Bible-mongers spurned me off, when
at their office door
I asked last month to see you now I'll never
see you more.
If spirits once released from earth could
' visit earth again,
You'd come and see me here, Ned, but for
these we look in vain;
In the dead-house you are lying, and I'd
" Avake " you if I could.
But they'll wake you in Loughglin, Ned, in
that cottage by the wood.
For the mother's instinct tells her that the
dearest one is dead
That the gifted mind, the noble soul, from
earth to heaven is fled,
As the girls rush toward the door and look
toward the trees,
To catch the sorrow-laden wail, that's borne
on the breeze.
Thus the path of life grows darker to me
darker day by day,
The stars that flashed their light on it are
vanishing away,
Some setting and some shifting, but that
one which changes never,
The beacon light of liberty that blazes bright
as ever.
IN MILLBANK PEISON, LONDON,
1866.
I HAVE no life at present,my life is in the
past;
I have none in the future, if the present is
to last;
The "Dead Past" only mirrors now the
memories of life,
The fatherland, the hope of years, the friend,
the child and wife.
Then am I dead at present? Yes, dead
while buried here
Dead to the wife, the child and friend, to all
the world holds dear;
Dead to myself, for life is death to one con-
demned to dwell
His life-long years in exile in a convict prison
cell.
Though dead unto the present, I live in the
"Dead Past,"
And thoughts of dead and living things.
crowd on me thick and fast;
E'en when reason is reposing they revel in
my brain,
And I meet the wife, the child and friend ,.
in fatherland again.
The goddess on her throne resits the cher-
ished dreams are fled
Were they but phantoms of the past to show
the past is dead ?
Past, Present, Future, what to me ! how
little man can see
Am I dead unto the world ? or the world
to me?
God only knows. I only know that which
to man He gives,
The love of Liberty and Truth the soul,
the spirit lives;
And though its house of clay be bound by
England's iron hand,
It freely flies to wife and child, and friend
and fatherland.
POEMS OF O'DONOVAN, HOSSA.
SMUAINTE BROIN- THOUGHTS OF
SORROW.
The following is a translation of the Gaelic poet Craoibhin
.I'nt'/i in's noble song. " Thoughts of Sorrow " with the first
stanza in the original Irish :
Is dorcha anocht i an oidhche, ni fheicim
aon reult amhain,
'Gus is dorclia trom ata smuainte mo chroidh-
se ta sgaoilte ar fan.
Ni'l torran air bith in mo thimcheall, acht
na h-eunlaith dul tharm os mo cheann,
Na filibinidhe ag bualadh na spcire le buille
fad-tharruingthe, fann;
Agus tagann an f lieadog mar phileir ag gear-
nulh na h-oidhchele fead,
Agus cluinim na gaethe fiana is airde 's is
gairbhe sgread,
Acht aon torran eile ni chluinim, is e so a
mheudas mo bhron,
Aon torran eile acht sgrioch agus glaodhoch
na n-eun air an moin.
How dark is the night time to-night ! I be-
hold not a single star;
And heavy and dark are my heartfelt
thoughts as they wander sadly afar,
Not a sound in creation around, but the
birds passing over my head:
Those lapwings that ruffled the air with their
long-drawn strokes as they fled.
The plover that comes like a bullet cutting
the sky with its speech;
And I hear the wild geese above them, with
their wilder and stronger screech.
There is no other noise within hearing; oh,
that is what adds to my woe
No other noise but the cry and the call of
the birds in the meadow below.
II.
But, afar at the foot of the mountain that
borders the ocean wide,
List to the great sea rolling, to the waves as
they chase on the tide
Rushing OB to the lieaeh \vhidi swallows the
weeds on its sandy bed.
Oh, cold as the tide to-night is, I feel colder
in heart and head;
I cannot, I cannot explain it; I know not
the reason why
I'm so troubled and sorrow-laden: I can only
sigh and cry.
How cold and how wild this place is this
place where Pm lying apart
But that's not the reason that makes me BO
heavy and sad at heart.
in.
Since the men who were true are departed
they who my affection had won
Cast out from the land I was raised in; alas T
that they're banished and gone
Asking for only protection and shelter from
poverty; now
In the land in which they were dwelling
there are only the sheep and the cow.
The cow and the sheep in the pasture in
the pathlands of people, my woe !
And in place of the laugh of the children,
the cries of the raven and crow.
Every candle and light is extinguished that
lighted each door and each hearth ;
'Tis the death, the exile of the people in-
creases my sorrow on earth.
IV.
But, see there ! the bright moon is rising
and tearing asunder the clouds,
And spreading its light on the meadows so
mantled with desolate shrouds,
And beneath it I see the old village, with
the homes of the people all raxed
No gables, no doorsteads, no children; na
cows in the bawn. when- they grazed.
From the rock upon which I am sitting, how
woful the look of the glen;
With no human creature but I, from one
end to the other therein;
The sheep and the cows where the men were;
the lone snipe starts up from its nest,
And screeches aloud to the heavens, while
Pm here alone in the mist.
v.
But like as appeareth the liriirhi moon,
breaking through darkness with light,
Scattering theelonds in its way, and scatter-
ing the shadows of night,
784
POEMS OF O'DONOVAN KOSSA.
Chasing the shadows of night, and chasing
the mist and the fog,
Casting light upon mountain and hill, upon
pasture and meadow and bog;
Oh, like as illumines the moonlight the land
that is stricken with blight,
So, shortly, will Freedom illumine the Slav-
ery that shrouds us to-night,
"Will tear from a nation of people the death-
pall that mantles the strong,
And our laughter, once more full and joy-
ous, will be heard beyond sea before
long.
VI.
But oh, 'tis not speeching, declaiming, or
talking with all our might,
Will lift from our land its darkness will
scatter the clouds of night;
Nor the music, nor songs of the poets, nor
the orators' power in " the hall."
Nor crying, nor praying, nor moaning, nor
lying, the sweetest of all;
But the work of the hands that are strong,
and the hearts that are strangers to
fear, [were found in the rear
That never deserted the fight, and that never
The heroes who stand in the gap, neither
speaking nor acting the lie;
The men who're not frightened by threats,
who are ready to dare and to die.
VII.
But whither, Lord ! run my thoughts
now? What foolish things come to
my mind ?
Whereabout can you see such a people?
None in mountain or glen can you
find
They are exiled cast out from among us
and scattered all over the earth,
No track of their steps on the mountain, or
their boats on the streams of their
birth;
And I all alone by myself here, my ship
without steer or mainstay,
Thinking sadly of going forever to cold,
stranger lands, far away;
My friends will be dead, very likely, if once
more I revisit this shore,
And the language I'm speaking at present,
I may never again speak it more.
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.
VIVE VALEQUE.
TO DR. ROBERT DWYER JOYCE.
[ Within six weeks Boston lost two distinguished artistic
workmen. On the 21st of July died Martin Milmore, the
sculptor of the Soldiers' Monument and the Sphinx in Mount
Auburn. On the 2d of September, sailed for Ireland, in
shattered health, R. D. Joyce, Poet and Physician, the
author of " Deirdre " and " Blanid."]
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 hands in medi-
cine-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, lie 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
the mother straight brings 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 the heart's best healer life-
breath and balms for the soul.
O saddest of all the sad islands, green-girt by
thy mother the sea,
Fold warm, and feed with thy silence the
child whom we send to thee.
Two children thou gavest our city, to stand
in the stress and strife
And touch us to holier pity through shapes
of the deathless life;
One caught in the mountain granite, the
other in marble of song
Those shadows that fall on our planet from
the worlds of the Fair and the Strong;
Of those thy two sons thou gavest, one is,
but the younger is not;
For with all men, even the bravest, strength
wanes when the noons wax hot.
The wine of his life half tasted, the work of
his life half done,
He sank through earth- wounds that waste.:,
hi'urt-sore and sick of the sun,
The scabbard fell from the sabre, the soul
dropped its time-worn vest,
Then we said, Let this land of his labor be
always the land of his rest,
And always the bronze and the stone that
grew soft to his touch as ilanie.
Shaped for others, shall now be his own, new-
raised and emblazed with his name,
And the glimmering shaft that witches the
sun's last kiss on its head *
And the Sphinx that overwatohes the un-
murmuring streets of the dead
Shall call to life's tide where it dashes, and
speak of him we deplore,
Till the sun burns down to ashes, and the
moon cries, I rise no more.
Who shall cancel that which is sealed ? Who
shall close what the Fates have cleft ?
Two men were at work in one field; one is
taken, the other left;
*Thf> SoldienT Miuimm-nt on Boston Common and tu
Sphinx at Mount Aulnirn.
786
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.
He is left in life's mid meadows, nor yet have
the days begun,
"When the hand from the valley of shadows
draws down from the light of the
sun,
He lives, and looks round with dread, as a
strengthless reaper who grieves,
When the last low moon rises red on his rich
half -harvested sheaves.
Hast not thou, lerne, a blossom that scared
the snake from thy soil,
That shall slay the snake in the bosom and
wither its deadly coil ?
Yea, thou hast what we fain would inherit,
though kings in these isles of the blest,
Thou hast for the world- worn spirit some
simples unfound in the West.
Here the field flows with milk and honey,
the river with spoil divine,
Here the clear air is warm with sunny gold
cups of invisible wine,
Self- trust and Toil are defiant, and Freedom
is mightier than these,
And Wealth spreads his couch, like a giant,
silk-smooth for the sides of Ease,
And gilds man and man with his million, and
fast as he flies through the heat,
White cabin and purple pavilion are stirred
with the storm of his feet.
But what soil, thou Eden of islands, can
match thy red and white store,
The roses of health on thy highlands, the
lilies of love on thy shore ?
What land lies emerald-valleyed, inlaid with
lakelet and lawn,
Where the spirit is swifter rallied, reclothed
as with lights of the dawn ?
Or where comes with starrier splendor the
touch of a light-breathing fan,
To scatter the chaff and make tender and
affluent the spirit of man ?
There a courtier is found in the cot, and a
prince in the poor man's shed,
With a soul sorrow-born, love-begot, rocked
and cradled in thoughts of the dead,
A soul like a wind-harp that takes all tones
of laughter and tears,
Now burns, now in dying delays woos. us
back through its dream of the years.
There the neediest spreads you the last of his
earth-apples* dug from the ground,
And the salt of his wit turns the fast to a
feast, where dainties abound,
Smile and tear and manna-dropped speech
freely shed on the least word he saith,
And high-soaring thought beyond reach and
the love of his land to the death.
Sweetest isle of old white-haired Ocean,-
breathe new in this child of thy love
A spirit whose musical motion is light as the
wings of a dove,
While hence from palace and purlieu our
messenger thoughts on the breeze
Shall reach him through cry of curlew and
call of sundering seas,
Where perchance in the shore-wind's breath-
ing he looks from some headland
height,
His westward-bound thoughts bequeathing
to the sun ere he sinks in night,
Or haply mid stones of the olden and peril-
ous places of fear
He rears a new song-palace, golden with
dreams of meadow and mere,
Mab's realm, the swart Connaught Queen,
faery bugles blown through the sky,
Magic shores, which once to have seen is to
live and never die;
W T here Benbulben, lonely and solemn, looks
forth toward dark Donegal,
O'er the endless Atlantic column that foams
round Sliev League's rock-wall,
Down whose cliff the Gods drave their share,
and its face with long furrows
ploughed,
When they planted as king of the air, crag-
throned and ermined with cloud,
The far-sighted, sun-gazing eagle to scream
to the deep his decree,
Low-boomed in organ- tones regal and vassal
voices of sea.
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 ?
* Pommes-de-terre.
POEMS OF I1KNKY BERNARD CARPENTER.
When the gathering cries implore theo to
lielp and to heal thy kind,
When thy dying are strewn before thee, thy
living ones crouch behind,
When about theo thy perishing children
cling, crying, " Thou only art fair,
We have seen through Life's maze bewilder-
ing how the earth-gods never spare: "
And the wolves blood-ripe with slaughter
gnar at thee with fangs of steel ;
Thou, Niobe-Land of the water, hast many
children to heal.
Yd 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.
\or art thou, sweet friend, in a far land,
all places are near on the globe,
< >ur greeting wear for thy garland, our love
for thy festival robe,
While we keep through glory and gloom two
:ilt;ir-candles for thee,
Thy "Blanid" of deathless doom and thy
dead but undying " DeirdnV
And may He who builds in his patience the
houses which death reveals,
Round whom the far constellations are dust
from his chariot- wheels,
AVho showers his coin without scorning, each
day as he issues it bright,
The sun as his gold in the morning, the
stars as his silver at night,
Tlii' love which feedeth the sparrow and
watcheth the little leaf,
Which guideth the death-laden arrow and
counteth eacli grain of grief,
Change thy life-chant from its minor and
spread thy spirit serene,
As gold before the refiner whose face is re-
flected therein.
FRYEBURG.
No vale with purer peace the spirit fills
Than thine, Kryrhurg the fair, Fryeburg
the free.
Dear are thy men and maidens unto me;
Holy the smokeless altars of thy hills;
Sacred thy wide, moist meadows, where
the morn
Delays for very love; divinely born
Those drooping tresses of thy feathery elms,
That lisp of cool delight through dream-
of noon;
Gentle thy Saco's tides, that creep and
croon,
Lapsing and lingering through hushed forest-
realms,
Which love the song-bird's boon.
But neither vale nor hill nor field nor tree
Nor stream nor forest had this day been
ours,
Nor would sweet English speech in K rye-
burg's bowers
This night be heard across her lake and lea,
Our seamless flag had been in pieces riven.
Nor had we been, beneath its blue, starred
heaven,
A nation one and indivisible,
Had not two spirits come to range and
reign
Here over sand-girt Saco's green domain.
The one with sword, the other with prophet-
spell,
Webster and Chamberlain.
Two crowns of glory clasp thy calm, chaste
brow.
ye strong hills, l>ear witness to my verse,
Thou " Maledetto," mountain of the
curse,*
Chocorua, blasted by thy chief, and thou,
Kearsarge, slope-shouldered monarch of
this vale,
Who gavcst thy conquering name to that
swift sail
Which caught in (lallic seas the rebel bark
And downward drove the Alabama's pride
To deep sea-sleep in Cherbourg's ravening
tide,
What time faint Commerce watched a na-
tion's ark
Sinking with shattered side.
* Mt. Maledetto, the Chocorua of th Pyr*ne-
ii'-t itute of vegetation, the suppoted it-suit of a main;
like that pronounced by the Indian chieftain.
788
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.
Speak, ye historian pine-woods, where ye
stand,
And tliou bald scalp, like the bald crown
of Time,*
Lifted above thy sylvan sea sublime,
And ye still shores, reaches of golden sand,
Linked like a necklace round your Lovell's
lake,
Speak, for ye saw how, when the morning
brake,
Brave Chamberlain, and men like Chamber-
lain,
Turned like caged lions, where round them
in fell scorn
Leaped from their lairs a thousand flushed
with morn,
And fought, death-loving, grand in life's
disdain,
Till eve's first star was born.
Then fell the peerless, fearless, cheerless
chief,
Paugus, between this water and that wood,
Staining the yellow strand with Indian
blood,
Death-struck by Chamberlain; and straight
in grief
The Indian vanished, and the English
came,
And laid on this lone mere their Lovell's
name,
Lovell who led them: thus the northern land
From Kearsarge to Katahdin, and the
State
Named from the Pine, lay open as a gate
For Saxon steps to reach St. Lawrence
strand,
Clear of wild war's debate.
A century, half a hundred years, and seven,
Each like a pilgrim from eternity
With sandals of soft silence creeping by,
Have paced thy streets, and hied them home
to heaven,
Sweet Fryeburg, since thy Lovell's battle-
day
"Wove the pine-wreath which welcomes no
decay:
* Equesrrian fancy calls the scalp-like rock over-hanjrine
- * 7-..-.~ .1.., ::
But grandsire Time, who crowns men with
both hands,
Giving to him that hath, decreed that
thou,
Ere fourscore years, shouldst bind about
thy brow
A second wreath, culled from thy meadow-
lands
And the elm's peaceful bough.
Then Judgment rose on swift, storm-
shadowed wings,*
And pitying Man, heart-sick with vain
desire,
Sent the new Gods, mist-robed and
crowned with fire,
To trace with flame-like hands the doom of
kings.
Through the worn world like throb of
morning drum,
Pealed the fierce shout, the new Gods'
reign is come;
And new-risen stars, ablaze round Man's
new bride,
Came down to sing at Freedom's marriage
feast,
When through the listening lands of West
and East
A Daniel rose for judgment on each side
Where the Atlantic ceased.
Twenty rich summers glowed along his veins
When from New Hampshire's high-born
hills a youth
Came down, a seeker and a sayer of sooth,
To stand beneath these elms, and shake the
reins
That steer the heart of boyhood's fiery
prime.
They called him Daniel Webster and the
chime
Measured the sliding hours with smooth, slow
stroke,
* A Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel." Two young
champions of popular freedom, each bearing this name,
arose almost in the same hour on either side of the Atlantic.
In 1800, while the bells of St. Patrick's Cathedral were ring-
ing triumphantly over the downfall of the old Irish Parlia-
ment, young Daniel O'Connell rose in the Corn Exchange,
Dublin, and delivered his maiden speech. In 1802 young
Daniel Webster spoke for the first time, and in the spirit of
the Irish agitator's life-long political principles.
I '<!: MS OK IIKM.'Y I'.KUNA 1ID CAKI'KNTKI,'.
While he sat registering the deed, and
wrought
As though the wide world watched him:
swift in thought,
But slow in speech; yet once, when once he
spoke,
Then an archangel taught.
Twas Magna Charta's morning in July,
When, in that temple reared of old to
Truth,
He rose, in the bronze bloom of blood-
bright youth,
To speak, what he re -spake when death was
nigh.*
Strongly he stood, Olympian-framed, with
front
Like some carved crag where sleeps the
lightning's brunt,
Black, thunderous brows, and thunderous
deep-toned speech
Like Pericles, of whom the people said,
That, when he spake, it thundered; round
him spread
The calm of summer nights when the stars
teach
In music overhead.
Lift up thy head, behold thy citizen,
Fryeburg ! From thy cloistered shades
came he,
Who came like many more who come from
thee,
To teach the cities how the hills make men.
Guard thy unabdicated pastoral throne,
God-kept within thy God-made mountain-
zone,
Of Truth, of Love, of Peace, the worshipper;
Keep fresh thy double garland, and hand
down
This my last leaf woven in thy Webster's
crown,
And leave lean Envy's loathed, unkennelled
cur
To bark at his renown.
* Webster, in his last speech In the Senate, repeated the
peroration of his Fryeburg "ration; an example of the law
under which many other supreme artists liiiv.- U-en le-l t,,
work over and enlarge the lines of their life's first efforts.
A VACATION PRKLCDK.
At Athens, on the second day of the Eleusinioo festival,
the candidates for tlie (Jreat Mysteries aaseuiljltnl, and wuit-
ed for the well-known word of the prophet. Hierophaut or
Mystagogue, as their religious leader was vari< >usly called.
At the cry, "To the sea, ye initiates!" (halade nuistai), they
rose and went down to the shore, where they received bap-
tismal purification, and thence proceeded to the temple of
Deineter (the Earth-mother) at Eleusis, to be initiated iu thu
greater or final Mysteries of life and death.
" HENCE to the sea ! souls true and tried,
Plunge in the Gods' baptismal tide !
Thence to Demeter's temple-stair
And learn Life's deeper secrets there ! "'
The Prophet speaks; they hear the call,
They rise and leave thy sacred wall,
Thy homes and haunts of sweet renown !
Queen City of the Violet Crown !
Onward with heart-kept vows they creep
Round the grey, olive-shaded steep,
Through ways that beckon lovingly
Down to old ^Egeus' fabled sea;
That sea that shines and shakes afar,
Inlaid with many an island- star,
Poseidon's bright, rock-jewelled band
Clasping his loved, lost Attic land.
" Hence to the sea !" that cry once more
Comes, organ-voiced, from surf and shore,
Comes through the hum and hurrying feet,
The toil and tumult of the street.
From each dull brick I learn the call
Flashed as from old Belshazzar's wall;
Market and church and street and store
Echo the mandate, " To the shore ! "
With Care's sharp thorn-wreath daily
crowned,
Our wave-girt city hears the sound,
Ami stoops her toil-worn diadem.
To touch the healing Ocean's hem;
And take new strength from him who a
With his waves rocked her, swathed and
nursed.
Who now with l>lne. lari:', wondering eye
Hails her, his Venice throned on high.
790
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.
" Hence to the sea ! " the summons came
O'er fields adust, down skies of flame;
I heard, and fondly turned to thee,
gentle, glad, all-gathering Sea !
1 saw thee spread but yestermorn,
As though for Venus newly born,
A couch of satin soft and blue,
O'er which the sun-showers dimpling flew.
To-day how changed ! the loud winds rise,
The storm her sounding shuttle plies,
Weaves a white water-shroud beneath,
And all the sea-marge answers, " Death."
Through sheeted spray what sights appear !
Faces look out and shapes of fear;
Mad through the trampled surge abroad
Revels and reels the Demon-god ;
Whilst o'er his snouts that wax and wane
Swells one long monotone of pain,
As o'er some city's rabble yell
Tolleth a great cathedral bell.
Is this the deep-sea peace I sought ?
Calm days by holy shores of Thought,
Airs, that might Hope's own clarion fill.
With tones divine of " Peace, be still?"
And yet to me these tides that flow
Are but as clouds o'er worlds below,
Worlds which look up to skies, as we
Look to our heaven's o'erhanging sea.
Not on that sea-floor, but beneath
Its snowy shroud and funeral wreath
Peace dwells. What kingdoms calm and fair
And changeless greet my guesses there !
Seeds of the New that is to be
Sleep in the ooze of yon grey sea;
Life, Love, all sweet and speechless things
To crown the heart's imaginings,
Rich hills, green-skirted, forest-zoned,
Cliffs on which slumbrous Powers are
throned,
High-pillared shades, with splendor laned,
By ruthless woodman unprofaned;
Close-latticed lights, cool shadowings,
And murmurs of all pleasant things,
Fountains that chime away their care*
In liquid lapse down crystal stairs;
Glades which a tender twilight fling
Like the green mist of groves in spring;
Blameless white sands, and seas of pearl,
Where young-eyed Dreams their sails unfurl;
Doors opening from afar with tone
Of mystic flutes in musings lone,
Low chantings thrilled through dim-lit seas,
Old harp-notes, half-heard prophecies;
Pale temples veiled in sapphire gloom
Where the great ghosts of glorious doom
In transport list, till heaven-born Fate
Shall ope her sire's tremendous gate;
Caves where the gentle, gracious Hours,
Who bring all good things, weave strange
flowers,
And faint Hopes wait in Lethe grots,
Brow-bound with fresh forget-me-nots;
Genii, low dwellers of the glen,
And souls forlorn that shall be men,
Mute lips that once have kissed the wrong,
Which Time shall purge and light with song;
Strong angels, waiting for the day
When they shall shoulder seas away
And show to God new blessed hills
Starred with undying daffodils;
When Earth, with bridal morning strewn,
Like a pure goddess grandly hewn,
Shall, re-baptized and born again,
Rise from her centuries' trance of pain.
Thus in thy heart, Deep, are stored
Kings' treasure- chambers, unexplored;
Thy terrors, tumults, fears are found
But on thy surface, in thy sound.
" Hence to the sea ! " I heard that call,
And left the world's loud palace-wall
To find thee, thou vast Unknown,
By shores of mystery and of moan.
Yet, nameless Dread, that seem'st but so,
Calm are thy depths of peace below;
Roll dark or bright, Spirit Sea,
Why should I fear to sink hi thee ?
POEMS OF HENRY BKKXAKI) CARPENTER
791
THE REED.
KT ARUNDINEM IS DEXTRAM EJUS.
Beneath the memnonian shadows of Mem-
phis it rose from the slime,
A reed of the river, self -hid, as though shun-
ning the curse of its crime,
And it shook as it measured in whispers the
lapses of tide and of time,
It shuddered, it stooped, and was dumb,
whi the kings of the eartli passed
along,
For what could this reed of the river in the
race of the swift and the strong,
Where the wolf met the bear and the pan-
ther, blood-bathed, at the banquets
of wrong ?
These loved the bright brass, the hard steel,
and the gods that kill and condemn;
Yea, theirs was the robe silver-tissued, and
theirs was the sun-colored gem;
If they touched thee, reed, 'twas to wing
with swift death thy sharp arrowy
stem.
Then the strong took the corn and the wine,
and the poor, who had scattered the
seed,
Went forth to the wilderness weeping, and
sought out a sign in their need,
And the gods laughed in rapturous thun-
der, and showed them the wind-
shaken reed.
dower of the poor and the helpless ! key
to Thought's palace unpriced !
When the strong mocked with cruel crimson,
and spat in the face of their Christ,
When the thorns were his crown in his
faint palm this reed for a sceptre
sufficed ;
This reed in whose fire-pith Prometheus
brought life, and then Art, lie^an,
When Man, the god of time's twilight, grew
godlike by dying for Man,
Ere Redemption fell bound and bleeding,
priest- carved to the priests' poor plan.
Come hither, ye kings of the earth, and ye
priests without pity, draw near,
Ye girded your loins for a curse, and ye
builded dark temples to Fear,
Ye gathered from rune-scroll and symbol
great syllables deathful and drear.
Then ye summoned mankind to your Idol,
the many bowed down to the few,
As ye told in loud anthems how all things
were framed for the saints and for you,
" Lord, not on these sun-blistered rocks, but
on Gideon's fleece falls thy dew."
Man was taken from prison to judgment; a
bulrush he bent at your nod;
Ye stripped him of rights, his last garment,
and bared his broad back for the rod,
And ye lisped, as he writhed down in an-
guish, " This woe is the sweet will of
God."
But lo ! whilst ye braided the thorn-wreath
for Man and the children of men,
Whilst ye reft him of worship and wealth,
and he stood mute and dazed in your
den,
A reed-stalk remained for a sceptre; ye left
in his hand the pen.
Sweet wooer, strong winner of kingship,
above crown, crosier and sword.
By thee shall the mighty be broken, and the
spoil which their might hath stored
Shall be stamped small as dust and be wafted
away by the breath of the Lord.
His decree is gone forth, it is planted, and
these are the words which he spake,
No smouldering flax of first fancy, no full
flame of thought, will he sluke.
No bruised reed of the writer shall the
strength of eternities break.
Behold your sign and your sceptre. Arise,
imperial reed,
<io forth to discrown king and captain and
disinherit the creed;
strike through the iron war-tower ar
cast out the murderer's seed;
792
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.
Go forth like the swell of the springtide,
sweep on in measureless sw;iy,
Till raised over each throned falsehood, in
bright omnipresence like day,
Thou shalt britise them with rod of iron and
break them like vessels of clay.
THEODOSIUS.
ALL things are beautiful that God hath
made,
Green earth, skies grey or crimson, sheen
or shade,
The golden river-dust, the mid-sea slime,
The mold-warp's home, and hills the throne
of Time,
Rich dawn, with thrush, and saffron-flower-
ing reed,
And darkness, friend of death, and worm
and weed.
Shadows of silence, and great lights of sound
Alike are dear to the heaven they float
around,
And God hath blest them, whether in field
or flood,
In earth or air, and called them very good.
But ere these leave the embrace of their
kind Nurse,
Man clothes them with the garment of his
curse,
And driving out with flame-sword, seraph-
wise,
He disinherits them of their Paradise.
'Tis the old story of the scapegoat still,
We lay on other lives our self -wrought ill;
Man points at Woman, Woman at her feet,
" The Serpent tempted me, and I did eat/'
In the far East, as story telleth us,
Dwelt the great Emperor Theodosius,
By the rough Thracian strait, where lo
roamed
Salt fields of sea, wind-fretted and o'er-
foamed.
All power was his, the King's twain-handed
might,
And Life, and Law, and all, save sacred
sight.
But, God be praised, the chance that seals
one sense,
Stays not the whole flow of man's providence.
So at his palace door a bell he hung,
Which, when it woke him with its iron
tongue,
Cried ever in his ear, " Sire, descend,
And give me justice, and be misery's friend."
Then would you hear the shuffling, sightless
feet
Which brought him to the hall and judg-
ment seat,
Where he sat down, this Emperor Theodose,
And sentence gave 'mid his magnificoes.
So the world sought him as some isle o' the
sea,
Where men breathe rights and all the men
are free.
Now fell it on a day when Spring's new
flame
Pricked bird and flower and leaf, a serpent
came
And built her home and stowed her innocent
freight
In a green plat, hard by the palace-gate,
And there she dwelt, a helpless, harmless:
thing,
With sweet, strange mother-love encompass-
ing
And coiled in sleep about her little ones,
As God's vast life rings round his stars and
suns.
One morn, while absent from her dear
abode,
There came with short, light leaps, a song-
less toad
Through thickening grass-plumes, to the
serpent nest,
Where her brood lay just sleep-Warm from
her breast,
And swallowing these, his body burdensome
He straight lay down in that unchilded home.
Swift came the serpent- mother back again;
One glance around, then fierce wifch death-
like pain,
POEMS OF HKNKV HKRNAKI) CARPENTER.
She flashed straight at the murderer of her
J o y>
( ;< id -armed with right to cast out and destroy,
Not yet: for oft the gods are kind to guilt,
And fools grow fat where the pure blood lies
spilt.
Driven out, this creature, childless, exiled,
poor,
Slow wound her weak folds to the emperor's
door,
Where, gathering all her battle-broken
strength
She flickered up and writhed her sliding
length
Round the smooth bell-rope toward the
speechless bell,
Which, drawing down, she woke the sum-
moning knell,
"Descend and give me justice." Straight
uprose
And took his seat, that Emperor Theodose,
Saying, " Go, bring him hither," and one
came,
In black velure and taffeta robe of flame,
Peeping with outstretched neck and watery
laugh,
Who smote the snake thrice with his ivory
staff,
And switched her from the grunsel, and re-
turned.
Scarce had the sightless Theodosius learned
From the cold courtier's tongue the serpent's
crime,
When hark ! the bell knolled out the second
time,
" Descend and give me justice," and to end
The full appeal, it rang once more, " De-
scend."
Then called the blind king to his seneschal,
A reverent man, of face angelical,
With love-lit eyes, voice musical and low,
White hair and soft step like the falling
snow;
-t Hie thee, and fetch this thing whatso it
be;
Who doeth kind deed, the only king is he."
And with soft step the senior went, and found
Th<- stricken serpent half-way to the ground,
And caught her well-nigh dead, reft of all
hope,
Failing through faintness from the throbbing
rope,
And bore her, inly pitying her woes,
And laid her down before King Theodose.
then, I ween, a work right marvellous
Was wrought of him, who somewhere teach-
eth us,
Certes, all things are possible with God.
Yet men will say in time's last period
This was not so, these tales are light as sand,
Faith-forged in Jewry or old Grecian Land,
Not knowing how in antique days, by oak
And fountain, beasts and birds together
spoke,
Under the forest's shadow-woven tent,
In session sage and peaceful parliament;
Till Man came and henceforth from bird
and beast
The primal word's divisible language ceased,
And so to place their thoughts above our
reach
They chose their free-born, inarticulate
speech.
Yet sometimes these, when heavenward
raised by wrong,
Change cry for speech, as men change speech
for song;
Or, as when Slavery's bow at Man is bent,
Man cries to God, and then is eloquent,
Nor count it strange that He who once came
down
In tongue.of fire to be the Prophet's crown.
And shook his soul as with the rushing
S.-uth,
Should ope in one brief speech a serpent's
mouth.
So with raised head the serpent thus began
" Smite me, but hear. I come to thee, O
M;in;
For unto thee, they say, the seat is pven
Of Mediator-God 'twixt us and heaven.
In thy sere autumn, when hopes fade and
fly,
Thou yearnest upward to the listening sky
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.
And criest and sighest and sayest, ' Lord,
how long ? '
To some one, whom ye call the Sweet and
Strong
What that one is to thee, art thou to us,
Girt with great strength and knowledge
glorious.
Shall Mercy drop to thee her royal meat
Who keepst her crumbs from them that kiss
thy feet.
Think not, great king, that we who roam
and range
Wild ways of life, which teach us uses
strange,
Are aliens to what makes the best in men,
In soldier, statesman, sire and citizen,
The lover's anguish dipped in tides of death,
Child-trust, and mother-love that fashioneth
All thought and thew, life's prodigality
That breathes the noble rage to save or die;
These which are ours we share with thee,
Man,
In Life's wide palace cosmopolitan.
Hear me. There came a toad into my nest,
Whiles I was absent on a needful quest,
And killed my pretty brood, and now he
keeps
That home from her who at thy footstool
creeps.
Full well I know that something just and
good
Ere many suns will give me back my brood,
But give me now the lair which is my own,
Guard my ground nest, and I will guard thy
throne."
Long mused the blind king Theodosius,
But when at last his heart full piteous
Sent its red message to his cheek, he spake:
"Ah me ! sad woes ye bear for human sake,
Poor hunted lives, beast, bird and creeping
thing,
From Man who is your brother, not your
king.
But chiefly on thy head that lies thus low
Have we laid down the weight of all our woe.
Give ear and hear me, my most honored lords,
And you, ye learned clerks, wise in your
words,
Stand forth and answer me: Who first de-
creed
Discord for all things sown of mortal seed ?
Who blew through earth the ban of civil war
Which flames above us, reddening Ares' star ?
God, will ye say ? Heaven wot, that cannot
be.
Hear Nature's Miserere Domim
Go up, man-scorned, an awful litany
Folding the feet of God with folds of moan
And crying, Our eyes look unto Thee alone.
Not God. Who then ? Ye durst not answer
me
'Tis Man, who blots her fountain, slays her
tree,
Blasts her sweet river, tears her breast of
green,
And calls her beasts now clean and now un-
clean,
Stooping her names of serpent, ape and dog
To suit the sins of man's own catalogue;
For through man's heart distil those drops of
gall
Which must o'erflow and on some creature
fall.
dull of spirit and cold of heart to make
This cleanser of the dust, the earth-loving
snake,
The authoress of your ills, the fount of sin;
Forgetting in your doctrines' battle-din
How God ordained that since the world began
Each thing in turn should be the friend of
Man.
What ! shall the Lamb that healeth all of us
Tread on the Snake of ^Esculapius ?
Say, are not innocent Wisdom and wise Love
Wedded for aye the Serpent and the Dove ?
sweet Lord Christ, when thou didst come
on earth
Thou madest the stall of ox thy bed of birth ;
When in chill desert thou didst leave our
feasts [beasts;'
To share Life's hunger, thou wast ' with the
When on to Zion Town they saw thee pass.
'Twas not on war-steed, but on lowly ass;
And when to win us worlds by thy self -loss
Thou didst lift up for us the bitter cross,
Then didst thou take the thorns we oft had
cursed
1'OK.MS OF IIKNKY BKRXARD CAKI'FATKK.
To be thy crown, of all great crowns tho first.
Help me, dear Christ, in pity thus arrayed
Like thee, to love all things which God hath
made,
So Pain shall school me into sympathy,
And what I should have been, I yet shall be."
Then Theodose sent one from all the rest
To reinstall the serpent in her nest,
Who came and finding there the murderer
Crushed him and cast him out; and some
aver
That from the bruised head of the loathly
thing
There oozed a sea-green gem, forth issuing;
Wherefore and how it boots not here to tell,
ertes, with God all things are possible.
After these things it fell on a bright day
Near the calm shut of eve, this blind king
lay,
Wrapped in his purple, gold-embroidered
pall,
And slept a space in the same palace hall,
When lo ! a thing most rare was brought to
pass.
As though new-raised in beauty from the
grass
That serpent through the palace came again,
No more updrawing her loose length with
pain,
But glittering like a stream with rains fresh-
dewed,
Amber, and silver-mooned, and rainbow-
hued,
Kyed like a moist large planet of the South
That shines a promise of rain in days of
drouth.
Si ) swept she glorying up the porphyry floor,
And in her mouth a bright great emerald
bore.
Therewith, (but whence it came none ever
knew,)
Through all the house a wondrous music
grew,
Such concords as are heard from stop and
string
At heavenly doors by spirits first entering,
Immortal airs, touches of mellow sound
That came in long-drawn sighs, above,
around,
And march-like music swoln to mighty tone,
Like preludes from aerial clarions blown,
And whispers as of multitudinous feet,
Which died away with waifs of scent most
sweet.
Soul-charmed, the serpent toward King
Theodose crept,
And there she hung above him, as he slept
With silent face, and silent, pale, dead eyes
Turned in, as 'twere, on Life's mute mys-
teries;
Then, as the downward-swaying branch lets
fall
Its waxen fruitage to the lips that call,
So she soft-stooping o'er his sleep, un-
known,
Dropped on his eyes the magic emerald stone.
Meanwhile blind Theodosius dreamed a
dream.
In the high heaven he saw a coming gleam,
Which brightening as it came to where he
lay,
Opened at last like the full flower of day.
It was God's angel, strong Ithuriel,
Armed with that glowing lance, which, sooth
to tell,
Unlocks all doors of light in earth or skies,
With whose bright point he touched the
sightless eyes,
And said, " Receive thy sight;" thus nnu-li
he spoke
And vanished, and King Theodose awoke.
Opening his new-born eyes he looked
abroad,
Oh wonder ! Oh the beautiful earth of G<>'! !
He gazed on the rich picture, fresh and fair.
The grateful fields of green, and liquid air,
But first toward heaven: and its him- gulfs
of sky. [of lijrht
\V hat sees he there ? Up through long lanes
Thy city, Lord, rose on his tranced sight.
Pillar and palace built of mist and p-m.
Ami sun-ehul wall of New .lerusaleni.
Where men walk free from sin and terror
and tears,
"96
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.
With smile sent back on time and passed
years.
Then, as the pageant faded from his eyes,
He watched beneath its vanishing traceries
The dawning eventide of one faint star
And lilac cloud's flame-bordered bank and
bar,
And lower down, the green wood's tender
gloom
And lawns that fed on dews and balm and
bloom,
Whilst, like a meteor, through his palace
door
The serpent shivered and was seen no more.
BEYOND THE SNOW.
BAKE boughs; athwart each suppliant arm
The sun's pale stare at pale November,
No autumn's amorous breath to warm
His red last leaf's expiring ember;
House after house, a glimmering street;
A herald grain of coming sleet;
The struggling dayfires' lessening glow;
Hour when light ghost-winds wailing go,
"When men least hope and most remember,
Before the snow, before the snow.
A village cot; eyes fiery blue,
Blithe voice beneath the roof's high rafter,
Ripe cheek, crisp curls of chestnut hue,
Quick heart that leaps to love and laughter
That feeds on all from star to sod,
And loving all things lives in God;
Light feet borne daily to and fro
On some sweet errand none may know,
Swift sped with hopes like wings to waft
her
Along the snow, along the snow.
A midnight room; the smothered speech
Of those that watch with tear-stained faces;
The helpless love-look bent by each
Who stoops, but speaks not, and embraces;
Love braving Death with that last cry,
" She is mine, she is mine, she shall not
die;"
Then homeward steps returning slow
To the great tear's unworded woe,
And many darkened dwelling-places
Across the snow, across the snow.
A hollow grave; and gathered there
Strong breaking hearts that bear and break
not,
Round the closed eyes and lifeless hair
Life's few that follow and forsake not;
Tears, the drink-offering to the dead,
The bruised heart's grape-wine softly
shed;
Long downward looks; they will not go,
They fain would sleep with her below
In dreamless rest with those that wake not
Beneath the snow, beneath the snow.
A green plot sweet with shade and sound,
A white porch and a name engraven,
Where Death unveiled as Love sits crowned
In garden-lawns with lilies paven,
And she a daughter of that land,
A silent rose in her right hand,
And in her left a scroll where glow
Mysteries of might which man shall
know
In Love's warm-shadowed leafy haven
Beyond the snow, beyond the snow.
THE SIRENS.
ON DE BEAUMONT'S PICTURE "LES SIRENES."
DAINTY sea-maids ! bright-eyed sirens !
laughing over dead men's graves !
What has drawn you from the inland to this
wilderness of waves ?
Why those lucent arms uptossing o'er your
shoulders round and rare ?
Why those musical throats bent back beneath
the sunlight of your hair ?
Oh, the bosoms' rosy treasures tempting to~
ward their fragrant home !
Oh, the ivory thighs unkirtled on the white
flowers of the foam !
Bitter is the sea about you with the brine
of daily tears,
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER
797
In the sea-grave lie beneath you withered
In -arts and wasted years.
Back ! ye deatlnvard-singing Sirens ! One
by Galilee's calm sea
Calls you hence, " cease your angling,
drop your nets, and follow me,"-
Calls you home to Love's high service in se-
clusion's holy glen,
But he never called you shoreward to be
fishers after men.
SONNET.
JAMES ABRAM GARFIELD, SEPTEMBER 19TH, 1881.
Lo ! as a pure white statue wrought with
care
By some strong hand that moulds with
tear and sigh
Beauty more beautiful than things that
die,
And straight 'tis veiled; and whilst all men
repair
To see this wonder in the workshop, there !
Behold, it gleams unveiled to curious eye,
Far-seen, high-placed in Art's pale gallery,
Where all stand mute before a work so fair;
So he, our man of men, in vision stands,
With Pain and Patience crowned imperial;
Death's veil has dropped; far from this
house of woe
He hears one love-chant out of many lands,
Whilst from his mvstic noon-height he lets
fall
His shadow o'er these hearts that bleed
below.
A NEW ENGLAND WINTER SONG.
FOREFATHERS' DAY, DECEMBER 22.
Win) nulled thee on the rock, my boy,
Far, far from the sun-warm South ?
Who woke thee with shout and shock, my
boy,
And spray for a kiss on thy mouth,
As tlio l"\v sad shores grew dim with rain
And the grey sea moaned its infinite pain
To grey grass and pale sands, thy sole do-
main?
Who cradled thee on the rock ?
I brought thee into the wilderness,
When thou didst cry to me,
And I gave thee there in thy sore distress
The rock and the cloud and the sea;
With baptismal waves thy limbs were wet,
And the ragged cloud was thy coverlet,
Thus saith the Lord God : Dost thou forget?
I cradled thee on the rock.
Who shadowed thee with the cloud, my boy,
And the stars forgat to shine, [b}*>
And the sun lay as dead in his shroud, my
And thy tears were to thee for wine ?
Who took from thee every pleasant thing,
Sweet sounds that are drawn from stop and
string,
Day's dream and the night's glad banqueting?
Who shadowed thee with the cloud ?
I broke thy slumber with ciarion storms,
I called like a midnight bell,
Till thou saw'st through the dark the spirit
forms,
Heaven's glow and the glare of hell;
And then, that thou mightest know God's
grace
And drink his love-wine and see his face,
I drew thee into my secret place,
I shadowed thee with the cloud.
Who fenced thee round with the sea, my boy,
And locked its gates amain?
Who, to set thy fathers free, my boy,
Burst the bars of the deep in twain.
And led them l>v ways they know not of,
When the black storm spread its wings above
And thundered. My God is Liw. not Love I
Who fenced theo round with the- sea?
I set thee beyond where the great sea ran,
I made thee to dwell apart,
For in the divisions of man from man
Come the mighty searchings of heart;
ros
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.
I, the Lord, who moved on the waters old,
Who sought for a heart like the sea's heart,
bold,
Unchartered, chainless and myriad-souled
I fenced thee round with the sea.
ODE TO GENERAL PORFIRIO DIAZ.*
EX -PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF
MEXICO.
OPEN thy storm-dark doors, dear Northern
Land,
Star-diademed, pale Priestess of the free,
Wailed round by wind and water and that
grey sea
Whose morning psalm salutes his Pilgrims'
strand,
thou to whom all great things thought
and done
Are dear, all fights for Freedom lost or
won,
Queen of the earth's free states,
Open to him thy gates,
This champion of the children of the Sun;
To him who with his king-destroying rod
Wiped the last king-curse from the
southern sod,
Bring the loud welcome which the free-
man brings
When his full harp is struck through
all its strings
With music born of God.
II.
He comes a hero to a heroes' home.
New England's hills, peal forth your thrice
All Hail,
Far as the Gulf, till every seaward sail
Bends low to hear, and Orizaba's dome
Heaves his flame-hearted breast of barren
brown
And breaks the frosts that bind his helmet-
crown,
* Read at the banquet in Boston, April llth, 1883.
To see his realm re-born
Which late the old worlds could scorn
Now nearer to life's flowering marge of
morn;
To see his country's chief and chosen
thereof
In war and peace its eagle and its dove,
Called here to reap the far fruits of past pain
And bear New England's blessing to New
Spain
With the strong Northman's love.
in.
The Pine-tree waves her peace-pledge to the
Palm,
Sending sweet grace and greeting, not as
they
Who greet and give not. For in time's
past day,
Ere thy quick South roused from their
summer-calm
Her baby Hopes adream on wings warm-
furled,
Our seedplot for all gardens of the world
Nursed through its bud and birth
One tree till the whole earth
Owned its circumferent leaves and giant
girth;
Whence winnowed by the northwind's
wings of power
A fire-seed smote thy soil, and lo ! a
bower,
A blossom-blaze, a Maytime glorious.
gardener, what is this thou bringest us ?'
Our freedom's far-sown flower.
IV.
Tree of Liberty, thou Tree of Life,
AVithout thee what were all the golden
South ? [mouth,
The Cid's rich song from ripe Castilian
The eyes' black velvet of each gay girl-wife,
The scarlet nopal, jasmine's earth-born
star,
The low bird-language of the light guitar
Wooed by love's wandering hand,
And teocalli grand
With scroll and sculptured face of mild
command,
POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.
Queretaro's wave-worn arches, one long
mile
Of marching giants, Viga's floating isle,
Cholula's hill-shrine of the all -worshipped
Sun,
Huge cypress shade, all Aztec spoils in one,
Without thee were most vile.
v.
Look whither Nature leads thee, soldier-
priest;
Not South to soil war-scourged and
thunder-scarred,
Not West where friendship fails thee
ocean-barred,
Not to the palsied, mad, monarchic East,
Dazzling with sunlike gems of gay romance
And backward gaze fixed in tradition's
trance,
Who sent across the main
The monkish spawn of Spain,
And Austria's yellow plague and black Ba-
zaine,
To lash thy land with battle's gory shower
And cage thee in Puebla's dungeon -tower,
Whence rushed thy eagle spirit new-fledged,
and burst [cursed,
The death-folds of the serpent crowned and
When hell lost half her power.
VI.
The strongest Gods dwell ever in the North,
In labor's land and sorrow's; but at length
Labor and sorrow bring the perfect
strength.
See, from Ezekiel's northern hills leaps forth
The car of crystal floor and sapphire
throne,
In amber-colored light and rainbow zone,
On self-moved beryl wheels,
Through fire-mist that reveals
Man, its great charioteer, aloft, alone,
Where round him float three mystic
shapes divine,
Cloven foot of steer and starred wing
aquiline,
And lion's regal mane ready to rise
Like slumbering Law on all its enemies
In strength, guest, like thine.
VII.
So to thy home sweeps down unconquerable
Our iron chariot of the prophet's dream,
Fire-fledged and clothed in cloud and
wreathed with steam,
Flashed like a poet's thought through all-
cleft hill,
Rent rock and rolling flood and fiery
sand,
Laden with Life's humanities, not the
brand
Of widow-making war,
To blast thy fields afar
Like burnings of the intolerable star.
So flies the thunder-bearing steed of
flame
Waking each southern silence with his
name*
King of his kinsmen round the stormy
cape,
Whose heart, head, hand to purpose, plan
and shape,
Win him a conqueror's fame.
VIII.
Thee, latest-born, self-liberated State,
Earth, heaven and thy two Oceans wait to
bless,
Our blessing also take, with love not less,
As of thy sister ever inseparate,
And take thy place in the immemorial
line
Of those that soared and sang with hopes
like thine,
And with voice piercing strong
And clear and sweet prolong
The choral thunders of their mighty song,
Till earth's new man, thrilled by the
spirit breeze,
Shall wake to morn's mcmnonian melo-
dies,
Bright as when daybreak from his rosy
home
Stains with his blood-red life the furrowed
foam
Of sunward-surging seas.
* Thomas Nickeraon, Esq., president of the Mexican Cen-
tral Railroad
LOSSES.
UPON" the white sea-sand
There sat a pilgrim band,
Telling the losses that their lives had known;
While evening waned away
From breezy cliff and bay,
And the strong tides went out with weary
moan.
One spake, with quivering lip,
Of a fair freighted ship,
With all his household to the deep gone
down;
But one had wilder woe
For a fair face, long ago,
Lost in the darker depths of a great town.
There were who mourn'd their youth
With a most loving ruth,
For its brave hopes and memories ever green;
And one upon the west
Turn'd an eye that would not rest,
For far-off hills whereon its joys had been.
Some talk'd of vanish'd gold,
Some of proud honors told,
Some speak of friends that were their trust
no more ;
And one of a green grave,
Beside a foreign wave,
That made him sit so lonely on the shore.
But when their tales were done,
There spake among them one,
A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free;
" Sad losses have ye met,
But mine is heavier yet ;
For a believing heart hath gone from me."
"Alas!" these pilgrims said,
" For the living and the dead
For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross,
For the wrecks of land and sea!
But, however it came to thee.
Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest
loss.''
SONGS OF OUE LAND.
SONGS of our land, ye are with us for ever,
The power and the splendor of thrones
pass away;
But yours is the might of some far flowing
river.
Through Summer's bright roses or Au-
tumn's decay.
Ye treasure each voice of the swift passing
And truth which time writeth on leaves
or on sand ;
Ye bring us the thoughts of poets and sages,
And keep them among us, old songs of
our land.
The bards may go down to the place of their
slumbers,
The lyre of the charmer be hushed in the
grave,
But far in the future the power of their
numbers
Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and
brave.
It will waken an echo in souls deep and
lonely,
Like voices of reeds by the summer breeze
fanned ;
It will call up a spirit for freedom, when only
Her breathings are heard in the songs of
our land.
1 'OK MS OF FRANCES BROWNE.
801
For they keep a record of those, the true-
hearted,
Who fell with the cause they had vowed
to maintain;
They show us bright shadows of glory de-
parted,
Of love that grew cold and the hope that
was vain.
The page may be lost and the pen long for-
saken,
And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave
heart and hand ;
But ye are still left when all else hath been
taken,
Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of
our land.
Songs of our land, ye have followed the
stranger,
With power over ocean and desert afar,
Ye have gone with our wanderers through
distance and danger,
And gladdened their path like a home-
guiding star.
With the breath of our mountains in sum-
mers long vanished,
And visions that passed like a wave from
the sand,
With hope for their country and joy from
her banished.
Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our
land.
The spring time may come with the song of
our glory,
To bid the green heart of the forest re-
joice,
But the pine of the mountain though blasted
and hoary,
And the rock in the desert, can send forth
a voice.
It was thus in their triumph for deep deso-
lations,
While ocean waves roll or the mountains
shall stand,
Still hearts that are bravest and best of the
nations,
[land.
Shall glory and live in the songs of the
THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH.
A BALLAD OF '61.
I.
"On, mother, have you heard the news?"
"Oh, father, is it true?"
" Oh, brother, were I but a man "
" Oh, husband, they shall rue!"
Thus, passionately, asked the boy,
And thus the sister spoke,
And thus the dear wife to her mate,
The words they could not choke.
"The news! what news?" "Oh, bitter
news they've fired upon the flag
The flag no foreign foe could blast, the trai-
tors down would drag."
ii.
" The truest flag of liberty
The world has ever seen
The stars that shone o'er Washington
And guided gallant Greene!
The white and crimson stripes which bode
Success in peace and war,
Are draggled, shorn, disgraced, and torn
Insulted star by star:
That flag which struggling men point to,
rebuking kingly codes,
The flag of Jones at Whitehaven, of Reid
at Fayal Roads."
in.
" Eh, neighbor, can'st believe this thing ? "
The neighbor's eyes grew wild;
Then o'er them crept a haze of shame,
As o'er a sad, proud child;
His face grew pale,^ he bit his lip,
Until the hardy skin,
By passion tightened, could not hold
The boiling blood within;
He quivered for a moment, the indignant
stupor broke, [awoke.
And the duties of the soldier in the citizen
IV.
On every side the crimson tide
Ebbs quickly to and fro;
On maiden cheeks the horror speaks
With fitful gloom and glow;
In matrons' eyes their feelings rise,
As when a danger, near,
Awakes the soul to full control
Of all that causes fear;
The subtle sense, the faith intense, of wom-
an's heart and brain,
Give her a prophet's power to see, to suffer,
and maintain.
v.
Through city streets the fever beats
O'er highways, byways, borne
The boys grow men with madness,
And the old grow young in scorn;
The forest boughs record the vows
Of men, heart -so re, though strong;
Th' electric wire, with words of fire,
The passion speeds along,
Of traitor hordes and traitor swords from
Natchez to Manassas,
And like a mighty harp flings out the war-
chant to the masses.
VI.
And into caverned mining pits
The insult bellows down;
And up through the hoary gorges,
Till it shouts on the mountain's crown ^
POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE.
Then foaming o'er the table-lands,
Like a widening rapid, heads;
And rolling along the prairies,
Like a quenchless fire it spreads;
From workman's shop to mountain top
there's mingled wrath and wonder,
It appalls them like the lightning, and
awakes them like the thunder.
VII.
The woodman flings his axe aside;
The farmer leaves his plough;
The merchant slams his ledger lids
For other business now;
The artisan puts up his tools,
The artist drops his brush,
And joining hands for Liberty,
To Freedom's standard rush;
The doctor folds his suit of black, to fight
as best he may,
And e'en the flirting exquisite is " eager for
the fray."
VIII.
The students leave their college rooms,
Full deep in Greece and Home,
To make a rival glory
For a better cause near home;
The lawyer quits his suits and writs,
The laborer his hire,
And in the thrilling rivalry
The rich and poor aspire!
And party lines are lost amid the patriot
commotion,
As wanton streams grow strong and pure
within the heart of ocean.
IX.
The city marts are echoless;
The city parks are thronged;
In country stores there roars and pours
The means to right the wronged;
The town halls ring with mustering;
From holy pulpits, too,
Good priests and preachers volunteer
To show what men should do
To show that they who preach the truth and
God above revere,
Can die to save for man the blessings God
has sent down here.
x.
And gentle fingers everywhere
The busy needles ply,
To deck the manly sinews
That go out to do or die;
And maids and mothers, sisters dear,
And dearer wives, outvie
Each other in the duty sad,
That makes all say " Good-by "
The while in every throbbing heart that's
passed in farewell kiss
Arises pangs of hate on those who brought
them all to this.
XL
The mustering men are entering
For near and distant tramps;
The clustering crowds are centering
In barrack-rooms and camps;
There is riveting and pivoting,
And furbishing of arms,
And the willing marching, drilling,
With their quick exciting charms,
Half dispel the subtle sorrow that the women
needs must feel,
When e'en for Right their dear ones fight
the Wrong with steel to steel.
XII.
With hammerings and clamorings,
The armories are loud;
Toilsome clangor, joy, and anger,
Like a cloud enwrap each crowd:
Belting, buckling, cursing, chuckling,
Sorting out their " traps" in throngs;
Some are packing, some knapsack ing,
Singing snatches of old songs;
Fifers finger, lovers linger to adjust a badge
or feather.
And groups of drummers vainly strive to
reveille together.
Mil.
And into many a haversack
The prayer-book 's mutely borne
Its \vell-t ImmU'd leaves in faithfulnew
I>\ wives and mothers worn
And round full many a pillared neck.
O'er many a stalwart breast,
POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE.
The sweetheart wife's the maiden love's
Dear effigy's caressed.
God knows by what far camp-fire may these
tokens courage give,
To fearless die for truth and home, if not
for them to live.
XIV.
And men who've passed their threescore
Press on the ranks in flocks, [years,
Their eyes, like fire from Hecla's brow,
Burn through their snowy locks;
And maimed ones, with stout hearts, per-
sist
To mount the belt and gun,
And crave, with tears, while forced away,
To march to Washington.
" Why should we not? We love that flag !
Great God ! " they choking cry
" We're strong enough! We're not too old
for our dear land to die! "
xv.
And in the mighty mustering,
No petty hate intrudes,
No rival discords mar the strength
Of rising multitudes;
The jealousies of faith and clime
Which fester in success,
Give place to sturdy friendships
Based on mutual distress;
For every thinking citizen who draws the
sword, knows well
The battle's for Humanity for Freedom's
citadel !
XVI.
O, Heaven! how the trodden hearts,
In Europe's tyrant world,
Leaped up with new-born energy
When that flag was unfurled!
How those who suffered, fought, and died,
In fields, or dungeon-chained,
Prayed that the flag of Washington
Might float while earth remained!
.And weary eyes in foreign skies, still flash
with fire anew,
When .some good blast by peak and mast
unfolds that flag to view.
XVII.
And they who, guided by its stars,
Sought here the hopes they gave,
Are all aglow with pilgrim fire
Their happy shrines to save.
, Here Scots and Poles, Italians, Gauls,
With native emblems trickt;
There Teuton corps, who fought before
Fur Freiheit und fur Liclit;
While round the flag the Irish like a human
rampart go!
They found Cead mille failtlie here they'll
give it to the foe.
XVIII.
From the vine-land, from the Rhine- land.
From the Shannon, from the Scheldt,
From the ancient homes of genius,
From the sainted home of Celt,
From Italy, from Hungary,
All as brothers join and come,
To the sinew-bracing bugle,
And the foot- propelling drum;
Too proud beneath the starry flag to die,
and keep secure
The Liberty they dreamed of by the Danube,
Elbe, and Suir.
XIX.
From every hearth bounds up a heart,
As spring from hill-side leaps
To give itself to those proud streams
That make resistless deeps!
No book-rapt sage, for age on age,
Can point to such a sight
As this deep throb, which woke from rest
A people armed for fight.
Peal out, ye bells, the tocsin peal, for never
since the day
AVhen Peter roused the Christian world has
earth seen such array.
xx.
Which way we turn, the eyeballs burn
With joy upon the throng;
Mid cheers and prayers, and martial airs,
The soldiers press along;
The masses swell and wildly yell,
On pavement, tree, and roof,
POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE
And sun-bright showers of smiles and
flowers
Of woman's love give proof.
Peal out, ye bells, from church and dome,
in rivalrous communion
With the wild, upheaving masses, for the
army of the Union!
XXI.
Onward trending, crowds attending,
Still the army moves and still:
Arms are clashing, wagons crashing
In the roads and streets they fill:
O'er them banners wave in thousands,
Itound them human surges roar,
Like the restless-bosomed ocean,
I leaving on an iron shore:
Cannons thunder, people wonder whence the
endless river comes,
With its foam of bristling bay'nets, and its
cataracts of drums.
XXII.
" God bless the Union army ! "
That holy thought appears
To symbolize the trustful eyes
That speak more loud than cheers.
" God bless the Union army,
And the flag by which it stands,
May it preserve, with freeman's nerve,
What freedom's God demands!"
Peal out, ye bells ye women, pray; for
never yet went forth
So grand a band, for law and land, as the
muster of the North.
SHANE'S HEAD.
SCENE Before Dublin Castle. Night. A clansman of Shane
O'Neill discovers his chief's head upon a pole.
GOD'S wrath upon the Saxon! may they
never know the pride,
Of dying on the battle-field, their broken
spears beside;
When victory gilds the gory shroud of every
fallen brave,
Or death no tales of conquered clans cm
whisper to his grave.
May every light from Cross of Christ that
saves the heart of man,
Bo hid in clouds of blood before it reach the
Saxon clan;
For sure, God ! and you know all whose
thought for all sufficed,
To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want
another Christ.
II.
Is it thus, Shane the haughty! Shane the
valiant! that we meet?
Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to
guide me to defeat ?
Have / no chief or you no clan, to give us
both defence,
Or must I, too, be statued here with thy
cold eloquence?
Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dub-
1 ill's Castle-tower,
Thy shaggy hair is wind-tost, and thy brow
seems rough with power;
Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest
treach'ry stung,
Look rage upon the world of wrong, but
chain thy fiery tongue.
m.
That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the
ghost of Columbkill,
Whose warrior words fenced round with
spears the oaks of Perry Hill;
Whose reckless tones gave life and death to
vassals and to knaves,
Ami hunted hordes of Saxon into holy Irish
graves.
The Scotch marauders whitened when his
war-ery met th'-ir ears,
And the death-bird, like a veiijrennro, poised
itl'ove his stormy rherrs.
Ay. Shane, across the thundering sea, out-
chanting it your tongue,
Flung wild un-Sa\on war-wlioopings the
<>n Court among.
80G
POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE.
Just think, Shane! the same moon shines
on Liffey as on Foyle,
And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our
kinsmen to despoil;
And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the
shield of us and ours,
A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above
these Dublin towers.
Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart
is paler still
My heart? I had no heart 'twas, yours,
'twas yours! to keep or kill.
And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief,
your life, your soul, your pride,
But they sought it in thy bosom, Shane
with proud O'Neill it died.
v.
You were turbulent and haughty, proud,
and keen as Spanish steel,
But who had right of these, if not our
Ulster's Chief O'Neill ?
Who reared aloft the " Bloody Hand" until
it paled the sun,
And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief
had never done.
He was " turbulent" with traitors he was
" haughty" with the foe
He was "cruel," say ye Saxons? Ay! he
dealt ye blow for blow !
He was " rough " and " wild," and who's not
wild, to see his hearthstone razed ?
He was " merciless as fire " ah, ye kindled
him, he blazed!
He was "proud:" yes, proud of birthright,
and because he flung away
Your Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock
does mocking spray,
He was wild, insane for vengeance, ay! and
preached it till Tyrone
Was ruddy, ready, wild too, with " Bed
hands " to clutch their own.
VI.
*' The Scots are on the border, Shane ye
saints, he makes no breath
I remember when that cry would wake him
up almost from death:
Art truly dead and cold? Chief! art thou
to Ulster lost ?
Dost hear, dost hear? By Randolph led,
the troops the Foyle have crossed! "
He's truly dead! he must be dead! nor is his
ghost about
And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame
to such a shout:
The ]ple face droopeth northward ah! his
soul must loom up there,
By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough
Foyle, or Bann the Fair!
I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must
wander there, proud Shane,
In search of some O'Neill, through whom to
throb its hate again!
WASHINGTON.
i
ART in its mighty privilege receives
Painter and painted in its bonds forever;
A girl by Eaphael in his glory lives
A Washington unto his limner gives
The Ages' love to crown his best endeavor.
ii.
The German Emperor, with whose counter-
part
The gorgeous Titian made the world ac-
quainted,
Boasted himself immortal by the art;
But he who 011 thy features cast his heart,
Was made immortal by the head he
painted !
in.
For thou before whose tinted shade I bow,
Wert sent to show the wise of every nation
How a young world might leave the axe and
plough
To die for Truth ! So great, so loved wert
thou,
That he who touched thee won a reputa-
tion.
POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE.
807
IV.
The steady fire that buttled in thy breast,
Lit up our gloom with radiance, good
though gory;
Like some red sun which the dull earth ca-
ressed
Into a wealthy adoration blest
To be its glory's great reflected glory.
v.
Thou when the earthly heaven of man's
soul
The heaven of home, of liberty, of honor
Shuddered with darkness didst the clouds
uproll
And burst such light upon the nation's dole
That every State still feels thy breath
upon her.
VI.
Could I have seen thee in the Council
bland,
Firm as a rock, but as deep stream thy
manner;
Or when, at trembling Liberty's command,
Facing grim havoc like a flag-staff stand,
And squadrons rolling round thee like a
banner!
VII.
Could I have been with thee on Princeton's
morn!
Or swelled with silence in the midnight
muster;
Behold thee ever, every fate adorn
Or on retreat, or winged victory borne
The warrior throbbing with the sage's
lustre:
VIII.
Could I have shouted in the wild acclaim
That rent the sky o'er Germantown
asunder;
Or when, like cataract, 'gainst the sheeted
flame
You dashed, and chill'd the victor- shout to
shame,
On Monmouth's day of palsy-giving thun-
der:
Could I have followed thee through town
and camp!
Fought where you led, and heard the
same drums rattle;
Charged with a wild but passion-steadied
tramp,
And witnessed, rising o'er death's ghastly
damp,
The stars of empire through the clouds of
battle!
x.
Oh! to have died thus 'neath thy hero gaze,
And won a smile, my bursting youth
would rather
Than to have lived with every other praise,
Saving the blessing of those epic days
When you blest all, and were the nation's
father.
XI.
The autumn sun caresses Vernon's tomb,
Whose presence doth the country's honor
leaven
Two suns they are, that dissipate man's
gloom;
For one's the index to Earth's free-born
bloom,
The other to our burning hope in Heaven!
XII.
Thy dust may moulder in the hollow rock:
But every day thy soul makes some new
capture!
Nations unborn will swell thy thankful flock,
And Fancy tremble that she cannot mock
Thy history's Truth that will enchant with
rapture.
XIII.
How vain the daring to compute in words
The height of homage that the heart would
render!
And yet how proud to feel no speech af-
fords
Harmonious measure to the subtle chords
That fill the soul beneath thy placiil splen-
dor!
POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE,
DEATH OF THE HOMEWARD BOUND.
PALER and thinner the morning moon grew,
Colder and sterner the rising wind blew
The pole star had set in a forest of cloud,
And the icicles crackled on spar and on
shroud, [cry,
When a voice from below we feebly heard
" Let me see, let me see my own land ere I
die.
u.
"Ah ! dear sailor, say ! have we sighted Cape
Clear ?
Can you see any sign ? Is the morning light
near ?
You are young, my brave boy ! thanks,
thanks for your hand, [land.
Help me up till I get a last glimpse of the
Thank God. 'tis the sun that now reddens
the sky,
I shall see, I shall see my own land ere I die.
in.
" Let me lean on your strength, I am feeble
and old,
And one half of my heart is already stone-
cold:
Forty years work a change ! when I first
crossed this sea,
There were few on the deck that could grap-
ple with me;
But my youth and my prime in Ohio went by,
And I'm come back to see the old spot ere I
die."
* All the poems of this author are published In one volume
by D. & J. Sadlier & Co. , New York.
IV.
'Twas a feeble old man, and he stood on the
deck,
His arm round a kindly young mariner's
neck
His ghastly gaze fix'd on the tints of the east
As a starveling might stare at the sound of a
feast;
The morn quickly rose and reveal 'd to his eye
The land he had pray'd to behold, and then
die!
v.
Green, green was the shore, though the year
was near done
High and haughty the capes the white surf
dash'd upon
A gray ruin'd convent was down by the
strand,
And the sheep fed afar, on the hills of the
land!
" God be with you, dear Ireland ! " he gasp'd
with a sigh;
" I have lived to behold you I'm ready to>
die."
YI.
He sunk by the hour, and his pulse 'gan to
fail,
As we swept by the headland of storied Kin-
sale;
Off Ardigna Bay it came slower and slower,
And his corpse was clay-cold as we sighted
Tramore;
At Passage we waked him, and now he doth
lie
In the lap of the land he beheld but to die.
HOMEWAKD BOUND.
THE RETURN OF THE IRISH EXILE.
I'OKMN OF THOMAS D'AIM'Y Mc<,KK.
THE ANCIENT RACE.
i.
WHAT shall become of the ancient race
Tlu 1 noble Celtic island race?
Like cloud on cloud o'er the azure sky,
When winter storms are loud and high,
Their dark ships shadow the ocean's face
What shall become of the Celtic race?
II.
What shall befall the ancient race
The poor, unfriended, faithful race?
Where ploughman's song made the hamlet
ring,
The village vulture flaps his wing;
The village homes, oh, who can trace,
God of our persecuted race ?
in.
What shall befall the ancient race ?
Is treason's stigma on their face ?
Be they cowards or traitors ? Go
Ask the shade of England's foe;
See the gems her crown that grace;
They tell a tale of the ancient race.
IV.
They tell a tale of the ancient race
Of matchless deeds in danger's face;
They speak of Britain's glory fed
On blood of Celt right bravely shed;
Of India's spoil and Frank's disgrace
They tell a tale of the ancient race.
v.
Then why cast out the ancient race?
(<r\m want dwelt with the ancient race;
And hell-born laws, with prison jaws,
And greedy lords with tiger maws
Have swallow'd swallow still apace
The limbs and the blood of the ancient race.
VI.
Will no one shield the ancient race ?
They fly their fathers' burial-place;
The proud lords with the heavy purse
Their fathers' shame--their people's curse
Demons in heart, nobles in face
They dig a grave for the ancient race I
VII.
They dig a grave for the ancient race
And grudge that grave to the ancient race
On highway side full oft were seen
The wild dogs and the vultures keen
Tug for the limbs and gnaw the face
Of some starved child of the ancient race I
VIII.
What shall befall the ancient race ?
Shall all forsake their dear birth-place,
Without one struggle strong to keep
The old soil where their fathers sleep ?
The dearest land on earth's wide space
Why leave it so, ancient race ?
IX.
What shall befall the ancient race ?
Light up one hope for the ancient race ?
Priest of God Soggurth aroon !
Lead but the way we'll go full soon;
Is there a danger we will not face
To keep old homes for the Irish race ?
x.
They will not go, the ancient race !
They must not go, the ancient race !
Come, gallant Celts, and take your stand
The League the League will save the
land
The land of faith, the land of grace,
The laud of Erin's ancient race !
XI.
They will not go, the ancient race !
They *luill not go, the ancient race !
The cry swells loud from shore to shore,
From em'rald vale to mountain hoar
From altar high to market-place
They shall not go, the ancient race I
310
POK.MS OK THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE.
THE EXILE'S REQUEST.
i.
OH, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off
lands a sign,
Let it be some token still of the green old
land once mine;
A shell from the shores of Ireland would be
dearer far to me
Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the
art of Italic.
ii.
For I was born in Ireland I glory in the
name
I weep for all her sorrows, I remember well
her fame !
And still my heart must hope that I may yet
repose at rest
On the Holy Zion of my youth, in the Israel
of the West.
JIL
Her beauteous face is furrow'd with sorrow's
streaming rains,
Her lovely limbs are mangled with slavery's
ancient chains,
Yet, Pilgrim, pass not over with heedless
heart or eye
The island of the gifted, and of men who
knew to die.
IV.
Like the crater of a fire-meant, all without
is bleak and bare,
But the rigor of its lips still show what fire
and force were there;
Even now in the heaving craters, far from
the gazer's ken,
The fiery steel is forging that will crush her
foes again.
v.
Then, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the
far-off lands a sign,
Let it be some token still of the green old
land once mine;
A shell from the shores of Ireland would be
dearer far to me
Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the
art of Italic.
THE SEA-DIVIDED GAELS,
i.
HAIL to our Celtic brethren wherever they
may be,
In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the At-
lantic sea
Whether they guard the banner of St. George
in Indian vales,
Or spread beneath the nightless North ex-
perimental sails
One in name and in fame
Are the sea-divided Gaels.
ii.
Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed
the Scottish land
Though small the power of Mona, though
unwaked Lewellyn's band
Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies de-
generate in tales,
And the cloisters of lona are bemoan'd by
northern gales
One in name and in fame
Are the sea-divided Gaels.
in.
In Northern Spain and Brittany our brethren
also dwell;
Oh ! brave are the traditions of their fathers
that they tell;
The eagle and the crescent in the dawn of
history pales
Before their fire, that seldom flags, and never
wholly fails:
One in name and in fame
Are the sea-divided Gaels.
IV.
A greeting and a promise unto them all we
send;
Their character our charter is, their glory is
our end;
Their friend shall be our friend, our foe
whoe'er assails
The past or future honors of the far-dispersed
Gaels:
One in name and in fame
Are the sea-divided Gaels.
I'oKMs ()[' THOMAS D'AKCV MoGEB,
811
TIIK (iol'.IIAN SAKI{.
Mi stepp'd a nmn out of the ways of men,
And no one know his sept, or rank, or
name
Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen
From somo sourco unexplored, the master
came;
Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of
ken,
Surmised that lie should be a child of
shame !
Others declared him of the Druids then
Through Patrick's labors fall'n from power
and fame.
He lived apart wrapp'd up in many plans
Ho woo'd not women, tasted not of wine
He shunn'd the sports and councils of the
clans
Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine.
His orisons wore old poetic ranns,
Which the now Ollavos deem'd an evil sign;
To most he seem'd one of those pagan Khans
Whoso mystic vigor knows no cold decline.
He was the builder of the wondrous towers,
Which tall, and straight, and exquisitely
round,
Bise monumental round the isle once ours,
Index-like, marking spots of holy ground.
In gloaming glens, in |c:ii'y lowland bowers,
On rivers' hanks, these Cloiteitchx old
bound,
Where Art, enraptured, meditates long
hours,
And Science flutters like a bird spell-
bound !
I." ! wheresoe'cr these pillar-towers aspire,
Heroes and holy mon repose helow
The bones of some gloan'd from the pagan
pyre,
Others in armor lie, us fora foe:
It WJIH the mighty Maker's life-desiro
Ti 'hrnniele his great ancestors BO;
What holier duty, what achievement higher
Remaini to Hi than tins he i im - doth show?
Yet ho, the builder, died an unknown death;
His labor done, no man behold him n,
Twas thought hi.s body faded like a breath.
Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life'* sh !.
Doubt overhangs his fate, and faith, and
birth;
His works alone attest his life and lore;
They are the only witnesses he hath
All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.
Men call'd him Gobhan Saer, and many a tale
Yet lingers in the by-ways of the land
Of how ho cleft the rock, and down the vale
Led the bright river, child-like, in his
hand;
Of how on giant ships he spread great sail.
And many marvels else by him first
plann'd:
But though these legends fade, in Innisfail
His name and towers for centuries shall
stand.
THE DEATH OF HUDSON.*
THE slayer Ih-tith is everywhere, and many
a mask hath he,
Many and awful are the shapes in which he
sways the sea;
Sometimes within a rocky aisle he lights his
candle dim.
And sits half-sheeted in the foam, chanting
a funeral hymn;
Full oft, amid tho roar of winds we hear hi-
awful cry,
Guiding tho lightning to its prey through
the beclouded sky;
Sometimes he hides 'neatli Tropic wavet,
and. as the ship sails o'er.
He hMs her fa<t to the liel'V Sill), till the
crew can breathe no more.
The Incident on which t hi* I*IU<I U f..mi.liM l rHnt.-,l In
.1 II
Thci limn- ..f Hi- faithful willi.r. wlio prrfVrrwl ivrUIn
Ubn<l<>miiKhlH.-nptHlii In l'l In*' **
iuiiliT. n 'lul.t.
B12
POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE.
There is no land BO far away but he meeteth
mankind there
He liveth at the icy pole with the 'berg and
the shaggy bear,
He smileth from the southron capes like a
May queen in her flowers,
He falleth o'er the Indian seas, dissolved in
summer showers;
But of all the sea-shapes he hath worn, may
mariners never know
Such fate as Heinrich Hudson found, in the
labyrinths of snow *
The cold north seas' Columbus, whose bones
lie far interr'd [ever heard.
Under those frigid waters where no song was
'Twas when he sail'd from Amsterdam, in
the adventurous quest
Of an ice-shored strait, through which to
reach the far and fabled West;
His dastard crew their thin blood chill'd
beneath the Arctic sky
Combined against him in the night; his hands
and feet they tie,
And bind him in a helmless boat, on that
dread sea to sail
Ah, me ! an earless, shadowy skiff, as a
schoolboy's vessel frail.
Seven sick men, and his only son, his com-
rades were to be,
But ere they left the Crescent's side, the
chief spoke, dauntlessly:
"Ho, mutineers ! I ask no act of kindness
at your hands
My fate I feel must steer me to Death's still-
silent lands;
But there is one man in my ship who sail'd
with me of yore,
By many a bay and headland of the New
World's eastern shore;
From India's heats to Greenland's snows he
dared to follow me,
And is HE turn'd traitor too, is HE in league
with ye?"
Uprose a voice from the mutineers, " Not I,
my chief, not I
I'll take my old place by your side, though
all be sure to die."
Before his chief could bid him back, he is
standing at his side;
The cable's cut away they drift, over the
midnight tide.
No word from any lip came forth, their
strain'd eyes steadily glare
At the vacant gloom, where late the ship had
left them to despair.
On the dark waters long was seen a line of
foamy light
It pass'd, like the hem of an angel's robe,
away from their eager sight.
Then each man grasp'd his fellow's hand,
some sigh'd, but none could speak,
While on, through pallid gloom, their boat
drifts moaningly and weak.
Seven sick men, dying, in a skiff five hun-
dred leagues from shore !
Oh ! never was such a crew afloat on this
world's waves before;
Seven stricken forms, seven sinking hearts
of seven short-breathing men,
Drifting over the sharks' abodes, along to the
white bear's den.
Oh ! 'twas not there they could be nursed in
homeliness and ease !
One short day heard seven bodies sink, whose
souls God rest in peace !
The one who first expired had most to note
the foam he made,
And no one pray'd to be the last, though
each the blow delay'd.
Three still remain. " My son ! my son ! hold
up your head, my son ! [is gone."
Alas ! alas ! my faithful mate, I fear his life
So spoke the trembling father two cold
hands in his breast,
Breathing upon his dead boy's face, all too
soft to break his rest.
The roar of battle could not wake that sleeper
from his sleep;
The trusty sailor softly lets him down to the
yawning deep;
The fated father hid his face while this was
being done,
Still murmuring mournfully and low, " My
son, my only son."
I'OF.MS OF THOMAS D'AKCV M, GEE,
813
Another night; uncheerily, beneath that
heartless sky, [passing by,
The iceberg sheds its livid light upon them
And each beholds the other's face, all spectre-
like and wan,
And even in that dread solitude man fear'd
the eye of man !
Afar they hear the beating surge sound from
the banks of frost,
Many a hoar cape round about looms like a
giant ghost,
And, fast or slow, as they float on, they hear
the bears on shore
Trooping down to the icy strand, watching
them evermore.
The morning dawns; unto their eyes the
light hath lost its cheer;
Nor distant sail, nor drifting spar within
their ken appear.
Embay'd in ice the coffin-like boat sleeps on
the waveless tide,
Where rays of deathly-cold, cold light con-
verge from every side.
Slow crept the blood into their hearts, each
manly pulse stood still,
Huge haggard bears kept watch above on
every dazzling hill.
Anon the doom'd men were entranced, by
the potent frigid air,
And they dream, as drowning men have
dreamt, of fields far off and fair.
What phantoms fill'd each cheated brain, no
mortal ever knew;
What ancient storms they weather'd o'er,
what seas explored anew;
What vast designs for future days what
home hope, or what fear
There was no one 'mid the ice-lands to chron-
cle or hear.
So still they sat, the weird faced seals be-
thought them they were dead,
And each raised from the waters up his
cautious wizard head,
Then circled round the arrested boat, like
vampires round a grave,
Till frighted at their own resolve they
plunged beneath the wave.
Evening closed round the moveless boat, still
sat entranced the twain,
When lo ! the ice unlocks its arms, the tide
pours in amain !
Away upon the streaming brine the feeble
skiff is borne,
The shaggy monsters howl behind their fare-
wells all forlorn.
The crashing ice, the current's roar, broke
Hudson's fairy spell,
But never more shall this world wake his
comrade tried so well !
His brave heart's blood is chill'd for aye, yet
shall its truth be told,
When the memories of kings are worn from
marble and from gold.
Onward, onward, the helpless chief the
dead man for his mate !
The shark far down in ocean's depth feels
the passing of that freight,
And bounding from his dread abyss, he snuffs
the upper air,
Then follows on the path it took, like lion
from his lair. [company,
God ! it was a fearful voyage and fearful
Nor wonder that the stout sea-chief quiver'd
from brow to knee.
Oh ! who would blame his manly heart, if
e'en it quaked for fear,
While whirl'd along on such a sea, with such
attendant near !
The shark hath found a readier prey, and
turn'd him from the chase;
The boat hath made another bay a drearier
pausing place
O'er arching piles of blue-vein'd ice admitted
to its still,
White, fathomless waters, palsied like the
doom'd man's fetterM will.
Powerless he sat that chief escaped so oft
by sea and land
Death breathing o'er him all so weak he
eould not lift a hand.
Even his bloodless lips refused a last short
prayer to spea k .
But angels listen at the heart when the voice
of man is weak.
814
POEMS OF THOMAS D'AKCY McGEE.
His heart and eye were suppliant turn'd to
the ocean's Lord on high,
The Boreal is lustres were gathering in the
sky;
From South and North, from East and West,
they cluster 'd o'er the spot
Where breathed his last the gallant chief
whose grave man seeth not;
They mark'd him die with steadfast gaze, as
. though in heaven there were
A passion to behold how he the fearful fate
would bear;
They watch'd him through the livelong night
these couriers of the sky,
Then fled to tell the listening stars how 'twas
they saw him die.
He sleepeth where old Winter's realm uc
genial air invades,
His spirit burneth bright in heaven among
the glorious shades,
Whose God-like doom on earth it was crea-
tion to unfold,
Spanning this mighty orb of ours as through
the spheres it roll'd.
His name is written on the deep, the rivers
as they run
Will bear it timeward o'er the world, telling
what he hath done;
The story of his voyage to Death, amid the
Arctic frosts,
Will be told by mourning mariners on earth's
most distant coasts.
PUBLISHER'S SUPPLEMENT
TO THE
SECOND EDITION.
^publisher's S
POEMS OF LADY DUFFERIK
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
I ' M sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Win-re we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again ;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'ning for the words
You never more may speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here;
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your bn-ast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends;
But oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary.
My blessin' and my pride ;
There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on y<ntr lip,
And the kind look on your brow
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it, for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word.
When your heart was sad and sore
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more.
I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary kind and true !
But I'll not forget you, darling!
In the land I'm goin' to.
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!
And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place when- Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side.
And the springin' corn, and the bright May
morn,
When first you were my bride.
816
A POEM BY BISHOP BERKELEY.
TERENCE'S FAREWELL.
So, my Kathleen, you're going to leave me
All alone by myself in this place,
But I'm sure you will never deceive me,
Oh, no, if there's truth in that face.
Though England's a beautiful city,
Full of illigant boys, oh, what then
You wouldn't forget your poor Terence,
You'll come back to ould Ireland again.
Och, those English, deceivers by nature,
Though maybe you'd think them sincere,
They'll say you're a sweet charming creature,
But don't you believe them, my dear.
No, Kathleen, agra! ' don't be minding
The flattering speeches they'll make,
Just tell them a poor boy in Ireland
Is breaking his heart for your sake.
It's a folly to keep you from going,
Though, faith, it's a mighty hard case-
For, Kathleen, you know there's no knowing
When next I shall see your sweet face.
And when you come back to me, Kathleen,
None the better we'll be off, then
You'll be spaking such beautiful English,
Shure I won't know my Kathleen again.
Eh, now, where's the need of this hurry
Don't flutter me so in this way
I've forgot, in the grief and the flurry,
Every word I was maning to say;
Now just wait a minute, I bid ye,
Can I talk if ye bother me so ?
Oh, Kathleen, my blessing go wid ye,
Ev'ry inch of the way that you go.
1 My Love.
A POEM BY BISHOP BERKELEY.
ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING
ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMER-
ICA.
THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time
Producing subjects worthy fame.
In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of Art by Nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true;
In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where Nature guides and virtue rules,
52
Where men shall not impose for truth and
sense
The pedantry of courts and schools.
There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.
Westward the course of empire takes its way ;
The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Earth's noblest offspring is the last.
POEMS OF JOHN FRAZER.
(J. DE JEAK)
THE POET AND HIS SON.
COME forth, my son, into the fields
What is there in the crowd
Of hearts, or scenes, the city yields,
To make young spirits proud ?
Girt by mankind, we dream a God
May in the skies abide;
But oh ! he must be all a clod,
Who feels not on the fragrant sod
God walketh by his side!
Could I withdraw thee from the cold,
The mean, the base, the stern,
And sellish craft that young and old
From grasping crowds must learn;
How gladly to some rural nook
Would I transplant thy mind ;
From Nature's brow and Sage's book,
To learn that highest lore to look
With love upon mankind !
Field, forest, glen, rock, hill, and stream,
Green robe and snowy shroud
The calm, the storm, the lightning gleam,
The sea, the sky, the cloud
Are volumes the Eternal One
Hath sent us from above,
For every heart to study on.
And learn to suffer, seek, and shun,
In charity and love.
The weak may there be taught to cope,
The mighty to beware;
The fond to doubt, the slave to hope,
The tyrant to despair
Changing and changeless, that which dies,
Ami that no death can mar.
Silent and sounding, wild ami wise,
I'.rt'ore each mood of passion rise
A Beacon, or a Bar.
My son, to these rich volumes oft
From throngs and streets retire;
So shall thy spirit soar aloft
From low and base desire.
And when thy country, chained or free,
From city and green sod
Arrays the people's majesty,
Thy soul, in truth and wisdom, be
A soul that spoke with God.
THE HOLY \\KLLS.
THE holy wells the living wells the cool,
the fresh, the pure
A thousand ages rolled away, and still those
founts endure,
As full and sparkling as they flowed, ere
slave or tyrant trod
The emerald garden, set apart for Irishmen
by God!
And while their stainless chastity and lasting
life have birth,
Amid the oozy cells and caves of gross, ma-
terial earth,
The scripture of creation holds no fairer
type than they
That an immortal spirit can be linked with
human clay!
How sweet, of old, the bubbling gush no
less to an tiered race,
Than to the hunter, and the hound, that
smote them in the ch
In forest depths the water-fount beguiled
the Druid's l>\r.
From that celestial fount of fire which warned
from worlds above;
Inspired apostles took it for the
ring,
When sprinkling round baptismal life sal-
vationfrom the spring;
818
POEMS OF JOHN FRAZER (J. DE JEAN).
And in the sylvan solitude, or lonely moun-
tain cave,
Beside it passed the hermit's life, as stainless
as its wave.
The cottage hearth, the convent wall, the
battlemented tower,
Grew up around the crystal springs, as well
as flag and flower ;
The brooklime and the water-cress were evi-
dence of health,
Abiding in those basins, free to poverty and
wealth :
The city sent pale sufferers there the faded
brow to dip,
And woo the water to depose some bloom
upon the lip ;
The wounded warrior dragged him towards
the unforgotten tide,
And deemed the draught a heavenlier gift
than triumph to his side.
The stag, the hunter, and the hound, the
Druid and the saint,
And anchorite are gone, and even the linea-
ments grown faint,
Of those old ruins, into which, for monu-
ments, had sunk
The glorious homes that held, like shrines,
the monarch and the monk ;
So far into the heights of God the mind of
man has ranged,
It learned a lore to change the earth its
very self it changed
To some more bright intelligence; yet still
the springs endure,
The same fresh fountains, but become more
precious to the poor!
For knowledge has abused its powers, an
empire to erect
For tyrants, on the rights the poor had
given them to protect;
Till now the simple elements of nature are
their all,
That from the cabin is not filched, and lav-
ished in the hall
And while night, noon, or morning meal no
other plenty brings,
No oeverage than the water draught from
old, spontaneous springs,
They, sure, may deem them holy wells, that
yield, from day to day,
One blessing which no tyrant hand can taint,
or take away.
THE REJECTION.
THE lady sigh'd at twilight hour
The high-born lover came,
Whose absence long had made her bow'r
The lamp without the flame.
But still the maiden sigh'd in sooth,
A heavy heart she bore ;
Though much she loved the blue-eyed youth,
She lov'd their country more !
He ne'er upon his own green land,
Except in scorn had smil'd ;
Nor rais'd an arm, save when his hand,
That might adorn, defil'd.
Till as the banded nation rose,
He shrunk into his shame
At best, too fond of self-repose
To strike for nobler fame.
And when he breath'd of love to last,
Entwin'd with high renown,
It seem'd as tho' the night breeze pass'd
And shook the dew-drops down ;
So fast the tears, dark, pure and cold,
From her droop'd lashes fell ;
Alas ! that hearts, to bless the bold,
Should love the base too well !
" Sweet girl," he cried, " in happier climes,
I weave our bow'r of bliss ;
I fear the feuds I count the crimes
I spurn a land like this.
And ere the storms that o'er it low'r
May burst, I come for thee."
" Then seek," she said, " to bless the bow'r,
A gentler bride than me.
A I'oKM BY KOBE11T EMMKT.
" Dost thou forswear the glorious hope
Thy meanest vassals show;
And, ev'n in love, refuse to cope
With mine our country's foe?
The land has many a lofty claim
OH all who drank her breast;
And cowards share the despot's shame,
Who fly her while oppress'd.
"A daisy necklace from the field,
Where first my footsteps trod,
With him, whose sword and spirit shield
From every lord but God
That! rather than with pearly wreath,
In happier lands to shine,
With one who only dares to breathe
His recreant thoughts in mine !
" I deem'd that men mistold thy deeds,
AVhen wondering thou hast thriven;
While many an honest bosom bleeds,
Thy power has crush'd or riven;
But crimes in him, whose lips avow
The coward on his crest,
Are merely fruitage of the bough,
More ripen'd than the rest.
" I would that I had lov'd thee less
And less my love had shown !
But here I trample tenderness
Go forth but go alone !
And Heaven, that gives the ocean bird
The oil to prune its wings,
Will not dismiss my pray'r unheard,
To heal the heart it stings."
A POEM BY ROBERT EMMET.
ARBOR HILL. 1
No rising column marks this spot,
Where many a victim lies ;
But oh ! the blood that here has streamed,
To heaven for justice cries.
It claims it on the oppressor's head,
Who joys in human woe,
Who drinks the tears by misery shed,
And mocks them as they flow.
It claims it on the callous judge,
W T hose hands in blood are dyed,
Who arms injustice with the sword,
The balance throws aside.
It claims it for his ruined isle,
Her wretched children's grave;
Where withered Freedom droops her head,
And man exists a slave.
sacred justice ! free this land
From tyranny abhorred ;
Resume thy balance and thy seat
Resume but sheathe thy sword.
1 Arbour Hill, in tli- city of Dublin, is the site of a military
prison. Into the burying-ground which is attached were cast
No retribution should we seek
Too long has horror reigned ?
By mercy marked may Freedom rise,
By cruelty unstained.
Nor shall a tyrant's ashes mix
With those our martyred dead :
This is the place where Erin's sons
In Erin's cause have bled.
And those who hen- arc laid at rest,
Oh ! hallowed be each name ;
Their memories are forever blest
Consigned to endless fame.
Unconsecrated is this ground,
Unblest by holy hands;
No bell here tolls its solemn sound,
No monument here stands.
But here the patriot's tears are shed,
The poor man's blessing given :
These consecrate the virtuous dead.
These waft their fame to heav. n.
the bodie* of many of tli -h-.t in ''.*. The follow-
ing lim-s \vrr<- written l>y the patriot-martyr, Hubert Einmet.
It Is belicv, ,| to !M> the only |-m <>f Kmmet'a extaiit.
A POEI BY R. A, MILLIKEN,
THE GROVES OF BLARNEY.
THE groves of Blarney
They look so charming,
Down by the purling
Of sweet silent streams;
Being banked with posies
That spontaneous grow there,
Planted in order
By the sweet rock close.
'Tis there's the daisy
And the sweet carnation,
The blooming pink,
And the rose so fair;
The daffy down dilly
Likewise the lily,
All flowers that scent
The sweet fragrant air.
'Tis Lady Jeifers
That owns this station ;
Like Alexander,
Or Queen Helen fair;
There's no commander
In all the nation,
For emulation,
Can with her compare.
Such walls surround her,
That no nine pounder
Could dare to plunder
Her place of strength ;
But Oliver Cromwell,
Her he did pommel,
And made a breach
In her battlement.
There's grand walks there,
For speculation,
And conversation
In sweet solitude.
'Tis there the lover
May hear the dove, or
The gentle plover
In the afternoon.
And if a lady
Would be so engaging
As to walk alone in
Those shady bowers,
'Tis there the courtier,
He may transport her
Into some fort, or
All under ground.
For 'tis there's a cave where
No daylight enters,
But cats and badgers
Are for ever bred ;
Being mossed by nature,
That makes it sweeter
Than a coach and six,
Or a feather bed.
'Tis there the lake is,
"Well stored with perches,
And comely eels in
The verdant mud;
Besides the leeches,
And groves of beeches,
Standing in order
For to guard the flood.
There's statues gracing
This noble place in
All heathen gods
And nymphs so fair:
Bold Neptune, Plutarch,
And Nicodemus,
All standing naked,
In the open air!
So now to finish
This brave narration,
Which my poor geni
Could not entwine;
But were I Homer,
Or Nebuchadnezzar,
'Tis in every feature
I would make it shine.
POEMS BY THE HON, MRS. NORTON.
THE MOTHER'S HEART.
WHEN first thou earnest, gentle, shy and
fond,
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest
treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it had yet felt for earthly pleasure,
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.
Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy
years,
And natural piety, that lean'd to heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given;
Obedient, easy to be reconciled ;
And meekly cheerful, such wert thou, my
child!
Not willing to be left; still by my side
Haunting my walks, while summer-day was
dying;
Nor leaving in thy turn ; but pleased to guide
Thro' the dark room where I was sadly
lying,
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish
cheek.
Oh ! boy, of such as thou are oftenest made
Earth's fragile idols! like a tender flower.
No strength in all thy freshness, prone to
fade,
And bending weakly to the thunder-
shower;
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force
to bind,
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind !
Then THOU, my merry love; bold in thy
glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight danc-
ing*
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing
glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth.
Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd eartli !
Thine was the shout ! the song ! the burst of
joy!
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lips re-
soundeth ;
Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy,
And the glad heart from which all grief
reboundeth;
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply.
Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark blue eye!
And thine was many an art to win and Mess.
The cold and stern to joy and fondness
warming;
The coaxing smile; the frequent soft ca-
ress,
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath dis-
arming !
Again my heart a new affection found,
But thought that love with ///" had readied
its bound.
At length THOU earnest; thou the last and
least;
Nicknamed "the Emperor," by thy laugh-
ing brothers,
Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast,
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the
others ;
Mingling with every playful infant wile
A mimic majesty that made us smile:
822
POEMS BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou !
An eye of resolute and successful schem-
ing;
Fair shoulders curling lip and dauntless
brow
Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's
dreaming :
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.
Different from both ! Yet each succeeding
claim,
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;
Nor injured either by this love comparing;
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,
But in the mother's heart found room for
ALL!
LOVE NOT.
LOVE not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ;
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly
flow'rs
Things that are made to fade and fall away,
When they have blossomed but a few short
hours.
Love not, love not !
Love not, love not ! The thing you love may
die
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.
Love not, love not !
Love not, love not ! The thing you love may
change ;
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and
strange ;
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.
Love not, love not !
Love not, love not! Oh warning vainly said
In present years, as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,
Faultless, immortal till they change or die.
Love not, love not!
THE TRYST.
I WENT, alone, to the old familiar place
Where we often met,
When the twilight soften'd thy bright and
radiant face
And the sun had set.
All things around seem'd whispering of the
past,
With thine image blent
Even the changeful spray which the torrent
cast
As it downward went!
I stood and gazed with a sad and heavy eye
On the waterfall
And with a shouting voice of agony
On thy name did call !
With a yearning hope, from my wrung and
aching heart
I call'd on thee
And the lonely echoes from the rocks above
They answer'd me !
Glad and familiar as a household word
Was that cherish'd name^
But in that grieving hour, faintly heard,
'Twas not the same !
Solemn and sad, with a distant knelling cry,
On my heart it fell
'Twas as if the word " Welcome " had been
answer'd by
The word "Farewell!"
POEMS OF JOHN KEEGAN.
CAOCH O'LEARY.
ONE winter's day, long, long ago,
When I was a little fellow,
A fifer wandered to our door,
Grey-headed, blind, and yellow;
And, oh ! how glad was my young heart,
Though earth and sky looked dreary,
To see the stranger and his dog
Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary.
And when he stowed away his bag,
Cross-barred with green and yellow,
I thought and said : in Ireland's ground
There's not so fine a fellow.
And Fineen Burke and Shaun Magee,
And Eily, Kate and Mary,
Rushed in with panting haste to see
And welcome Caoch O'Leary.
Oh, God be with those happy times!
Oh, God be with my childhood !
When I bare-headed roamed all day,
Bird-nesting in the wildwood.
I'll not forget those sunny hours,
However years may vary;
Pll not forget my early friends,
Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.
Poor Caoch and Pinch slept well that night,
And in the morning early
He called me up to hear him play
" The Wind that shakes the Barley."
And then he stroked my flaxen hair,
And cried, "God bless my deary."
And how I wept when he said " Farewell,
And think of Caoch O'Leary! "
And seasons came and went, and still
Old Caoch was not forgotten,
Although we thought him dead and gone,
And in the cold grave rotten;
And often, when I walked and talked
With Eily, Kate and Mary,
We thought of childhood's rosy hours,
And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.
Well, twenty summers had gone past,
And June's red sun was sinking,
When I, a man, sat by my door,
Of twenty sad things thinking.
A little dog came up the way,
His gait was slow and weary,
And at his tail a lame man limped
'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary!
Old Caoch, but, oh! how woe-begone!
His form was bowed and bending,
His fleshless hands were stiff and wan,
Aye Time was even blending
The colors on his threadbare bag
And Pinch was twice as hairy
And thin-spare as when first I saw
Himself and Caoch O'Leary.
" God's blessing here ! " the wanderer cried,.
" Far, far be hate's black viper !
Does anybody here about
Remember Caoch the Piper?"
With swelling heart I grasped his hand;
The old man murmured, " Deary!
Are you the silky-headed child
That loved poor Caoch O'Leary ? "
" Yes, yes," I said ; the wanderer wept
As if his heart was breaking
"And where, avic inachree" he sobbed,
" Is all the merry-making
I found here twenty years ago ? "
" My tale," I sighed, " might weary;
Enough to say there's none but me
To welcome Caoch O'Leary."
S24
POEMS OF JOHN KEEGAN.
" Vo, vo, vo ! " the old man cried,
And wrung his hands in sorrow
'" Pray lead me in, asthore machree,
And I'll go home to-morrow.
My peace is made, I'll calmly leave
'This world so cold and dreary,
And you shall keep my pipes and dog,
And pray for Caoch O'Leary."
With Pinch I watched his bed that night,
Next day his wish was granted ;
He died and Father James was brought,
And the Requiem Mass was chanted.
'The neighbors came; we dug his grave
Near Eily, Kate and Mary,
And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep
God rest you Caoch O'Leary!
THE "HOLLY AND IVY" GIRL.
" COME buy my nice fresh Ivy, and my Holly
sprig so green ;
I have the finest branches that ever yet were
seen.
Come buy from me, good Christians, and let
me home, I pray,
And I'll wish you ' Merry Christmas times,
and a happy New Year's Day.'
"Ah ! won't you take my Ivy ? the loveli-
est ever seen !
Ah ! won't you have my Holly boughs ? all
you who love the Green !
Do ! take a little bunch of each, and on my
knees I'll pray
That God may bless your Christmas and be
with you New Year's Day.
" This wind is black and bitter, and the hail-
stones do not spare
My shivering form, my bleeding feet, and
stiff entangled hair;
Then, when the skies are pitiless, be merci-
ful, I say
So Heaven will light your Christmas and the
coming New Year's Day."
'Twas thus a dying maiden sung, while the
cold hail rattled down,
And fierce winds whistled mournfully o'er
Dublin's dreary town;
One stiff hand clutched her Ivy sprigs and
Holly boughs so fair,
With the other she kept brushing the hail
drops from her hair.
So grim and statue-like she seemed, 'twas
evident that Death [impeded breath
Was lurking in her footsteps while her hot,
Too plainly told her early doom though the
burden of her lay
Was still of life and Christmas joys and a
happy New Year's Day.
'Twas on that broad, bleak Thomas street I
heard the wanderer sing,
I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the
ragged ring
My heart felt cold and lonely and my
thoughts were far away,
Where I was many a Christmas-tide and
Happy New Year's Day.
I dreamed of wandering in the woods among
the Holly Green ; [with Ivy screen ;
I dreamed of my own native cot and porch
I dreamed of lights forever dimm'd of
hopes that can't return
And dropped a tear on Christmas fires that
never more can burn.
The ghost-like singer still sung on, but no
one came to buy;
The hurrying crowd passed to and fro, but
did not heed her cry;
She uttered one low, piercing groan-c-then
cast her boughs away
And smiling, cried" I'll rest with God be-
fore the New Year's Day ! "
* * * * * *
On New Year's Day I said my prayers above
a new made grave, [muring wave;
Dug decently in sacred soil, by Liffey's mur-
The minstrel maid from Earth to Heaven
has winged her happy way,
And now enjoys, with sister saints, an end-
less New Year's Day.
A 1'OKM BY LADY
825
THE IRISH K'KAI'Kirs HARVEST
HYMN.
ALL hail ! Holy Mary, our hope and our joy !
Smile down, blessed Queen! on the poor
Irish boy,
Who wanders away from his dear belov'd
home;
Oh, Mary ! be with me wherever I roam.
Be with me, Oh ! Mary,
Forsake me not, Mary,
But guide me, and guard me, wherever I
roam.
From the home of my fathers in anguish I
g>
To toil for the dark-livered, cold-hearted foe,
Who mocks me, and hates me, and calls me
a slave,
An alien, a savage, all names but a knave;
But, blessed be Mary,
My sweet, Holy Mary,
The bodagh, 1 he never dare call me a knave.
Fom my mother's mud sheeling, an outcast I
fly,
With a cloud on my heart and a tear in my
eye!
1 Bodayh, a clown, a churl.
Oh ! I burn as I think as if Some One would
say,
" Revenge on your tyrants" but Mary, I pray
From my soul's depth, Oh ! Mary,
And hear me, sweet Mary,
For Union and Peace to old Ireland I pray.
The land that I fly from is fertile and fair,
And more than I ask for or wish for is there
But I must not taste the good things that I
see,
" There's nothing but rags and green rushes
for me." >
Oh! mild Virgin Mary,
Oh! sweet Mother Mary,
Who keeps my rough hand from red murder
but thee ?
But sure in the end our dear freedom we'll
gain, [sanach stain.
And wipe from the Green Flag each Sas-
And oh ! Holy Mary, your blessing we crave,
Give hearts to the timid, and hands to the
brave.
And then, Mother Mary,
Our own blessed Mary,
Light liberty's flame in the hut of the slave.
1 Taken literally from a conversation with a young peasant
on his way to reap the harvest in England.
A POEM BY LADY MORGAN.
KATE KEARNEY.
OH ! did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney ?
She lives on the banks of Killarney: [fly,
From the glance of her eye, shun danger and
For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.
For, that eye is so modestly beaming, [ing.
You'd ne'er think of mischief she's dream-
Yet, oh! I can tell, how fatal's the spell
That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney.
Oh ! should you e'er meet this Kate Kear-
ney,
Who lives on the banks of Killarney,
Beware of her smile ; for many a wile
Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney.
Though she looks so bewitchingly simple
Yet there's mischief in every dimple,
And who dares inhale her sigh's spicy gale,
Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney.
A POEM BY DR, CAMPION,
" NINETY-EIGHT."
IN the old marble town of Kilkenny,
With its abbeys, cathedrals, and halls,
Where the Norman bells ring out at nightfall,
And the relics of gray crumbling walls
Show traces of Celt and of Saxon,
In bastions, and towers, and keeps, ^
And graveyards and tombs tell the living
Where glory or holiness sleeps;
Where the Nuncio brought the Pope's bless-
ing,
And money and weapons to boot,
While Owen was wild to be plucking
The English clan up by the root.
Where regicide Oliver revelled,
With his Puritan, ironside horde,
And cut down both marble and monarchy,
Grimly and grave with the sword.
There, in that old town of history,
England, in famed Ninety-eight,
Was busy with gallows and yoemen,
Propounding the laws of the State.
They were hanging a young lad a rebel-
On a gibbet before the old jail,
And they marked his weak spirit to falter,
And his white face to quiver and quail ;
And he spoke of his mother, whose dwelling
Was but a short distance away
A poor, lorn, heart-broken widow
And he her sole solace and stay.
" Bring her here," cried the chief of the yeo
men,
"A lingering chance let us give
To this spawn of a rebel, to babble,
And by her sage council to live."
And quick a red trooper went trotting
From the town to the poor cabin door,
And he found the old lone woman sitting
And spinning upon the bare floor.
Your son is in trouble, old damsel!
They have him within in the town,
L nd he wishes to see you; so bustle,
And put on your tucker and gown/'
'he old woman stopped from the spinning,.
With a frown on her deep wrinkled brow;
I know how it is cursed yeoman !
I am ready I'll go with you now."
He seized her, enraged, by the shoulder,
And lifting her up on his steed,
Struck the spurs, and they rode to the city,
Eight ahead, and with clattering speed.
They stopped at the foot of the gallows,
And the mother confronted the son
And she hugged his young heart to her bosom,
And kissed his face, pallid and wan
And, as the rope dangled before her,
She held the loop fast in her hand
For, though her proud soul was unblenching,
Her frail limbs were failing to stand.
And while the raw yeomen came crowding
To witness the harrowing scene,
The brave mother flushed to the forehead,
And spoke with the air of a queen
" My son, they are going to hang you,
For loving your faith and your home,
And they called me to urge you, and save
you
And, in God's name, I've answered and
come;
They murdered your father before you,
And I knelt on the red reeking sod
And I watched his hot blood steaming up-
ward,
To call down the vengeance of God.
No traitor was he to his country-
No blot did he leave on his name
And I always could pray at his cold grave,
Oh! the priest could kneel there without
shame."
POEMS OF MRS. K. I. ODOHERTY.
827
" To hell with your priests and your rebels,"
The captain cried out with a yell,
While, from the tall tower in the temple,
Rang out the sweet Angelus bell.
"Blessed Mother!" appealed the poor
widow,
" Look down on my child, and on me ! "
" Blessed mother! " sneered out the vile yeo-
man
" Tell your son to confess and be free ! "
" Never, never ! he'll die like his father
My boy, give your life to the Lord ;
But, of treason to Ireland, mavourneen,
Never breathe one dishonoring word."
His white cheek flushed up at her speaking,
His heart bounded up at her call
And his hushed spirit seemed, at awaking,
To scorn death, yeoman and all.
" I'll die, and I'll be no informer
My kin I will never disgrace,
And when God let's me see my poor father,
I can lovingly look in his face."
" You'll see him in hell ! " cried the yeoman,
As he flung the sad widow away
And the youth in a moment was strangling
In the broad eye of shuddering day.
" Give the gallows a passenger outside,"
A tall Hessian spluttered aloud,
As he drove a huge nail in the timber,
'Mid the curses and cries of the crowd.
Then seizing the poor bereaved mother,
He passed his broad belt 'round her
throat,
While her groaning was lost in the drum-
beat,
And her shrieks in the shrill bugle
note.
And mother and son were left choking,
And struggling and writhing in death,
While angels looked down on the murder,
And devils were wrangling beneath.
For this, cries the exile defiant
For this, cries the Patriot brave
For this, cries the lonely survivor
O'er many a horror-marked grave ;
For this, cry the Priest and the Peasant
The student, the lover, the lost,
The stalworth, who pride in their vigor,
The frail, as they give up the ghost.
For this we curse Saxon dominion,
And join in the world-wide cry
That wails up to heaven for vengeance
Thro' every blue gate of the sky !
POEMS OF MRS, K, I, O'DOHERTY,
(EYA.)
SHADOWS.
WHERE is the blackbird singing
The live long day ?
Wlu're is the clear stream ringing
This golden May ?
Ah! I know where the bird is singintr.
And I know where the stream is ringing,
For my heart to that spot is clinging,
Far, far away !
Lightly the silver rushes
Wave to and fro ;
Thick are the hazel bushes,
Black the sloe;
Sweet are the winds that whist K-.
Green are the boughs that rustle,
There where tin- wild birds
In Gleumaloe!
828
POEMS OF MRS. K. I. O'DOHEKTY.
Faint are the murmurs humming
Through breeze and stream,
Dim are the shadows coming
A fairy dream !
Harp notes are heard to tinkle,
Voices of spirits mingle,
Deep in each hollow dingle,
Where violets gleam !
Ah ! but the years are dreary
Since long ago
Ah ! but this heart is weary,
Sweet Glenmaloe!
Thinking of visions faded,
Lightsome and glad that made it
Hopes that for aye are shaded,
So well I know!
Still is the blackbird singing
The live-long day;
Still are the waters ringing
This golden May
But, ah! not for me that singing,
Nor the stream with its silver ringing,
Tho' my heart to that spot is clinging
Far, far away !
THE PEOPLE'S CHIEF.
COME forth, come forth, Man of Men ! to
the cry of the gathering nations,
We watch on the tower, we watch on the hill,
pouring our invocations
Our souls are sick of sounds and shades, that
mark our shame and grief,
We hurl the Dagons from their seats and call
the lawful chief.
Come forth, come forth, Man of Men ! to
the frenzy of our imploring,
The winged despair that no man can bear,
up to the heavens are soaring
Come ! Faith and Hope and Love and Trust,
upon their centre rock ;
The wailing millions summon thee amid the
earthquake shock !
We've kept the weary watch of years, with
a wild and heart-wrung yearning,
But thy Advent we sought in vain, calmly
and purely burning;
False meteors flash'd across the sky, and
falsely led us on ;
The parting of the strife is come the spell
is o'er and gone !
The storms of enfranchised passions rise as
the voice of the eagle's screaming,
And we scatter now to the earth's four winds
the memory of our dreaming;
The clouds but veil the lightning's bolt
sybilline murmuring
In hollow tones from out the depths the
People seek their King!
Come forth, come forth, Anointed One ! nor
blazon nor banners bearing
No " ancient line " be thy seal or sign, the-
crown of humanity wearing
Spring out as lucent fountains spring exult-
ing from the ground
Arise, as Adam rose from God, with strength
and knowledge crown'd.
The leader of the world's wide host guiding
our aspirations,
Wear thou the seamless garb of Truth sitting
among the nations !
Thy foot is on the empty forms around in
shivers cast
We crush ye with the scorn of scorn, exuvise
of the past.
The future's closed gates are now on their
ponderous hinges jarring,
And there comes a sound as of winds and
waves each with the other warring;
And forward bends the list'ning world, as to
their eager ken
From out that dark and mystic land appears
the Man of Men !
POEMS OF ELLEN DOWNING,
ST. AGNES.
HER cheek was not a shade more pale
She wore no look of pride;
She gently drew the amber veil
Of her long hair aside.
No stern defiance taught her eye
To smile upon the glaive;
She simply felt it sweet to die,
And meant not to be brave.
She scarcely seemed the angry eyes
Of her stern judge to see;
She scarcely heard the muttered cries
Reversing his decree.
She scarcely felt the lightning stroke
Which hurled her on the sod.
'Twas a short dream, fron* which she woke
To her embracing God.
Her love had been a virgin love,
Her brow a virgin brow,
And virgins twine her wreath above
And seek her shrine below.
Death found her in her bridal dress,
And heard her bridal vows;
She passed in bridal tenderness
To her eternal Spouse.
I LOVE YOU.
I LOVE you 'tis the simplest way
The thing I feel to tell;
Yet, if I told it all the day,
You'd never guess how well.
You are my comfort and my light,
My very life you seem ;
I think of you nil day all night
'Tis but of you I dream.
There's pleasure in the slightest word
That you can speak to me ;
My soul is like the /Eolian chord,
And vibrates still to thee ;
I never read the love-song yet,
So thrilling fond, or true,
But in my beating heart I've met
Some kindred thoughts of you.
I bless the shadow on your face,
The light upon your hair;
I like to sit for hours and trace
The passing changes there :
I love to hear your voice's tone,
Although you should not say
A single word to dream upon
When that had died away.
Oh ! you are kindly as the beam
That warms where'er it plays :
And you are gentle as the gleam
Of happy future days;
And you are strong to do the right,
And swift the wrong to flee;
And if you were not half so bright,
You're all the world to me.
THE GRAVE OF MACCAUK \.
AND this is thy grave, MacCaurn.
Here by the pathway lorn-;
Where the thorn blossoms are blending
Over thy mouldered stone.
Alas! for the sons of glory;
< Mi ! thou of the darkened brow,
Ami the eagle plume, ami the )>eltcd clans,
It is here thou art sleeping now ?
Wllil is the split. M:ie< 'illlHI,
III whieh they have laid thee low.
330
A POEM BY MICHAEL J. BALFE.
The field where thy people triumphed
Over a slaughtered foe;
And loud was the banshees wailing,
And deep was the clansmen's sorrow.
When with bloody hands and burning tears
They buried thee here, MacCaura.
And now thy dwelling is lonely
King of the rushing horde;
And now thy battles are over
Chief of the shining sword.
And the rolling thunder echoes
O'er torrent and mountain free,
But alas ! and alas ! MacCaura,
It will not awaken thee.
Farewell to thy grave, MacCaura,
Where the slanting sunbeams shine,
And the briar and waving fern
Over thy slumbers twine;
Thou whose gathering summons
Could awaken the sleeping glen ;
MacCaura ! alas for thee and thine,
'Twill never be heard again.
A POEI BY MICHAEL J, BALFE,
KILLARNEY.
I.
BY Killarney's lakes and fells,
Em'rald isles and winding bays,
Mountain paths and woodland dells,
Mem'ry ever fondly strays.
Bounteous nature loves all lands,
Beauty wanders ev'rywhere,
Footprints leaves on many strands,
But her home is surely there !
Angels fold their wings and rest
In that Eden of the West,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.
II.
Innisfallen's ruined shrine
May suggest a passing sigh,
But man's faith can ne'er decline,
Such God's wonders floating by
Castle Lough and Glena bay,
Mountains Tore and Eagle's Nest ;
Still at Muckross you must pray,
Though the monks are now at rest.
Angels wonder not that man
There would fain prolong life's span-
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.
III.
No place else can charm the eye
With such bright and varied tints,
Every rock that you pass by
Verdure broiders or besprints.
Virgin there the green grass grows,
Ev'ry morn Spring's natal day,
Bright hued berries daff the snows,
Smiling winters frown away.
Angels, often pausing there,
Doubt if Eden were more fair
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.
IV.
Music there for echo dwells,
Makes each sound a harmony,
Many voic'd the chorus swells,
Till it faints in ecstasy.
With the charmful tints below
Seems the Heav'n above to vie,
All rich colors that we know
Tinge the cloud wreaths in that sky.
Wings of angels so might shine
Glancing back soft light divine;
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.
POEMS OF CHARLES J, KICKHAM,
PATRICK SHEEHAN.
MY name is Patrick Sheehan,
My years are thirty-four,
Tipperary is my native place,
Not far from Galtymore;
I mine of honest parents
But now they're lying low
And many a pleasant day I spent
In the Glen of Aherlow.
My father died, I closed his eyes
()>ttxif/t! our cabin door
The landlord and the sheriff too
Were there the day before
And then my loving mother,
And sisters three also,
Wi-re forced to go with broken hearts
From the Glen of Aherlow.
For three long months in search of work,
I wandered far and near ;
I went then to the poor-house
For to see my mother dear;
The news I heard nigh broke my heart.
But still, in all my woe,
I blessed the friends who made their graves
In the Glen of Aherlow.
Bereft of home, and kith, and kin-
Wit h plenty all around
I starved within my cabin,
And slept upon the ground ;
But cruel as my lot was,
I ne'er did hardship know.
'Till I joined the English army,
Far away from Aherlow.
"Rouse up there," says the Corporal.
"You la/y Hirish hound.
Why, don't you hear, you sleepy dog,
The call * to arms ' sound ? "
Alas, I had been dreaming
Of days long, long ago,
I woke before Sebastopol,
And not in Aherlow.
I groped to find my musket
How dark I thought the night,
blessed God, it was not dark,
It was the broad daylight !
And when J found that I was Mind
My tears began to flow.
1 longed for even a pauper's grave
In the Glen of Aherlow.
blessed Virgin Mary.
Mine is a mournful tale,
A poor blind prisoner here I am,
In Dublin's dreary jail:
Struck blind within the trenches
Where I never feared the foe;
And now I'll never see again
My own sweet Aherlow.
A poor neglected mendicant
I wandered through the street.
My nine months' pension now being out,
I beg from all I meet.
As I joined my country's tyrants
My face I'll never show
Among the kind old neighbors,
In the Glen of Aherlow.
Then Irish youths dear countrymen
Take heed of what I say,
For if you join the English ranks
You'll surely rue the day:
And whenever you are tempted
A soldiering to go,
Remember poor blind Sheelian
Of the Glen of Aherlow.
832
POEMS OF CHARLES J. KICKHAM.
THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL.
SHE lived beside the Anner,
At the foot of Slievenamon,
A gentle peasant girl,
With mild eyes like the dawn.
Her lips were dewy rose-buds,
Her teeth of pearls rare;
And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen-bough,
Her neck and nut-brown hair.
How pleasant 'twas to meet her
On Sunday, when the bell
Was filling with its mellow tones
Lone wood and grassy dell.
And when, at eve, young maidens
Strayed the river bank along,
The widow's brown-haired daughter
Was loveliest of the throng.
brave, brave Irish girls !
We well may call you brave;
Sure the least of all your perils
Is the stormy ocean wave;
When ye leave your quiet valleys,
And cross the Atlantic's foam,
To hoard your hard-won earnings
For the helpless ones at home.
Write word to my dear mother
Say, we'll meet with God above :
And tell my little brothers
I send them all my love.
May the angels ever guard them,
Is their dying sister's pray'r;
And folded in the letter
Was a braid of nut-brown hair.
Ah ! cold and well-nigh callous
This weary heart has grown,
For thy hapless fate, dear Ireland,
And for sorrows of my own;
Yet a tear my eye will moisten,
When by Anner-side I stray,
For the lily of " the Mountain-foot/'
That withered far away.
RORY OF THE HILLS.
THAT rake up near the rafters,
Why leave it there so long ?
The handle of the best of ash,
Is smooth, and straight, and strong;
And, mother, will you tell me,
Why did my father frown,
When to make the hay, in summer-time,
I climbed to take it down ?
She looked into her husband's eyes,
While her own with light did fill.
" You'll shortly know the reason, boy ! "
Said Rory of the Hill.
The midnight moon is lighting up
The slopes of Sliav-na-man
Whose foot affrights the startled hares
So long before the dawn ?
He stopped just where the Anner's stream
Winds up the woods anear,
Then whistled low and looked around
To see the coast was clear.
A sheeling door flew open
In he stepped with right good will
" God save all here, and bless your work,"
Said Rory of the Hill.
Right hearty was the welcome
That greeted him, I ween,
For years gone by he fully proved
How well he loved the Green ;
And there was one among them
Who grasped him by the hand-
One who through all that weary time
Roamed on a foreign strand;
He brought them news from gallant friends
That made their heart-strings thrill
" My soul ! I never doubted them ! "
Said Rory of the Hill.
They sat around the humble board,
Till dawning of the day,
And yet no song nor shout I heard
No revellers were they;
Some brows flushed red with gladness,
While some were grimly pale :
But pale or red, from out those eyes
Flashed souls that never quail !
A POEM BY MRS. CRAWFORD.
888
"And sing us now about the vow,
They swore for to fulfill "-
" You'll read it yet in history,"-
Said Rory of the Hill.
Next day the ashen handle,
He took down from where it hung,
The toothed rake, full scornfully,
Into the fire he flung;
And in its stead a shining blade,
Is gleaming once again
(Oh! for a hundred thousand of
Such weapons and such men !)
Right soldierly he wielded it,
And going through his drill
"Attention, charge, front, point, advance ! "
Cried Rory of the Hill.
She looked at him with woman's pride,
With pride and woman's fears :
She flew to him, she clung to him,
And dried away her tears ;
He feels her pulse beat truly ;
While her arms around him twine
" Now God be praised for your stout heart,
Brave little wife of mine."
He swung his first-born in the air,
While joy his heart did fill
" You'll be a Freeman yet, my boy,"
Said Rory of the Hill.
Oh ! knowledge is a wondrous power,
And stronger than the wind;
And thrones shall fall, and despots bow
Before the might of mind ;
The poet, and the orator,
The heart of man can sway,
And would to the kind heavens
That W T olfe Tone were here to-day.
Yet trust me, friends, dear Ireland's strength
Her truest strength, is still,
The rough and ready roving boys,
Like Rory of the Hill.
A POEM BY MRS. CRAWFORD.
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 1
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN! the gray dawn
is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill,
The lark from her light wing the bright dew
is shaking, [still !
Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumbering
Ah ! hast thou forgotten soon we must sever ?
Oh ! hast thou forgotten this day we must
part!
It may be for years, and it may be for ever
Oh ! why art thou silent, thou voice of my
heart ?
It may be for years, and it may be for ever
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavour-
neen ?
1 This poem was written by M rs. Crawford, a native of
Cavau, Ireland, the music being by Crouch.
Kathleen Mavourneen! awake from thy
slumbers,
The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden
light,
Ah ! where is the spell that once hung on
my numbers ?
Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night.
Arise in thy lirauty, thou star of my night !
Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are
falling
To think that from Eriii and thee I must
part,
It may be for years, and it may be for e\
Thru why art thou silent, thou voice of my
heart ?
It may be for years, and it may be for ever,
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavour-
neen y
A POEI BY FATHER BURKE,
THE IRISH DOMINICANS.
THIS land of ours was famous once no land
was ever more
For saintliness so pure, so bright, as well as
learned lore :
And strangers from a sunny clime were
wafted to our shore,
In bearing meek and quaintest garb as ne'er
was seen before
And these were the Dominicans six hundred
years ago.
They came with vigil and with fast, men
versed in prayer and read
In. all the sacred books, and soon through-
out the land they spread.
The people blessed them as they passed low
bowed each tonsured head,
So meek 'twas like the saints, as they shall
raise them from the dead;
For holy were De Gusman's son's sons five
hundred years ago.
And soon their learned voice was heard in
pulpit and in choir,
While through the glorious Gothic aisle re-
sounds their midnight prayer.
The orphan found beneath their roof a par-
ent's tender care,
While boldly in their country's cause they
raised their voice, for there
Was Irish blood in Dominic's sons four hun-
dred years ago.
When heresy swept o'er the land like a de-
stroying flood,
And tyrants washed their reeking hands in
.martyrs' holy blood,
St. Dominic's children then, like men, em-
braced the stake, and stood
Before the burning pile as 'twere the Sa-
viour's holy rood,
And kissed their habits as they bled, three
hundred years ago.
And while the altars fed the flame, and
Christ was mocked again,
Their faithful voices still were heard in
mountain's cave and glen :
And thus was saved our country's faith, and
thus the Lamb was slain,
And ne'er was Ireland's title more the " Isle
of Saints " than when
The preacher found a martyr's grave, two
hundred years ago.
And thus for full three centuries they fought
the holy fight,
In city and on mountain side, from Cashel's
sacred height;
True to their country and their God, each
man a burning light.
They kept a nation's life-blood warm and
saved the crozier's might
For mitres shone on preachers' brows one
hundred years ago.
Now, men of Ireland, raise your thoughts to
that bright realm above,
Where Christian faith and hope are lost in
all absorbing love,
And blend the serpent's prudence with the
sweetness of the dove,
And, faithful to our land and creed, in their
bright footsteps move,
Who fought and bled and conquered all these
centuries ago.
POEMS OF JOHN F, O'DONNELL
THE GREEN GIFT.
JUST twenty years through spring have blown
Since, on one shining Patrick's Day,
A dear, far comrade sent to me,
Across the yeasty leagues of sea,
Through surge and wind, to Canada,
A letter rudely scribbled o'er
With little of the penman's art,
Freighted with songs, and what is more
An Irish Shamrock in its heart.
I kissed it twenty fifty times;
The deliqate and flowerless spray ;
And Limerick and its castled skies
Rose up distinct before my eyes,
Under the heaven of Canada.
I saw the Shannon westward run,
The hills of Clare fade off in blue,
The glamour of the autumn sun
Across the woodlands of Tervoe.
That morn my soul, refreshed and light,
Devised in summer-mooded way,
In what thick nook of forest gloom
My gift should take both root and bloom
I'.clow the clouds of Canada.
Seeking, I found a pleasant spot,
From pulses of the sea-breeze wet,
And (here in shadows, cedar-wrought.
My precious plant I fondly set.
Dear is that little haunt to me,
Where sometimes Mary comes to pray.
And hears the passing of her beads
Timed by the crepitating reeds,
Under the stars of Canada.
Then! sleep my loved ones and my lost
The shapes that vanished long ago-
Above them cedar boughs arts crost, [blow.
And round their graves the shamrocks
For, look you, ere the first year died,
And on the pine's bark fell the grey,
Which comes like winter to our trees,
Ere yet the sap begins to freeze,
Deep in the woods of Canada;
The shamrock's tendrils woke to flower,
Rich as the cowslip's inmost p
And made a little golden bower
Around my daily hermitage.
Ireland is many a sail afar,
Beyond the rising of the day,-
And many a long and weary year
Has perished since I first stood here,
Amid the wastes of Canada:
Yet when I see these little flowers
From emerald into orange run.
My thoughts go racing with the hours,
Behind the sea, behind the sun,
Away to where my own land 1 ;
Below the morning's rising ray
Away to mountain peaks that hold
The Hying clouds in tangled fold
Away, away from Canada.
I see the Irish mouths and
I leap through fields of long ago.
And in my heart wells glad surprise.
And at my feet the shamrocks blow.
Let me rest with them when the mist
Of solid darkness fills my way.
Still feel their roots about my heart.
Of me and mine close-knitted part.
Under the grass of Canada.
And though around my headstone beat
The whitening bret-7.es of the foam.
One thought will make the last hoursw.
I shall not die ></ fur from home.
836
POEMS OF JOHN F. O'DONNELL.
OK THE RAMPART LIMERICK.
CHEERILY rings the boatman's song
Across the dark brown water;
His mast is slant, his sail is strong,
His hold is red with slaughter
With beeves that cropped the field of Glynn,
And sheep that pricked their meadows,
Until the sunset-cry trooped in
The cattle from the shadows.
He holds the foam-washed tiller loose,
And hums a country ditty;
For, under clouds of gold turned puce,
Gleam harbor, mole, and city;
town of manhood ! maidenhood !
By thee the Shannon flashes
There Freedom's seed was sown in
blood,
To blossom into ashes.
St. Mary's, in the evening air,
Springs up austere and olden;
Two sides its steeple gray and bare,
Two sides with sunset golden.
The bells roll out, the bells roll back,
For lusty knaves are ringing;
Deep in the chancel, red and black,
The white-robed boys are singing.
The sexton loiters by the gate
With eyes more blue than hyssop,
A black-green skull-cap on his pate,
And all his mouth a-gossip.
This is the town beside the flood
The walls the Shannon washes
Where Freedom's seed was sown in
blood,
To blossom into ashes.
The streets are quaint, red-bricked, antique,
The topmost stories curving,
With, here and there, a slated leak,
Through which the light falls swerving.
The angry sudden light falls down
On path and middle parquet,
On shapes weird as the ancient town,
And faces fresh for market.
They shout, they chatter, disappear,
Like imps that shake the valance
At midnight, when the clock ticks queer,
And time has lost its balance.
This is the town beside the flood
Which past its bastions dashes,
Where Freedom's seed was sown in
blood
To blossom into ashes.
Oh, how they talk, brown country folk,
Their chatter many-mooded,
With eyes that laugh for equivoque,
And heads in kerchiefs snooded!
Such jests, such jokes, whose plastic mirth
But Heine could determine
The portents of the latest birth,
The points of Sunday's sermon,
The late rains and the previous drouth,
How oats were growing stunted,
How keels fetched higher prices south,
And Captain Watson hunted.
This is the town beside the flood
Whose waves with memories flashes,
Where Freedom's seed was sown in
blood ;
To blossom into ashes
How thick with life the Irish town !
Dear gay and battered portress,
That laid all save her honor down,
To save the fire-ringed fortress.
Here Sarsfield stood, here lowered the flag
That symbolized the people
A riddled rag, a bloody rag,
Plucked from St. Mary's steeple.
Thick are the walls the women lined
With courage worthy Roman,
When, armed with hate sublime,, if blind,
They scourged the headlong foemen.
This is the town beside the flood,
That round its ramparts flashes,
Where Freedom's seed was sown in
blood.
To blossom into ashes.
I'OKMS OF .IOHN K. (ASHY.
837
This part is mine : to live divorced
Where foul November gathers,
With other sons of thine dispersed
Brave city of my fathers
To gaze on rivers not mine own,
And nurse a wasting longing,
Where Babylon, with trumpets blown,
South, North, East, West comes thronging,
To hear distinctly, if afar,
The voices of thy people
To hear through crepitating jar
The sweet bells of thy steeple.
To love the town, the hill, the wood,
The Shannon's stormful flashes,
Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood,
To blossom into ashes.
POEMS OF JOHN K. CASEY.
DONAL KENNY.
"" COME, piper, play the ( Shaskan Reel,'
Or else the ' Lasses on the heather,'
And, Mary, lay aside your wheel
Until we dance once more together.
At fair and pattern oft before
Of reels and jigs we've tripped full many;
But ne'er again this loved old floor
Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny.
Softly she rose and took his hand,
And softly glided through the measure,
While, cluetering round, the village band
Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure.
Warm blessings flowed from every lip
As ceased the dancers' airy motion :
O Blessed Virgin! guide the ship
Which bears bold Donal o'er the
ocean !
" Now God be with you all ! " he sighed,
Adown his face the bright tears flowing
" God guard you well, avic," they cried,
" Upon the strange path you are going."
So full his breast, he scarce could speak --
With burning grasp the stretched hands
taking,
He pressed a kiss on every cheek,
And sobbed as if his heart was breaking.
" Boys, don't forget me when I'm gone,
For sake of all the days passed over
The days you spent on heath ami hawn.
With Ihnnil Umiilh, the rattlin' rover.
Mary, agra, your soft brown eye
Has willed my fate " (he whispered lowly) ;
"Another holds your heart : good-bye !
Heaven grant you both its blessings
holy!"
A kiss upon her brow of snow,
A rush across the moonlit meadow,
Whose broom-clad hazels, trembling slow.
The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow;
Away o'er Tully's bounding rill,
And far beyond the Inny river :
One cheer on Carrick's rocky hill.
And Donal Kenny's gone for ever.
THE RISING OK THK Mnn\.
OH! then, tell me, Shane O'Farrell, tell me
where you hurry so ?
Hush, ma boudial! husband listen- and his
cheeks won- all aglow
I bear orders from the Captain: get you
ready (jiiiek and soon:
For the pikes must be together by the risiif
of the moon.
OHOBU&
My the risin' of the Moon, by the risin' of
the Moon;
For the pikes must meet together by till'
risin' of the Moon.
838
POEMS OF FEANCIS DAVIS.
Oh! then, tell me, Shane O'Farrell, where
the gatherin' is to be ?
In the ould spot, by the river, right well
known to you and me.
One word more : for signal-token whistle up
the marchin' tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder, by the
risin' of the Moon.
By the risin' of the Moon, etc.
Out from many a mud-wall cabin, eyes were
watching thro' that night ;
Many a manly heart was throbbing for that
blessed warning light;
Murmurs passed along the valley, like a ban-
shee's lonely croon;
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the
risin' of the Moon.
By the risin' of the Moon, etc.
Down along yon singing river, that dark
mass of men was seen ;
High above their shining weapons floats their
own beloved green.
Death to every foe and traitor ! forward strike
the marchin' tune!
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom ! 'tis the
risin' of the Moon.
'Tis the risin' of the Moon, etc.
Well they fought for poor Ould Ireland, and
full bitter was their fate;
Oh ! what glorious pride and sorrow fill the
name of Ninety-eight !
But yet, thank God ! there's beating hearts
in manhood's burning noon,
Who will follow in their footsteps by the
risin' of the Moon.
By the risin' of the Moon, etc.
POEMS OF FRANCIS DAYIS.
NANNY.
OH ! for an hour when the day is breaking
Down by the shore, when the tide is making !
Fair as a white cloud, thou, love, near me,
None but the waves and thyself to hear me :
Oh, to my breast how these arms would press
thee;
Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee;
Oh, how the soul thou hast won would woo
thee,
Girl of the snow-neck ! closer to me.
Oh, for an hour as the day advances,
(Out where the breeze on the broom-bush
dances,)
Watching the lark, with the sun-ray o'er us,
Winging the notes of his heaven-taught
chorus !
Oh, to be there, and my love before me,
Soft as a moonbeam smiling o'er me ;
Thou wouldst but love, and I would woo thee :
Girl of the dark eye ! closer to me.
Oh, for an hour where the sun first found us,
(Out in the eve with its red sheets round us;)
Brushing the dew from the gale's soft wing-
lets,
Pearly and sweet with thy long dark ringlets :
Oh, to be there on the sward beside thee,
Telling my tale though I know you'd chide
me;
Sweet were thy voice though it should undo
me
Girl of the dark locks ! closer to me.
Oh, for an hour by night or by day, love,
Just as the heavens and thou might say,
love;
Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many,
Bound in the breath of my dove-souled
Nanny !
Oh, for the pure chains that have bound me,
Warm from thy red lips circling round me !
Oh, in my soul, as the light above me,
Queen of the pure hearts, do I love thee !
A POEM BY DENNY LANK.
ON AGAIN.
AND so the would-be storm is past,
And true men have outlived it;
Can truth be bowed by falsehood's blast?
They're slaves who e'er believed it :
Let cravens crawl and adders hiss,
And foes look on delighted !
To one and all our answer's this,
We're wronged and must be righted.
Then on again,
A chain's a chain,
Although a king should make it :
Be this our creed,
A slave indeed
Is he who dare not break it.
Tis not in slander's poisonous lips
To kill the patriot's ardor;
Their blight may reach the blossom-tips,
But not the fount of verdure :
For he who feels his country's dole,
By naught can be confounded,
But onward sweeps his fearless soul,
Though dentil l>c walking round it.
Then on again,
A chain's a chain,
Although a king should make it:
A slave, though f !< I,
Were he indeed
Who dare not try to break it.
And while ye guard against the shoals
That hide each past endeavor,
Give freemen's tongues to true men's souls,
Or damn the terms for ever:
Let baseness wander through the dark,
And hug its own restriction,
But oh ! be ours the guiding spark
Produced by mental friction !
Then on again,
A chain's a chain,
Although a king should make it:
Be this our creed,
A slave indeed
Is he who dare not break it.
A POEM BY DENNY LANE,
KATE OF ARRAGLEX.
WHEN first I saw thee, Kate,
That summer ev'ning late,
Down at the garden gate
Of Arraglen,
I felt I'd ne'er before
.Seen one so fair, astliore,
I fear'd I'd never more
See thee again
I stopped and gazed at tli>
My footfall luckily
Reach'd not thy ear, though we
Stood there so near:
While from thy lips a strain,
Soft as the'summer rain,
Sad as a lover's pain
Fell on my ear.
I've heard the lark in .June.
The harp's wild plaintive tune,
The thrush, that aye too .-oon
Gives o'er his strain
I've heard in hush'd delight
The mellow horn at night,
Waking the echoes light
Of wild Loch Lene;
But neither echoing horn,
Nor thrush upon the thorn.
Nor lark at early morn.
Hymning in air.
Nor harper's lay divine.
K'er witeh'd this heart of mine,
Like that sweet voice of thine.
That ev'ning there.
,840
POEMS OF MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY.
And when some rustling, dear,
Fell on thy listening ear,
You thought your brother near,
And named his name ;
I could not answer, though,
As luck would have it so,
His name and mine, you know,
Were both the same
Hearing no answering sound,
You glanced in doubt around,
With timid look, and found
It was not he;
Turning away your head,
And blushing rosy red,
Like a wild fawn you fled
Far, far from me.
The swan upon the lake,
The wild rose in the brake,
The golden clouds that make
The west their throne,
The wild ash by the stream,
The full moon's silver beam,
The ev'ning star's soft gleam,
Shining alone ;
The lily rob'd in white,
All, all are fair and bright ;
But ne'er on earth was sight
So bright, so fair,
As that one glimpse of thee,
That I caught then, machree,
It stole my heart from me
That ev'ning there.
And now you're mine alone,
That heart is all my own
That heart that ne'er hath known
A flame before ;
That form of mould divine,
That snowy hand of thine,
Those locks of gold, are mine
For evermore.
Was lover ever seen
As blest, as thine, Kathleen ?
Hath lover ever been
More fond, more true ?
Thine is my every vow !
For ever, dear, as now,
Queen of my heart be thou,
Mo ceirlin ruadli.
POEMS OF MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY.
THE SWORD.
I.
WHAT rights the brave ?
The sword!
What frees the slave ?
The sword !
What cleaves in twain
The Despot's chain
And makes his gyves and dungeons vain ?
The sword !
OHORUS. Then cease thy proud task never
While rests a link to sever,
Guard of the free,
We'll cherish thee,
And keep thee bright forever.
II.
What checks the knave ?
The sword !
What smites to save ?
The sword !
What wreaks the wrong
Unpunished long,
At last, upon the guilty strong ?
The sword !
III.
What shelters right ?
The sword !
What makes it might ?
The sword!
Chorus.
POEMS OF MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY.
What strikes the crown
Of tyrants down,
And answers with its flash their frown ?
The sword !
Chorus.
IV.
Still be thou true,
Good sword!
We'll die or do,
Good sword!
Leap forth to light
If tyrants smite
And trust our arms to wield thee right,
Good sword!
Chorus.
HYMN OF FREEDOM.
I.
GOD of Peace! before Thee,
Peaceful, here we kneel,
Humbly to implore Thee
For a nation's weal :
Calm her sons' dissensions,
Bid their discord cease,
End their mad contentions,
Hear us, God of Peace !
II.
God of Right! preserve us
Just as we are strong;
Let no passion swerve us
To one act of wrong
Let no thought, unholy,
Come our cause to blight
Thus we pray thee, lowly
Hear us, God of Right !
III.
God of Vengeance ! smite us
\Vitli thy shaft sublime,
If one bond unite us
Forged in fraud or crime!
But, if humbly kneeling,
We implore thine ear,
For our rights appealing
God of Nations ! lu-ar.
THE WEXFORD MASSACRE CROM-
\\ KLL, 1649.
THEY knelt around the cross divine,
The matron and the maid
They bowed before redemption's sign,
And fervently they prayed
Three hundred fair and helpless ones,
Whose crime was this alone,
Their valiant husbands, sires and sons
Had battled for their own.
Had battled bravely, but in vain.
The Saxon won the fight,
And Irish corses strewed the plain
Where valor slept with right ;
And now that man of demon guilt
To fated Wexford flew,
The red blood reeking on his hilt.
Of hearts to Erin true!
He found them there the young, the old,
The maiden and the wife;
Their guardians brave in death were cold,
Who dared for them the strife.
They prayed for mercy, God on high !
Before Thy cross they prayed ;
And ruthless Cromwell bade them tin-
To glut the Suxon blade!
Three hundred fell! The stitlcil prayers
Were quenched in woman's blood;
Nor youth nor age could move to span-
From slaughter's crimson flood.
Hut nations keep a stern account
Of deeds that tyrants do.
And iruilth'ss blood to lu'avrn will mount.
And heaven avenge it, too!
POEMS OF JUDGE JOHN O'HAGAK
OUKSELVES ALONE.
I.
THE work that should to-day be wrought
Defer not till to-morrow;
The help that should within be sought
Scorn from without to borrow.
Old maxims these yet stout and true
They speak in trumpet tone,
To do at once what is to do
And trust OURSELVES ALONE.
II.
Aye ! bitter hate, or cold neglect,
Or lukewarm love, at best,
Is all we've found, or can expect,
We aliens of the west.
No friend, beyond her own green shore,
Can Erin truly own,
Yet stronger is her trust, therefore,
In her brave sons ALONE.
III.
Eemember when our lot was worse
Sunk, trampled to the dust;
'Twas long our weakness and our curse,
In stranger aid to trust.
And if, at length, we proudly trod
On bigot laws o'erthrown,
Who won that struggle ? Under God,
Ourselves OURSELVES ALONE.
IV.
Oh, let its memory be enshrined
In Ireland's heart for ever!
It proves a banded people's mind
Must win in just endeavor;
It shows how wicked to despair,
How weak to idly groan
If ills at other's hands ye bear,
The cure is in YOUR OWN.
V.
The " foolish word impossible "
At once, for aye, disdain ;
No power can bar a people's will
A people's right to gain,
Be bold, united, firmly set,
Nor flinch in word or tone
We'll be a glorious nation yet,
EEDEEMED ERECT ALONE.
PADDIES EVEEMORE.
THE hour is past to fawn or crouch
As suppliants for our right ;
Let word and deed unshrinking vouch
The banded millions' might :
Let them who scorned the fountain rill
Now dread the torrent's roar,
And hear our echoed chorus still,
We're Paddies evermore.
What, though they menace ? suffering men
Their threats and them despise ;
Or promise justice once again ?
We know their words are lies :
We stand resolved those rights to claim
They robbed us of before,
Our own dear nation and our name,
As Paddies evermore.
Look round the Frenchman governs
France,
The Spaniard rules in Spain
The gallant Pole but waits his chance
To break the Eussian chain ;
The strife for freedom here begun
We never will give o'er,
Nor own a land on earth but one
We're Paddies evermore.
POEMS OF JUDGE JOHN O'HAGAN.
S43
That strong and single love to crash
The despot ever tried
A fount it was whose living gush
His hated arts defied.
'Tis fresh as when his foot accursed
\V;is planted on our shore,
And now and still, as from the first,
We're Paddies evermore.
What recked we though six hundred years
Have o'er our thraldom rolled ?
The soul that roused O'Connor's spears
Still lives as true and bold.
The tide of foreign power to stem
Our fathers bled of yore ;
And we stand here to-day, like them,
True Paddies evermore.
Where's our allegiance ? With the land
For which they nobly died ;
Our duty ? By our cause to stand,
Whatever chance betide;
Our cherished hope ? To heal the woes
That rankle at her core ;
Our scorn and hatred ? To her foes,
Like Paddies evermore.
The hour is past to fawn or crouch
As suppliants for our right;
Let word and deed unshrinking vouch
The banded millions' might;
Let them who scorned the fountain rill
Now dread the torrent's roar,
And hear our echoed chorus still,
We're Paddies evermore.
DEAR LAND.
WHEN comes the day, all hearts to weigh,
If stanch they be, or vile,
Shall we forget the sacred debt
We owe our mother isle ?
My native heath is brown beneath,
My native waters blue ;
Hut crimson red o'er both shall spread
Ere I am false to you,
Dear land
Ere I am false to you.
When I behold your mountains bold
Your noble lakes and streams
A mingled tide of grief and pride
Within my bosom teems,
I think of all, your long, dark thrall
Your martyrs brave and true ;
And dash apart the tears that start
W r e must not weep for you,
Dear land
We must not weep for you.
My grandsire died his home beside,
They seized and hanged him there;
His only crime, in evil time,
Your hallowed green to wear.
Across the main his brothers twain
Were sent to pine and rue ;
And still they turn'd, with hearts that
burned,
In hopeless love to you,
Dear land
In hopeless love to you.
My boyish ear still clung to hear
Of Erin's pride of yore,
Ere Norman foot had dared pollute
Her independent shore ;
Of chiefs, long dead, who rose to head
Some gallant patriot few,
Till all my aim on earth became
To strike one blow for you,
Dear land
To strike one blow for you.
W r hat path is best your rights to wrest
Let <tlirr heads divine;
By work or word, with voice or sword,
To follow them be mine.
The breast that xe;il and hatred steel,
No terror can subdue;
If death should come, that martyrdom,
Were sweet, endured for you.
Dear land-
Were sweet, endured for you.
POEMS OF JOHN KELLS INGRAM,
THE MEMOEY OF THE DEAD.
I.
WHO fears to speak of Ninety-eight ?
Who blushes at the name ?
When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame ?
He's all a knave, or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus ;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.
II.
We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few-
Some rest far off beyond the wave-
Some sleep in Ireland, too ;
All all are gone but still lives on
The fame of those who died
All true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.
III.
Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made ;
But, though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foam
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit's still at home.
IV.
The dust of some is Irish earth;
Among their own they rest;
And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.
V.
They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land ;
They kindled here a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand,
Alas! that might can vanquish right,
They fell and pass'd away
But true men, like you, men,
Are plenty here to-day.
VI.
Then here's their memory may it be
For us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty,
And teach us to unite.
Through good and ill be Ireland's still,
Though sad as theirs your fate,
And true men, be you, men,
Like those of Ninety-eight.
TWO SONNETS.
Dr. John Kells Ingram, F. T. C. D., the author of the
above poem, " Who fears to speak of '98," after a silence of
more than 30 years, wrote, a few years ago, after the death
of Gen. Colley, in the Boer War, a sonnet in reply to the fol-
lowing lines by the Protestant Archbishop of Dublin, which
appeared, on the occasion, in a Dublin journal.
IN MEMOEIAM, G. P. COLLEY.
GENTLE and brave, well skilled in that dread
lore
Which mightiest nations dare now to un-
learn ;
Fair lot for thee had leapt from Fortune's
urn;
Just guerdon of long toil; and more and
more
We counted for her favorite was in store;
Not failing in fond fancy to descry
Victorious wreath and crowns of victory
Which in our thought thy brows already
wore,
POEMS OF M. J. M'CANN.
840
But He who portions out our good and ill
Willed an austerer glory should be thine,
And nearer to the Cross than to the Crown ;
Then lay, ye mourners, there your burden
down,
And hear calm voices from the inner shrine
Which whisper, Peace; and say, Be still, be
still.
R. C. D.
ON READING THE SONNET BY " R. C. D.,"
ENTITLED "IN MEMORIAM, G. P. C."
Yes ! mourn the soul, of high and pure intent,
Humane as valiant, in disastrous fight,
Laid low on far Majuba's bloody height !
Yet, not his death alone must we lament,
But more such spirit on evil mission sent.
To back our broken faith with armed might,
And the unanswered plea of wounded right
Strike dumb by warfare's brute arbitrament.
And while these deeds are done in England's
name,
Religion unregardf ul keeps her cell ;
The tuneful note that wails the dead, we
hear;
Where are the sacred thunders that should
swell
To shame such foul oppression, and proclaim
Eternal justice in the nation's ear '".
J. K. I.
POEMS OF 1, J, M'CANN,
O'DONNELL ABU!
PROUDLY the note of the trumpet is sound-
ing,
Loudly the war-cries arise on the gale,
Fleetly the steed by Lough Swilly is bounding,
To join the thick squadrons in Saimear's
green vale.
On, every mountaineer,
Strangers to flight and fear !
Rush to the standard of dauntless Red
Hugh!
Bonaght and Gallowglass
Throng from each mountain-pass !
On for old Erin O'Donnell abu !
Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing,
With many a chieftain and warrior-clan:
A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are
prancing,
'Neath the borders brave from the banks
of the Bann
Many a heart shall quail
Under its coat of mail :
Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue,
When on his ear shall ring,
Borne on the breeze's wing, [abu !
TyrconnelPs dread war-cry O'Donnell
Wildly o'er Desmond the war- wolf is howling^
Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain,
The fox in the streets of the city is prowl-
ing
All, all who would scare them are banished
or slain!
Grasp, every stalwart hand,
Hackbut and battle-brand
Pay them all back the deep debt so long
due:
Norris and Clifford well
Can of Tyrconnell tell-
Onward to glory O'Donnell abu !
Sacred the cause that Clan-Conaill's defend-
ing
The altars we kneel at, and homes of our
sires :
Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending
Midnight is red with the plunderer's tires \
On, with O'Donnell, then !
Fight the old fight again,
Sons of Tyrconm-ll all valiant and true!
Make the false Saxon fcc-1
Krin's avenging steel!
Strike for your country! O'Donm-11
abu!
846
POEMS OF M. J. McCANN.
THE BATTLE OF EATHDEUM.
THE BAED OF PHELIM McPHEAGH
Canit. 1599.
The gallant Pheagh M 1 Hugh O'Byrne, prince ofWicklow,
had long set the power of Elizabeth at defiance; and in 1580
inflicted a disastrous defeat on a chosen force under the com-
mand of Lord Deputy de Grey, who attempted to penetrate
his hereditary territory of " the Ranelagh," by way of Glen-
dalough. His residence was at Ballinacor, in the romantic
valley of Glenmalure, and its halls often echoed to the tread
of the bravest princes and chiefs of Ireland, who sought his
alliance or protection. His defiant attitude, so near the seat
of government, and his frequent successes over the English
forces, had in an especial manner rendered him the object of
the hostility and anger of the successive military rulers, who,
during his career, held the reins of power at the Castle of
Dublin, and on the 7th of May, 1597, being betrayed and taken
at a disadvantage, he was slain in battle against the Lord
Deputy, Sir William Russell. His son, Pheliin, was at once
elected to succeed him, and lost no time in preparing to
defend his ancient patrimony and people. On the arrival of
Essex, as Lord Lieutenant, on the 15th of April, 1599, the at-
tention of the latter was at once directed to the son of the
celebrated Pheagh M'Hugh, and Sir Henry Harrington, a vet-
eran of thirty years 1 standing, was stationed at the Castle of
Wicklqw, with a well-appointed force, detached from the
splendid army which Essex had brought for the final conquest
of Ireland. The Avonbeg, running through the romantic-
valley of Glenmalure, falls into the Avonmore below Castle
Howard, forming the first Meeting of the Waters. About
four miles above this point, on the Avonmore, which flows
through the vale of Clara, lying eastward of Glenmalure, id
Rathclrum, and here wasaforcl which formed the pass into
"the Ranelagh." from the Wicklow direction, at about six
miles distance from this stronghold. On the 38th of May, 1599,
Sir Henry Harrington with about six hundred men, of whom
sixty-eight were horse, under the command of Captain Mon-
tague, a brave officer, Sir Henry's nephew, marched from
Wicklow, and encamped within a mile of the ford of
Avonmore. Phelim and his clansmen, instead of waiting to
defend the passage of the river, crossed over, and repeatedly
alarmed the camp during the night. In the morning, Sir
Henry, having advanced with the horse to reconnoitre, pre-
ceived the O'Byrnes rapidlv advancing to attack him. The
memory of De Grey, and Glendalough, appears to have risen
vividly to his mind, and a retreat was at once ordered. The
Irish were inferior not only in appointments and discipline,
but even in numbers, particularly in cavalry, of which they
had only about a dozen. But they had no idea of permitting
then- foes to retire so easily ; and pressing fiercely on thenr
forced them to an engagement, and slew "the greatest part "
of them. None escaped but those who had been covered by
the horse, which suffered severely in this perilous duty;
Captain Montague himself, as Sir Henry says in his despatch,
being " stroken in thesyde witha pyke," and having received
" two blowes of a sword," and such as had taken " an oppor-
tunyty to stripp themselves, not only of theire weopens, but
clothes," and had "gott away disordered by footemanship."
All details on the English side are given in the despatches of
Sir Henry and the other officers engaged, and may be seen,
in extenso, in the 23rd number of that valuable publication
the new series of the Kilkenny Archaeological Journal.
I.
BY Avonbeg and Avonmore there's many a
happy home;
On every side through Eanelagh the bright
streams flash and foam;
And snow-white flocks roam far and wide,
through many a verdant glade;
Sure ne'er was land so wondrous fair by nat-
ure elsewhere made !
II.
And from each olden belfry, still by time or
foe unrent,
To prayer is far o'er hill and dale the silvery
summons sent;
And maidens, fair as earth e'er saw, amid
these valleys dwell;
And Eanelagh's brave sons well know to
guard such treasures well.
III.
Still proudly over Ballinacor O'Byrne's ban-
ner waves;
And all the Calliagh Rugli's * power, as erst,
defiant braves;
And though heroic Pheagh is gone, well can
young Phelim wield
The sword his sire triumphant waved o'er
many a stricken field.
* *
IV.
Up Glenmalure, with furious speed, who doth
so reckless ride ?
Some news perchance of war and scath he
brings from Avon side:
For Wykinglo f full long has flashed beneath
each noontide sun,
With helm and lance and corselet bright,
and spear, and burnished gun ?
V.
Too true, red sign of war! behold the bea-
con's signal light
Is answered, with a tongue of flame, from
every neighboring height;
And down the hills, and through the glens,
as fleet as mountain roes,
O'Byrne's clansmen rushing come to meet
their Saxon foes.
VI.
For Harrington from Wykinglo has marched
for Avon's ford,
And sworn to sweep o'er Eanelagh with ruth-
less fire and sword :
And all that bear O'Byrne's name, whate'er
the sex or age,
To doom in his avenging hate to glut his
soldiers' rage.
* The name by which not only the Milesian but many of the
Anglo-Irish designated Elizabeth towards the close of her
reign. It means the Red Hag.
t The ancient name of the town ofWicklow, from which the
county was called when erected into a shire in the time of
James I. It is of Danish origin, and signifies the Lake of
Ships, from Broad Lough, into which the river Vartry
emptied itself.
POEMS OF M. J. McCANN.
847
VII.
'Tis morn, at close of joyous May, and higl
has climbed the sun,
But why a mile from Avon's ford still lingers
Harrington? .
Around him stand his captains tried; behind
his marshalled men;
But why the gloom upon his brow, as he
gazes up the glen ?
VIII.
He sees approach O'Byrne's van, by gallant
chieftains led;
In every hand a pike or brand, prince
Phelim at their head !
And, rapid as a mountain flood, the fiery
clansmen come;
There's little time for trumpet bray, or roll
of Saxon drum !
IX.
No thought of their outnumbering foes
they thought of home and Pheagh; *
One thrilling cheer! and fierce they dash
upon that proud array !
There's clangor dire of steel on steel there's
crash of blade and spear
One volley's sped and England's ranks have
broke like frightened deer! f
X.
And in the wild and headlong flight, awayV
cast spear and gun,
Unheeded is the bugle's call the battle's
lost and won !
And, desperately for Wykinglo rush that dis-
ordered rout,
Nor dares one panting fugitive e'en turn his
head about.J
XI.
While, in revenge for gallant Pheagh, the
victors urge the chase,
Until the castle closed its gates upon their
foe's disgrace;
And many a polished morion, and steel jack
glittering lay,
As trophies for the victors, all along the
corse-strewn way.
XII.
And but for valiant Montague's well-mounted
cuirassiers,
Whose levelled lances sometimes checked the
naked mountaineers,
For Essex' martial vengeance but few had
'scaped that day,
Their vengeance who had madly wept above
the bier of Pheagh.
* Pronounced Fay. The treachery and cruelty of which
this heroic chieftain was finally the victim, might well ex-
asperate less excitable minds than those of the devoted fol-
lowers whom he had so often led to victory In May, 1597, he
was betrayed, through the machinations of Sir William Rus-
sell, and slain. His body was brough to Dublin and quartered,
"ami his head spiked on a tower in Dublin."
tMr. John Clifford, writing from Dublin Castle to (Vi-il,
on the 13th of June. 1599, says (we use the modem orthog-
raphy) "His Lordship (Essex) took as great care of the
borders, and all other parts, as might be. both for the defence
of the subject, as also to offend the rebels, yet we prevail but
little, for upon his Lordship's departure from Dublin, he up-
pointed Sir Henry Harrington with five hundred and fifty
footmen and threescore and eight horsemen, for the prosecut-
ing of all Pheagh McHugh's sons, and the rest of tin* rebels
about the mountains, the circumstance of which service I
pH-Mimc! is well known to your honor; yet this much I will
make bold to let you understand, that our soldiers had no
sooner discovered the enemy, but they were presently pos-
I with sueli it, fear that they cast away their arms, and
would not strike one blow for their lives. //<7 tin- UHIHI/ m>
more in iininlx-r titan they were (i.e. they were considerably
less), and then the greutmt /mrt of that nnmlx-r was slain,
with Captain Loftus, the Chancellor's son. and Captain War-
mane (Wardman), yet the enemy vnsnot above a ilnzi-n //!>*. "
The annals of warfare record few displays of lira very HIM I valor
to compare with this, and vet the Kiiirlisli and Anglo-Irish
historians almost completely ignore it Corroborative of
Clifford's statement is the authority of Harrington himself,
who Bftvs that l h.- Irish " battaile,"'or main IMM!V, consisted
only of "about ijc (200) Pykes and ter^-a tyres." Tl nly
part of the foot who did behave bravely \\.i-- .m Irish Com-
pany, commanded bv Captain Adam I.ofli.s : for of tl
natural enemies of their country. Harrington -ays: " Not*
men could serve better than Ins (Loftus'ftj whiles! one man
was liable to stand.' And tht*. victimised Lieutenant I'iers
Walsh, says: Within a small tymc after the ,,//'* with
their battayle and loose wings came in and Ix-ganne to -.Uir
mi.-. -he with the forces, whereupon Captain Adam I.ottns,
with his foot compamc answered the skirmische in the reare
of the battayle and fought very valyuntly for the space of
hree myles, thr rmt of tin- ctiinjxinit's of /not yelitinye smale
i'l/i but onely marching (running) forward."
t Sir Henry Harrington says : " All that I or theire captens
ould do. could ni-i; r iiiuk'- on< <>f tin 111 K! i x to tumthu face
toward the rebvlls. Notwithstanding that our horsse, that
ueareinthe Rere charge* 1 tw*. ne bothe bat)
whereby they wonne our men breathe, and ground enough to
"lave better resolved, but they rather took that as an oppor-
unyty to stripp themselves, not only of their weapons, but
lothcs."
S Cox says, " Sir Henry Harrington and some of his yovng
aptains with 608 men, left in the (ilvnns, received u baffle
'rom the O'Briens, (p'Byrnes,) by their own fault, which'
'.s.scx punished 6y ilrrinuititm, and the execution of nr
Lieutenant, Pierce Walsh, on whom the blame of that dis-
ister n-ns chi<-ftii laid." It is not likely that Sir Henry Har-
rington, who refer* from his prison, where he lay in cuMody
f the Marshal, to his "thirtle ^ 'id who e\i
lently was appointed to this dangerous jnist for his skill and
Military qualities, would not h.i\e sc.-iired able and zealous
Ulcers, and. in fact, he bears testimony to their steady and
gallant conduct himself. Hut
valiled on all *ides hen* I 1 rritigtonand his me
he scapegoats in the cast In despatches for Essex, from whose
Jefeatsin other parts of the country it wan necessary lotus n
uteiition: and as a soap-
nrho so fitting an an ! isli Lietitenair
'Vulsli wiis ii.
lays of Kli/abeth should have)).* ti bv th.-sideof 1'helim
ilcl'h'-.i .(her of the brave Irish chieftains
. t I.H-I.I. wre iu~t th n s.i c i iantly stniggllngagninst
whelming jxiwi-r of the 'Calliagh Kiinh." '
iiyrundoiis wen*, in defiance of all Justice and the law
Jons, carrying on a remorseless war of |x-rs*<'utton an :
Irish jx-ople. Hut unfortun..
Walsh could, in iiistitlcation. point at but too many IrUlnnen
whose example be was only following. We have not, ho\\-
ver, u-en able to discover iiny pretext f.,r hi>i execution.
'ownnlice could not have i> . Alleged against him. for. un-
ike so many others, he did not throw away his " weopens "
848
POEMS OF M. J. McCANN.
XIII.
And now, throughout all Banelagh, be joy
and festive cheer; [have no fear
The children may in safety play, the maidens
And long may princely Phelim bear the
sword Pheagh bravely bore;
And guard, as on that glorious day, the ford
of Avonmore!
THE BATTLE OF GLENDALOUGH.
A Ballad of the Pale, A. D. 1580.
AN autumn's sun is beaming on Dublin's
castle towers,
Whose portals fast are pouring forth the
Pale's embattled powers;
And on far Wicklow's hills they urge their
firm and rapid way,
And well may proud Lord Grey exult to view
their stern array.
For there was many a stately knight whose
helm was rough with gold,
And spearman grim, and musketeer, in Erin's
wars grown old;
And on they speed for Glendalough 'gainst
daring Fiach MacHugh
Who lately with his mountain bands to that
wild glen withdrew.
And, now, above the rugged glen, their pranc-
ing steeds they rein,
While many an eager look along its mazy
depths they strain,
But where's the marshalled foe they seek
the camp or watch fires where ?
For, save the eagle screaming high, no sign
of life is there !
" Ho ! " cried the haughty Deputy, " my gal-
lant friends we're late
I rightly deemed the rebel foe would scarce
our visit wait !
and " clothes " to save himself by flight; but, on the contrary,
it is especially mentioned that he brought off in safety the
colors and drum of his company, two very embarrassing in-
cumbrances in so precipitate a retreat. The men. on their
Eart, endeavoured to cast the blame upon their commanders,
arSir Henry complaining of the soldiers, says: "in their
baseness practising amongst themselves, one of them in hope,
by some excuse, to save Iris lyff e by ymputing fault in me,
(as is confessed by some of 'them since) should say, at his
deathe, that he ronne not until / bid hym shyfte for hymself.'"
Clearly but for Montague and his horse, and the Irish Com-
pany of Loftus, who in some measure covered the retreat,
not a man of this splendidly appointed force, led by an ex-
perienced commander, would have escaped death or capture
at the hands of an inferior number of the half -armed
O'Byrnes.
But, onward lead the foot, Carew! perhaps
in sooth 'twere well
That something of their flocks and herds our
soldiery should tell."
" I've heard it is the traitors wont in cave
and swamp to hide
When'er they deem their force too weak the
battle's brunt to bide; [in his lair
So, Mark ! Where'er a rebel lurks, arouse him
And death to him whose hand is known an
Irish foe to spare."
But thus the veteran Cosby spoke, "My
lord, I've known for years,
The hardihood and daring of those stalwart
mountaineers;
And, trust me that our bravest would in
yonder rugged pass, [glass.*
But little like the greeting of an Irish gallo-
" 'Tis true his brawny breast is not encased
in tempered steel, [arm can deal;
But sheer and heavy is the stroke his nervous
And, too, my lord, perhaps 'twere ill that
here you first should learn
How truly like a mountain cat, is Erin's fear-
less kern."
" March! " was the sole and stern reply; and-
as the leader spoke,
Horn and trump, and thundering drum a
thousand echoes woke,
And, on, with martial tramp, the host, all
bright in glittering mail,
Wound, like a monstrous serpent, far along
the gloomy vale.
But, hark! what wild defiant yell the rocks
and woods among,
Has now, so fierce, from every side, in thrill-
ing echoes rung ?
O'Byrne's well known warrison ! and hark !
along the dell, [deadly knell !
With rapid and successive peal, the muskets'
As wolves, which in a narrow ring, the hunt-
er's band enclose,
So rush the baffled Saxons on the ambush of
their foes;
* Fiach Mac Hugh O'Byrne, prince of Wicklow, one of those
gallant Irish chieftains, who, in the reign of Elizabeth, offered
such heroic resistance to the persecuting and confiscating
government of the period.
POEMS OF M. J. McCANN.
And, lo ! from every craggy screen, as 'twere
instinct with life,
Up ppring the mountain warriors to meet the
coming strife.
And, tall amid their foremost band, his
broadsword flashing bright
The dreaded Fiach MucHugh is seen to cheer
them to the fight,
And from the fiery chieftain's lips those
words of vengeance passed
" Behold the accursed, Sassanagh remem-
ber Mullaghmast ! " *
" Now gallant clansmen, charge them home !
not oft ye hand to hand,
In battle with your ruthless foes on terms so
equal stand;
Ye meet not now in firm array the spear-
men's serried ranks
No whelming squadrons here can dash like
whirlwinds on your flanks ! "
The keen and ponderous battle-axe with
deadly force is plied,
And deep the mountain pike and skian in
Saxon blood is dyed,
And many a polished corselet's pierced, and
many a helm is cleft
And few of all that proud array for shameful
flight are left!
Ni> time to breathe or rally them so hotly
are they pressed ;
For thousand maddening memories fire each
raging victor's breast,
And many a sire and brother's blood, and
many a sister's wrong,
Were then avenged, dark Glendalough, thy
echoing vale along.
, Carew and Audley deep had sworn the Irish
foe to tame,
But thundering on their dying ear his shout
of victory came,
And burns with shame De Grey's knit brow,
and throbs witli rage his eye,
To see his best in wildest rout from Erin's
clansmen tly !
*The massacre of MullaghmaKt was per|>etrated a few-
years previous to the date of the evrnt oonunemorated,and
WM for a long time a watch-word of vengeance throughout
Leiiist'-r.
Ho! warder! for the Deputy fling wide thy
fortress gate;
Lo! burgher proud, and haughty dame, l-e
these the bands ye wait :
Whose banners lost, and broken spears, and
wounds and disarray
Proclaim their dire disgrace and loss in that
fierce mountain fray ?
CASHEL.
CASHEL of Kings! how grandly towers thy
pile, [sky; f
Hoar and majestic, 'gainst the western
How dear the memories that arise the while
We think upon thy glorious days gone l>y!
From ^Engus Patrick, Ailbe, Declan, nigh
Four ages have roll'd o'er thy saints and
kings,
Yet rise thy anthems and thy incense high,
As royalty thy golden censer swings,
For Cormac to thy shrine Momonia's sceptre
brings. J
II.
High the festivities when Brien sate
Leath Mogha's princes, chiefs, and bards-
among :
Higher the pomp, more lofty still the
state (strung
Higher the trumpets pealed, the harps were
More full and far the acclamations rung!
When stood upon thy famed inaugural
stone 1|
t The view of the Rock of Cashel at sunset, particular-
ly when seen for the first linn-. approaching from the out-
ward by the Clonmel roa<l. is unusually grand and hnpoafalff.
and to the mind f an Irishman familiar with the hi~;
his country, natually suggests the train of reflections which
have found expression in tin- foregoing stanzas. In olden
times Cashel waa the royal ty-atof the kings of Minister, and
it instated that St. Put rick held a synod here, at which St.
Ailbeof Emly, and St. Declau of Ardmore, were present, in
the reign ot .Kngus, King of Minister, who was bapti/
St. Patrick
J Cormac Mac Oiillenan, King of Munster and Aivli
l>i-hop ( ,f Cisln-1. ftourislird at the beginning of the ninth
century, and was equally distinguished as a monarch, a pre-
late and asige. He was th>- author of the celebrated PoaHer
f I'dKln'l, find is said by some authoritieH totuive l>uilt the
beautiful little church on the Rock : < IH-I called Cormac'n
chajiel. It I* traditionally related, that 1 1 one occasion when
he was celebration High Max* nt Christmas, the choir waa
composed of seven hundred priest*.
f Brien Horn held his court frequently at Cashel nfter
beoomtnc noranh o( Ireland, and imiit U>e embattled w.ill
around the brow of the Rock, a considerable portion of which
still remains.
The stone mi which the king* of MuMUT were" inangu-
rated is still to be wen. alx>ut midway between the entrance
gate and the palace It i composed of asort of sandfftooe,
and is in the form of a truncate.! pyramid of some fh
high and about t he same dimensions at the baae. An ancient
: "ss of peculiar fonit BunuounU it.
850
POEMS OF M. J. McCANN.
From line Eugenian or Dalcassian sprung
A candidate for Oilliol's ancient throne;*
To all for fearless soul and kingly virtues
known.f
III.
But fiercer joy, more thrilling transports
rose, [led
As Donough back Clontarf s brave victors
Triumphant; J foreign and domestic foes
Crushed at a blow their bravest fallen or
fled!
Deep was their mourning too; the heroic
head blood
Of Heber's race had purchased with his
Thy freedom; while, amid the carnage
dread, [stood,
Full many who the o'er- whelming foe with-
"With dauntless Murrough fell beside Eblana's
flood
IV-
Changes the scene; in Cormac's sculptured
choir
A foreign king in regal pomp we see,
While bends in homage one whose royal
sire,
Left a brave people and a sceptre free,
With his good sword; || who forfeits now
the three ? [kneels
Clontarf s' great hero! doth the prince who
* Oilioll Olum, King of Munster, bequeathed his throne in
alternate succession to the descendants of his two sons,
Eogan More and Cormac Gas. From the former, who was
the elder brother, sprang the Eugenian line, represented by
the MacCarthys, and from the latter, the Dalcassian, repre-
sented by the O'Briens.
For he must have come from a warrior race
The heir of their valor, their glory, their grace. Davis.
} Donough O'Brien, one of the sons of Brian Boru, led
back, after the battle of Clontarf, the Dalcassian victors to
Cashel.
Brian Boru was the head of the race of Heber at the
time of Clontarf. He was treacherously killed in his tent to-
wards the close of the day, after the rout of the Danes, by
Broder, the Danish admiral.
II Donald More O'Brien, a descendant of Brian Boru, was
King of Thomond, at the period of the Invasion, and accord-
ing to tradition, was six feet seven inches high, which is said
to account for the unusual height of the galleries in the por-
tion of the royal palace built by him. Like Dermot M'Carthy
of Cork, and some of the minor Irish chieftains, he did hom-
age to Henry II. as his accepted suzerain, in place of Roderick
) Connor, BS did also several of the Irish prelates, at the
Synod of Cashel, held in Cormac's chapel; for all were weary
of the harassing internecine warfare by which the country
had long been devastated, and the wily Henry professed to
come solely in the interests of religion, peace, and order; the
Irish princes being it appears under the impression that
they were to exercise the same power in their respective
territories as under their native monarchs. But being taught
by convincing evidences the hollowness of these pretences
of Henry, Donald was soon in arms, and at Thurles. with the
aid of some Connaught battalions inflicted a severe defeat on
the united Anglo-Ostman forces under Strongbow, killing, ac-
cording to the Four Masters, 1,700 of them. The princes of
Ulster, however, held aloof on the occasion above referred to,
And did not come to do homage to Henry.
i
At Henry's footstool claim descent from
thee?
Donald the stately ! king and warrior, feels
Thy brow no flush, thy breast no throb, as he
Barters his favor for thy fealty ? reels
Thy brain not madly whilst thy country's
death-knell peals !
V.
From off thy walls sublime the scene, when
passed
King Bruce,!" victorious over every foe;
Ard-Righ of Erinn! chosen, tried, and
last [show,
His twice ten thousand made a glorious
As rapidly they crossed the pl;iin below;
There Bannockburn's claymores flashed,
and there
The fearless sons of Lagan, Bann, and Eoe,
With joy, for him, war's sternest brunt
would dare;
And proud their war-notes rang gay danced
their banners fair!
1 The Scots, under Robert Bruce, having freed their
country from English bondage by the victory of Bannock-
burn, fought on the 25th of June, 1314, the Irish thought it a
fitting opportunity to make a ^reat effort for the recovery of
their lost liberties, and accordingly invited over his brother,
the gallant Edward Bruce, as King; his descent from the an-
cient monarchs of Ireland, and the fact of his heroic brother
being on the Scottish throne, rendering his election not only
justifiable, but particularly desirable. The Scottish monarch
approved of the proposal, and on the 26th of May, 1315, Ed-
ward Bruce landed at Larne with 6,000 men, and was im-
mediately joined by the flower of the Ulster Irish. The
English were defeated in several skirmishes, and on the 10th
of September, the united forces of the Red Earl of Ulster,
and Sir Edmond Butler were overthrown with great slaught-
er near Connor in Antrim. Having been proclaimed King
of Ireland, Bruce marched southward in December, defeating
Roger Mortimer at the head of 15,000 men, at Kells in Meath.
Then entering Kildare he again defeated Sir Edmond Butler,
at the celebrated Moat of Ardscul. The Irish now rose upon
their oppressors in several quarters, but a terrible famine
came to the aid of the English, who were on the point of be-
ing annihilated, and Bruce was obliged to return to Ulster,
where he exercised all the prerogatives of Royalty without
molestation. King Robert Bruce came over himself, in Sep-
tember, and reduced Carrickfergus, where a strong garrison
still held out, and early in 1317. the Scoto-Irish army, num-
bering it is said 20,000 men, again marched southward, under
command of the brother kings, through Naas, Castledermot.
Gowram, Callan, Kells in Ossory, and Cashel, devastating the
Butler territory on their way. An army of 30,000 Anglo-
[rish under their best leaders, now marched against the
the forces of Bruce, but were afraid to attack them, and the
new monarch was constrained from want of pro vision saga in
to retire into Ulster, and Robert Bruce was obliged to return
to Scotland in May, a fearful famine rendering military oper-
ations impossible. Next year, owing to the famine, the army
of Bruce was reduced to 3,000 men, but he marched to Dun-
dalk, to which Sir John Birmingham, with a much larger
force was advancing to meet him. As the hostile forces were
in presence of each other, John Maupas, an English Knight,
having, as Lodge relates, drest himself like a fool, succeeded
in entering Brace's camp, and before he could be prevented,
struck him a deadly blow with a leaden plummet. He was
instantly cut to pieces, but the Scoto-Irish were thrown into
consternation and disorder, and though a bloody battle en-
sued, the latter without their chosen leader, and, after his
death, almost without a cause, were defeated. And thus
ended an enterprise which at one time promised to put an end
to English domination in Ireland.
I'OKMS OF M. .!. M. < \\N.
851
VI.
Murrough the Burner!* memory ever
'cursed,
Thy cruel deeds are chronicled in flame;
Of all Oromwellian myrmidons the worst
Thy bleeding country's ruthless scourge
and shame!
Who, after thee, can Saxon Cromwell blame
For Wexford's slaughter? when both youth
and age,
And sacred priesthood, at thy word, became
The victims of those fell fanatics' rage
Who did 'gainst God and man such war re-
morseless wage.
VII.
Ay, vain was woman's shriek and infant's
wail
Ancestral memories' mute appeal was vain;
Xor aught did sanctity itself avail;
Without, within, that consecrated fane,
The unoffending and unarmed were slain.
And INCHIOUIX those savage butchers
leads [Dane !
Sprung from the queller of the pagan
What dread example are his demon deeds,
Of richest soils for aye producing rankest
weeds !
VIII.
Rolls half an age, and some who 'scaped
from all, [men f
Are kindly tending gashed and ghastly
* After devastating; the country with flre and sword, the
sanguinary Murrough O'Brien, adeccendaotof the great hero
whu nulf from rank to rank, crucifix in hand, at Clontarf,
advanced against Cashel, whicli Taaffe, as if In collusion
with i hat ferocious traitor. left garriBonedbr only aOOsoldierB.
The city accepted conditions and oi>e,ned its gate*, but the
garrison and a number of the clergy ninl inhabitants, fled to
tin- shelter of the Cathedral on the Rook of st. Patrick. As
Inchiquin had 7,inm men under his command, an assault WHS
made ny overwhelming numbers of his bloodthirsty fanatics.
But, they were repulsed with great loss. Terms 'were then
offered to the garrison ou condition of their deserting the
clergy and citizens, but this they heroically refused to <!<>.
The assault was then renewed, and the Puritans at length
overpowered the gallant handful of men opposed to them,
and burst into the great church. There, however, thevcn-
i-ojiiiti-red adcsp.-ratc resistance. When, by dint of Dumber*,
they had overwhelmed the few brave defender! remaining,
they eoiniiieiieed one of the most merciless massacres on
r cord. Twenty priests and Several re! igioiis Were savagely
murdered. And even old wnmen who had readied their
hundredth vcarwcre iu>t spare<l, whilst infants were butch
eiedon thoaltar. And the Intcrnuncio relates flint a iiiiin-
b T of helple;s females who knelt around tho statue i.t si
1'atnck, were inhumanly out to pieces. Within the church
:il',' altogether were slain, but amongst them were 500 of the
assailants, so that th remnant of the little garrison, and
uchof the Catholics as were able to resist, sold their lives
dearly. In the cit v .'(.nut were massacred: and the venerable
Father Richard Barry, of the order of St. I>ominiek. bei-aus,.
he would not cast t\ his habit. w as roasted alive in a stone
chair, ny order of the officers of Incln<|iiin' As usual, the
church was de-eerated, and everything sacred destroyed
t Fifty-three years after the sack of Cushel, the wounded
In Cormac's chapel, and in Brirn's hall;
'Twere record worthy of an angel's pen !
For foes, from Limerick's siege they've
come, and then
As sons of CashePs stormers ask they aid !
E'en some had been from flames and death
snatched, when
Mid William's blazing tents, pursuit was
staid
At pity's voice, and sheathed was Erin's
vengeful blade. J
IX.
Lone, lofty, riven, thus riseth 'jrainst the
sky,
A giant witness of stupendous wroiiir:
Around thy ruined aisles, while foul birds
fly,
Foes grasp thy rights with robber hands,
and strong;
Defaced thy monuments: but why pro-
long
The sad recital ? o'er the richest plain
Of Erinn hast thou looked for ages long r
And never saw Extermination re:.
So uncontrolled the peasant's toil so vain!
.\.
Cashel of Kings! most striking type art
thou
Of Erinn plundered, outraged, deso-
late;
Though braving fortune with uiHjuailing
brow,
Appealing still sublimely 'gainst her fate.
And yet thou'lt see her rise despite the hate
Of bigot foes, and tyrant's sterne.-t ire,
And all her aspirations vindicate:
For this does heaven undying hope inspire,
And fill her children's hearts with quenchless
patriot fire!
, 1862
soldiers of William's army were brought from the liege of
Limerick to Cashel, and 'the Inhabitants, forgetting what
the fathers of many of them had d"i>e under lncliii|iim.
tendered them every assistance which humnnltv con
gest, and for this William renewed the charterof the city on
the Bridge of OoJden
t A noble instance of humanity and forgivenem was
displayed bv many of the Irish soldier-. when th-
suing the defeated Willinnutes from the walls of l.m
< >n seeing the sick and wounded men like! in the
(lames of the hospital tents, which ; -id taken tire m il:
fusion, they st..p|>ed in their pursuit to carr." their disabled
enemies out of the (lames to a place ,,( safely. The truly
Chrislain magnanimity of this act will U-tte'r understood
when it is recollected thai the conduct of William's soldier*
toward the Irish was remarkable for cruelty.
POEMS OF JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY.
EARTHLY GLORY.
I SAAV a rose one summer day
With perfume fresh and sweet,
But when again I passed that way
'Twas withered at my feet.
It hung its faded, pretty head,
Its sweetness had departed ;
It seemed an emblem of the dead,
Of some one broken-hearted.
It told its own wise tale of truth,
Of moments swiftly flying,
It told me of a wasted youth,
Of manhood slowly dying;
And spoke a tale unto a heart
Which felt its sad, sad story,
Of how our brightest hopes depart,
How fleets all earthly glory.
LIFE'S CHANGE.
THE pride of the morn may be humbled at
night,
And the darkness of fear be dispelled by the
light.
And the power of the mighty's tyrannical
sway
May be strong for a year and be lost in a day.
The bright hopes of youth are oft vanished
in years.
And dissolved is the sweet smile of gladness
in tears;
Not a day, not an hour, as our own can be
reckoned,
For the wish of a life may be wrecked in a
second.
The joys of to-day may be buried in sorrow,
Ere the still hours of even may close on the
morrow ;
And the love of this moment be hate in an
hour,
Anu seemingly weakness be turned into
power.
And the halo that dwells round the temple
of fame,
And the prize that encircles a world-known
name,
May vanish like snow in a southern clime
Ere to-morrow shall sink in the ocean of
time.
ADAM LUX.
WHEN Charlotte Corday journeyed towards
the dead
For slaying him she deemed her country's
foe,
Thro' all the angry crowd that watched her
go
To that ill place, by frequent blood stained
red,
One man who looked his last on that fail-
head,
Unshamed as yet by any headsman's blow,
Felt all the currents of his being flow
The quicker for the girl whose life was shed.
Seeing and loving, to like end he came
Lived but to praise her dead, and praising
died
The self-same death of not inglorious shame.
Adam Lux, thus seeking thy soul's bride
Across the stretch of that ensanguined tide,
High with love's martyrs let me write thy
name.
POEMS OF OSCAR 0, F, WILDE,
GREFITI D'lTALIA.*
THE corn has turned from gray to rod,
Since first my spirit wandered forth
From drearer cities of the north,
And to Italia's mountains fled.
And here I set my face towards home,
Alas! my pilgrimage is done,
Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun
Marshals the way to holy Rome.
Blessed Lady who dost hold
Upon the seven hills thy reign,
Mother without blot or stain,
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold.
Roma, Roma, at thy feet
1 lay this barren gift of song !
For, ah ! the way is steep and long
That leads unto thy sacred street.
And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole !
Or wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno's stream,
To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines.
By many a vineyard-hidden home,
Orchard, and olive-garden gay,
Till rise from the Campagna's gray,
The seven hills, the golden dome!
A pilgrim from the northern seas
What joy for me to seek alone
The wondrous Temple and the throne
Of Him who holds the awful keys!
When, bright with purple and with gold,
Come priest and holy Cardinal,
And borne above the heads of all
The gentle Shepherd of the fold.
This beautiful poem derive* an a.Miti.imil intrnvt fr-.m
the fact that the author is a non-Cat h.li<-. an.l that ItOTlftUfr
ally api>arr.l in the I.oii.lon Month, the leading Catholic
Magazine of Great Britain.
joy to see before I die
The only God-anointed King,
And hear the silver trumpets ring
A triumph as he passes by !
Or at the altar of the shrine
Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
And shows a God to human eyes
From the dead fruit of corn and wine.
For, lo, what changes time can bring!
The cycles of revolving years
May free my heart from all its fears
And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon troubled sea of gold
The reapers garner into sheaves,
Or e'en the autumn's scarlet leaves
Flutter as birds adown the wold,
1 shall have run the glorious race.
And caught the torch while yet aflame,
And called upon the Holy Name
Of Him who now doth hide His Face.
LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES.
ALBEIT nurtured in democracy,
And liking best that state republican
Where every man is Kinglike and no man
Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see,
Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,
Better the rule of One, whom all obey.
Than to let clamorous demagogues betn.y
Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.
Wherefore I love them not whose hands pro-
fane
Plant the red flag upon the pilrd-up.--
For no right cause, bo neat h whose ignorant
reign
Arts, Culture. Reverence. Honor, all things
fade,
Save Treason and the dagger of her ti...le.
And Murder with his silent bloody feet.
854
A POEM BY BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING.
A VISION.
THE crowned Kings and One that stood alone
With no green weight of laurels round his
head,
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with
flame,
I cried to Beatrice, " AVho are these ? "
And she made answer, knowing well each
name,
"^Eschylos first, the second Sophokles,
And last (wide stream of tears !) Euripides."
A POEM BY BARTHOLOMEW DOVL1M.
THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY.
MAY 11, 1745.
BY our camp-fires rose a murmur,
At the dawning of the day,
And the tread of many footsteps
Spoke the advent of the fray ;
And, as we took our places,
Few and stern were our words,
While some were tightening horse-girths,
And some were girding swords.
The trumpet blast is sounding
Our footmen to array
The willing steed is bounding,
Impatient for the fray
The green flag is unfolded,
While rose the cry of joy
" Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner
To-day at Fontenoy ! "
We looked upon that banner,
And the memory arose
Of our homes and perished kindred
Where the Lee or Shannon flows;
We looked upon that banner,
And we swore to God on high
To smite to-day the Saxon's might
To conquer or to die.
Loud swells the charging trumpet
'Tis a voice from our own land
God of battles ! God of vengeance !
Guide to-day the patriot's brand!
There are stains to wash away,
There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of the Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.
Plunge deep the fiery rowls
In a thousand reeking flanks-
Down, chivalry of Ireland,
Down on the British ranks!
Now shall their serried columns
Beneath our sabres reel-
Through their ranks, then, with the war-
horse
Through their bosoms with the steel.
With one shout for good King Louis
And the fair land of the vine,
Like the wrathful Alpine tempest
We swept upon their line
Then rang along the battle-field
Triumphant our hurrah,
And we smote them down, still cheering,
"Erin, slianthagal go bragh ! * "
As prized as is the blessing
From an aged father's lip
As welcome as the haven
To the tempest-driven ship
As dear as to the lover
The smile of gentle maid
Is this day of long-sought vengeance
To the swords of the Brigade.
* Erin, your bright health for ever.
POEMS OF JOHN AUGUSTUS SIM. A.
See their shattered forces flying,
A broken, routed line
See, England, what brave laurels
For your brow to-day we twine.
<>li, thrice blest the hour that witnessed
The Briton turn to flee
From the chivalry of Erin,
And France's fleur-de-li*.
As we lay beside our camp fires
When the sun had passed away
And thought upon our brethren
That had perished in the fray
We prayed to God to grant us,
And then we'd die with joy,
One day upon our own dear land
Like that of Fontenoy.
THE O'KAVANAGH.
I.
THE Saxons had met, and the banquet was
spread,
And the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led;
And the banners that hung round the festal
that night,
Seemed brighter by far than when lifted in
fight.
II.
In came the O'Kavanagh, fair as the morn,
When earth to new beauty and vigor is born;
They shrank from his glance, like the waves
from the prow,
For nature's nobility sat on his brow.
III.
Attended alone by his vassal and bard
Xo trumpet to herald,no clansmen to guard
He came not attended by steed or by steel :
No danger he knew, for no fear did he feel.
IV.
In eye and on lip his high confidence smile 1
So proud, yet so knightly so gallant, yet
mild;
lie moved like a god through the light of
that hall,
And a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to
all.
V.
" Come pledge us, lord chieftain ! come pledge-
us ! " they cried ;
Unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied ;
And this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh
bore
" The friendships to come, not the feuds that
are o'er!"
VI.
But, minstrel, why cometh a change o'er thy
theme ?
Why sing of red battle what dream dost
thou dreuin ?
Ha! " Treason ! " 's the cry, and " Revenge! "
is the call,
As the swords of the Saxon surrounded the
hall!
VII.
A kingdom for Angelo's mind! to portray
Green Erin's undaunted avenger that day:
The far-flashing sword, and the death-dart-
ing eye,
Like some comet commissioned with wrath
from the sky.
VIII.
Throuirh the ranks of the Savon he he\ved
his red way
Tli rough lances, and sabres, and hostile ar-
ray :
856
POEMS OF JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA.
And, mounting his charger, he left them to
tell
'The tale of that feast, and its bloody fare-
well.
IX.
And now on the Saxons his clansmen ad-
vance,
With a shout from each heart, and a soul in
each lance :
He rushed, like a storm, o'er the night-cov-
ered heath,
And swept through their ranks, like the
angel of death.
X.
Then hurrah ! for thy glory, young chieftain,
hurrah !
Oh ! had we such lightning-souled heroes to-
day, [gale,
Again would our " sunburst " expand in the
And Freedom exult o'er the green Innisf ail !
THE INVOCATION.
(From " Clontarf .")
STAR of my love! Celestial vision beaming,
And beckoning from thy home of light to me,
In the rapt moments of my purest dreaming
I've worshipped thee.
! thou wert fairest of this fair creation,
That human mind could dream or eye could
see;
A hope, a power, a glorious revelation
Of love to me.
Thou wert the earthly idol of my living ;
Thy presence made it paradise to me;
Thy smile was all the world possessed worth
giving,
Though bright it be.
And I have loved thee too for that devotion
With which thou'st loved our Island of the
sea;
,She felt the prayer of thy pure soul's emo-
tion,
And she is free.
My country! may thy name and fame and
glory-
Hope, virtue, prowess, pride and liberty
Kindle thy sons in many a future story
With chivalry.
Free mayst thou be, honored, pure and holy,
The Gospel's rock-built ocean-sanctuary!
Accept this prayer for her, from lips so lowly,
Oh! God to thee!
THE SWOKD-GIFT.
(From " Clontarf.")
STRONG pulse of my bosom,
Fair light of my brow;
I never have loved thee
More fondly than now;
Than now that I give thee
To foe and to field,
To conquer or perish
But never to yield.
Take the sword of thy father,
A field's to be won ;
Let it dash o'er that field
Like the beams of the sun ;
If it sink let it be
With the pride of its dawn,
As near to its heaven
As when it was drawn.
By the skill of a freeman,
For freedom 'twas made;
In the hands of a freeman
'Twill not be betrayed.
I have loved it how dearly
Yon heaven can see
Almost with the love spell
That binds me to thee.
That sword once was light
As a rush in my hand,
But now I can scarcely
Its movement command.
No matter! come hither!
Come hither, my boy;
There take it Oh God,
What fulfillment of joy.
POEMS OF THOMAS FRANCIS MKAGHKK.
857
Go forth in young glory,
Go vanquish the Dane,
And swell the proud story
Our land must retain.
Go! leave not a footprint
Of foes on our sod ;
For glory and Erin,
For Freedom and God.
THE LEPER.
(St. Luke, Chap. 5, v. xii.)
'To Jesus they brought him, the sinful and
weak,
And the death hue o'ershadowed his brow
and his cheek ;
And the multitude gathered to hear and to
see
'The Hope of the Prophets in fair Galilee.
And the Leper, approaching the Son of the
Word,
Knelt down and besought, and beseeching
adored,
And said, in the faith of his confident soul,
" Oh Lord ! if thou wilt, thou can'st render
me whole."
And the faith of the Leper was favored by
Him,
In the light of whose shadow the sunbeam
is dim;
He held forth His hand, and the God was re-
vealed ;
He uttered the word and the Leper was
healed.
Oh ! thus may my faith undiminished remain,
To rescue my soul from Impurity's stain;
That I may deserve Thy redemption, and
feel,
With Humility's faith, that Thy mercy can
heal.
POEMS OF THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER,
PRISON THOUGHTS.
WRITTEN IN CLONMEL JAIL, OCTOBER, 1848.
I LOVE, I love these grey old walls !
Although a chilling shadow falls
Along the iron -gated halls,
And in the silent, narrow cells,
Brooding darkly, ever dwells.
Oh ! still I love them for the hours
Within them spent are set with flow'rs
That blossom, spite of wind and show'rs,
And through that shadow, dull and cold,
Emit their sparks of blue and gold.
Bright flowers of mirth ! that widely spring
From fresh, young hearts, and o'er them fling.
Like Indian birds with sparkling wing,
Seeds of sweetness, grains all glowing.
Sun-gilt leaves, with dew-drops flowing.
And hopes as bright, that softly gleam,
Like stars which o'er the churchyard stream
A beauty on each faded dream
Mingling the light they purely shed
With other hopes, whose light was flea.
Fond mem'ries, too, nndimmed with sighs,
Whose fragrant sunshine never dies,
Whose summer song-bird never flies
These, too, are chasing, hour by hour,
The clouds whii-h round this prison low'r.
And thus, from hour to hour, I've grown
To Invc these walls, though dark and loin-.
And fondly prize cadi grey old stone.
Which flings the shallow, deep and chill.
Across my fettered footsteps still.
858
POEMS OF THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER.
Yet, let these mem'ries fall and flow
Within my heart, like waves that glow
Unseen in spangled caves below
The foam which frets, the mists which
sweep
The changeful surface of the deep.
Not so the many hopes that bloom
Amid this voiceless waste and gloom,
Strewing my path-way to the tomb,
As though it were a bridal-bed,
And not the prison of the dead.
I would those hopes were traced in fire,
Beyond these walls above that spire
Amid yon blue and starry choir,
Whose sounds played round us with the
streams
Which glitter in the white moon's beams.
I'd twine those hopes above our Isle,
Above the rath and ruined pile,
Above each glen and rough defile,
The holy well the Druid's shrine
Above them all those hopes I'd twine.
So should I triumph o'er my fate,
And teach this poor desponding State,
In signs of tenderness, not hate,
Still to think of her old story,
Still to hope for future glory.
Within these walls, those hopes have been
The music sweet, the light serene,
Which softly o'er this silent scene,
Have like the autumn streamlets flowed,
And like the autumn sunshine glowed.
And thus, from hour to hour, I've grown
To love these walls, though dark and lone,
And fondly prize each grey old stone,
That flings the shadow deep and chill,
Across my fettered footsteps still.
THE YOUNG ENTHUSIAST.
THOUGH young that heart, though free each
thought,
Though free and wild each feeling;
And though with fire each dream be fraught
Across those bright eyes stealing
That heart is true, those thoughts are bold :
And bold each feeling sweepeth;
There lies not there a bosom cold,
A pulse that faintly sleepeth.
His dreams are idiot-dreams, ye say,
The dreams of fairy story;
Those dreams will burn in might one day
And flood his path with glory!
Thou old dull vassal ! fling thy sneer
Upon that young heart coldly,
And laugh at deeds tliy heart may fear,
Yet he will venture boldly.
Ay, fling thy sneer, while dull and slow
Thy withered blood is creeping,
That heart will beat, that spirit glow,
When thy tame pulse is sleeping.
Ay, laugh when o'er his country's ills
With manly eye he weepeth;
Laugh, when his brave heart throbs and
thrills,
And thy cold bosom sleepeth.
Laugh, when he vows in heaven's sight,
Never to flinch or falter;
To toil and fight for a nation's right,
And guard old Freedom's altar.
Ay, laugh when on the fiery wing
Of hero thought ascending,
To fame's bold cliff, with eagle spring,
That young bright mind is tending.
He'll gain that cliff, he'll reach that throne,.
The throne where genius shineth,
When round and through thy nameless stone,.
The green weed thickly twineth.
POEMS OF W, P. MULCHINOCK,
MUSIC EVERYWHERE.
THERE is music in the ocean.
There is music, wild and grand,
With its surges aye in motion,
Breaking fiercely on the land :
Swept by breezes soft and vernal,
Lashed by tempests bold and free,
There is melody eternal
In the deep and mighty sea.
There is music in the mountains,
In the immemorial hills;
From the depths of silver fountains,
From the beds of sun-bright rills :
From the loud-voiced, rain-swelled river,
Whose wild stream the valley fills,
Seaward rushing, tameless eve"
There is music in the hills.
There is music in the thunder,
There is music deep to hear :
When the dun clouds leap asunder,
And the lightnings blue appear;
When the startled sleepers waken
And the abject sinners kneel,
When the dome of heaven is shaken,
There is music in its peal.
There is music in the forest
When the mighty trees are stirred
By the north wind, foe the sorest
To the earth-fed beast and bird;
When the oak its strength is feeling,
When the pine trees, dark and tall,
To and fro are madly reeling,
There is music in them all.
There is music in the summer;
There is music in the spring,
When the bee, the busy hummer,
And the lark, upsoaring, sing;
In the autumn, robed in glory
By the fullness of the year ;
In the winter, dark and hoary,
There is music sweet to hear.
There is music in the pealing
Of the solemn Sabbath bells,
O'er the mountain summit stealing,
Sinking in the rocky dells,
Bidding young and old to gather
Where the dove, religion, dwells,
'Round the shrines of the Great Father,
There is music in the bells.
There is music up in Heaven,
Where the sun and planets shine,
Glorious ever, skyward driven,
By a harmony divine;
Angels swell the mighty chorus,
Seraph voices give reply,
Filling all the concave o'er us
There is music up on high.
There is music for the loving
In the earth, the sea, and air;
Wheresoe'er our steps are roving,
Let us hearken, it is there.
For the sad and for the grieving,
Who with patient spirit i
For the lowly, but believing,
There is music everywhere.
With the rude rock for his pillow,
With his canopy the night.
Dashed by salt spray fmm the billow,
Drenched by snow-flakes, cold and white.
Man may find, though tears should glisten
In his eyes from awe and fear.
If with faith he bend to listen,
's sweet music everywhere.
860
A POEM BY THEODORE O'HARA.
THE ROSE OF TRALEE.
THE pale moon was rising above the green
mountain.
The sun was declining beneath the blue
sea,
When I strayed with my love to a cool crys-
tal fountain
That lies in the beautiful vale of Tralee.
She was gentle and fair as the roses of sum-
mer; [me;
But it was not her beauty alone that won
Oh, no ! 'Twas the truth in her eyes ever
beaming,
That made me love Mary, the Rose of
Tralee.
The cool shades of evening their mantles
were spreading,
And Mary all blushing sat listening to me;
The pale moon her rays through the valley
was shedding,
When I won the heart of the Rose of Tra-
lee.
She was gentle ar;d fair as the rose of the
summer;
But it was not her beauty alone that won
me;
Oh, no ! 'Twas the truth in her eyes ever
beaming,
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tra-
lee.
A POEM BY THEODORE O'HARA.
THE BIVOUAC OP THE DEAD.
THE muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind ;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind ;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms,
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed ;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud ;
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,.
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe;
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was victory or death.
A POEM BY RICHARD HENRY WILDE.
861
Full many a Norther's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain.
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone now wakes each solemn height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground,*
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air;
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war its richest spoil
The ashes of her brave.
Thus, 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield.
* Indian name of Kentucky.
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here.
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead.
Dear as the blood ye gave !
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanished year hath flown,
The story how ye fell ;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.
A POEM BY RICHARD HENRY WILDE.
MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER
ROSE.
MY life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die!
Yet, on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see
But none shall weep a tear for me !
My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pair ray;
Its hold is frail its date is brief,
Restless and soon to pass away.
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree shall mourn its shade:
The winds bewail the leafless tree
But none shall breathe a sigh for nu i !
My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
Their track will vanish from the sand;
Yet still, as grieving to efface
All vestige of the human r
On that lone shore loud moans the sea,
But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
POEMS OF RICH'D D'ALTON WILLIAMS,
KATHLEEN.
MY Kathleen dearest ! in truth or seeming
No brighter vision ere blessed my eyes
Than she for whom, in Elysian dreaming,
Thy tranced lover too fondly sighs.
Oh! Kathleen fairest! if elfin splendor
Hath ever broken my heart's repose,
'Twas in the darkness, ere purely tender,
Thy smile, like moonlight o'er ocean, rose.
Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are
This passion-music, each pulse's thrill
The flowers seem brighter, the stars diviner,
And God and Nature more glorious still.
I see around me new fountains gushing
More jewels spangle the robes of night';
-Strange harps are pealing fresh roses blush-
ing,
Young worlds emerging in purer light.
No more thy song-birds in clouds shall
hover
Oh! give him shelter upon thy breast,
And bid him swiftly, his long flight over,
From heav'n drop into that love-built nest.
Like fairy flow'rets is Love thou f earest,
At once that springeth like mine from
earth
'Tis friendship's ivy grows slowly, dearest,
But Love and Lightning have instant
birth.
The mirthful fancy and artful gesture
Hair black as tempest, and swan-like breast,
More graceful folded in simplest vesture
Than proudest bosoms in diamonds drest
Not these, the varied and rare possession
Love gave to conquer, are thine alone ;
But, oh! there crowns thee divine expres-
sion,
As saints a halo, that's all thine own.
Thou art, as poets, in olden story,
Have pictur'd woman before the fall
Her angel beauty's divinest glory
The pure soul shining, like God, thro' all.
But vainly, humblest of leaflets springing,
I sing the queenliest flower of love :
Thus soars the sky-lark, presumptuous sing-
ing
The orient morning enthroned above.
Yet hear, propitious, beloved maiden,
The minstrel's passion is pure as strong,
Tho' Nature fated, his heart, love-laden,
Must break, or utter its woes in song.
Farewell ! if never my soul may cherish
The dreams that bade me to love aspire,
By Mem'ry's altar ! thou shalt not perish,
First Irish pearl of my Irish lyre !
BEN HEDER.*
I RAMBLED away, on a festival day,
From vanity, glare, and noise,
To calm my soul, where the wavelets roll,
In solitude's holy joys
By the lonely cliffs, whence the white gull
starts,
Where the clustering sea-pinks blow,
And the Irish rose, on the purple quartz,
Bends over the waves below
Where the ramaline clings, and the samphire
swings,
And the long laminaria trails,
And the sea-bird springs on his snowy wings
To blend with the distant sails.
I leaned on a rock, and the cool waves there
Plashed on the shingles round,
' The Hill of Howth, near Dublin, Ireland.
POEMS OF RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS.
And the breuth of Nature lifted my hair
Dear God! how the face of thy child i
fair!
And 51 gush of memory, tears, and pray'r,
My spirit a moment drowned.
I bowed me down to the rippling
For a swift sail glided near
And the spray, as it fell upon pebble anc
shell,
Received, it may be, a tear.
For well I remember the festal days,
On this shore, that Hy-Brassil seemed
The friends I trusted, the dreams I dreamed,
Hopes high as the clouds above
Perchance 'twas a dream of a land redeemed,
Perchance 'twas a dream of love.
When first I trod on this breezy sod,
To me it was holy ground,
For genius and beauty, rays of God,
Like a swarm of stars shone round.
Well! well! I have learned rude lessons
since then,
In life's disenchanted hall;
I have scanned the motives and ways of men,
And the skeleton grins through all.
Of the great heart-treasure of hope and trust
I exulted to feel mine own,
Remains, in that down-trod temple's dust,
But faith in God alone.
I have seen too oft the domino torn,
And the mask from the face of men,
To have aught but a smile of tranquil scorn
For all believed in then.
"The day is dark as the night with woes,
And my dreams are of battles lost,
Of eclipse, phantoms, wrecks, and foes,
And of exiles tempest-tost.
No more! no more! On the dreary shore
I hear a caoinin song ;
With the early dead is my lonely bed
You shall not call me long;
I lade away to the home of clay,
With not one dream fulfilled;
My wreathless brow in the dust I bow,
My heart and harp are stilled.
Oh! would I might rest, when my soul de-
parts,
Where the clustering sen-pinks blow,
And the Irish rose on the purple quartz
Droops over the waves below
Where crystals gleam in the caves about,
Like virtue in human souls,
And the victor Sea, with a thunder-shout,
Through the breach in the rock-wall rolls.
ADIEU TO INNISFAIL.
ADIEU! the snowy sail
Swells its bosom to the gale,
And our bark from Innisfail
Bounds away;
While we gaze upon thy shore,
That we never shall see more,
And the blinding tears flow o'er,
We pray.
Ma vourneenf be thou long
In peace the queen of song
In battle, proud and strong
As the sea.
Be saints thine offspring still
True heroes guard each hill,
And harps by ev'ry rill
Sound free!
Though, round her Indian bowers,
The hand of nature showers
The brightest, blooming flowers
Of our sphere;
Yet not the richest rose
In an alii'ii clime that blows,
Like the briar at home that grows
Is dear.
Though glowing breasts may be
In soft vales beyond the sea.
Yet ever, iiru inn <///'.
Shall I wail
For the heart of love I le;r
In the dreary hours of eve
On thy stormy shores to gri
Innisfail!
POEMS OF JOSEPH BRENAN.
But mem'ry o'er the deep
On her dewy wing shall sweep,
When in midnight hours I weep
O'er thy wrongs,
And bring me, steeped in tears,
The dead flowers of other years,
And waft unto my ears
Home's songs.
When I slumber in the gloom
Of a nameless, foreign tomb,
By a distant ocean's boom,
Innisfail !
Around thy em'rald shore
May the clasping sea adore,
And each wave in thunder roar,
"All hail!"
And when the final sigh
Shall bear my soul on high,
And on chainless wing I fly
Through the blue,
Earth's latest thought shall be,
As I soar above the sea,
" Green Erin, dear, to thee
Adieu 1*
POEIS OF JOSEPH BRENAK
TO MY WIFE.
COME to me, dearest I'm lonely without
thee
Day time and night time I'm thinking about
thee;
Night time and day time in dreams I behold
thee
Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold
thee;
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten,
Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten,
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly,
Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy ?
Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin,
Telling of Spring, and its joyous renewing;
And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold
treasure,
Are circling my heart with a promise of
pleasure.
0, Spring of my spirit ! 0, May of my bosom !
Shine out on my soul till it bourgeon and
blossom ;
The waste of my life has a rose-root within
it,
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can
win it.
Figure that moves like a song through the*
even
Features lit up by a reflex of Heaven
Eyes like the skies of dear Erin, our mother,.
Where the shadow and sunshine are chasing
each other
Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and
simple,
And opening their eyes from the heart of a-
dimple [ing
0, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seem-
Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming.
You have been glad when you knew I was
gladdened ;
Dear, are you sad now, to hear I am sad-
dened ?
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time,
love,
As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme,
love.
I cannot but weep but your tears will be flow-
ing;
You cannot smile but my cheek will be glow-
ing
I would not die without you at my side, love,
You will not linger when I will have died,
love.
I'oKMS OF .loSKI'H HKKXAN.
si;;,
Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow ;
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow,
Strong, srwift, and fond as the words which 1
speak, love,
With a song on your lip, and a smile on your
cheek, love;
Come, for my heart in your absence is weary
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary;
Come to the arms which alone should caress
thee,
Come to the heart which is throbbing to
press thee.
A DIRGE FOR DEVIN REILLY.
" A few days before Devin died." says a friend, " he ex-
pressed a wish to be buried on the slope of a green hill, where
his feet could feel the dew, and his eyes look up to the stars."
Thomas Davis expressed a similar wish, and it was very
characteristic of the two men; for they had a loving sympa-
thy with all the beautiful things of earth, and a brave upward
look for everything grand and worship-worthy in God's uni-
verse. That wish has suggested the refrain of the following
lines.
" WHEN the day has come, darling, that your
darling must go
From the scene of his struggles, of his pride
and his woe,
Lay him on a hill-side, with his feet to the
dew,
Where the soul of the verdure is faintly
stealing through
On the slope of a hill, with his face to the
light,
Which glows upon the dawn and glorifies the
night,
For the grand old mother nature is mightier
than death,
The subtle Irish soul of which the beautiful
is breath,
Which nestles and dreams in the solemn-
sounding trees,
Ami flings out its locks to the rapture of the
breeze,
And 'twill crave for God's wonders, from tin-
daisy star close by,
To the golden scroll which sparkles with His
scripture on the sky ! ''
55
God rest you, Devin Reilly, in the place of
your choice,
Where the blessed dew is falling and the
flowers have a voice,
Where the conscious trees are bending in
homage to the dead,
And the earth is swelling upward, like a pil-
low for your head ;
And His rest will be with you, for the lonely
seeming grave,
Though a dungeon to the coward is a palace
to the brave,
Though a black Inferno circle, where the re-
creant are bound,
Is a brave, Valhalla pleasure dome where he-
roes are crowned ;
Oh, His rest will be with you in the congress
of the great,
Who are purified by sorrow and are victors
over Fate,
Oh ! God's rest will be with you in the cor-
ridors of fame,
Which were juvilant with welcome, when
Death named your name.
Way Amongst the heroes for another hero
soul!
Room for a spirit which has struggled to its
goal!
Rise, for in life he was faithful to his faith.
And entered without stain 'neath the portico
of death
And his fearless deeds around, like attendant
angels stand.
Claiming recognition from the noble and the
grand,
Claiming to his meed who from fresh and
bounding youth
To the days of manly trial, was truthful t<
the truth
The welcome of the hero whose foot would
not give way
'Till his trenchant sword was shivered in the
fury of the fray.
And brave will be that welcome if the Demi-
gods above
Can love with a tithe of our humble mortal
love !
866
POEMS OF JOSEPH BRENAK
" Lay me on a hillside with my feet to the
dew
Where the life of the verdure is faintly steal-
ing through,
On the slope of a hill with my face to the
light
Which glows upon the dawn and glorifies the
night;"
Would it were a hillside in the land of the
Gael,
Where the dew falls like teardrops, and the
wind is a wail
Where the winged superstitions are gleaming
thro' the gloom,
Like a host of frighted Fairies, to beautify
the tomb.
.On the slope of a hill with your face to the
sky
Which clasped you, like a blessing in the
days gone by,
When your hopes were as radiant as the stars
of its night,
And the reaches of the Future throbbed with
constellated light.
Have you seen the mighty tempest in its
warcloak of cloud,
When it stalks thro' the midnight, so defi-
ant and proud,
When 'tis shouldering the ocean 'till the
crouching waters fly
From the thunder of its voice and the light-
ning of its eye,
And the waves in timid multitudes are rush-
ing to the strand,
In a vain appeal for succor from the buffets
of its hand ?
Then you saw the soul of Reilly when, abroad
in its might,
It dashed aside with loathing all the creature
of the night
'Till their plumed hosts were humbled and
their crests white no more
Were 'soiled with the sand, and strewn upon
the shore;
For the volumed swell of thunder was con-
centred in his form
And his tread was as a conquest and his blow
was like a storm.
Save you seen the weary tempest, when a
harbor is near,
And its giant breast is heaving from the
speed of its career,
Sow it puts off its terrors, and is timorous
and weak,
As it stoops upon the waters with its cheek
to their cheek,
As it broods like a lover over all the quiet
place,
Till the dimpling smiles of pleasure are ed-
dying in its trace;
Then you saw the soul of Eeilly when ceas-
ing to roam,
It flung away the clouds, and nestled to its
home,
When the heave and swell were ended, and
the spirit was at rest,
And gentle thoughts, like white-winged birds,
were dreaming on its breast,
And the tremulous sheets of sunset around
its couch were rolled,
In voluptuous festoonings of purple crossed
with gold.
Oh, sorrow on the day when our young apos-
tle died,
When the lonely grave was opened for our
darling and our pride,
When the passion of a people was following
the dead
Like a solitary mourner, with a bow'd, un-
covered head;
When a Nation's aspirations were stooping
o'er the dust,
Where the golden bowl was broken, and the
trenchant sword was rust,
When the brave tempestuous Spirit, with
an upward wing had pass'd,
And the love of the Wife, was a Widow's love
at last;
Oh, God rest you, Devin Reilly, in the
shadow of that love,
And God bless you with his bliss in the
pleasure dome above
Where the Heroes are assembled, and the very
angels bow
To the glory of Eternity, which glimmers on
each brow.
I'OKMS OF JOSEPH BKKNAN.
" Lay me on a hillside, with my feet to the
dew,
Where the life of the verdure is faintly steal-
ing through,
On the slope of a hill, with my face to the
light,
Which glows upon the dawn, and glorifies
the night ; "
Would it were a hillside in the land of the
Gael,
Where the dew fulls like teardrops, and the
wind is a wail
Where the winged superstitions are gleam-
ing thro' the gloom,
Like a host of frighted Fairies, to beautify
the tomb.
On the slope of a hill, with your face to the
sky,
AVhich clasped you, like a blessing in the
days gone by,
When your hopes were as radiant as the stars
of its night,
And the reaches of the Future throbbed with
constellated light.
WATER COLORS.
DONE IN THE GULF OF MEXICO.
I.
THE sudden sun thrust forth his amorous
face,
And dashed with eager hand alef t and
right
The wavering curtains of the startled
night,
Which fled in maiden fear his hot embrace.
The passionate waves flushed crimson as he
came,
And heaved their breasts to catch hisafllu-
ent love,
Like the wild nymph who took the might
of Jove
From out the procreant shower of golden
flame.
The conscious wind rose lullingly and KV.
And gentle benedictions breathing on
The morning marriage of the wave and
sun,
Like a fond heart, through all the silence
beat
The poet-wind, which in this trance of love,
Subdued the thunderous epic in its breast,
To chaunt the lyric for the hour of rest,
It learned in wooded vale and inland grove.
And all around us is a breathing balm,
A life-bestowing incense-bearing breeze.
Freighted with perfume from the Indian
trees,
The pine, the golden orange, and tin- palm.
Speed on good ship, as thou art speeding
now,
May the sun blaze beneficent and strong,
And all the waters as you glide along,
Dash into diamonds on your trenchant prow.
II.
Now dawn has grown to day ; and in his noon
The full sun whitens the emperean dome
With a fierce light, as snowy as the foam
Which rises from the waters while they swoon.
Is not the sky a concave shield enswung
Upon the shoulder of a giant God,
And pressed against the heated sea, whose
broad
And heaving breast with agony is wrung.
The white heat pierces on from pole to pole,
Not in a chain of individual rays,
But in one fierce accumulated blaze
No sunny series, but a blinding whole.
A sheet of molten silver spreads below
And overhead, unbroke, save where they
join
At the horizon's rim, a thin black line
Separates sky from Ocean, glow from glow.
The sea no longer has an aspect proud,
But to its very inmost current shrinks.
Each wave before it grows its stature, dinks
In its own foam which clothes it like a
shroud.
868
POEMS OF JOSEPH BRENAN.
No fiercer, deadlier light can ever be,
So ghastly and so dry in every part,
So sickening to the eye, and to the heart,
It seems a universal leprosy.
A solitary bird with lagging wing
Which sought the shelter of our friendly
mast,
Though perched upon a resting-place at
last,
In its hot throat can find no voice to sing.
And yet our vessel speeds across the deep,
The spur of fire is pricking at her flanks,
And stung through all her dry and strain-
ing planks,
She takes a gulf of waves at every leap.
III.
The full sun hurries seaward from on high;
Each cloud retains his crimson in its breast
As if the Day was murdered in the West,
And all its life-blood sprent upon the sky !
Not unavenged; for e'er its spirit fled,
It shot some parting arrows East and
North,
Which, like the Trojan's shaft, in whizzing
forth,
Took fire and blazed into an ominous red.
And so the East and North were crimsoned
too,
And all the evening waves which round us
rolled,
Touched with a coloring of red and gold
Their funeral robes into a festive hue.
Meanwhile the darkness comes : and over all,
The black flag floating sternly from the
height
Of silent, starless, universal night,
Proclaims the Sun's predestinated fall.
IV.
Dim eyes! ye see not all the splendor round;
For ye there is nor wave, nor star, nor sun,
The sea is like the land, an Ajalon.
Sullen and sombre to its farthest bound.
Dear God ! it were a little thing to grant
In this sublime exuberance of light,
A glimpse of hope, a single ray of sight.
For which my aching eyeballs burn and pant ;
That I might see the glory of thy ways,
And now and evermore exulting stand
In view of whatsoever good and grand
Thy mercy gives us in these latter days.
But I repine not; and although the whole
Of the bright pageant of the changing
skies
Is shut away in darkness from my eyes,
I thank Thee for the landscape in my soul.
I thank Thee that from Fancy's palace-porch
I see the bridal of the sun and wave,
And note the immortal promise which you
gave
The. Righteous, in the many-colored arch ;
And for the sight beyond all other sight
Which sees Thy great creation ever new
And grasps the subtle secret of the few
That the child's Wonder is the poet's Might !
POEMS OF MICHAEL DOHENY.
CUISLA GAL MA CROIDHE.
THE long, long-wished for hour had come,
Yet come, ma stor, in vain,
And left thee but the wailing hum
Of sorrow and of pain.
My light of life, my lonely love,
Thy portion sure must be,
Man's scorn below, God's wrath above;
A Cuisla gal ma croidhe.
'Twas told of thee, the world around,
'Twas hoped from thee by all,
That, with one gallant sunward bound,
Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall.
Thy faith was tried, alas ! and those,
Who perilled all for thee
Were cursed and branded as thy foes;
A Cuisla gal ma croidhe.
What fate is thine, unhappy Isle;
That even the trusted few
Should pay thee back with hate and guile,
When most they should be true ?
'Twas not thy strength or spirit failed;
And those that bleed for thee,
And love thee truly, have not quailed;
A Cuisla gal ma croidhe.
I've given thee manhood's early prime,
And manhood's waning years;
I've blessed thee in thy sunniest time,
And shed with thee my tears;
And, mother, though thou'st cast away
The child who'd die for thee,
My latest accents still shall pray
For Cuisla gal ma croidhe.
I've tracked for thee the mountain side,
And slept within the brake,
More lonely than the swan that glides
O'er Lua's fairy lake!
The rich have spurned me from their door,
Because I'd set thee free;
Yet do I love thee more and more,
A Cuisla gal ma croidhe.
I've run the outlaw's brief career,
And borne his load of ill,
His troubled rest, his ceaseless fear,
With fixed sustaining will;
And should his last dark chance befall,
E'en that shall welcome be,
In death I'll love thee most of all,
A Cuisla gal ma croidhe.
THE STAR OF GLENCONNEL.
AIR "Brien the Brc
IN the halls of Tyrconnel the minstrels no
more,
As of old, hymn their chieftain's applause,
And around the lone ruins, long blasted and
hoar,
Only echoes the croaking of daws ;
There no voices are borne on the summer
eve breeze,
But the scarce vocal breath of decay,
As the dust of the pile, through the whisper-
ing trees,
Into silence is melting away.
But afar from the land where his forefathers
fought
Does the wand of O'Donnel yet wave,
With the title for aye with his destiny
wrought,
Of the " bravest of even the hi
Where he leads; 'gainst the Moors, the Cas-
tilians once more,
And revives Andalusia's renown, [soar
While the haughtiest plumes of the enemy
Hut to garland the eoiKjuoror's crown.
870
POEMS OF FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.
Valiant chief ! as like eagles thy glories arise
Over foes scattered, flying or slain,
To emblazon once more with thy destiny's
dyes
The reviving old triumphs of Spain.
Do thy thoughts ever turn to the isle of the
sea,
Where the bones of thy forefathers lie,
Where they led to the combat the brother-
hood free,
Hand in hand, or to conquer or die ?
As the last of thy race who in Erin had
borne
The white wand, for thy stalwart hand
meet,
When conducting his clansmen back, wasted
and worn,
From their last and their only defeat,
Was by false-hearted Thomonds betrayed
and beset
In the treacherous marches of Clare,
Though outnumbered, he rang from their
battle-brands yet
The hosannahs of victory there.
When thy legions have trampled the pirate
nest out,
And their cheers echo over the sea,
The clan Connels of the isle will re-echo the
shout,
And will send up loud paeans for thee,
While they pray that the nest in thy ances-
tors' halls
Shall be trampled and scattered amain,
When thy battle-blade glimmers above those
gray walls
To the cry of O'Donnel again.
POEMS OF FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEK
A FALLEN STAR.
I.
I SAUNTEKED home across the park,
And slowly smoked my last cigar;
The summer night was still and dark,
With not a single star :
And, conjured by I know not what,
A memory floated through my brain,
The vision of a friend forgot,
Or thought of now with. pain.
A brilliant boy that once I knew,
In far-off, happy days of old,
With sweet, frank face, and eyes of blue,
And hair that shone like gold :
Fresh crowned with college victory,
The boast and idol of his class,
With heart as pure, and warm, and free
As sunshine on the grass!
A figure sinewy, lithe, and strong,
A laugh infectious in its glee,
A voice as beautiful as song,
When heard along the sea.
On me, the man of sombre thought,
The radiance of his friendship won,
As round an autumn tree is wrought
The enchantment of the sun.
He loved me with a tender truth,
He clung to me as clings a vine,
And, like a brimming fount of youth,
His nature freshened mine.
Together hand in hand we walked;
We threaded pleasant country ways,
Or, couched beneath the limes, we talked
On sultry summer days.
For me he drew aside the veil
Before his bashful heart that hung,
And told a sweet, ingenuous tale
That trembled on his tongue.
I'OK.MS OK FIT/ -IA.MKS OT.KIKN.
II.' read me songs and amorous lays,
Where through each slender line a fire
Of love flashed lambently, as plays
The lightning through the wire.
A nobler maid he never knew
Than she he longed to call his wife;
A fresher nature never grew
Along the shores of life.
Thus rearing diamond arches up
Whereon his future life to build,
He quaffed all day the golden cup
That youthful fancy filled.
Like fruit upon a southern slope,
He ripened on all natural food
The winds that thrill the skyey cope,
The sunlight's golden blood :
And in his talk I oft discerned
A timid music vaguely heard;
The fragments of a song scarce learned,
The essays of a bird.
The first faint notes the poet's breast,
Ere yet his pinions warrant flight,
Will, on the margin of the nest,
Utter with strange delight.
Thus rich with promise was the boy,
When, swept abroad by circumstance,
We parted, he to live, enjoy,
And I to war \vith chance.
II.
The air was rich with fumes of wine
When next we met. 'Twas at a feast,
And he, the boy I thought divine,
Was the unhallowed priest.
There was the once familiar grace,
The old, enchanting smile was there;
Si ill shone around his handsome face
The glory of his hair.
Mut the pure beauty that I knew
Had lowered through some ignoble task ;
Apollo's In ad was peering through
A drunken bacchant's mask.
The smile, once honest as the day,
Now waked to words of grossest wit ;
The eyes, so simply frank and L
With lawless fires were lit.
He was the idol of the hoard ;
He led the careless, wanton throng;
The soul that once to heaven had *>
Now grovelled in a song.
He wildly flung his wit away
In small retort, in verbal brawls,
And played with words as jugglers play
With hollow brazen balls.
But often when the laugh was loud.
And highest gleamed the circling bowl,
I saw what unseen passed the crowd,
The shadow on his soul.
And soon the enigma was unlocked ;
The harrowing history I heard,
The sacred duties that he mocked,
The forfeiture of word.
And how he did his love a wrong
His wild remorse his mad car. < ; :
And now ah ! hearken to that song,
And hark the answering cheer !
Thus musing sadly on the law
That lets such brilliant meteors quench.
Down the dark path a form I saw
Uprising from a bench.
Ragged and pale, in strident tones
It asked for alms I knew for what :
The tremor shivering through its !
Was eloquent of the sot.
It begged, it prayed, it whined, it cried.
It followed with a shuffling tramp.
It Would not. could not he denied.
I turned beneath a lamp.
8T2
POEMS OF FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.
It clutched the coins I gave, and fled
With muttered words of horrid glee,
When, like the white, returning dead,
A vision rose to me
A nameless something in its air,
A sudden gesture as it moved,
'Twas he, the gay, the debonnaire!
'Twas he, the boy I loved !
And while along the lonesome park
The eager drunkard sped afar,
I looked to heaven, and through the dark
I saw a falling star !
KANE. ARCTIC EXPLORER.
DIED FEB. 16, 1857.
ALOFT upon an old basaltic crag,
Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend
the Pole,
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll
Around the secret of the mystic zone,
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag
Flutters alone,
And underneath, upon the lifeless front
Of that dread cliff, a simple name is traced ;
Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,
But with a rocky purpose in his soul,
Breasted the gathering snows,
Clung to the drifting floes,
By want beleagur'd, and by winter chased,
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen
waste.
Not many months ago we greeted him,
Crown'd with the icy honors of the North,
Across the land his hard-won fame went
forth,
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb
by limb ;
His own mild Keystone State, sedate and
prim,
Burst from decorous quiet as he came;
Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflame
Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,
Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lunged
West
From out its giant breast,
Yell'd its frank welcome. And
from main to main,
Jubilant to the sky,
Thunder'd the mighty cry,
HONOK TO KANE!
In vain, in vain, beneath his feet we flung
The reddening roses! All in vain we pour'd
The golden wine and round the shining
board
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung
With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast !
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies
Faded and faded! And the brave young
heart
That the relen^ess Arctic winds had robb'd
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest
For the lost captain, now within his breast
More and more faintly throbb'd.
His was the victory; but as his grasp
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,
Death launch'd a whistling dart;
And ere the thunders of applause were done
His bright eyes closed for ever on the sun !
Too late, too late the splendid prize he won
In the Olympic Art of Science and of Art !
Like to some shattered berg that, pale and
lone,
Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone,
And in the burning day
Wastes peak by peak away,
Till on some rosy even
tt dies with sunlight blessing it; so he
Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea,
And melted into heaven.
He needs no tears who lived a noble life ;
We will not weep for him who died so well,
But we will gather round the hearth, and
tell
The story of his strife,
Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.
POEMS OF GEN. CHARLES G. HALPINE (MILES O'REILLY). 873
What tale of peril and self-sacrifice !
Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice,
Wit h hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow!
Night lengthening into months; the raven-
ous floe [bear
Crunching the massive ships, as the white
Crunches his prey; the insufficient share
Of loathsome food;
The lethargy of famine, the despair
Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued;
Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind
Glimmer'd the fading embers of a mind !
That awful hour, when through the prostrate
band
Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand
Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew,
The whispers of rebellion, faint and few
At first, but deep'ning ever till they grew
Into black thoughts of murder, such the
throng
Of horrors round the Hero. High the song
Should be that hymns the noble part he
play'd!
Sinking himself, yet ministering aid
To all around him. By a mighty will
Living defiant of the wants that kill,
Because his death would seal his comrades'
fate ;
Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill
Those polar winters dark and desolate.
Equal to every trial, every fate,
He stands, until spring, tardy with relief,
Unlocks the icy gate,
And the pale prisoners thread the world once
more, [shoiv.
To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral
Bearing their dying chief 1
Time was when he should gain his spurs of
gold
From royal hands who woo'd the knightly
state.
The knell of old formalities is tolPd,
And the world's knights are now self-conse-
crate.
No grander episode doth chivalry hold
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne,
Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain,
Faithfully kept through hunger and through
cold,
By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane!
POEMS OF GEN. CHARLES G. HALPINE
(MILES O'REILLY).
JANETTE'S HAIR.
0, loosen the snood that you wear, Jane tie,
Let me tangle a hand in your hair, my pet.
For the world to me had no daintier sight
Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders
white,
As I tangled a hand in your hair, my pet.
It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette,
It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet.
'Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your
wrist,
'Twas a thing to be braided, and jeweled, and
kissed |pet.
'Twas the loveliest hair in the world, my
My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette.
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown, my pet.
But warmly and softly it loved to caress
Your round white neck and your wealth of
tress
Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet.
Your eyes had a swimming glory. Janette.
Revealing the old, dear story, my pet
They were gray, with that chastened t
of the ?ky.
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the
fly.
And they matehe.l with your golden hair,
my pi-t.
874 POEMS OF GEN. CHARLES G. HALPINE (MILES O'REILLY).
Your lips but I have no words, Janette
They were fresh as the twitter of birds, my
pet,
When the spring is young, and the roses are
wet
With the dew-drops in each red bosom set,
And they suited your gold-brown hair, my
pet.
Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette,
'Twas a silken and golden snare, my pet ;
But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did im-
plore
The right to continue your slave evermore,
With my fingers enmeshed in your hair, my
pet.
******
Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette,
With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair,
my pet;
In the darkness of desolate years I moan,
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone
That covers your golden hair, my pet.
HONOR THE BRAVE.
HONOR the brave who battle still
For Irish right in English lands;
No rule except the quenchless will,
No power save in their naked hands ;
Who waged by day and waged by night,
In groups of three or bands of ten,
Our savage, undespairing fight
Against two hundred thousand men.
No pomp of war their eyes to blind,
No blare of music as they go,
With just such weapons as they find,
In desperate onset on the foe.
They seize the pike, the torch, the scythe-
Unequal contest but what then ?
With steadfast eyes arid spirits blithe
They face two hundred thousand men.
The jails are yawning through the land,
The scaffold's fatal click is heard,
But still moves on the scanty band,
By jail and scaffold undeterred.
A moment's pause to wail the last
Who fell in freedom's fight and then,
With teeth firm set, and breathing fast,
They face two hundred thousand men.
Obscure, unmarked, with none to praise
Their fealty to a trampled land;
Yet never knight in Arthur's days
For desperate cause made firmer stand.
They wage no public war, 'tis true;
They strike and fly, and strike what then ?
'Tis only thus the faithful few
Can front two hundred thousand men.
You call them ignorant, rash and wild;
But who can tell how patriots feel
With centuries of torment piled
Above the land to which they kneel ?
And who has made them what we find
Like tigers lurking in their den,
And breaking forth with fury blind
To beard two hundred thousand men ?
Who made their lives so hard to bear
They care not how their lives are lost ?
Their land a symbol of despair
A wreck on ruin's ocean tossed.
We, happier here, may carp and sneer,
And judge them harshly but what then ?
No gloves for those, who have as foes
To face two hundred thousand men.
Honor the brave ! let England rave
Against them as a savage band ;
We know their foes, we know their woes;
And hail them as a hero band.
With iron will they battle still,
In groups of three or files of ten,
Nor care we by what savage skill
They fight two hundred thousand men.
POEMS OF GEX. CHARLES G. HALI'INK i.MIU-is o'KKI LLV i.
THE FLAUNTING LIE.
ALL hail the flaunting Lie !
The Stars grow pale and dim
The Stripes are bloody scars,
A lie the flaunting hymn !
It shields a pirate's deck,
It binds a man in chains,
And round the captive's neck
Its folds are bloody stains.
Tear down the flaunting Lie!
Half-mast the starry flag !
Insult no sunny sky
With this polluted rag!
Destroy it, ye who can !
Deep sink it in the waves!
It bears a fellow-man
To groan with fellow -slaves.
Awake the burning scorn
The vengeance long and deep,
That, till a better morn,
Shall neither tire nor sleep !
Swear once again the vow,
By all we hope or dream,
That what we suffer now
The future shall redeem.
Furl, furl the boasted Lie !
Till Freedom lives again.
With stature grand and purpose high
Among untrammelled men!
Roll up the starry sheen,
Conceal its bloody stains ;
For in its folds are seen
The stamp of rusting chains.
Swear, Freemen all as one
To spurn the flaunting Lie!
Till Peace, and Truth, and Love
Shall fill the brooding sky;
Then floating in the air,
O'er hill, and dale, and sea,
'Twill stand forever fair.
The emblem of the Free !
ON RAISING A MONUMENT TO TIIK
IIMSH I.KGION.
To raise a column o'er the dead,
To strew with flowers the graves of those
Who long ago, in storms of lead,
And where the bolts of battle sped,
Beside us faced our Southern foes;
To honor these the unshriven.unhearsed
To-day we sad survivors come,
With colors draped, and arms reversed,
And all our souls in gloom immersed,
With silent fife and muffled drum.
In mournful guise our banners wave,
Black clouds above the " sunburst " lower :
We mourn the true, the young, the brave
Who for this land that shelter ^ravc,
Drew swords in peril's deadliest hour
For Irish soldiers, fighting here
As when Lord Clare was bid advances,
And Cumberland beheld with fear
The old green banner swinging clear
To shield the broken lines of France.
We mourn them; not because they died
In battle, for our destined race,
In every field of warlike pride.
From Limerick's wall to India's tide
Have borne our flag to foremost place:
As if each sought the soldier's trade.
While some dim hope within him glows,
Before he dies, in line arrayed,
To see the old green flag displayed
For final fight with Ireland's foes.
For such a race the soldier's death
Seems not a cruel death to die,
Around their names a laurel wreath,
A wild cheer as the parting l>re.ith,
On which their spirits mount the sky:
Oh, had their hope been only won
dn Irish soil their final tiirht.
And had they seen, en- sinking down.
Our Kmerald torn from Kn^land's crown.
Each dead face would have Hashed with
light.
870
POEMS OF GEN. CHARLES G. HALPINE (MILES O'REILLY).
But vain are words to check the tide
Of widowed grief and orphaned woe :
Again we see them by our side,
As full of youth, and strength, and pride
They first went forth to meet the foe !
Their kindling eyes, their steps elate,
Their grief at parting hid in mirth;
Against our foes no spark of hate
No wish but to preserve the state
That welcomes all the oppressed of earth.
Not a new Ireland to invoke
To guard the flag was all they sought;
Not to make others feel the yoke
Of Poland, fell the shot and stroke
Of those who in the Legion fought :
Upon our great flag's azure field
To hold unharmed each starry gem
This cause on many a bloody field,
Thinned out by death, they would not yield
It was the world's last hope to them.
Oh, ye, the small surviving band,
Oh, Irish race wherever spread,
With wailing voice and wringing hand,
And the wild kaoine of the old dear land,
Think of her Legion's countless dead !
Struck out of life by ball or blade,
Or torn in fragments by the shell,
With briefest prayer by brother made,
And rudely in their blankets laid,
Now sleep the brave who fought so well.
Their widows tell them not of pride,
No laurel checks the orphan's tear;
They only feel the world is wide,
And dark, and hard nor help nor guide-
No husband's arm, no father near;
But at their woe our fields were won,
And pious pity for their loss
In streams of generous aid should run
To help them say " Thy will be done,"
As bent in grief they kiss the Cross.
Then for the soldiers and their chief
Let all combine a shaft to raise
The double type of pride and grief,
With many a sculpture and relief
To tell their tale to after days
And here will shine our proudest boast
While one of Irish blood survives
" Sacred to that unfaltering host
Of soldiers from a distant coast,
Who for the Union gave their lives :
" Welcomed they were with generous hand ;
And to that welcome nobly true,
When War's dread tocsin filled the land,
With sinewy arm and swinging brand,
These exiles to the rescue flew;
Their fealty to the flag they gave,
And for the Union, daring death,
Foremost among the foremost brave,
They welcomed victory and the grave
In the same sigh of parting breath."
Thus be their modest history penned,
But not with this our love must cease;
Let prayers from pious hearts ascend,
And o'er their ashes let us blend
All feuds and factions into peace :
Oh, men of Ireland ! here unite
Around the graves of these we love,
And from their homes of endless light
The Legion's dead will bless the sight,
And rain down anthems from above I
Here to this shrine by reverence led,
Let Love her sacred lessons teach;
Shoulder to shoulder rise the dead,
From many a trench with battle red,
And thus I hear their ghostly speech :
" Oh, for the old earth, and our sake,
Renounce all feuds, engendering fear,
And Ireland from her trance shall wake,
Striving once more her chains to break
When all her sons are brothers here."
I see our Meagher's plume of green
Approving nod to hear the words,
And Corcoran's wraith applauds the scene,
And bold Mat. Murphy smiles, I ween
All three with hands on ghostly swords
Oh, for their sake, whose names of light
Flash out like beacons from dark shores
Men of the old race ! in your might.
All factions quelled, again unite
With you the Green Flag sinks or soars !
POEMS OF JOHN BROUGHAM.
877
SAMBO'S RIGHT TO BE KILT.
SOME say it is a burnin' shame
To make the naygurs fight,
An' that the thrade o' bein' kilt
Belongs but to the white;
But as for me, upon me sowl,
So liberal are we here,
I'll let Sambo be murthered in place o' meself
On every day in the year.
On every day in the year, boys,
An' every hour in the day,
The right to be kilt I'll divide wid him,
An' divil a word I'll say.
In battle's wild commotion
I shouldn't at all object,
If Sambo's body should stop a ball
That was comin' for me direct ;
An' the prod of a Southern bagnet,
So liberal are we here,
I'll resign, and let Sambo take it
On every day in the ycur.
On every day in the year, boys,
An' wid none o' your nasty pride,
All my right in a Southern bagnet-prod
Wid Sambo I'll divide.
The men who object to Sambo
Should take his place an' fight,
An it's betther to have a naygur*s hue
Than a liver that's wake an' white;
Though Sambo's black as the ace o' spades
His finger a thrigger can pull,
An' his eye runs sthraight on the barrel-
sights
From undher its thatch o' wool.
So hear me all, boys, darlins!
Don't think I'm tippin' you chaff,
The right to be kilt I'll divide wid him.
An' give him the largest half!
POEMS OF JOHN BROUGHAM,
MY OLD WOMAN AND I.
WE have crossed the bridge o'er the middle
of life,
My old woman and I,
Taking our share in the calm and strife
With the travellers passing by ;
And though on our pathway the shadows
are rife,
There's a light in the western sky.
Some losses and crosses, of course, we've had,
My old woman and I ;
But, bless you ! we never found time to be
sad,
And a very good reason why ;
We were busy as bees, and we wern't so mad
As to stop in our work to cry.
On our changeable road as we journeyed
along,
My old woman and I,
The kindly companions we meet in the
throng
Made our lives like a vision fly :
And therefore the few that imagined us
wrong
Scarcely cost us a single sigh.
The weak and the weary we've striven to
cheer,
My old woman and I ;
For we each of us thought that our duty
while here
Was to do as we'd be done by,
In the hope to exhibit a lul.-mce clear
When the reckoning day is nigh.
:878
POEMS OF MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.
THE HYMN OF PRINCES.
LORD ! we have given, in Thy name,
The peaceful villages to flame,
Of all the dwellers we've bereft,
No trace of hearth, no roof-tree left.
Beneath our war-steeds' iron tread,
The germ of future life is dead.
We have swept o'er it like a blight;
To Thee the praise, God of right I
We have let loose the demon chained
In bestial hearts, that unrestrained
Infernal revel it may hold,
And feast on villainies untold,
With ravening drunkenness possessed,
And mercy banished from each breast;
All war's atrocities above,
To Thee the praise, God of love !
Some hours ago, on yonder plain,
There stood six hundred thousand men,
Made in Thine image, strong and rife
With hope, and energy, and life,
And none but had some prized one, dear,
Grief-stricken, wild with anxious fear :
A third of them we have made ghosts ;
'To Thee the praise, Lord of hosts !
Thy sacred temples we've not spared,
For they the broad destruction shared ;
The annals of time-honored lore,
Lost to the world, are now no more.
What reck we if the holy fane
And learning's dome are mourned in vain ?
Our work those landmarks to efface :
To Thee the praise, Lord of grace!
Secure, behind a wall of steel,
To watch the yielding columns reel,
While round them sulphurous clouds arise,
Foul incense wafting to the skies,
From our home-manufactured hell,
Is royal pastime we like well,
As momently death's ranks increase :
To Thee the praise, God of peace !
Thus shall it be, while human kind,
Madly perverse or wholly blind,
Will so complacently be led
At our command their blood to shed,
For lust of conquest, or the sly,
Deceptive, diplomatic lie;
To us the gain, to them the ruth,
To Thee the praise, God of truth !
POEIS OF MAURICE FRANCIS EGAK
LIKE A LILAC.
LIKE a lilac in the spring
Is my love, my lady love ;
Purple white the lilacs fling
Scented blossoms from above.
So my love, my lady love,
Throws sweet glances on my heart;
Ah, my dainty lady love,
Every glance is Cupid's dart.
Like a pansy in the spring
Is my love, my lady love,
For her velvet eyes oft bring
Golden fancies from above.
Ah, my heart is pansy-bound,
By those eyes so tender-true ;
Balmy heart's-ease have I found
Dainty lady love, in you.
Like the changeful month of spring
Is my love, my lady love;
Sunshine comes and glad birds spring,
Then a rain-cloud floats above.
So your moods change with the wind
April-tempered lady love,
All the sweeter to my mind,
You're a riddle, lady love.
I'OKMS OF MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.
PERPETUAL YOUTH.
'Tis said there is a fount in Flower Land,
De Leon found it, where Old Age away
Throws weary mind and heart, and fresh
as day
Springs from the dark, and joins Auro-
ra's band :
This tale, transformed by some skilled trou-
vere's wand
From the old myth in a Greek poet's lay,
Rests on no truth. Change bodies as
Time may,
Souls do not change, though heavy be
his hand.
Who of us needs this fount ? What soul is
old?
Our mere masks age, and still we grow
more young,
For in our winter we talk most of Spring;
And as we near, slow-tottering, God's safe
fold,
Youth's loved ones gather nearer;
though among
The seeming dead, youth's songs more
clear they sing.
MY FRIEND'S ANSWER.
I READ, friend, no pages of old lore,
Which I loved well, and yet the winged
days,
That softly passed as wind through green
spring ways
And left a perfume, swift fly as of yore,
Though in clear Plato's stream I look no
more,
Neither with Moschus sing Sicilian lays,
Nor with bold Dante wander in amaze,
Nor see our Will the Golden Age restore.
I read a book to which old books are new,
And new books old. A living book is
mine
In age, two years: in it I read no lies
In it to myriad truths I find the clew
A tender, little child; but 1 divine
Thoughts high as Danto's in its clear l.lue
eyes.
WHEN MOT II K IIS WATCH.
mothers watch beside their children's
cradles
And kiss the snowy brows and golden hair,
They do not see the future that is coming,
Though life is made of grief, and pain, and
care.
But God is good to all the tender mothers,
He veils the future with its pain and sin,
Though sometimes fears may dim the pres-
ent gladness,
Yet never can they quench the hope within.
Yes, God is very good to tender mothers,
They see no thorns upon the golden head
Of him who plays among life's earliest roses,
That bloom a fleeting hour, and then are
dead.
Yet she, the model of all earthly mothers,
Was never spared the pain of knowing this :
That, though the Christ-child played with
blooming roses,
The cross must come, for all her prayerful
bliss.
To look He slept upon His snowy eyelids,
And know that they should close upon the
Tree;
To gaze upon His smooth and stainless fore-
hrad
And know that there great drops of blood
should be.
To oatoh Hit dimpled hands and softly warm
them.
As mothers do, between her own, was pain :
She felt tin- nail prints on their velvet sur-
face,
She could not save her Lamb from beim:
slain.
When mothers watch In-side their children V
T.I dies,
And dream bright dreams for them of joy
and fame,
Let them remember Mary's trust through
aniMiish, [Name.
And ask all hles..in-> through the Holy
880
POEMS OF THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
Is there a land in all the great round earth
In which thy name's unknown, gracious
Saint ?
Thy people praise thee ; wild, strong, March
words faint
Beneath the burden of a pious mirth
In mem'ry of thee. Where's the sad com-
plaint
Of yesterday ? To-day our preachers
paint
Thy glory, Truth-bearer. Hope takes new
birth;
Old tales of Ireland light the dullest hearth.
Greater than Israel have thy people been ;
Greater than Moses, gracious Patrick,
thou:
For greater sorrow have no people seen,
And so resigned did no people bow
Unto God's will, which changing all
Spring's green
Leads them to Spring through Fall and
Winter now.
POEMS OF THOMAS BUCHANAN BEAD.
SHERIDAN'S RIDE.
UP from the south, at break of day,
Bringing from Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,
The terrible grumble, and rumble and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war
Thunder'd along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester roll'd
The roar of that red sea uncontroll'd,
Making the blood of the list'ner cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
But there is a road from Winchester town
A good broad highway leading down;
And there, through the flush of the morning
light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need ;
He stretched away with his utmost speed ;
Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.
Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thunder-
ing south,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's
mouth,
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and
faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.
The heart of the steed and the heart of the
master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their
walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
Ev'ry nerve of the charger was strained to
full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.
Under his spurning feet, the road
Like an arrowy alpine river flow'd
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind ;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace
fire,
Sped on, with his wild eye full of fire.
But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ;
He is snuffing the smoke of the warring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.
The first that the General saw were the groups
Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ;
I'OKMS OF PATRICK SAKSFIKLD CA88IDY.
881
What was clone ? what to do ? a glance told
him both,
Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
I Ir dash'd down the line 'mid a storm of
huzzas,
And the wave of retreat check'd its course
there, because
The sight of the master compell'd it to pause,
With foam :ind with dust the black charger
was gray;
But the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils
play.
He seem'd to the whole great army to say,
" I have brought you, Sheridan, all the way
From Winchester down, to save the day."
Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!
Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man !
And when their statues are placed on high
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American Soldier's Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious general's name
Be it said, in letters both bold and bright;
" Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From "Winchester twenty miles away !
TIIK KKAYK AT HoME.
THE maid who binds her warrior's sash
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash
One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though Heaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story,
Her heart shall shed a drop as dear
As ever dewed the field of glory.
The wife who girds her husband's sword
'Mid little ones who weep or wonder,
And gravely speaks the cheering word,
What though her heart be rent asunder;
Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of war around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er
Was poured upon a field of battle.
The mother who conceals her grief
When to her breast her son she presses,
Then breathes a few brave words and brief,
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,
With no one but her secret God
To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod
Received on Freedom's field of honor.
BURIAL OF MACSWYNE OF THE
BATTLE AXES.
t" A. D. 1524 MacSwyne, of Tin Boghaine (now the Barony
of Banagh), Niall Mor, son of Goeghan, a chief of hardiest
hand and heroism, best in withholding and attacking, best in
hospitality and prowess, who led the most numerous troops
and tin- iii'i-t \ i.'orous soldiers, and who had forced the great-
est number of passes of any man of his own fair tribe, died,
after unctiou and penance, at his castle at Rathaine " [Ra-
in. n. St. John's Point, County Donegal], "December llili.
l.v-'l." Annals of the Four Masters.
THROUGH the portals opened wide,
Through the gates all Hung aside,
Solemn in its pomp and pride,
Comes the funeral of MacSwyne
Comes the burial of tin- brave
Noblest of a noble line
That never nursed a slave !
He who swayed the !>attle-a\e.
Firm of grasp, of movement lax,
Cleft in t \vain like ball of wax,
56
Cleft full many a foeman's head,
He is dead, he is dead.
And clansmen true in marching line
I'M -ar him to the grave, to the grave.
Sad and silently they tread.
Mourners of the mighty dead.
With faltering foot and hooded head.
Sad and sore, in heart perplexed.
Perplexed in he-irt for evermore;
Bards and Brehons follow next,
Then the cotlin. which before
Walks the Abbot, sable-stoled,
Vestment-robed with ample fold.
Ribbed, adorned with threads of gold :
1 1 is eyes through clouds of sorrow look
I>o\vncast on the tear-stained book,
Mar-in writ with many a text.
Many a text of holy lore!
882
POEMS OF PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY.
Bear him slowly, softly bear
Him, the loved of woman fair,
Him, the angels' special care,
Him, our hearts' beloved dead,
Him, the Ruler and the Law;
Bear him slowly, softly tread,
Cross yourselves in solemn awe,
Tell the bead and chant the caoine,
Place his sword and axe and skean
Where crest of horse and lizard green,
Broadsword, battle-axe and plume
Are carved upon his coffin-tomb
Kind of heart and clear of head,
He has bowed to Nature's law.
And is he dead ? Ah, he's dead !
He our clan's paternal head,
He the foeman's mortal dread,
He is gone, he is gone,
And we ne'er shall see him more;
He is gone, ullalone !
Gone from Rahan's sunny shore !
He of chieftain-like command,
He of free and generous hand,
He the lord of honor's wand,
He the rock that could withstand
Every shower of arrows keen,
Every thrust of pointed skean,
Turn them back as Dooran Rock
Elings the billows' futile shock
He is gone and we're alone,
Orphans and on sorrow's shore !
And is he gone ? Ah, he's gone !
wirrastru ! we're now alone,
We who were his very own,
W T e whose very hearts had grown
Into his, unto him !
And shall we never see him more ?
Never shout his battle hymn,
Never follow where he bore ?
Never look upon that face,
With filial love each feature trace,
Never see him take his place
In Rahan's ever open hall ?
And sure 'twas he who fed us all
Take his place upon the dais
Deal around the bounteous store ?
Chant, fair bard and senachie,
The song of death as dolefully
As wail the winds from off the sea
When sinks to sleep the tempest's fit,
When the stormy gales depart
A dirge, but with affection lit,
A song and sob of broken heart !
His word of welcome never more
Shall greet thee at the open door
When travel-stained and travel-sore,
And grant refreshment, shelter, rest
And listen to your song and jest;
Of all your friends he was the best,
For hospitality had writ,
Had writ its laws upon his heart !
But now that heart's forever still'd ;
In death its warm affection's chill'd,
And fled the fearless soul that thrill'd
With living fire the mortal frame
With fire that came from the beyond
And gave a glory to the name
That never owned the narrow bond,
The narrow bond and niggard tie
Where selfish souls contracted lie;
Ah, his could sweep the earth and sky,
Could soar through space and ride the
stars
High o'er the wind's and the world's
wars
In war a withering blast of flame,
In love a deep and placid pond.
No more his voice on his clan shall call,
Nor flag shall wave o'er his rampart wall ;
That flag of fame is his funeral pall ;
No more in the maddening conflict ring
His conquering sword and his dreaded
name,
No more, no more, shall his conquests
bring
To clan MacSwyne its accustomed
fame;
Nor kindling eyes at the casement burn
With pleasure and pride at the chief's re-
turn
Ah, wildly they weep round his funeral
urn !
I'UKMS OF I'ATIMCK SAUSI-IKU) CASSIDY.
Xo more young maids from their towers
above
Shall bathe his form in their looks of love
And he of valor and manhood king
Ah, well might he kindle their hearts
to flame!
The nimble deer unnoticed now
May roam around the mountain's brow;
The hawk its head in grief may bow,
For never hunter, chief or king
Could give such sport to its desire;
The falcon, too, may droop its wing
And tame its restless heart of fire!
And mourn, ye hills, with clouded head,
No more your brows MacSwyne shall tread ;
And his the foot that fleetest sped
Across your breasts at break of morn
And led the hunt with hound and horn.
No more, no more he home shall bring
The soldier's spoils or hunter's hire.
While chime of bell and chant of prayer
Mournful wake the evening air,
Bear the chieftain, slowly bear,
And place him in the crypt below,
Beneath the altar's sacred site.
Chant the office sad and slow
And solemn be the Church's rite.
Ah, narrow now must be his bed,
The dust shall pillow heart and head
The bloom of Banagh's line is shed ;
Dust to dust ! The spirit's flown
To mix in Heaven among its own ;
But what can blunt the piercing blow
That leaves us fatherless below-
Widowed on a winter's night !
TO MY IRISH GOLDFINCH.
Two exiles we and all alone
This morn of New Year's day ;
Dejection's tones are in your song,
There's sadness in my lay,
And when you pause, the interlude
That fills the space between
Seems like the cadence, low and sad,
Of some old Irish caoine.
Around our room there broods a gloom-
The gloom of our regret
That we arc exiled from a land
We can't and won't forget !
Against your cage you beat your wings
Vain effort of the will
But ah, my bird, my prisoned heart
This day beats stronger still-
Beats stronger still to fly away
O'er ocean's flashing foam
And visit scenes and kindly friends
Of boyhood's cherished home.
And in the New Year's merry sports
To take a joyous part
'Tis this and this alone could e
The longings of my heart.
But let us fling the shutters liack
And hail the glad New Year.
AVho knows but it may hold for us
Bright fortune and good cheer!
And ah, my bird, the morning beam
Should doubly glad our eyes,
For see it streameth from the east,
And there's where Ireland lies!
Cheer up, my bird, be brave of heart,
Compatriots are we,
And though we're caged in exile here
Our souls at least an- free!
For you, my bird, must have a soul,
I feel it in your song;
1 1' heaven's the home of melody
You must to heaven belong!
In sympathy though sorrowing for
That land beyond the wave,
Let us, like Irish exiles all
The wide world o'er, be brave!
And on a wing more swift than thine
We can, this New Year's Hay.
Revisit all the well-loved scenes
In Ireland, far away.
Come twitter round the hazel hedge
That sheltered thy young nest
While I. beside you sit and take
A wearied exile's rest.
We're back on Ireland's soil, my bird!
Her soft winds round us play:
Away with gloom and feelings sad.
Let's whistle " Patrick's Day 1 "
884
POEMS OF PATKICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY.
A KISS IN THE MORNING.
I DID not hope as I strayed among
The perfume wild flowers exhale
To meet my love in the roseate dawn
As through the woodlands I rambled on
Ere the sun had kissed the dew from the
lawn,
And o'er the landscape pale
The opalescent mists still hung
Like a tremulous bridal veil.
I laughed in mirth at her trembling start,
And her little cry like a plaint;
But as eyes were lost in the depth of eyes
I saw that her soul with a glad surprise
Was thrilled, as vision from out the skies,
Might thrill the soul of a saint ;
I drew her bosom towards my heart,
A bosom without a taint !
She gathered her lips and they looked so
sweet
Like a rosebud wet with dew;
My sweetheart's lips like a rosebud red
Whose petals were just beginning to
spread, [said
And her eyes looked up into mine and
" Love, this is alone for you." [beat
They looked so sweet that with quickened
My heart thrilled through and through.
I linger*ng .ooked at that rosebud mouth
While the rosy morn came up [East
Came up from the glowing and radiant
Whose flush, to rival her cheeks, in-
creased, [feast
And I still looked proudly down on the
That lay in that rosebud's cup ;
And her breath was warm as winds from the
South,
Yet I lingered the sweets to sip.
Like miser hoarding his store of gold
And feasting his eyes thereon,
Or like the lover of good repast
Who keeps the choice wine for the last,
Enjoying in fancy the sweet forecast
Of the pleasures that wait anon
So I, her form in my arms' enfold,
Those lips looked down upon '
I felt that I stood on enchanted ground ;
The earth had floated away
From under our feet, and without a fear
My soul went out on a new career
Was wafted away through a strange
bright sphere
In the light of eternal day,
And heaven itself was all around,
And love, as lord, held sway !
I lingered and looked as if under a spell
Before me that cup of bliss
Too lothful to crush that rosebud red
Till she in modesty hung her head
And the deepest crimson her cheeks
o'erspread ;
" I'll tease thee no longer, my love," I
said
" Oh, darling, this and this
Let all the woods hereafter tell
That morn is the time to kiss ! "
WHY I CELEBRATE THE DAY.
(IN REPLY TO AN AMERICAN FRIEND.)
SILLY question 'tis you ask me
Why I celebrate the day ?
I, an exile from an Island
Full three thousand miles away,
Finding here a home and welcome,
Swearing fealty and defense
To the starry flag of Freedom
And forever gone from thence
Why should I, you wondering ask me,
Now a manhood's love maintain
For a land I left in boyhood,
And may never see again ?
Friend, that Island is my mother,
From her fertile soil I sprang;
Generously my youth she nurtured
And my lullaby she sang.
Mark me well, that man's a villain,
Mean and cold as clod of earth,
In whose heart there's no affection
For the land that gave him birth.
POEMS OF PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIMV.
880
If, of it, no tender memories
Up before his vision swim.
Then the land that gives him shelter
Can expect no love from him !
'Tis a light and thoughtless question
Why I love the dear old sod
Where my eyes first looked to heaven
And my lightsome feet first trod ?
Must a man, because he marries,
Cease to love and venerate
In his heart, the dear old mother
Sitting sad and desolate ?
Trust me, friend, the better husband
Always is the better son ;
Heaven protect the maiden from him,
Who, for mother, love has none.
Well I love this broad and noble
Land with love as pure as gold,
None the less because my spirit
Visits, now and then, the old !
Freely would I grasp a sabre,
Rally 'round the flag of stars,
No less ready for the reason
That I'd shiver Ireland's bars !
Mingled in the manly bosom
Is the love for mother wife ;
So my love for both lands mingles
In the current of my life.
Could you doubt our Irish fealty ?
Call the muster of your dead ;
Find a field in all your history
Where no Irish heroes bled
U'here their valor shed no lustre
On your flag, that ne'er must fade,
From the days of Wayne and Moylan
Down to Meagher's Green Brigade.
Ours a nature large and lavish,
Generous as our mother land ;
No cold shallow stream that barely
Covers selfish interest's saml !
And you ask the thoughtless question
Why I celebrate the day ?
Friend, I celebrate no triumph
Won in battle's bloody fray
Triumph of one kingly despot
O'er another, at the cost
Of a hecatomb of heroes,
And, perhaps, of freedom lost!
Nr a victory ignoble
Of one faction, class or creed,
While a strife-distracted nation
Wept the fratricidal deed !
'Tis not these my memory hallows;
Friend, it is a sacred cause
'Tis the bringing to a people
Christian light and love ami 1
Gentle Patrick the Apostle
Bore no flaming battle brand ;
In his heart of peace the Gospel,
And a shamrock in his hand !
These the weapons that he wielded ;
Ireland bowed to Heaven's su
Who'd object but brutish bigots
If we celebrate his day ?
Far I've left my mother country;
Made this fair young land my bride;
Both I'll ever love and cherish
And defend, whate'er betide!
From her cliffs let Erin beckon
And I hasten to her aid,
Let a caitiff strike Columbia
From its scabbard leaps the blade!
Ha ! I note your eye's approval :
With my tenets you agn
Come, thou brave and free Columbian,
Come and celebrate with me!
PAT'S MAKKIAGE CERTIFICAT
Dedicated to my fri.-iul. Clmrli-s Underwood O'Connell.wh"
as Naturallznti.'ii Clrrk of tli<- Court of Common Ple*ft,lMUr*
,, it 1 1 i< -HUM of marriage of Foreign Cavaliers to Mtaa Columbia.
IN love or in war you'll find Put isnosloueh :
It isn't his nature to cringe or to eroueh:
Is tin-re is dashing, hot blood in his
veins,
As old and as pure, too, as any thai
Pat woke iiponemornini:, 'twas in the bright
Spring,
And said to himself. " I must alter this thing;
I'm tired of thus li\in^a poor single !>
Deprhed <>f all pleasure, denied every j
886
POEMS OF PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY.
I'll marry a lady, grand, youthful and high,
And rich as a princess. I'll do it or die! "
For Pat in love matters you'll find is no
slouch;
It isn't his nature to cringe or to crouch;
He feels there is dashing, hot blood in his
veins,
As old and as pure, too, as any that reigns.
He looked all around and beyond the bright
To find a fair maiden his fancy to please.
At last he decided, " By this and by that,
But 'cross at Columbia I'll shy my old hat !
She'll have me, I know, though she's rich
and she's great ! " [elate.
And he danced round the cabin with spirits
For Pat in love matters you'll find is no
slouch ;
It isn't his nature to cringe or to crouch;
He knows the red blood bounding quick
in each vein [stain.
Is as good as the best, without blemish or
From the deck of a big ocean steamer next
day, [Bay,
As she sailed most majestically out of Cork
He kissed his rough hand in a tender fare-
well [fell.
To old Mother Erin then blinding tears
But he dashed them away " Mother Erin,
agra,
Columbia will make a good daughter-in-law !"
For Pat going courting you'll find is no
loon;
It isn't his nature to wail to the moon;
He'll give to the girl that he weds a whole
heart, [part.
And love neither time nor misfortune can
Arrived at New York, he walked round bright
and free,
" My sweetheart has got a fine gatehouse,"
said he.
To pay his addresses he felt nothing loth,
" Perhaps, my dear Pat, 'twould be better for
both/'
Thus spoke Miss Columbia, all smiling and
bright,
And Pat took a taste of the " native " that
night.
For Pat is no cold-blooded mortal you'll
find;
And who'd blame him for toasting the girl
of his mind ?
For dear is his true love to him as life's
breath,
He'll fight for her, work for her, love her
'till death!
For two blissful years his addresses he paid.
And rapid advance in her favors he made ;
Then fixed himself up in his best suit of
clothes, [pose.
And polished his boots and prepared to pro-
With all due respect his intentions declared,
They quick were accepted the feeling wa&
shared !
For Pat to propose you'll find never afraid ;
He knows all by heart how to win a fair
maid;
.e knows woman's heart's like a weak
citadel-
Lay siege and strike lively and all will go
well.
" But, Patrick, you Celts are light-hearted,"
she said; [are wed."
"Three years you must wait yet before, we
Three years looked a lifetime ; Pat felt rather
bad
With any one else he'd have got fighting mad.
He did feel like fighting, and war going on,
To pass the time quickly he shouldered a
gun. [stone;
For Pat in such times is no stick or no
It isn't his nature to mope and to moan;
And love is made stronger by valor's bright
scar,
And Pat is at home or in love or in war.
The three years were up, and the camp fires
burned
No more; Colonel Pat, bronzed and bearded,
returned.
Like a man and a soldier he claimed his fair
bride,
And proudly Columbia stepped up to his.
side;
POEMS OF PATRICK SARSFIELD CAS8IDY.
887
For free-born maidens will still love the
brave.
And look with contempt on the coward and
slave !
Ah, in love or in war you'll find Pat is no
slouch
It isn't his nature to cringe or to crouch;
The rollicking, bounding red blood in each
vein
Is brave as the best, without blemish or
stain !
" Now, Pat/' said O'Connell right friendly,
" come, swear
No love for the Widow Britannia you'll
bear!"
" If I do may my sowl be dyed doubly in
sin!"
"And you'll stick to Columbia through thick
jind through thin!"
" 1 will, by my sowl ! " did he cry, while he
took
Off his hat, and his hand he planked down
on the book,
Pat never owned love for Britannia not
he;
And now to deny her he felt good and free ;
And his free-born heart bounded wildly
with pride
As he grasped the fair hand of Columbia
his bride!
" So now, Mr. Clerk, hand the document
here
My marriage certificate she needn't fear ! "
They gave him the parchment for woe and
for weal,
With a proud screaming eagle and flaming
red seal.
Thus Pat wooed and wed Miss Columbia, the
free
The flower of all damsels that sit by the sea!
In love or in war you'll find Pat is no
slouch
It isn't his nature to cringe or to crouch;
And, next to the deur little isle of his birth.
He loves broad Columbia the best upon
earth!
FANNY PARNELL.
mi-: i) .ii'LY 20TH, 1882.
DEAD? Oh, it can't be it must not be so!
The blurred print but mocks our dull
For our spirits refuse to acknowledge the
blow,
Or our minds to such loss realize.
Our hearts turn rebels to such a decree
'Though the hand that approved were
Divine
What! She, our young Priestess! but no,
it can't be
Stricken down at the steps of the shrine!
Tell us not, tell us not, that the form we
have loved,
So instinct with young resolute life
And the genius that lit up our case, is re-
moved
From our side in the thick of the strife!
A warrior's heart in a maiden's frail form
Strength softened by womanly grace
Was hers; and a spirit to ride on the storm,
When it broke on the foe of our race!
No thought in the uttermost spaces of mind,
No pain in the heart's widest zone
Was farther away than that she who had
twined
Herself round our hearts as her own
Should sink in death's sleep in a moment
like this
When the battle-wave swells at full tide,
And Liberty's dawn is ascending to kiss
The land of her love and hrr pride.
0, it surely can't be that her spirit has pass'd
From the struggle in hour so supn
When the glorious result that her prescience
forecast
In the future-deciphering dream
Of the poet, seems nearing a truth
Wlii-M the transfigurations at hand
Of a nation, enslaved beyond inerev or ruth.
Hising up as a free-born Land!
Has she, whose young soul was our battle's
bright star,
That flashed living light through the
gloom,
888
POEMS OF PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY.
That warmed us and thrilled us in righteous-
ness' war,
Has she gone to the gloom of the tombs ?
Has the light-flashing banner she bore in the
throng
Of the conflict gone down in the dust ?
Does the malice of fate that pursued us so
long
Seek to break the last strand of our trust ?
It can't be! and my heart from its inner-
most core
Refuses its faith to the tale;
Were it so I would hear from her Erin's far
shore
Every wave on the strand give a wail;
And the gloom that would shadow the face
of her land
Would in sympathy seek out my soul
And plunge it in gloom beyond words' poor
command
And grief beyond power of control.
Ah, no, it can't be that her spirit, so rare,
With Liberty's lightnings aflame,
With courage that mocked the grim face of
despair
And put cowardly doubtings to shame
It can't be that it's gone ere her eyes had be-
held
The glory of Erin reborn
That her requiem bell in our hearts should
be knell'd
'Mid the salvos of Liberty's morn !
The flash of her spirit, the sweep of her
powers,
The fervor and fire of her song,
The lightnings she hurled against Tyranny's
towers,
The blows that she dealt unto wrong
Are they lost to the cause when the beautiful
face
Of success flushes fair on our flag,
When the sun-flash she yearned for bids fair
to replace
The cloud upon mountain and crag ?
Have the lips truly touched by celestial
fire
That sang Erin's deep agony,
Been hushed when the poets, in jubilee
choir,
Are weaving the song of the free ?
Is the ear stricken deaf that but loved Erin's
praise
In the days of her squalor and shame,
When the harpings and shoutings and ban-
ner's bright blaze
Give welcome to freedom and fame ?
Personified spirit of Erin ! Not dead
Art thou unto us and thy land;
No grave 'mid the earth-damps, no vault's
narrow bed
Could hold thee in mortal command.
Yes; your heart in its cere-clothes would
quiver and toss
'Till it rent them apart, and you stood
Transfigured and glorified, looking across
The battle's wrong-whelming flood !
No ! thou art not dead, beloved sister of song ;
Thy spirit and Erin's are one,
And active still must be thy war upon wrong
Till the centuried crimes are undone.
The soul that fed ours shall continue to
feed
The genius that guided to guide
0, passionate Priestess of Liberty's creed,
Such genius as thine never died !
POEMS OF M, GEOGHEGAN.
THE GROVES OF BALLYMULVEY.
DEDICATED TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND, THOMAS
MAXWELL, ESQ., BALLYMAHON, COUNTY LONO-
FORD, IRELAND.
[Ballymulvey is an exquisite spot on the right bank of the
River Inny and about a half-mile distant from the town of
Ballymahon, in County Longford, Ireland. Its groves are a
favorite resort for the town's people, and like its sylvan coun-
terpart, "Sweet Auburn," which is only a few miles distant,
it has, to quote the picturesque language of Goldsmith :
" Seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made."
The young imagination especially delights to dwell amid
the dreamy recesses of those charming groves, and it is from
a fond recollection of the many pleasant hours whiled away
there in childhood's cloudless years that I am tempted to
write the following:]
THE gorgeous day draws to its close,
And in the west, where clouds repose,
The sunset's wine-like radiance glows,
Groves of Ballymulvey.
The hills are veiled in purple mist,
The river's blue-belled banks are kissed
By waves that shine like amethyst,
O Groves of Ballymulvey.
But sunset glow or landscape bright
Brings me no thrill of true delight;
My heart flies o'er the sea to-night,
O Groves of Ballymulvey.
My thoughts are all of vanished days,
Now dimly seen thro' memory's haze,
When I roamed 'round your woodland ways,
Groves of Ballymulvey.
How sweet in twilight's tranquil hours,
When all your glades are starr'd with flowers,
To wander 'mid your dreamy bowers,
Groves of Ballymulvey,
And list the throstle's vesper hymn,
Like tones of far-off Cherubim.
Outchanted in the distance dim,
Groves of Ballymulvey.
And, oh ! to hear your guardian trees,
Wooed gently by the passing breeze,
Rehearse their sylvan melodies,
Blithe Groves of Ballymulvey.
While thro' each leafy chink and rent,
As if on some new love-quest bent,
The stars peeped from the firmament,
O Groves of Ballymulvey.
Ah ! how each fond remembrance clings
In spite of exile's cruel stings,
And all time's adverse happenings,
Groves of Ballymulvey.
Each nook and glade and flowery space
Within your emerald embrace
Still in my memory hold a place,
Fond Groves of Ballymulvey.
So, too, each charm the milkmaid's song,
The chorus of the feathered throng,
On wind and echo borne along,
Groves of Ballymulvey.
The cuckoo's note, the corncrake's call,
And high and clear above them all,
The lark's melodious madrigal,
Rare Groves of Ballymulvey.
But, oh! what tongue could e'er express
The beauty of your Summer dress ?
The pink of sylvan loveliness,
How can I limn the haw trees' plumes,
ihe the Maytiine's varied hl>m~.
Or number half your rich perfumes.
Sweet Groves of Ballymuh
How shall I paint the ni.>->-rimme<l rill
The '* Paddock " win-re we gamboled till
The moon rose over ('..uhlan's Hill.
F.ur :i roves of Ballymuh
890
POEMS OF WM. GEOGHEGAN.
Or picture Inny's primrose side
The beach-boughs bending o'er the tide,
Like bridegroom whispering to his bride,
Bright Groves of Ballymulvey ?
Enough to know your scenes are fair,
Your charms are all as debonair,
As when a boy I wandered there,
Dear Groves of Ballymulvey.
But where are they the young and free
Light-hearted lads who drank with me
Of joy's bright cup, and worshiped ye,
Groves of Ballymulvey ?
Ah, me ! o'er some the churchyard clay
Is darkly heaped for many a day;
By far-off sea strands others stray,
Groves of Ballymulvey.
Their morn and midnight thoughts like mine,
E'er winging o'er the wind-vexed brine,
To where your dew-steeped blossoms shine,
Loved Groves of Ballymulvey !
When sunset flushed the western sky
How sweet to mark with upturned eye
The crows in long battalions fly,
Groves of Ballymulvey!
High over meadow, wold and wood,
To where their leaf-roofed houses stood,
Within the " Rookery's " solitude,
Wild Groves of Ballymulvey.
But tho' my life-path runs no more
Amid the sun -bright scenes of yore,
The thought is sweet to ponder o'er,
Groves of Ballymulvey,
That to some kindly hearts around
The borders of your hallowed ground
My name hath still a meaning sound,
Loved Groves of Ballymulvey.
THE BUNCH OF MAY-BLOSSOMS.
Now, dearest mother, reach me down that
lovely branch of May
A gentle neighbor pluck'd for me, and
brought the other day.
Ah! the pleasant hawthorn trees that are
blooming in the meadows.
I know when they are blooming by the full-
ness of their shadows;
When you prop me up with pillows to watch
the dying day,
I know the hawthorn clump, although it lies
so far away ;
For there my Harry saw me first among a
crowd of girls
I held a bunch of May-blossoms as white and
round as pearls;
But one of all the cluster with its white star
yet was crown'd,
And he said it was a fair young bride, with
all her bridemaids round.
All that day he linger'd by me, linger'd long
beside our gate,
And till the stars peep'd through the elms I
knew not it was late.
In the morning, through my lattice, I saw
him sitting early
Beneath the ancient oak-tree, beside our field
of barley ;
It was a pleasant spot, I ween he came there
day by day,
Until the reapers reap'd the corn and car-
ried it away.
You remember, mother, when I told you all
the words he said
How you smiled and laid your dear hands in
blessings on my head ?
You knew my noble loved one, though in
truth I then did not
Of all our village maidens I had still the hap-
piest lot.
Handsome Harry, noble Harry! or still
some better name,
On the lips of young and old dwelt the fra-
grance of his fame.
Oh ! my loving, lingering heart, how it dwells
on all the past!
The future holds the promise of the pleasures
that will last.
But I've something now to tell will make
you weep, I fear,
For I was very wayward when he wed me,
mother, dear.
POEMS OF WM. GEOGHEGAN.
You have sorrow'd. meekest mother, over all
my willful ways,
When they dimm'd the lovely Spring-time,
and darken'd Summer days ;
Scornful glances, angry answers, a woman's
love for sway,
Made me often seek to rule where I promised
to obey.
And yet I loved him fondly; love is cruel,
love is blind
Breathes the words that deeply wound, darts
the looks that are unkind ;
And I think I see him now, with his dear
eyes glancing down,
While the sunny smiles were chasing the
shadow of a frown.
Oh! my angel, angel husband! oh! my dar-
ling gone forever!
How these bitter, bitter thoughts make my
eyes run like a river !
I think how he would speak to me, and point
me to that love
Thatstoop'd to breathe o'er hearts like mine
the peace that reigns above ;
For 7ii.v love growing heavenward, God sent
an angel down,
Who came to crown him suddenly with his
immortal crown.
Yes, he my young and beautiful I saw him
dead and cold ;
I never thought that I could live and yet that
sight behold;
'The dreary days that follow'd, ami the sad,
conflicting strife.
I overlived my sorrows and the emptiness of
life-
Lived to see the green turf piled upon his
young and faithful breast
Lived to fathom that deep love when- the
weary are at rest ;
Until a change came over nu a ehanp-
more mighty far
Than if a dew-drop on the earth had risen
to a star.
I have a loving heart, mother, and that you
know right well ;
But once it was content, nay, glad, on this
cold earth to dwell.
That all must fade and perish here, I often
<li<l forget,
Till Death upon my idol's brow his clay-cold
seal had set.
There, take, that branch away, mother, and
sit you down by me ;
I'm not so full of self, to-night, but what I
think of thee.
I know there is a dreary thought that winds
about your heart;
It is that from your only child you soon will
have to part.
You need no voice of mine, mother, to point
you to the skies;
From only thence comes down the light that
fills those tender eyes.
We shall not die, you often say, but sleep a
little while,
And then wake up in that bright world which
sin cannot defile.
My human heart is weak and fond so give
me one last kiss;
Why will my soul still stoop below the foun-
tain head of bliss ?
Good-night; it is your voice, mother, that
sounds so far away ;
What heights and depths the soul
through in parting from its clay !
And see up there, how beautiful! Ah! well
I know such light
Streams down alone from that fair world that
knows no shade of night.
I'm growing very weary MOW; I think that I
shall >lcep.
Hut I shall wake ajrain in heaven: then
wherefore should you weep r
N": dry those tears, look up, bo glad, and
banish all your care.
itrht. L r ""'l-l'Ve; forget in.- n<t. you
soon will meet UK- tli
892
POEMS OF WM. GEOGHEGAN.
MAY.
SING, ye blackbirds, mellow,
Ope, ye blossoms gay !
O'er the mead and furrow
Trips the laughing May.
Run, ye rills, before her
Lambkins skip and play,
Birds and bees implore her.
Long with us to stay !
Hark ! her voice is ringing
Through the golden air;
See her hands are flinging
Blessings everywhere.
Age lays by its burdens
Childhood seeks the green,
Youths and budding maidens
Hail the bright-haired Queen !
Garlands in the forest
Hangs she on her way,
Boughs that were the searest
Smile in green array;
Bowers for love's caresses
Builds she day by day
Every lover blesses
Bright-haired, blooming May !
Where her feet have lighted
Silver daisies spring;
Groves that winter blighted
Hear the song-bird's sing.
In the heart of sorrow
Hope lifts up her voice,
He that feared to-morrow
Now can say Rejoice !
Gather, happy children,
All these bells of blue,
Merry May hath filled them
With the sweetest dew.
Clad are hills and valleys
In the daintiest hue;
Send, ye courts and alleys,
Thousands forth to view!
MEMORY'S BOOK.
(DEDICATED TO MY WIFE.)
WHEN" on the maple's bending bough the
leaf begins to burn
With Autumn's fire and Summer birds to
tropic haunts return ;
When thro' the meadow sobs the brook for
all the fair-leaved flowers
That brightly starred its winding banks thro'
Summer's sunlit hours
Oh! then, 'tis sweet in the solitude of some
sequestered nook
To slowly turn the mind-traced leaves of
Memory's magic book
To gaze upon the records bright, the annals
steeped in tears,
The sorrows, joys, vicissitudes of life's evan-
ished years !
Last night that tender task was mine above
my soul there rolled
The lights and shades of boyhood's days, the
hopes and dreams of old;
I saw the old home far away by Inny's mead-
marched side,
The hundred haunts the thousand friends
I knew o'er ocean's tide.
And then before my vision rose the scenes
of later days,
Some bright with joy, some softly veiled in
sorrow's tender haze
Here rolled a stream, with her I loved low-
seated by its waves,
And there beyond in shadowland two
green, green little graves !
Ah! Memory's Book! 'tis sometimes sad to
turn its magic leaves;
And yet I read one record there a tale of
bygone eves
That filled my heart with holiest joy, made
all my pulses thrill
And lent atonement to my soul for every
other ill!
POEMS OF WM. GEOGHEGAN.
898
'Twas that sweet story always old, and yet
forever new
Which from your lips my love my wife
one evening fell, and threw
My heart into Love's ecstasy I spoke with
eagerness
You dropped the long lids o'er your eyes,
and softly answered " Yes."
And now our wedded life is hooped in joy's
bright, golden ring
By two blithe boys who chase the hours with
childish carolling;
Oh Memory ! in your magic Book imprint
their pictures true
So that in future years we may with love the
lines review.
LEAVES THAT ARE FAIREST.
LEAVES that are fairest
Soonest decay;
Loved ones the rarest
Soon pass away ;
Smiles that are brightest
Soonest grow cold,
Tales that are lightest
Soonest are told.
But the leaf and the tale give us joy while
they last [past ;
And the smile of a friend makes a joy of the
For memory preserves in its tender embrace
The sunbeams of life as they flashed on his
face.
Fortunes the proudest
Fly with the years ;
Laughter the loudest
Softens to tears ;
Joys the completest
Last but an hour,
Perfumes the sweetest
Die with the flower.
But why should we sigh for the joys that
have fled,
Or mourn the fond hopes that are lost with
the dead ? [will bring
Fresh hopes and new joys coming seasons
As perfumes return with the roses of spring.
THE DAYS OF LONG AGO.
1 WONDKK are the fields as green, the skies
as brightly blue,
The birds as joyous in their songs tin-
flowers as bright in hue
Wild roses blushing fresh and fair in many
a green hedge row
As sweet as those I gathered in the days of
long ago ?
" Oh, yes," replies the maiden fair, with voice
of melody,
With sunbeams in her waving hair and eyes
like summer sea
"Yes, yes," responds the gallant youth,
scarce pausing to reply.
While high resolve and happy love beam in
his eager eye.
" Oh ! speed ye toward the mountain tops,"
we wise old gray-beards say,
" Yet are ye not so light of foot as we were
in our day,
So hardy on the rocky paths, so blithe among
the bowers.
So stout of heart as we were when your happy
age was ours."
Oh ! speed ye toward the mountain tops, ye
maidens fair and sweet
While spring-flowers deck your blooming
hair, and dewdrops bathe your feet
With star-bright eyes, with rose-bright
cheeks, yet are ye not, we know,
So lovely as the girls we loved a long, long
time ago.
We linger in the lighted halls, for still we
fondly prize
The echoing laughter of young lips, the sun-
shine of young e\
Yet here we shake our wise old heads, and
say with faltering tongue,
" Old friend, old friend, things were not so
when you and I were young."
The dance may sweep its giddy round, the
song its silvery flow,
What are they to the .lanee and song wo
joined in long a-
894
A POEM BY DANIEL R. LYDDY.
Thus looking from the hills of age, along
youth's distant glades,
We mark the lingering sunlight there, but
will not see the shades.
" Our flowery paths lie far behind," regret-
fully we say,
And think not of the thorns that sprang be-
side us on our way,
So fair our fragrant pathway spread, so sweet
its verdant bowers,
Long hidden are the snares and chasms that
lurk beneath its flowers.
Though early storms might lash our sea, our
bark sped free and fast,
And what reck'd we of sunken rocks o'er
which we safely pass'd ?
We've climbed the crags, we've crossed the
chasms, we've gained the mountain
height
And buried loves and shipwreck'd hopes
have vanished from our sight.
But oh ! we miss the lithsome form, we miss
the flowing curls,
We miss the buoyant hearts we owned when
we were boys and girls;
We linger fondly on thy joy, forgetful of thy
woe
Oh ! happy age, oh ! golden clime ! delusive
Long Ago !
WINTER.
THE trees are bare; the throstle sings
No more amid the branches ;
Adown the hills a thousand rills
Old scowling winter launches.
Oh, winter ! thou'r't the lover's foe
In vain their loud lamenting;
With rain, and snow, and winds that blow,
Their wildwood walks preventing.
My own dear maid no more I meet
In leafy lane or meadow;
No more beneath the broad beech sit
And clasp her in the shadow.
The gentle robin sits alone
And sings a ballad dreary;
His fate is mine his griefs mine own
I'm parted from my dearie.
The storm howls round my cottage door
Rude blasts that may alarm her ;
Oh ! bitter wind ! oh fate unkind
That keeps me from my charmer!
Soft-breathing spring come back again
And curb the fountains foaming;
With sun and flowers make glad the hours,
And set the lovers roaming;
That they may in thy primrose path
Once more join lips together,
And in their bliss forget the wrath
Of biting wintry weather.
A POEM BY DANIEL R, LYDDY.
CHRISTMAS HYMN.
ALL hail! All hail! Ye Christmas Bells!
Fling far and wide your silv'ry tones,
Which peace impart to captives' cells,
To lowly cots and lordly thrones.
When the midnight hour is tolling,
Come with me, ye pure in thought,
To that Crib from whence is rolling
Away the gloom Eve's sinning wrought.
CHRIST, the Man-God, is born to us
In lordly hall ? On downy bed ?
Are courtly hands prepared to nurse
On kingly couch His Regal Head ?
No ! No ! within that humble shed
Queen, matron, nurse is Mary all ,
And Joseph shields the heav'nly head
Of Him who'd sav'd us from our fall.
POEMS OF WILLIAM COLLI.\>.
Oh, holy Virgin, Mother blest
I'.y that bright flame which warmed thy
mind,
Teach us to feel what fill'd thy breast
Unbounded love with awe combined.
In pain thou stood'st beneath the cross ;
By all the pangs that pierc'd thee through,
Oh, raise our hearts above earth's dross
That we in heav'n may dwell with you
With you in peace beyond the skies,
Enwrapt in all heaven's grand accord ;
Singing sweet psalms of peerless praise
To our Kedeemer, Guide and Lord.
All hail! all hail! glad Christmas bells,
Fling far and wide your silv'ry tom ~.
Which peace impart to captives' cells,
To lowly cots and lordly thrones.
POEMS OF WILLIAM COLLINS.
A GLEN IN THE GALTEES.
WHERE the mountains loom up with their
peaks to the sun,
Bespangled with heath blossoms purple and
dun;
Where the skies, in their brightness and
beauty aglow,
Look down with a smile on the valley below ;
Where the summer winds stray and the sun
loves to shine,
And linger around it till daylight's decline;
There, hid in the mountains, embowered mid
the trees,
Lies that bright, fairy glen in the sunny Gal-
tees.
Enshrined like a gem in the heart of the
hills,
And wooed by the voice of a hundred bright
rills
That unceasingly sing, as in gladness they
stray,
Making music and mirth through the long
summer day;
Sparkling in beauty and sunshine they flow
Till they mingle their song with the river
below,
That rushes and foams to the widespread inir
main
Like a war-charger freed from the curb of
the rein.
The furze and the hazel, the beech and the
broom,
On thy sun-lighted slopes sweetly blossom
and bloom;
And bright on thy banks, where the laughing
waves run,
The shamrock, unsullied, is nursed by the
sun,
And the scent of the hawthorn is wafted on
high
Like the incense of love from the earth to
the sky,
Diffusing its sweets on the soft summer
breeze
That plays round that glen in the sunny
Galtees.
The rocks and the ruins are moss-grown and
The towers of the Desmond are gone to de-
cay,
Clan Cauru no more wakes the sleep of the
glen
With the shout and the tread of their warrior
men.
The hills that resounded the shout of the
kern,
When his banner blazed out from the heather
and fern,
Are ei-holess now as the graves on the plain.
And nau.uht but their grandeur and glory
remain.
896
POEMS OF WILLIAM COLLINS.
Oh! home of my heart, when in youth's
sunny time
I trod thy green vale, what bright visions
were mine;
When I gazed on thy mountains, so daring
and grand,
And heard the sad tale of our wronged
Mother-land ;
How I longed on the breeze her bright ban-
ner to see
And yearned in the clash of the conflict to
be,
And coursed the red blood in my hot burn-
ing veins
To leap to the onset and shatter her chains.
Green Erin ! the strangers who dwell in thy
land,
May rule with unsparing and merciless hand,
But they cannot efface from thy beauteous
brow
The grandeur that shone, and is beaming
there now.
Thou art fair, though by footstep of for-
eigner trod,
As if newly sprung forth from the bosom of
God,
And the breath of His love had illumined
thy frame,
And a ray of His glory enshrined with thy
name.
Loved Mother ! for thee in my wanderings I
With a fond love that never can languish or
die,
As the weary heart pines for the sunshine
and light,
When dungeoned and fettered in darkness
and night,
So I pine for thee, Erin, and still hope to see
Thy flag on the mountain soar upward and
free.
And backward my thoughts o'er the wide
ocean stray
To that Glen in the Galtees that lies far
away.
THE FLAG OF FONTENOY.
(1745.)
AIK "Auld Lang Syne," or " The Sword
of Bunker Hill"
COMEADES, fill up the parting glass
And drink this toast with me;
Round let the sparkling goblet pass,
And pledge it warm and free.
'Twill kindle up the patriot's soul,
And fire his breast with joy,
Then pledge it in a brimming bowl,
The flag of Fontenoy.
To-morrow on the battle plain
Perchance 'twill be our lot
To fall 'mid heaps of mangled slain
To die and be forgot.
But brush that starting tear away,
For if we fall, my boy,
High o'er our heads shall proudly wave
The flag of Fontenoy.
On many a field beyond the sea
Have our brave fathers stood,
And borne that flag triumphantly
'Mid fire and flame and blood.
But never yet could foeman's hand,
Or tyrant's power destroy
The banner of our own dear land,
The flag of Fontenoy.
In vain perfidious England strove
To trample and defile,
She ne'er could quench the burning love
We bear our mother Isle,
And let her send her hireling slaves
To plunder and destroy ;
We scorn her threats while o'er us waves
The flag of Fontenoy.
On Limerick's walls, the Yellow Ford,
Cremona's 'leaguered gate,
On Leinster's hills it proudly soared
In good old Ninety-Eight.
The peasant serf forgot his woes,
And grasped his pike with joy,
When o'er his native hills arose
The flag of Fontenoy.
POEMS OF WILLIAM COLLIN-.
897
And prouder yet that flag shall wa\".
And higher shall it soar
O'er Tara's hill and Emmet's grave
In Erin's Isle once more.
When joined together, heart and hand,
We'll hail that day with joy,
And plant upon our own dear land
The flag of Fontenoy.
Then, comrades, fill your glass with me,
And drink before we go,
Fill up to-night, to-morrow we
Shall march to meet the foe.
And if amid the battle's shock
Perhance we fall, my boy,
High o'er our heads shall proudly float
The flag of Fontenoy.
SUNDAY MORNING IN IRELAND.
Early Mass.
How oft, when treading life's rude track,
'Mid all our hopes, our joys and fears,
The heart, untravelled, still looks back
To other scenes and other years.
Fame's meteor star may gild the way,
And fortune's favors round us flow,
But backward still the heart will stray
To the bright days of long ago.
Through the dim haze of thirty years
I look, and pierce the misty space
And lo ! before my sight appears
Each well-beloved, remembered place;
The hill, the glen, the waterfall,
The meadows strewn with new-mown
grass;
The ruined tower, the abbey wall,
The bell that chimed for morning Mass.
Across the fields the maidens trip,
With looks half roguish, half demure.
With bright, brown eye, and cheek, and lip
As lovely as their hearts are pure.
God bless you, girls, may fear or frown
Ne'er cloud your path uor linger i
And may those eyes of ha/.el brown
Be never dimmed with sorrow's tear!
In merry groups the village swains
O'er road and meadow wend their
Past rath and hawthorn-seen ted lanes,
All clad in frieze of Irish gray.
It is a fair and gladsome sight
To see these youths and maidens pass,
All blithesome, irlowinir, warm and bright,
To tell their beads at morning Mass.
But sure, 'tis not of fast or prayer
Young Maurice Daily thinks the while,
As gallantly, with rustic air,
He helps fair Nora o'er the stile.
He blushes, trembles, vainly tries
To hide the love that all can see;
Well, 'tis no wonder ; Nora's eyes
Would charm an older sage than he.
From group to group kind greetings run,
For all are neighbors in the place,
And love and kindness, mirth and fun
Are written on each manly face.
The merry jest flies quickly hy.
The witty shaft, with friendship aimed,
And maid and lover, coy and shy.
Blush deep to hear their feelings named.
Some, where the hawthorn shadows fall,
Converse in whispers soft and low,
Or deeply muse, apart from all,
As slowly toward the church they go.
With faces bronzed with sun and toil.
And marked by mountain storm and
bree/.e.
O! never yet on Irish soil
Beat truer, braver hearts than these!
"Now, God be praised! 'tis wondrous <x>d,
To see these hills so old and pray.
And mark how ^rand looks Held and wood,
All Clothed in jrreell this blessed day.
Could we but call these fields our own.
Free from the tyrant's ^raspinj; hand.
And see his pride and power o'erthrown.
I low blest and bright would be our land.
:S98
POEMS OF WILLIAM COLLINS.
" Well, neighbor, we must watch and wait,
And silently and well prepare
To meet the hour, for soon or late
The time will come to do and dare.
Look yonder, where young Owen conies,
How brave he looks, how proud and free;
I wish to heaven that Erin's sons
Were all as well prepared as he ?
" Good-morning, Owen ! Glad am I
To see you come to early Mass ;
You step so fleet and lightly by
You scarcely bend the dewy grass.
Come nearer ! Don't forget, to-night
The boys assemble on the hill ;
Be sure and have your rifle bright,
The captain will be there to drill.
" Tell Maurice, Brian and the rest,
If you should meet them in the glen,
To wear a shamrock on their breast,
And that the moon will rise at ten !
Next Tuesday night old Piper Blake
Will blithely make his chanter squeal;
And troth ! 'tis you a foot can shake
With Moira in an Irish reel.
" Hush ! here the priest behind us rides ;
Now, friends and neighbors hurry on,
For time and tide for none abide,
And very strict is Father John.
The chapel bell has ceased to chime,
The morning Mass will soon begin;
Now God be praised ! (we're just in time),
And save us all from shame and sin ! "
Well, well ; those days are over now,
And thirty years are passed and gone;
Time's hand has grizzled beard and brow,
And foreign suns have on me shone.
But still I ponder day by day,
Even as I weave these idle rhymes,
And deep within my heart I say,
MAY GOD BE WITH THE GOOD OLD TIMES.
THE MAEINER'S EVENING HYMN.
EVENING'S shadows fall around us,
And the sun sets on the sea,
With Thy love, O God ! surround us,
Trustingly we pray to Thee;
Sin with all its snares has bound us,
Thou can'st cleanse and make us free.
Darkness falls upon the ocean,
And the waves in anger leap,
And our barque with troubled motion,
Heaves and trembles on the deep,
But our hearts with true devotion,
Nearer to Thy footstool creep.
Though the winds in wrath are blowing,
Thou the tempest can command,
Safe beneath Thy guidance going,
We shall hail the welcome land ;
And though fierce the waves are flowing,
Power and strength are in Thy hand.
Father, as the night descending,
Hides the sun's last golden ray,
Hear our hearts and voices blending
As to Thee we humbly pray,
That Thou, love and grace extending,
All our sins shall wash away.
POEMS OF DANIEL CONNOLLY.
ONE SUMMER NIGHT.
THERE is mist in the winding hollows
That fade on the straining sight,
And dimly the darting swallows
Dip into the gathering night.
The hills loom silent and solemn ;
The stream makes a drowsy rhyme,
That lulls like an echoing volume
Of song from a far-off time.
And here in the moonlight sitting
I ponder an old tale o'er,
And here in the twilight flitting
Are faces that smile no more.
There's one that is fair and tender,
And one that is frank and brave,
And one with a darkling splendor,
And beyond, in the gloom, a grave.
Down a shaded pathway lonely
Two forms in the stillness move,
And the listening maples only
Hear the whispered sweets of love;
A kiss, and the maiden slowly
Returns to her cottage door,
With a peace that is pure and holy
Upon lips that shall laugh no more.
Where the road dips low by the river,
In a hollow of gleam and shade,
And the silvered tree-tops quiver,
By the wandering night-wind sway'd,
Fierce eyes from an ambush glisten
With a murderous, vengeful glare:
Keen ears in the stillness listen
For a step that will soon be there.
He comes, with his heart still singing
The runes of a passionate love;
A bound as a tiger's, springing
From a vantage point above;
A glint, as of white steel gleaming,
A shriek in the startled night,
And low where the moon is beaming,
He lies in the sad, pale light.
Lo! the mists float high o'er the hollows,
No breath stirs the drowsy le;;
That droop in the moon, and the swallows
Have flown to their nests in the eaves.
Thus the mists and the moonlight floated
That night when a brave youth died
In the copse, and a dark face gloated
With a vengeful glare by his side.
THE EYES OF AN IRISH GIRL.
You may talk about black eyes and blur.
About brown eyes, and hazel and gray;
You may praise as you please every hue
Known on earth since its earliest day ;
But no other eyes under the sun
Can set poor human hearts in a whirl,
With their pathos and mischief and fun,
Like the eyea of a bright Irish girl.
They are soft as the down on a <l<>ve.
They are mild as a midsummer dawn.
They are warm as the rod heart of love,
They are coy as the glance of a fawn ;
Tender, pensive, and dreamy as night.
Bright and pure as the daintiest pearl,
Yet as merrily mad as a sprite
Are the eyes of a young Irish girl.
They can soothe and delight with a beam.
They can rouse and inspiiv with a glance.
They can chill and reprove with a gleam
That is keen as the flash of a Ian
To bring peace, or the pangs of despair
To one's breast, be he noble or hurl.
There is nothing on earth to compare
With the eyes of a true Irish girl.
1)00
POEMS OF REV. JAMES KEEGAN.
You may search cabin, cottage and hall,
Thro' the loveliest lands that are known;
But the loveliest land of them all
Has no eyes like the eyes of our own;
There are faces, no doubt, quite as sweet,
And as fair, under ringlet and curl,
But no light like the splendors that meet
In the eyes of a glad Irish girl.
Ah ! Dame Nature was cruelly kind
When she took from her tenderest skies
The most exquisite tints she could find
And bestowed them on soft Irish eyes;
For no other eyes under the sun
Can set poor human hearts in a whirl,
With their pathos and mischief and fun
Like the eyes of a bright Irish girl.
POEMS OF KEY. JAMES KEEGAK
SONG FOR ULSTER.
I.
HURKAH ! hurrah ! the North is won,
Brave Ulster is once more our own;
From Innishowen to Gowna's shore
The Green is waving proud once more
From Earne's groves to banks of Bann,
The North is with us to a man ;
Tyrconnell, Truah, grand Tyrone,
Orange and Green are now our own.
II.
Hurrah ! hurrah ! the North is ours,
Thro' hills and vales, in towns and towers,
The glorious sight once more is seen
Of Blue and Orange blend with Green.
The dawn has come, the night has past,
Foul strife and feud aside are cast ;
Hands joined in strife, now join in love,
While Green and Orange float above.
III.
Then proud, united let them wave,
O'er ranks that hold no more a slave;
And proud, united let them join
From stormy Foyle to placid Boyne :
Let foemen once, now brothers be,
Their watchword " Home and Liberty I"
While tyrants crouch and traitors groan,
Let true men shout, the North's our own.
CREIGHAREE.
A LEGEND OF LEITRIM.
THERE'S a green, silent vale in the heart of
the West,
Where a smooth, glassy river steals on to
the sea;
A swan glides in state on the water's c;ilm
breast,
And the breezes blow slumb'ring thro' lone
Creigharee
Thro' green Creigharee,
Thro' sad Creigharee
Ah ! 'tis silent and lone but the winds make
their moan,
And the ring-dove complains in the tall
elm tree;
In the weird midnight gale you may list to
the wail
Of the ghosts that are haunting in lone
Creigharee.
In green Creigharee dwelt a fair queenly
dame,
Before her proud chieftains bent lowly the
knee;
But her breast was of ice to their hot hearts
of flame,
And in sadness they parted from green
Creigharee
From loved Creigharee
From dear Creigharee.
A POEM BY HON. W. E. ROBINSON.
'.Mil
Yet day after day, from realms far away,
With bugle and banner all gallant and
free,
They sought her in vain and they left her
again,
With sad heart forever in green Creigha-
ree.
At last came a youth without banner, or
armor,
A minstrel renowned, and excelling was he,
His song touched the breast of the cold-
hearted charmer,
But he left her to weep him in dark Creig-
haree,
In dim Creigharee,
In drear Creigharee
She drooped and departed, ere Winter, hard-
hearted,
The last quivering leaf snatched away from
the tree;
And her spirit for ever a swan on the river,
Atones for her folly in lone Creigharee.
THEY TOLD ME SING A SONG OF
MIRTH.
THEY told me sing a song of mirth,
They blamed me for my woful strain ;
They said: Behold the gladsome earth,
And winds and waves in gay refrain.
Sing night and day a song of glee
And for my grief they mocked at me.
I tuned my harp to measures gay,
I strove to wake its chords of fire,
But soon to sadness joy gave way,
And mirth not long would sway the v/ire.
My harp's responsive to my heart,
Whence gloom refuses to depart.
Some day may come in brighter years,
Some day of Hope no more deferred,
When flow no longer th' exile's tears,
And Freedom's voice in Erin's heard -
When freed her every hill and plain,
Then may I sing a joyful strain.
THE AMERICAN FLAG.
HAIL brightest banner that floats on the
gale;
Flag of the country of Washington, hail!
Red are thy stripes as the blood of the brave,
Bright are thy stars as the sun on the wave ;
Wrapt in thy folds are the hopes of the free;
Banner of Washington, blessings on theel
Mountain tops mingle the sky with their
snow,
Prairies lie smiling in sunshine below;
Rivers as broad as the sea, in their pride,
Border thine empires, but do not divide;
Niagara's voice far out-anthems the sea;
Land of sublimity, blessings on th
Hope of the world! on thy mission sublime.
When thou didst burst on the pathway of
Time,
Millions from darkness and bondage awoke:
Music was born when Liberty spoke:
Millions to come yet, shall join in the glee :
Land of the pilgrim's hope, blessings on
theel
Empires shall perish and monarchies fail :
Kingdoms and thrones in thy glory grow
pale;
Thou shalt live on, and thy people shall <>\vn
Loyalty's sweet where ea-h heart is thy
throne;
Union and Freedom thy heritage i
Country of Washington, blessings on th
POEMS OF MRS. M, C. BURKE.
LITTLE SHOES.
THEY'RE very pretty little things,
With bow and buckle bright,
And fitted to dear little feet
So soft, and smooth, and white.
And all the children eager rush
To tell the joyous news,
That " Our baby has short clothes,
And pretty little shoes."
Why is it that my mother-heart
Is full of anxious fears,
And all unconsciously my eyes
Glisten with blinding tears ?
It is that, up to this, my babe
Lay on a loving breast,
To which he ever eager turned
For nourishment and rest.
But little shoes, ye bid me think
That from this very day,
I send another pilgrim forth
Upon life's weary way.
Into the world's sin and care,
Its struggling and its strife,
Until, like J'ob, his heart may wish
It never had known life!
'Twas just two years ago I put
On little Katie's feet
Such shoes as these, with warm caress
And kisses fond and sweet.
They were such pretty little things
Aye ! not a bit more stout
Yet she had joined the angel's band
Ere they were quite worn out.
Oh ! many a mother's bitter tears
On little shoes are shed,
Relics of household treasures gone,
Idols amongst the dead !
Whether this babe reach man's estate,
Or soon his course be run,
I only ask for grace to say :
"Father, Thy will be done!"
THE BEGGAR.
A BEGGAR sat at Toledo's gates
And a gallant train swept by,
Ladies there were, of beauty rare,
And lords, of station high !
The beggar raised his feeble hands,
And asked for a little aid ;
It was bitter cold, and he, very old,
"Alms, for God's sake ! " he prayed.
Some heeded him not, as they gaily spoke
To the fair ones at their side;
But one of renown, he looked him down,
With a scornful glance of pride.
And loud he laughed at the old man's rags,
And asked him why he wore
That pitiful look, he could not brook
Sorrow, it vexed him sore.
So he threw him gold, and bade him begone,.
For it was not meet that he
Should be sitting there, like sorrow and care,
In the sight of such company.
The old man stooped to pick it up
And his dim eyes grew more dim,
And he gave a sigh to the days gone by
'Twas not always thus with him !
Another beggar, he came by,
And seeing the old man there,
He said : " You grieve, would I could relieve
Your heart of its heavy care."
The old man, he looked gratefully up,
For his heart was deeply stirred,
And he gave the gold and a blessing tenfold
To him of the kindly word !
A POEM BY THOS. AMBROSE BUTLER.
AN IRISH MARINKi:.
[The " Santa Maria " carried sixty-six persons. One of the
i-ivu was an Irishman. His name is found in the official list
of those who perished in the colony of La Navidad. He was
a native of Galway.]
I.
O'ER the shadow'd sea they floated midst the
tangled weeds of ocean,
And their swelling hearts were clouded
like the water's heaving breast;
And the sea, in ripples sighing round the
sluggish ships in motion,
Seem'd to sadly speak the longings of the
wearied souls for rest.
II.
Ah ! the troubled seamen trembled as they
plowed with spirits daunted
Where no keel had everfurrow'd since the
birth of sea and sky,
And the starry gems above them, that the
Master's hand had planted,
Seem'd as lights of foreign dwellings with
no friendly spirit nigh.
III.
Yet a Star unseen they thought of, and it
smiled along the water,
And the wearied woke to courage and the
hopeless hoped anew,
And the trembling strung their voices to the
praise of Heaven's daughter
Mary! Star of earth and ocean! Mother
mild and ever true I
IV.
Mark of beauty! named from Mary dove
of promise spread thy pinions,
<ilide along the sullen waters with thy
banner floating free
Earth and air and sky above us an- the
mighty God's dominions,
And He bound this globe of beauty with
the cincture of the sea !
V.
Great Columbus guiding spirit seem'd to-
see his Lord and Master,
So he held hig ghip in harness with a sea-
man's steady hand,
And in Him alone he trusted to protect t lie m
from disaster,
And to Him he look'd to lead them tow'rds
the undiscover'd land.
VI.
Hark! a voice along the waters like the
sound of angel's greeting!
It is coming down from cloudlets where
the sailor-boy is seen,
And the eager eyes of seamen see where sky
and waves are meeting
Land ! a virgin land of beauty clad in flow-
ing robes of green.
VII.
Lordly trees are gently waving leafy branches
tow'rds the seamen,
Glancing lakes are softly smiling sunny
welcome tow'rds the I
Giant bays with arms outspreading stretch
to wearied limbs of freemen,
Sandy shores are ever ready for the foot
prints of the free!
VIII.
Midst revivM rejoicing comrades one alone
recalls the vanish'd!
One alone is mov'd by niem'ry rherished
visions waked awhile!-
One a gloomy Irish Kxile. far from home
and kindred banish'd.
Seems to see reflected valleys of his darling
mother-isle !
He, a "rough and ready" sailor, lov'd the
friendly Spanish nation,
I.ov'd the likeness of the Saviour on the
floating flag of Spain,
A POEM BY THOMAS AMBROSE BUTLER.
But his heart's affection centr'd in one spot
of all creation
In the verdant isle of Ireland that seem'd
looking o'er the main.
X.
Loud the voice of great Columbus, trumpet-
toned along the water,
.To the Pinta, to the Nina and the seamen
by his side,
"In the name of God our Father! in the
cause of Spain his daughter!
Let us bear the cross and banner o'er the
intervening tide.
XL
" But, remember ! none may tread upon the
land that lies before us,
None may kiss the smiling island till my
lips shall press her robe,
None may follow in my footsteps till the
Cross shall glitter o'er us,
And the Flag of Spain in triumph touch
this margin of the globe."
XII.
In the boat that bears Columbus tow'rds the
new-discover'd treasure,
Bends the brawny Irish seaman with his
deftly feather'd oar,
And his azure eyes of beauty beam with
sunny light of pleasure
As a stolen glance discovers spotless ver-
dure on the shore.
XIII.
And the sailor's heart is bounding like the
shining waves beside him,
And a smould'ring wish rekindles in his'
patriotic breast
.Shall the first, the sweetest greeting to the
new land be denied him
To the land that seems a daughter of the
Old Isle in the West ?
XIV.
He is looking back tow'rds Erin as he sweeps
the sea before him,
He is gazing tow'rds her daughter as he
lifts the dripping oar,
He is whisp'ring to his feelings, though the
flag of Spain is o'er him
His the hand that first shall offer friendly
greeting to the shore.
XV.
Gladsome shouts are raised by sailors as they
hear the sands resounding
As the keel awakes soft music by the ver-
dant island's side,
And the boat that bears Columbus, like a
steed of beauty bounding,
Springs to shore with trembling motion
from the foamy-crested tide.
XVI.
Sudden falls a sailor forward as they rise to
stem the water;
And it seem'd by chance he totter'd, and
it seem'd by chance he fell,
But he stretch'd a hand unnoticed to the
ocean's lovely daughter,
And he touch'd the hem that sparkled
'neath the wavy water's swell !
XVII.
Lift the Cross, great Columbus! let it
stand beside the wildwood,
Let it rest on earth in token of the Sa-
viour's sacred reign;
Still a hand that " crossed " the forehead of
an exile in his childhood
Has been first to take possession 'ne::th
the waters of the main !
XVIII.
Raise the Spanish nation's banner where the
startled natives rally,
Let it wave a joyous greeting tow'rds the
sunny smiling shore,
But the unseen hand that touch'd it once
above a blooming valley
Waiv'd adieu to home, to kindred, Mother
Erin evermore!
POEMS OF REV, JOHN COSTELLO,
SONNET.
WHAT forgest, blacksmith! on thine anvil
there ? [bound.
" Chains do I forge." Thyself in chains art
What dost thou plough, serf ? "I till the
ground." [fare.
Ay, for thy lords, the fruit weeds, for thy
What huntest, sportsman ? " The swift-
footed hare."
On thine own track is now a human hound.
What weavest, fisher? "Nets; for fish
abound."
Thyself art netted in a deadly snare.
Whom, mother! in that cradle rockest thou ?
" My boy." That he may live and one day
smite
His motherland in service of her foe.
What, poet ! in thy books art writing now ?
" Of mine, and of my people's shame I write,
That in the dust, like slaves, they crouch so
low."
ERIN.
As rose of old the Jews from out the gloom
Of Egypt's thraldom, fated not to see,
Themselves the Promised Land of liberty,
Before upon them closed the sightless tomb ;
So not thy sons to-day, but those to come, .
My Mother Erin! will behold thee fnv:
For at the fires that cleanse must kindled be
The torch that Freedom's pathway would
illume.
From Mount Sinai's cloud-encircled brow,
The Prophet saw that shining land afar.
On which himself was destined m-Yr to
stand ;
So gazing down the Future's vista now,
I see thy forehead crowned with Freedom's
star,
And worship thee in silence. Motherland!
MY MOTHERLAND.
I.
WHAT caused this Spring of Song to start
To sudden life within my heart ';
My Motherland!
Long years I've wandered far and wide,
To Southern climes o'er ocean's tide
Nor felt my brow by breezes fanned,
So soft as thine, My Motherland !
II.
But ah! the glare of Southern skies
Awhile quite hid thee from mine eyes.
My Motherland!
For when these sunny shores I sought,
True happiness is here, I thought,
Till dim became, on foreign strand,
Thine image fair, My Motherland !
III.
How blithely sang the feathered throng,
In Spring thy leafy woods among,
My Motherland !
Marred by the Summer's sultry heat,
Their songs sound here not half so sweet :
They've winged their flight that tuneful
band
To Thee, My Emerald Motherland !
IV.
On.-r rrlioi-d, with a joyous ring,
My songs to music of thy Spri
My Motherland!
The South to me no sonj; hath brought,
Of Spring itself I seldom thought.
Oppressed as by enchanter's wand.
Timr brok'st the spell, My Motherland!
906
POEMS OF REV. JOHN COSTELLO.
V.
The priceless gifts of Love and Truth,
Thou gavest me in days of youth,
My Motherland!
Ere I departed from thy shore,
Now draw me back to thee once more;
I list the voice of their command,
And come to thee, My Motherland !
VI.
And as I turn again to thee,
My heart throbs with Joy's ecstacy,
My Motherland !
And like the lark, when dawns the light,
AVings heavenward its viewless flight,
And greets with song that smiling land-
My own, my Irish Motherland !
HUMAN LIFE.
FROM THE SPANISH OF MELCHIOR DIEZ.
Thy tender blooms, Spring! are they no
more ?
Where, Summer, is thy wealth of verdant
leaves ?
And who hath robbed thee, Autumn, of thy
store
Of golden sheaves ?
The years ebb swiftly from us and decay,
The seasons' varied gifts of loveliness
Into the gulf profound are whirled away
Of nothingness.
The bud that opens to the dewy dawn,
That blooms a perfect flower 'neath mid-
day skies,
When Night, with sable wing, sweeps down
upon
The earth it dies.
What then is Life ? The shadow of a shade ;
And Pride and Glory ? Playthings of an
hour;
So too, with all things else, Youth, shall
fade
Thy beauty's flower.
THE TOMB OF ALEXANDER.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MANARA.
Open this urn. What world-wide doth lie
Shrunk in the compass of this mute stone
vase!
Thou extinct thunderbolt of war, lo ! I
Salute thy crownless ashes while I gaze
Bewildered and abashed, and vainly try
Of that dread conqueror to find some trace,
Whose wormy dust wrung many a tribute
sigh
From heart of Asia in the far-off days;
Now dark Oblivion covers with its shroud
The name and tomb of him, before the sweep
Of whose victorious chariot nations bowed.
Upgathering in my hand the tiny heap
Of dust :" Behold, Kings!" I cry aloud,
"Earth's conqueror in these ashes lies
asleep ! "
THE ROSE.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF BERTI.
Queen of the garden bowers !
Who dost thy 'sister flowers
In loveliness outshine;
I pray thee tell to me,
Who hath bestowed on thee
Those radiant hues of thine ?
Two rays of heavenly light
Commingle and unite
To paint my crimson leaves;
A ray of dawn-flushed skies,
A purple beam when dies
The light of vernal eves.
Rose, whom the sun hath given
These lustrous tints of heaven
With beauty as thy dower;
I marvel whence has come
Thy odorous perfume,
And pray thee tell, Flower I
OF I;KV. .JOHN < OSTKI.U*
Two wooing winds have kissed me,
Leaving as they caressed me
Their meed of fragrance rare ;
A March wind fresh and glowing,
A breeze of April blowing
From fields of balmy air.
incense-laden blossom!
Who openest thy bosom
To airs o'er sea- waves borne;
1 pray thee tell to me
Who hath protected thee
With sharp and prickly thorn ?
Two angels from above
Around my frail stem wove
This wreath of thorns, that never
With touch profane and rude,
The hand of spoiler should
Me from that stem dissever.
THE POPPY-FLOWER.
FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.
WHEN round our path life's evening
glooms.
The very Spring is sad to see,
For then its wealth of verdant blooms
Seems but a wanton mockery ;
Of all the flowers we then behold,
Whose petals at Love's touch unfold,
In radiant loveliness outspread
Alas ! 'tis meet we pluck but one
To shed its perfumed sweetness on
The pillow of a dying bed.
Pluck me that poppy-flower that glows
Amid the shadows of the wheat,
'Tis said the balm that from it flows
Trances the soul in slumber sweet;
I, it'c -weary, worn with age and pain.
A dream, pursuing dreams in vain
Ah ! not for me who can but weep
The glory of these vernal skiefl
What best comports with drooping e
The flower that seals their lids in sleep.
TWO SONNETS.
FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.
I.
I'm wont to hold my head erect always,
Haughty, self-willed, in this not over wise;
And tho' a king should look me in the eyes
I would not lower them before his gaze :
And yet, I say it, mother, in thy praise,
When thou art near no scornful thoughts
uprise,
The pride that swells my bosom wholly dies.
Is it because thy nobler spirit sways
My being with some subtle spell of might.
That to my heart's recesses flashes bright
Thy calm, grave glance winged with celestial
light ?
It pains me to remember, mother mine,
How oft I've saddened that fond heart of
thine,
That heart which loves me with a love divine.
II.
In mad delusion once I strayed from thee,
And fain would travel earth from short- to
shore,
Find love and make it mine forevermor
On every street and highway ceaselessly
I sought for love, and oft on bended knee,
With hand outstretched, I begged at every
door,
The alms of love, I craved it o'er and oVr
Hatred's cold smile was all they vouchsafed me.
And still in quest of love I wandered ever.
Wandered in quest of love, but found it
never.
Ili.meward I turned in weariness and pain.
Thou earnest forth to meet thy erring child.
Then beaininir in thine eyes, serenely mild.
Wa, ah! that kindly love long sought in vain.
POEMS OF MRS, M, F. SULLIYAR
THE IRISH FAMINE 1880.
RENELY on the ocean sits an island in the
sheen
Of silver skies and purple hills and pastures
ever green.
The corn is waving gladsomely, the white
flocks bleat with glee;
And tawny herds shake silken sides in valley,
glen, and lea;
Fish frolic in the rivers, birds carol in the
trees,
White sails gleam in the harbors, ships throng
her busy quays:
It was not thence that groan came forth ?
again it swells on high;
In Ireland's bread and meat enough not
Tiers a famine cry ?
miracle of miracles ! wondrous cause of
wonder !
Proclaim the story to mankind with trumpet
of the thunder!
A fertile, generous, joyous land, forbid to
feed its people
By laws enacted 'neath the shade of conse-
crated steeple!
Starvation made by statute famine a legal
code
For subjects of a government with an " estab-
lished" God!
Look not into their genial soil for hunger's
helpless cause
The Irish people famish to obey their Eng-
lish laws.
They plough and plant, they sow and reap,
they weave and spin all day,
The English fleet is at their wharves to bear
it all away!
Their father's land the alien owns; the land-
lords own their labor;
Their mortgaged lives have been foreclosed
to glut their English neighbor!
Their rulers, oh, are noble! See yonder
mincing earl !
His sire went forth to Ireland a thieving
English churl,
He pulled from out the shallows the king's
ship's entangled flukes,
His sovereign dubbed him on the shore the
first of Irish dukes !
Behold the lovely vista within yon Irish dale !
The rosy dawn is blushing behind her hazy
veil;
The brooklet prattles on the sward, the lin-
net's early notes
Are answered from the foliage by countless
tuneful throats;
The zephyrs tease the tassels of the nodding,
drowsy grain
That soon will be awakened to be tossed into
the wain :
Now o'er the luscious landscape the sun's
broad rays are broke,
And from the cottage chimneys ascend* the
cheery smoke!
The morning mists hafre disappeared the
vision is still clearer,
What terror-stricken band is that whose feet
are hurrying nearer ?
God of justice! God of mercy! They are
weeping, they are shrieking!
There is frenzy on their faces, and some with
wounds are reeking !
The bailiff horde behind them in cruel fury
comes,
For the smoke we saw ascending was the
burning of their homes !
POEMS OF MRS. M. F. SULLIVAN.
S<> tliis is Irish famine and this is Knglish
law,
And this the saddest sight on earth that
Sorrow ever saw !
Nature's heart is touched with pity, Nature's
eyes with tears are filled,
While the people die of hunger in the fields
that they have tilled!
From the pastures low the cattle, " For the
stranger is our flesh;"
Moans the wind unto the harvest : " For the
stranger you must thresh ; "
And the sheep bleat sadly seaward from
green gorges in the rocks;
"The stranger wears our wool, and the
stranger eats our flocks;"
And the horses paw in fury as they neigh
from out the manger,
" Oh, we would fight for Ireland but our
backs are for the stranger ! "
In this band of homeless outcasts limps a
cripple whose deep scars
Tell of service as a soldier, perhaps in for-
eign wars;
An arm is gone; he totters; in youth his
hair is white,
Is it hunger makes you tremble who shrank
not in the fight ?
The coat he wears is tattered why, the
color! yes 'tis blue!
Were you ever in America ? pale friend, oh,
tell me true!
The ashen lips grow livid, the face becomes
less wan,
"Ay, was I," proudly answers he, " I fought
with Sheridan!
Before the war was over, here my aged father
died;
The only daughter, fair and young, lies
buried at his side ;
The dear old mother lingered still, to shel-
ter her from harm
I came across the water, and worked the lit-
tle farm ;
'Twas taken from us yesterday" "Ami
she ? " " She died last night
Of hunger, hunger oh, great (Jod ! that son
should see such sight !
In battle I ne'er trembled in the whirr of
shot and shell
I rushed with demon recklessness within the
living hell!
To-day I shake with palsy, unmanned by
hunger's pangs;
I feel about my breaking heart a slimy o
hire's fangs;
And all are gone who loved me, the last one
of my kin;
Patrick drove the serpents out to let the
reptiles in ! ''
Lo. here a mother hurries, in her fleshlesc
arms a child,
Her limbs begin to fail her, her face is white
and wild;
Full twenty miles she walked to-day to reach
a poor-house door,
And keep the feeble, flickering light in eyes
that ope no more !
Dead the babe upon her bosom! Oh,
mother's mighty sorrow,
Bewail in vain your journey's length ! Bewail
your awful morrow !
" Dear turf," she faintly murmurs, " take t he
life I could not save!
Oh, land that dare not give her bread, give
my sweet child a grave ! "
She falls she dies but not until her voice
has stirred the tombs:
"Victoria, with my milkless breasts, I curse
your English wombs! "
Philanthropist and missioner lives on 91
George's channel
Sends Bibles to the Pope of Rome, and to
the tropics flannel !
Prays godly prayers for foreign sin before
her holy altars,
The while her hands twist at her back for
Ireland's neck a halter!
In /o/W</w lands protects the weak with
treaties or with eaiinon!
Ami turns the dagger in the heart of her
sister on the Shannon!
So generous to her foreign foes they praise
her to the sky
Ami leaves her Irish subjects one privilege
to die!
.010
A POEM BY ISABEL C. IRWIN.
Come nations of both continents, behold a
Land of Graves !
Come Russia, with Siberia! France bring
your galley slaves!
Come, leering Turk, with dripping knife,
refreshed in Christian gore
Bashi-Bazouks, hold up your heads! be ye
ashamed no more!
empires of a humane world ! behold this
Christian nation,
That makes her people paupers, and grants
them then starvation!
A PAPER-KNIFE OF IRISH OAK.
I.
THE fair young oak that gave thy blade
To carver with a cunning hand,
Stood ages since within a glade
Of that forever shadowed land
Where lies a slave did once command
The world of science, art and craft :
The fair strong oak that made thy haft
Leafed first in rapture near a strand
Where armored Northmen once did wade
From bristling galleys, fore and aft,
To meet oak spears, with gleaming tips,
That drove them, reeling, to their ships,
Like pallid fiends, with terror daft :
For, high above the silver sand,
Where spears and banners meet and mix,
They hear the chant of holy lips,
They see a god-like figure stand
And hold against them, like a wand,
A simple oaken crucifix.
II.
And deeper in the shadowed glade
Where grew thy fair young parent tree;
Where spiced winds and cedars swayed,
The sun's last rays reluctant fade
On abbey tower overlaid
With braided ivy, tress on tress :
While, sweetly, from its dim recess
Through cell and chapel, floats a wave
Of undulating stringed chords :
The abbess' voice, majestic, grave,
Gliding through chancel, crypt and nave,
Repeats in glorious Gaelic words
A song of heavenly joy and hope
That thrills the ancient gray grim dun,
And rises o'er the moated scarp,
Whose warders' sightless eyelids ope
When, with the setting of the sun,
The abbess smites her oaken harp.
ON AN INFANT'S DEATH.
IF but one word could bring thee back
To life, that word would be unsaid
The world would never give to thee
The peace that slumbers with the dead.
Wert thou a man, that could go forth
And bravely meet the rushing tide
Of life, I then might call thee back
To earth. Thou wert not ; therefore hide
Thy infant head still calmly here
In this thy peaceful solitude.
No tale of sin or sorrow can
In thy lone resting-place intrude;
There, my sweet child, thou'lt never know
The endless cares and bitter strife,
The few brief joys, the many tears
That constitute a woman's life.
Well, well I know no tears but those
Which I have shed will damp thy cheek.
Removed from all the cares that bow
The head in sadness, who would seek
To bring thee back, when every hour
I know that thou art calmly sleeping,
Laid gently from thy mother's heart
In God's own holy keeping ?
POEMS OF T, C, IRWIK
MINNIE.
O CRYSTAL Well,
Play daintily on golden sands,
When she comes at morning lonely
Followed by her shadow only
To bathe those little dainty hands,
Always gathering
Seeds to make her blue bird sing,
O Crystal Well.
O Forest brown,
Breathe thy richest twilight b;ilm
As she wanders pulling willow
Leaflets for her fragrant pillow,
Which, with snowy cheek of calm,
She shall press with half-closed eyes,
While the great stars o'er thee rise,
O Forest brown.
O Lady Moon,
Light her as she mounts the stair
To her little sacred chamber,
Like a mother ; and remember,
When she slumbers, full of prayer,
Sweetly then to fill her heart
With dreams of Heaven, where thou art,
<> Lady Moon.
SONG OF ALL HALLOWS' EVE.
I.
THE year is growing aged and dull,
Late rise the days, and weary soon ;
With morning fog the fields are full,
And fall the leaves with evening's moon;
Shut to the doors, and gather nigher.
Our Summer time is scarcely past;
Beside the fire, with cup and lyre,
We'll soon out-sing the winter blast.
1 1 nu r upon hour
Over our bower,
Shining and swift, departs, departs;
Time to-night will quicken his flight.
To follow awhile our bounding heart-.
II.
Lo! Autumn passed with face of care
This eve along the dusty road :
Nut clusters tinkled in his hair,
And rosy apples formed his load :
All friendless, by the withered thorn.
The kind brown Spirit lingered long
Log heap the fire, sing higher, higher,
And cheer his ghost with light and song.
Hour after hour
Over our bower,
Mellow and mild, departs, dep.
Time to-night must quicken his flight,
To follow awhile our bounding hearts.
III.
Send round the wine of Summer earth,
And speed the Winter's twilight game ;
Send maidens round the glowing hearth,
And guess at lovers by the tlaine.
Soon Love shall ring from yonder spire
The joy each fairy nut foretells;
Love strike the lyre, Love guard the fire,
And tune our lives like marriage bells.
Hour on hour
Over our bower,
Shining and swift, departs, departs;
Time to-night has quickened his flight,
To follow awhile our bounding hearts.
IV.
Smile, silvered Age, upon the band
Of joyous children grouped below.
Bright travellers from the morning land
Where we have wanden : go.
The dawning heart to heaven is nii:her
Than wisloin'> >n.>wiest brow can soar:
Sing to the lyre, circle the tire.
And mingle with your youth once morel
Hour upon hour
Over our bower,
Shining and swift, departs, departs;
Time to-niirht has quickened his flight.
To follow awhile our bounding hearts.
912
POEMS OF J. F. WALLER, LL.D.
V.
Far-off the monarchs march to war,
Amid the trumpet's storming tones,
Or, frowning, worship victory's star,
Upon their sword-illumined thrones.
The noise of chain and cannon dire
Rolls bleakly through the barren hours
Sing to the lyre, close round the fire,
Our only chains are chains of flowers !
Hour on hour
Over our bower,
Shining and swift, departs, departs;
Time, though a king, has quickened his
wing
This night, to follow our bounding hearts.
IV.
Loud o'er the roof the tempest moans,
And mirth would last as loud and long;
But yonder bell, in trembling tones,
Has blended with our ceasing song.
The children drowse, the girls retire
To dream of love and fortune's smile
Farewell, old lyre, and friendly fire,
And happy souls, farewell awhile,
Hour on hour
Over our bower,
Mellow and mild, departs, departs
Now Time will sing beneath his wing
A soothing song to our dreaming
hearts.
POEMS OF J. F. WALLER, LLD.
A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.
MELLOW the moonlight to shine is begin-
ning:
Close by the window young Eileen is spin-
ning;
Bent o'er the fire her blind grandmother,
sitting,
Is croning, and moaning, and drowsily knit-
ting
" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping."
' 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass
flapping."
" Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing."
' 'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the sum-
mer wind dying."
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the
foot's stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden
singing.
" What's that noise that I hear at the win-
dow, I wonder ? "
" 'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush
under."
" What makes you be shoving and moving
your stool on,
And singing all wrong that old song of ' The
Coolun'?"
There's a form at the casement the form of
her true-love
And he whispers, with face bent, " I'm wait-
ing for you, love ;
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step
lightly,
We'll rove in the grove while the moon's
shining brightly."
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the
foot's stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden
singing.
POEMS OF J. F. WALLEIJ.
913
The maid shakes her head, on her lips lays
her fingers,
Steals up from the seat longs to go, and vet
lingers;
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy
grandmother;
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel
with the other.
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's
sound;
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her
The maid steps then leaps to the arms of
her lover.
Slower and slower and slower the wheel
swings ;
Lower and lower and lower the reel rings ;
Ere the reel and the wheel stopped their
ringing and moving,
Thro' the grove the young lovers by moon-
light are roving.
DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT
LIES UNDER YOUR FEET, LOVE.
AIR "Hutsh the cat from muter the table."
"An, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that
wheel
Your neat little foot will be weary from
spinning;
Come trip down with me to the sycamore
tree,
Half the parish is there, and the dance is be-
ginning.
The sun is gone down, but the full harvest
moon
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened
valley ;
While all the air rings with the soft, loving
things,
Each little bird sings in the green shaded
alley."
With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose ui the
while,
HIM- eye in the glass, as she bound her hair.
glancing;
Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues
So she couldn't but choose to go off to the
dancing,
And now on the green, the glad groups are
seen
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his
choosing;
And Pat, without fail, leads our sweet Kitty
Neil
Somehow when he asked, she ne'er thought
of refusing.
Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his kin'-.
And, with flourish so free, sets each couple
in motion;
With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter
the ground
The maids move around just like swans on
the ocean.
Cheeks bright as the rose feet light as the
doe's,
Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing
Search the world all round, from the sky tn
the ground,
NO SUCH SIGHT CAN BE FOl M> AS AN
IRISH LASS DANCING.
Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes
of deep blue
Beaming humidly through their dark 1:<
so mildly,
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast,.
rounded form,
Nor feels his heart warm, and his pulses
throb wildly ?
Young Pat feels his heart, as his gazes, de-
part.
Subdued by the smart of such painful
sweet love;
The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a
sigh,
r /;'/////. for in if Itciirt if lies under your
.'"
POEMS OF ALFRED PERCIVAL GRATES,
THE BLACK '46. A RETROSPECT.
OUT away across the river,
Where the purple mountains meet,
There's as green a wood as iver
Fenced you from the flamin' heat.
And opposite up the mountain,
Seven ancient cells you see,
And, below, a holy fountain
Sheltered by a sacred tree;
While between, across the tillage,
Two boreens full up wid broom
Draw ye down into the village
All in ruin on the coom;
For the most heart-breakin' story
Of the fearful famine year,
On the silent wreck before ye
You may read charactered clear.
You are young, too young for ever
To rec'llect the bitter blight,
How it crep' across the river
Unbeknownt beneath the night;
Till we woke up in the mornin'
And beheld our country's curse
Wave abroad its heavy warnin'
Like the white plumes of a hearse.
To our gardens, heavy-hearted,
In that dreadful summer's dawn
Young and ould away we started
Wid the basket and the slan,
But the heart within the bosom
Gave one leap of awful dread
At each darlin' pratie blossom,
White and purple, lyin' dead.
Down we dug, but only scattered
Poisoned spuds along the slope;
Though each ridge in vain it flattered
Our poor hearts' revivin' hope.
But the desperate toil we'd double
On into the evenin' shades ;
Till the earth to share our trouble
Shook beneath our groanin' spades;
Till a mist across the meadows
From the graveyard rose and spread,
And, 'twas rumored, ghostly shadows,
Phantoms of our fathers dead,
Moved among us, wildly sharin'
In the women's sobs and sighs,
And our stony, still despairin',
Till night covered up the skies.
Then we knew for bitter certain
That the vinom-breathin' cloud,
Closin' still its cruel curtain,
Surely yet would be our shroud.
And the fearful sights did folly,
Och! no voice could rightly tell,
But that constant, melancholy
Murmur of the passin' bell;
Till to toll it none among us
Strong enough at last we found,
And a silence overhung us
Awf uller nor any sound.
CHILDEEN AND LOVERS.
WE were children playing together,
On Mona's magic isle,
In her witching April weather,
Of laughter, and sigh, and smile,
We were children, playing together
For a happy, happy while.
We were lovers, straying together,
So lightly over the land
That we scarcely ruffled the heather,
Hardly printed the sand,
We were lovers, straying together,
On Mona's fairy strand.
And still there are children playing
On the self-same shore and hill ;
And still there are lovers straying
By Mona's elfin rill;
For our children are round us playing,
And we we are lovers still.
POEMS OF EUGENE DAVIS
IRISH SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.
SHOW me a sight
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel with a young Irish girl
at it.
0! No!
Nothin' you'll show
Aquals her sittin' and takin' a twirl at it.
Look at her there,
Night in her hair
The blue ray of day from her eye laughing
out on us!
Faix, an' a fut,
Perfect of cut,
Peepin' to put an end in all doubt in us.
That there's a sight, etc.
How the lamb's wool
Turns coarse and dull
By them soft, beautiful, weeshy, white hands
of her;
I>>wn goes her he. !.
Iioun' runs tin- reel,
Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands
of her.
Then show me the sight.
Talk of Three Fates,
Suited on saits,
Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done
for me.
You may want three
For your massacre;
But one fate for me, boys, and only the one
for me.
And
Isn't that fate,
Pictured complate,
An ould Irish wheel wid a ^ O ung Irish girl
at it!
0! No!
Nothin' you'll show
Aquals her sittin' and takin' a twirl at it.
POEMS OF EUGENE DAYIS.
CROSS AND CROWN.
MARK the cost of conflict, brothers, count
your sorrows and your pains
Ruined homesteads, stakes and scaffolds,
Chillon cells, and countless chains ;
You must suffer while one vestige of the
alien rule remains!
Weigh you not the throes of travail, and its
agonies untold,
Heralds of the birth of Freedom, prophets of
that age of gold
Where a new world starts to greet us from
the ashes of the old !
Shadows steal before the sunshine. After
darkness cometh light;
Phoebus is the noblest offspring of the deity
of Night;
Peace can snatch its olive laurels from the
gory arms of Might.
So we reach Aurora's broadlands, struggling
through the toilsome fray,
Panting for a glorious guerdon in our eere-
ments of clay,
Watching from our sable towers for tin- nn-s-
sengers of day.
Shall our hearts and hands grow weary, aft
we climb Golgotha's hill ?
Must despair bemnnl> <>ur sinews;' Shall we
lose the iron will
That could stay the tyrant's onslaught, ami
defy his satraps still ?
Know we not the Crown awaits us on the
precipices high?
See we not glad omens flashing
wastes of sea and sky '
Hear we not our arch-priests preaching:
" Ireland's Cause can never die!"
916
POEMS OF EUGENE DAVIS.
Must the Castle curfew, brothers, be the re-
quiem bell that tolls
Death to faith that should sustain us long as
Time's broad river rolls ?
Can the gyves his henchmen fashion for our
bodies bind our souls ?
Tell me not his bribes and presents or his
sleek Satanic art
Tempted men of brain and muscle e'er to
act the baser part !
Tell me not his deepest dungeons can en-
chain one Irish heart!
" No Surrender ! " let the watchwords flash
like starbeams o'er the waves!
" No Surrender ! " be the voices ringing from
our fathers' graves !
We must be his equals, brothers we shall
never be his slaves !
A KEVERIE.
SAITH the dewdrop to the rose : " Through
the watches of the night
Fond delight
Do I find me cradled so, like a welcome guest
at rest
On thy breast!"
Then the rose it seemed to blush, just as
modest maiden would ;
And the hood
Coyly o'er its face it drew, for it well knew
that the dew
Dared to woo.
.Saith the zephyr to the sea : " I am weary of
the land
Hill and strand ;
I would kiss thee o'er and o'er, flying from
the prudish shore
Evermore ! "
Then a smiling ripple stole o'er the features
of the sea :
Merrily
Did it answer to the dleadings and the melt-
ing melodies
Of the breeze.
Saith the bridegroom to the bride : " I am as
the dew that knows
But the rose,
Or the zephyr seeking refuge from Earth's
freezing cruelty
In the sea."
Naught the trembling bride could utter
naught she to the bridegroom said,
But her head
Somehow slipped or somehow stumbled to a
soft and cozy nest
On his breast!
And I saw this threefold sight, while the
starlets flashed their light
Thro' the night,
And the fragrant skies o'erhead poured their
kisses on the mouth
Of the South!
And a sadness, as of Oreus, pealed its dirges
thro' my soul :
At each toll
Death came near and ever nearer o'er the
foolish dreams of love
I once wove.
For I had no rose to treasure on this Sahara
of woe
Here oelow;
And if Fates had drawn a veil betwixt the
sea and me
Rigidly.
And the bride who had her rest, once as dar-
ling and as guest,
On my breast,
Changed for mine the Reaper's arms, and
the wealth of life I gave
For the grave !
POEMS OF T, D. SULLIVAN,
O'NEIL IN ROME.
[Hugh O'Neil after his flight to Rome, continued for some
years to nurse a hope that another movement for freedom
might be attempted in Ireland. He knew that all over the
Continent there were at that time many valiant Irish officers
and soldiers who held the same hope, and who were making
preparations to realize it ; and he had reason to think that
aid from some powerful quarters would be forthcoming. His
expectations and plans were not unknown to the English Gov-
ernment, who had spies watching those Irishmen everywhere.
One of those informants, writing from Rome to a person In
London, gave the following account of O'Neil's condition and
habits : " Though a man would think that he is an old man by
sight : no, he is lusty and strong, and well able to travel ; for,
a month ago, at evening, when his frere and his gentlemen
were all with him, they were talking of England and Ireland,
and he drew out his sword. ' His Majesty, 1 said he, ' thinks
that I am not strong. I would that he who hates me most in
England were with me to see whether I am strong or no.'
Those that were by said, ' We would we were with forty thou-
sand pounds of money in Ireland, to see what we should do. 1 "
Another informant, writing to the king, says he has learned
" that Tyrone, whilst he is his own man, is always much re-
served, pretending ever his desire of your Majesty's grace,
and by that means to adoperate his return to his country ;
but when he is vina plenus et ira, as he is commonly once a
night, and therein is veritas, he doth then declare his resolute
purpose to die in Ireland, and both he and his company doth
usually in that mood dispose of governments and provinces,
and make new commonwealths." Those documents will be
found in full in Father Meehan's valuable work, "The Fate
and Fortunes of the Earls of Tyrone and Tyrconnell." The
following poem, suggested by those circumstances In the life
of the exiled chieftain, is also published in the same work :]
WHERE yellow Tiber's waters flow,
Within the seven-hilled city's bound.
An aged chief with footsteps slow,
Moves sadly o'er the storied ground ;
Or from his palace window panes.
Looks out upon the matchless dome,
The ruins grand, the glorious fanes,
That stud the soil of holy Rome.
But, oh! for Ireland far away
For Ireland in the western sea!
The chieftain's heart is there to-day :
And there, in truth, he fain would lie.
On every side the sweet bells ring,
And faithful people bend in pray'r:
Sweet hymns, that angel choirs might sing,
And loud hosannas, fill tlu air.
His place is with the princely crowd.
Amidst the noblest and the best ;
His large, white head is lowl^ bowed :
His hands are clasped before his bre.
But, oh! for Ireland far away
For Ireland, dear, with all her ills
For Mass in fair Tyrone to-day,
Amid the circling Irish hills!
Kind friends are round him pious freres,
And pastors of Christ's mystic fold;
The holy Pope, 'mid many cares,
For him has blessings, honors, gold;
Grave fathers, speaking words of balm.
Bid him forget the bygone strife,
And spend, resigned in holy calm,
The years that close a noble life.
But, oh! for Ireland! there again
The grand old chieftain fain would be,
'Midst glittering spears, on hill or plain,
To charge for Faith and Liberty!
His fellow exiles men who bore.
With him, the brunt of many a fight
Talk past and future chances o'er,
Around his table grouped at night.
While speeds each tale of grief or gift-.
With tears their furrowed cheeks are wet:
And oft they rise and vow to see
A glorious day in Ireland yet.
And, oh! for Ireland o'er the main
For Ireland, where they yet shall
Since Irish braves, in France and Spain.
Have steel and guld to set her free.
He sits, abstracted, by the board :
Old scenes are pictured in his brain
Heiilmrb! Armagh! the Yellow Ford !-
He fights and wins them o'er again.
Again he sees fierce Bagnal fall;
Sees craven Essex basely yield ;
918
POEMS OF T. D. SULLIVAN.
Meets armored Segrave, gaunt and tall,
And leaves him lifeless on the field.
But, oh ! for Ireland there once more
To rouse the true men of the land,
And proudly bear, from shore to shore,
The banner of the " Blood-red Hand!"
And when the wine within him plays,
Bold, hopeful words the chief will speak;
He draws his shining sword, and says :
" The King of England deems me weak !
Ah, would the Englishman were nigh
That hates me most my deadliest foe
To cross his sword with mine, and try
If this right arm be weak or no ! "
But, oh! for Ireland, where good swords
And valiant arms are needed most,
To fall on England's cruel hordes,
And sweep them from the Irish coast !
Years come and go ; but, while they roll,
His limbs grow weak, his eyes grow dim;
The hopes die out that buoyed his soul;
"War's mighty game is closed for him.
Before him from the earth have passed
Friends, kinsmen, comrades true and
brave;
And well he knows he nears, at last,
His place of rest a foreign grave !
But, oh ! for Ireland far away
For Irish love and holy zeal;
Oh for a grave in Irish clay,
To wrap the heart of HUGH
THE OLD EXILE.
A YOUTH to manhood growing,
With dark brown curls flowing,
O'er brow and temples glowing,
I came across the sea;
And now my head is hoary;
But land of song and story
Green Isle of ancient glory
My heart is still with thee.
Thy hopes still clung around me,
Thy bonds forever bound me
And on all occasions found me
Within the midst of those,
Whose love was ever paid thee,
Who met to cheer and aid thee,
And at a distance made thee
A terror to thy foes.
Long through this sad sojourning,
My heart and brain were burning,
With hopes of yet returning
To Erin, glad and free;
My hopes were unavailing,
I feel my strength is failing;
And still that bitter wailing
Is drifting o'er the sea.
But I have yet, thank Heaven,
Four gallant sons, of seven
My Irish wife has given,
To soothe my life's decline;
Four youths of noble bearing,
Of spirits high and daring,
Wliose hearts are ever sharing
Those cherished dreams of mine-
And should my dear land ever
Eenew the old endeavor,
Her cruel bonds to sever,
Though I can strive no more,
Four soldiers brave I'll send her,
To aid her and defend her;
And thus I still can render
Allegiance as of yore.
I have one gentle daughter;
How fondly I have, taught her
Of Erin o'er the water,
An island green and fair;
And marked her bright eyes shining,
As, on my knees reclining,
I kissed her, while entwining
Fresh Shamrocks in her hair.
Her mother's songs she sings me,
Sweet thoughts of home she brings me;
The secret pang that wrings me
Her breast can never know.
But Irish love, so purely,
Runs through, I rest securely
Thereon, and say that, surely,
'Twill never nurse a foe.
POEMS OF T. I). Sl'LMVAX.
But life is fading slowly,
My friends must lay me lowly,
Fur from that abbey holy
I loved through all the past.
The world grows dim before me,
A broad wing closes o'er me ;
But, Erin dear, that bore me
I love thee to the last !
P>\
"GOD SAVE IRELAM)!'
I.
HIGH upon the gallows-tree
Swung the noble-hearted Three,
the vengeful tyrant stricken in their
bloom ;
But they met him face to face,
With the courage of their race,
And they went with souls undaunted to their
doom.
"God save Ireland!" said the heroes;
" God save Ireland ! " said they all :
" Whether on the scaffold high
Or the battle-field we die,
what matter, when for Erin dear we
fall!"
Oh.
II.
(Jirt around with cruel foes,
Still their spirit proudly rose,
For they thought of friends that loved them,
far and near:
Of the millions true and brave
O'er the ocean's swelling wave,
And the friends in holy Ireland, t-vi-r dc:ir.
" God save Ireland ! " said tlu-y proudly ;
" God save Ireland ! " said they all :
" Whether on the scaffold high
Or the battle-field we die,
Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we
fall!"
III.
Climbed they up the rugged stair,
Rung their voices out in
Then with England's fatal cord around them
cast,
Close beneath the gallows tree,
Kissed like brothers lovingly.
True to home, and faith, and freedom to tin-
last.
" God save Ireland ! " prayed tlu-y loudly :
"God save Ireland!" said they sill:
" Whether on the scaffold high
Or the battle-field we die,
Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we
full!"
IV.
Never till the latest day
Shall the memory pass away
Of the gallant lives thus given for our land :
But on the cause must go,
Amid joy, or weal, or \v>
Till we make our isle a nation free and grand.
" God save Ireland ! " say we proudly :
"God save Ireland! " say wo all,
"Whether on th<- srntToM high
Or the battle-field we die.
Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we
fall!"
A POEM BY DR, WILLIAM DREMAR
WHEN ERIN FIRST ROSE.
[ This noble song might almost be termed a national hymn.
It was composed by Dr. Drennan, in the stirring period of
Ninety -eight, and is evidence of the patriotism Belfast and
Belfast Protestants felt for Ireland at that time. Before his
day the principal poems of the land were in Irish, thence-
forth the poetic patriotism of the land organized the English
language to its purpose.
Moore referred to this poem as "that beautiful but rebellious
song." Lover says of it: " In the following poem the feel-
ings of an unflinching patriot of the period are eloquently
poured forth, and no one, I think, can deny much poetic power
and artistic accomplishment to these lines ; forcible imagery
and antithetic point are given in flowing verse and good lan-
guage. Take it for all in all, the ode is worthy of admiration,
and suggests proofs to a thinking reader of these days (when
-we may calmly consider events more than half a century past)
that the disaffection existing in Ireland at that time did not,
as has sometimes been misrepresented, exist principally
among the lower and ignorant classes. Moreover, it appears
to me the whole heart of a nation must have been roused
before such lines could have been written ; they are rather
the effect than the cause of commotion the fringe of foam
on the dark rush of the torrent. This ode may be ranked
among the highest examples of patriotic exhortation and po-
litical invective."
rin first rose from the dark swelling
flood,
God blessed the green island and saw it was
good;
The Em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and
shone
In the ring of the world the most precious
stone :
In ner sun, in her soil, in her station thrice
blest,
With her back towards Britain, her face to
the West,
Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep
shore,
And strikes her high harp, 'mid the ocean's
deep roar.
But when its soft tones seem to mourn and
to weep,
The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the
deep;
At the thought of the Past, the tears gush
from her eyes
And the pulse of her heart makes her white
bosom rise.
Sons of Green Erin ! lament o'er the time
When religion was war, and our country a
crime
When man in God's image inverted his plan,
And moulded his God in the image of man.
When the int'rest of State wrought the gen-
eral woe,
The stranger a friend, and the native a foe;
While the mother rejoiced o'er her children
oppressed
And clasped the invader more close to her
breast.
When with Pale for the body and Pale for
the soul,
Church and State joined in compact, to con-
quer the whole:
And as Shannon was stained with Milesian
blood
Eyed each other askance and pronounced it
was good.
By the groans that ascend from your fore-
fathers' grave,
For their country thus left to the brute and
the slave,
Drive the demon of bigotry borne to his den
And where Britain made brutes now let Erin
make men;
Let my sons, like the leaves of the Sham-
rock, unite,
A partition of sects from one footstalk of
right,
Give each his full share of the earth and the
sky,
Nor fatten the slave where the serpent
would die.
POEMS OF HUGH FARRAH KoDERMOTT.
Alas! for poor Erin! that some are still
seen
Who would dye the grass red from their
hatred to Green;
Yet, 0, when we're up and they're down, let
them live,
Then yield them that mercy which they
would not give.
Arm of Erin, be strong! but be gentle as
brave !
And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save !
Let no feeling of vengeance presume to de-
file,
The Cause of, or Men of, the Emerald Isle!
The cause it is good, and the men they are
true,
And the Green shall outlive both the Orange
and Blue,
And the triumphs of Erin her daughters
shall share
With the full swelling chest, and the fair
flowing hair,
[brave.
Their bosoms heave high for the worthy and
But no coward shall rest in thai full swelling
wave, [blest.
Men of Erin, awake! and make haste to be
Rise Arch of the Ocean, and Queen of t In-
West !
POEMS OF HUGH FARRAR McDERMOTT.
THE PARTING HOUR.
THE day is past, the night is here,
When friendship's tie we sever,
And she we love shall disappear,
Returning to us never.
So runs the world througli weary years:
Ere yet our joys are spoken.
The laughing eye is dimmed with bean,
And tender links are broken.
Oh, sweetest mouth that e'er was made
To kiss a parting lover:
Oh, fairest cheek that e'er was laid
Upon a downy cover.
My life you twine in love's embrace,
Of freedom you deprive me.
And as I dwell on every gnu-.-.
To love's despair you drive me.
Your spirit floats upon the air,
In sunny tides I find it ;
And when it fades, the world is ban-
To him it leaves behind it.
A HIDDEN SORROW.
SAD in the morning, sad in the nijrht.
My life is passed away:
For me this world has no delight,
NOr hope a single ray.
Pale in the shade of fancied wrong
I yield before thy frown,
While round my life misfortunes throng,
And clouds my sorrows crown.
T<> thee my soul was ever true.
I lived f;r thee alone:
If other gentle eyes 1 knew.
They made thee more mine own.
Let not thy pride deny my pra\
On bended knee and low.
1 lay my soul's afflictions ban .
For none hut thee to kn
Let not thy breast with woes con.-;;mr.
Nor brood o'er grievance dead
My wayward love was net ion's bloom.
Whose leaves were tear-drops shed.
POEMS OF HUGH FAREAE McDEEMOTT.
If anger should thy bosom burn,
Or sorrow cloud thy mind,
To bygone days fondly turn
And there thy solace find.
Turn to the days when all the land
Was balmed with rosy air,
When two fond hearts strolled hand in hand
Unknown to strife or care.
Thy soul I drank from out those eyes
That still diviner grew,
Till love, united, reached the skies,
And God pronounced it true!
We loved broad nature, fresh and fair,
We loved our silence, too,
For love that's true professions spare
Love's golden words are few.
When grief now falls upon thy breast,
Or sorrow dims thine eye,
Upon thy bosom let me rest,
Or with that sorrow die.
COME O'EE THE HILL.
COME o'er the hill when night is still,
My coy and fickle rover;
Come o'er the hill when night is still,
Thro' daisy leaf and clover.
Here I sink on the streamlet's brink,
here I muse and ponder;
Here I sink on the streamlet's brink,
While love for Bess grows fonder.
seek my breast and give it rest,
Your head upon my shoulder;
seek my breast and give it rest,
Ere love and lips grow older.
I'll seize yon sky and fill my eye
With sprites who'll bow before you :
I'll seize yon sky and fill my eye
With fairies who'll adore you.
I'll bring a boon from yonder moon,
A veil of vestal beauty ;
I'll bring a boon from yonder moon
Of love and faith and duty.
I'll draw a bar from yonder star,
And round your neck I'll wind it;
That bar will then make you the star,
As Heaven at first designed it.
In yonder flower I'll find your bower,
With sweet aroma blushing;
In yonder flower I'll find your bower,
Your lips and dimples flushing.
The nightingale shall tell her tale
Where cherubs wing the morning;
The nightingale shall tell her tale,
With all my love's adorning.
The brooks that flow and purling go
Across the rocks to glory;
The brooks that flow and purling go,
Soft sing your sunny story.
Your sweet red mouth tastes of the South,.
When from it blow the spices;
Your sweet red mouth tastes of the South,
And every wish suffices.
I'll kiss your grace in the streamlet's face,
And tune you to its singing;
I'll kiss your grace in the streamlet's face,.
And waltz you to its swinging.
The bud that's chief within its leaf,
In secret sweet shall hold you ,
The bud that's chief within its leaf,
With all my love shall fold you.
Come o'er the hill when night is still,
And every star shall bless you ;
Come o'er the hill when night is still,
And, Bess, how I'll caress you !
MEAGHEE'S BEIGADE.
Now the green plumes nod to the rising sun,,
As it leads the way to each bristling gun ;
And the soldier's soul is a harp of joy,
Tuned to the glory of Fontenoy.
POEMS (>F
FAKKAl; M. I>KKM< >TT.
Solid in mass as woods of oak.
Fierce for the fray as lions awok
Column on column^ with martial tread,
Defy the terror of shell and lead.
With shout and yell and stunning peal,
Their courage leaps upon their steel !
With shock and dash, and plunge ami stroke.
'Mid roaring seas of fire and smoke,
Their desperate valor shakes the earth,
When the foe cries out: "Who gave them
birth ? "
With fearless breasts and rushing tread,
Again they charge the rain of lead,
And in the battle's clash and roar,
Anoint their brows with Freedom's gore.
When hand to hand they press attack,
The thund'ring cannon sweep them back;
As more they see red currents flow,
More fiercely on they charge the foe;
And as the dying gasp for life,
Their spirit still impels the strife,
Like wounded eagles poising high,
They soar in triumph ere they die.
Now cheering with his bugle blast,
The gallant Meagher flies swiftly past;
Through teeming groans and clash and jar,
His trumpet voice thus sounds afar :
"Again to the charge, old Erin's sons!
Again to the charge! Press on your guns!
Behold the green! Think of its fame!
Think how your sires baptized its name!"
Again they charge; it is their last;
On battle mounds their die is cast,
They sink as 'neath the simoon's blast.
O God, how grand ! in battle's r
Despising life, defying death,
Victory alone could those assuage
Whose names expired with parting breath;
Fame blushed for Fame as heroes fell:
They died for glory more sublime:
While Freedom struck their funeral knell.
Which rings for aye on the ear of time.
In lonely dell, on hill and plain.
When- lade the >lain ami blooms the
Memory shall dwell, with pride and pain,
While Freedom lives the soul of God;
And pwts strike a joyous lay,
A plaintive dirge for its refrain.
When power of wrong has passed a
And nature's laws shall rule again.
LIGHT AND S1IAPK.
MY dark brown eyes, be not afraid,
(Jive me thy hand:
Give me thy breath of loving lips.
Nor sink beneath thy wayward -
Upon the strand
Where breakers land,
And pleasure's wave engulfs the maid
Atwixt the stealth of light and sh:.de.
All plumed and spurred on fiery steed
Love madly rides;
And when, with heaving bound and start.
He plunges o'er the yielding heart.
It then betides
His flame subsides;
And what is left his eager greed ?
Delirious limbs, a passion freed.
The dreamy vista marked betw.
The light and shade,
Where darkness steals its warp from liirht.
And light its wefting from the night,
t'nfold love's glade.
Where pleasures fade,
Sorties of love and rapture keen.
Which leave no thought of what has been.
What though hot nirn-nts thrilled thy Mood.
And to his breast
Some other hand had drawn thy head,
And. 'mid thy throbs of blis and dread,
At his I.eheM
Thou wert his !;
And all the leaves in virtue's lnul
Expanded on wild passion's flood!
924
POEMS OF EDWARD LYSAGHT.
The storm that swept across the plain
No more we share;
The chastened mead to sunshine springs,
And memory dwells on happier things;
Nor thought can bear,
With foster care
But treats with brow of cold disdain,
The waste of love in love's domain.
Whatever we see or find or trace
In nature's laws,
From flower to man, from sun to earth,
Obeys the laws that gave it birth.
If by fell cause
One rule withdraws,
One duty fails in nature's grace,
The structure whole is grim and base.
The maid who waits and meditates
On single life,
And finds no mate to place the band
Of holy wedlock on her hand,
And make her wife,
Sore feels the strife,
For incomplete are nature's dates
Until love's function culminates.
Draw near, my Bess, my angel bright,
And kiss me warm;
Pure to this heart thou art aglow
Like diamonds of the glinting snow,
And every charm
Doth doubt disarm,
And twine thee, as my soul's delight,
Round love so true, sweet love might knight.
THE MAN WHO LED THE VAN OF
IRISH VOLUNTEERS.
THE gen'rous sons of Erin, in manly virtue
bold,
With hearts and hands preparing our coun-
try to uphold,
Though cruel knaves and bigot slaves dis-
turbed our isle some years,
Now hail the man who led the van of Irish
Volunteers.
Just thirty years are ending, since first his
glorious aid,
Our sacred rights defending, struck shackles
from our trade ;
To serve us still, with might and skill, the
vet'ran now appears,
That gallant man who led the van of Irish
Volunteers.
He sows no vile dissensions; good will to
all he bears;
He knows no vain pretensions, no paltry
fears or cares ;
To Erin's and to Britain's sons his worth his
name endears;
They love the man who led the van of Irish
Volunteers.
Opposed by hirelings sordid, he broke op-
pression's chain;
On statue-books recorded his patriot acts re-
main;
The equipoise his mind employs of Com-
mons, Kings, and Peers
The upright man who led the van of Irish
Volunteers.
A British constitution (to Erin ever true),
In spite of state pollution, he gained in
" EigUy-two;"
" He watched it in its cradle, and bedewed its
hearse with tears," *
This gallant man who led the van of Irish
Volunteers.
* Mr. GrattaiTs feeling and impressive words were these :
" I watched by the cradle of Irish Independence, and I fol-
lowed its hearse."
POKMS OF LA W UK NT K <i. GOt'LDING.
988
While other nations tremble, by proud op-
pressors galled,
On hustings we'll assemble, by Erin's welfare
called ;
Our G rattan, there we'll meet him, and greet
him with three cheers;
The gallant man who led the van of Irish
Volunteers.
KATE OF GARNAVILLA.
HAVE you been at Garnavilla ?
Have you seen at Garnavilla
Beauty's train trip o'er the plain
With lovely Kate of Garnavilla ?
Oh ! she's pure as virgin snows
Ere they fall on woodland hill;
Sweet as a dew-drop on wild rose
Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla !
Philomel, I've listened oft
To thy lay, nigh weeping willow;
Oh, the strain's more sweet, more soft,
That flows from Kate of Garna\illa!
M ive you been, etc.
As a noble ship I've seen
Sailing o'er the swelling billow,
So I've marked the graceful mien
Of lovely Kate of Garnavilla!
Have you been, etc.
If poets' prayers can banish cares,
No cares shall come to Garnavilla;
Joy's bright rays shall gild her days,
And dove-like peace perch on her pillow.
Charming maid of Garnavilla!
Lovely maid of Garnavilla!
Beauty, grace, and virtue wait
On lovely Kate of Garnavilla!
POEMS OF LAWRENCE G, GOULDING.
MY NATIVE LAND.
MY native land how dear to me art thou ?
The home of childhood and aspiring youth ;
Farewell those charming scenes so distant
now,
So dear in days of innocence and truth.
How happy then ! I knew a mother's love,
So full of tenderness and gentle care;
I wondered if in that bright home above,
Such sweet felicity as ours was there.
I knelt in grave devotion at her knee,
And learned to pray that Ireland might
be free.
'Twas then the gentle spring time of the
year
When tender youth receives its first im-
press,
When all it fondly loved on earth were near,
To grant desires or fancied wrongs redress;
Where are those loved ones now, those sa>
ties
That link the dearest memories of tin-
past?
Ah! some are gone to rest beyond the ski--.-.
Where peace endures as long as time shall
last,
While others yet in distant lands al>ile.
Tossed on the waves of every passing
tide.
Come, memory, lead me to those daisy ileil-.
So full of beauty in serene repose,
Beside that fairy brook that sweetly tells
Its rippling numbers murmuring as it goes;
Where long ago in boyhood's happy hours,
In peaceful Miss I loved to pass the day
With sweetly warbling birds and blushing
flowers,
Whose song and fragrance welcomed nun y
May.
POEMS OF LAWKENCE G. GOULDING.
How full of joy all nature seemed to be,
And 0! how bright and beautiful tome.
I thought no other land on earth so fair,
Her lovely vales were paradise to me
There rosy health bloomed in the morning
air,
That fanned my native village by the sea ;
Fair village ! I must linger ere I pass,
If but to glance at scenes of happier days,
That dear old chapel where I first heard Mass,
And joined devoutly in God's holy praise.
How grandly wild the roaring billows
play,
O'er those rude rocks that grimly guard
Malbay.
That chapel bell its matin anthem toll'd.
Even as the sun arose to bless the day,
Its joyous chimes beyond the village roll'd,
And sunbeams danced responsive to its
lay;
From cot and castle youth and maiden fair,
With aged sire and honored matron came,
To pass the morning hour in holy prayer,
And tell a decade o'er to Notre Dame.
How truly sweet those joys that fill the
soul
When early orisons our thoughts control.
THE PEN AND SWOKD.
NOT epic verse alone inspires,
Though it the fervid bosom fires,
To reach heroic fame;
For where the tyrant's heel is set,
Oppression claims its dam'ning debt,
And glory sinks to shame.
But when the tyrant's flaming brand
Sweeps wildly o'er a fated land
A land no longer free ;
Not then a thousand golden lyres,
However high the soul aspires,
Can change the stern decree ;
However tender the refrain,
Though it may soothe his bitter pain,
It cannot break the bondman's chain,
Or give him liberty.
The Pen and Sword must needs unite,
And side by side in Freedom's fight,
Proclaim their sovereign sway;
For where, but on the battle-field,
Was tyrant ever known to yield,
Or tamely part his prey ?
Nor silver tongue, nor flowery speech,
The pirate's stolid soul can reach,
Whose home is on the sea;
A simple dose of charmed lead
That works upon the heart and head,
Will bring him to his knee.
Its force assails the pirate's ear,
He feels the end is drawing near,
And, fiercely writhing, falls to hear
The shout of victory.
'Tis thus a nation's cause is won,
'Twas thus our patriots begun
Their freedom to obtain;
And in the magic of the sword,
Eedeemed the country they adored,
From Britain's galling chain.
Like men who dared assert their right
They spring like giants to the fight-
To conquer or to fall.
And bearing down upon the foe,
With steady aim and telling blow,
Drove Britain to the wall;
And raised aloft o'er fort and crag
In place of England's crimson rag
Our own immortal starry flag,
To answer Freedom's call.
May this thy story be, ere long,
0, Erin of my soul and song!
The story men shall tell!
How, in the battle, breast to breast,
With Freedom graven on th} r crest,
The Saxon tyrant fell.
How, to redeem his native land
The Irish soldier, hand to hand,
Cut down the British horde ;
As high above the conquered " red/'
The " green " waved o'er a nation's head,
To liberty restored.
And o'er the earth, from end to end,
Wherever Ireland has a friend,
Who e'er loves liberty will bend
To bless the Pen and Sword.
I 'OK Ms <>K I. . \\VK-KNCK (i. QOULDING,
-
ROBKRT KM.MKT.
NOT born for himself, but for his country,
In early youth he knelt before her shrine;
And. in the fervor of impassioned love,
He pledged a noble life to her redemption.
Hr saw her writhing in the tyrant's grasp.
With England's iron heel upon her neck;
Despoiled of all her heritage and power ;
Maligned, condemned, enslaved and perse-
cuted.
To rescue her from that ignoble state,
And place her proudly where, in other days.
She bore the sceptre of a nation's splendor
Henceforth became his care his sole ambi-
tion.
To the consummation of this noble end
His energies and talents were directed ;
His daring courage and unyielding will
Found inspiration in his deep devotion.
In ceaseless toil, remote from human #ize,
His weary days and sleepless nights were
passed,
I )c vising plans by which he hoped to fire
The dormant spirit of a fettered nation.
A nd, in that hope, he felt the time had come
To wrest his suffering country from oppres-
sion :
His spirit could not longer brook suspense-
He courted liberty or welcomed death ;
And, in the flush of his determination.
He sprang to rend the clanking chain that
bound her.
Dread hour of hope and fear, despair and
promise !
The die was cast the effort proved abortive.
Mysterious Fate, which men call Destiny!
Before whose stern decree the bravest trem
ble!
What purpose moved thee on to stay the hand
Whose virtue sought a n:it i.n's resurrect i<m ':
But now 'tis <vcr! Wherefore speculate ?
It brought a victim more t.. pampered Jus-
tice,
Whose rank intolerance has shamed tin-
world.
And left but odium to a hated name.
But Emmet's memory lives as green a* Spring
In every heart that loves its native land;
His virtuesand nobility inspire
An emulation time cannot dcst :
His patriotic fer\or glows as bright
As when lie fired the pyre of insurrection;
For, when In- fell to earth, his spirit
As sinks the western sun, to rise to-morrow.
The dawn is breaking in the mellow sky:
The shepherd's lute awakes the sluml"
vale;
And from the Orient comes a flood of li<:ht
To shed its beauty o'er the vernal scene.
And now a superhuman voice is heard
Hulling, as if from heaven descending,
In thunder tones upon the fragrant air;
The vast blue arch beyond wears not a cloud
The ocean seems at rest, without a ripple.
And all around is hushed in solemn silence:
A nation springs to life, as it proclaims.
" Liberty to Emancipated I reland ! "
Behold! spirit of immortal Kmmet !
The glory that awaits your native land !
For ere we celebrate thy birth again
Thy epitaph, in gold, shall be inscribed.
AKOON.
[A greeting to th- K.-V. James J. Dough.
. * Cliun-li. on hi* installation M Chaplain of il,.
.ran ( 'or|Mi, Sixty-ninth Kf ifimrut . ]
Cead milli' fniltlH'
jarth Aroon!
Herald of peace and truth!
Boggart h An
You're welcome to our corps
You'll be its pride, ti
\ ' our love
Boggart h Aroon !
Your coming brings UH joy,
Boggart h Aroon'
Pleasure without all.
. irth Aroon!
Con rage to bear our woes,
n as life's current flowt,
However fortune goes,
.rarth Arooii!
028
POEMS OF LAWRENCE G. GOULDING.
We'll have your blessings sure,
Soggarth Aroon !
Blessings that must endure,
Soggarth Aroon !
Hope for us day and night,
Hope for eternal light,
Strength to maintain the right,
Soggarth Aroon!
In that hope we'll abide,
Soggarth Aroon!
You'll find us side by side,
Soggarth Aroon !
Comrades united all,
Waiting for Ireland's call,
Ready to stand or fall,
Soggarth Aroon !
IRELAND AND AMERICA.
[Read at the Annual Banquet of the "Irish Historical So-
ciety" of New York, on Washington's Birthday, February
22, 1888.]
Two nations meet in harmony to-day,
In social union 'round the festive board,
To memorize the glories of the past,
When both stood side by side for liberty.
One nation yet is in the tyrant's grasp,
The victim of a brutal usurpation;
But still protesting, still defiant, stands
Before the world unconquer'd, undismayed :
The other, free as Heaven's balmy air,
Whose gentle current fans her starry flag
That flag which floats, to-night, on ev'ry sea,
To celebrate the birth of Washington.
Immortal Washington!
His glory fills the land from shore to shore,
From end to end of this vast continent;
Flashing its radiance from pole to pole,
To light the oppress'd peoples of the earth,
To this free land where they might find a
home,
And share the blessings liberty bestows.
In peace and waresteem'd his country's sire;
In virtue and in majesty her pride;
He soared beyond the flight of other men,
Unconscious of his lofty eminence ;
And with that modest bearing greatness.
gives,
Brought wisdom to the Councils of the
State ;
While, from the patriotism he inspired,
A bondaged Nation sprang to Independence.
In that fierce struggle which convulsed the
land,
With all those terrors war alone incites,
When England's tyrant King was pledged
to conquest,
And, be it said to their eternal shame,
When Tory colonists espoused the King,
When even Hope shed but a glimmering ray
O'er the horizon of the patriot's cause,
The Irish exiles, with intrepid will,
March'd to the front to conquer or to fall.
The mem'ry of their galling servitude ;
The wrongs of years ; the suff 'rings they had
borne;
Their plundered, rviin'd homes; their mar-
tyr'd sires;
Torture, treachery, and extermination
Inflamed their souls and steeled their hearts
to vengeance.
With stern resolve they rushed upon the foe,.
As panting lions spring upon their prey;
Revenge ! revenge ! they cried, the time has
come:
Again we meet upon the tented field !
And in the shock those Saxon vassals fell
Like quivering pines lashed by the hur. -
cane.
Again the green is seen above the red,
Again it triumphs as at Fontenoy,
But triumphs in a greater, holier cause,
The glorious cause of Independence.
On ev'ry field, from Lexington to Yorktown,.
Wherever courage dared assert its right,
Or death claimed hostage from the battle's
brunt,
There, in the van, breasting the raging storm,
Their patriotic swords to Freedom pledged,
The Irish stood determined and unawed;
Their resolutions set to reach the goal,
Where Liberty should crown their heroism .-
There stood " St. Patrick's Friendly Sons,"
prepared
TOEMS OF LAWK'KNCK O. GOULDINO.
To vindicate the glory of their nice;
To aid in the erection of a structure.
Whose bulwarks should defy despotic power.
And as they raised Columbia's flag on high
With Erin's banner to the breeze unfurled
Resolved to march to victory or death ;
Resolved that Ireland's wrongs should be
avenged.
I low well those sacred pledges were re-
deemed,
Is written in their triumph and their blood;
For in the contest, long and fiercely waged,
When soldier stood to soldier, foot to foot,
And trooper pressed on trooper, horse to
horse ;
With no escape from death except in flight,
They plunged into the wild, devouring tide,
Nor left until the Hessian host had perished.
Those " Friendly Sons," so dear to Washing-
ton,
Whose emerald badge he wore upon his
breast,
Whose loyalty and courage he commended
To national esteem and gratitude;
(!ave to American Independence,
As noble hearts as valor ever fired ;
As daring soldiers as the world can boast;
As ardent patriots as Freedom knows.
The names of Moylan, Sullivan, Barry,
And Montgomery, their virtues and achieve-
ments,
Arc graven in imperishable characters
In the redemption of the Colonies;
In the vast grandeur of the Union;
And in the glory of the Republic.
Their monuments, reared to human liberty,
On the ruins of a vile despotism,
Shall stand to adorn ages yet unborn.
When the British Empire shall be forgot-
ten.
Witli unmeasured loveforthat dearold land.
We hope in God, ere long, may he redeemed:
While our greetings go to her faithful sons,
Whoso devotion claims our admiration ;
We'll pledge that Union, long since ratified.
I'.v men whose valiant arms sealed our liberty;
And in the spirit of enduring love,
We'll touch our cups to the inspiring toast:
IRELAND AM> AMKKH A!
59
THE SLANDKIIKi;.
I.
LICENTIOUS ribald! vilest thing on earth !
Conceiv'd in envy and in malice born,
Rude nature in convulsions gave thee birth
A writhing wretch in anger and in scorn.
Like the volcano vomiting its flame
Of livid lava in a burning rage,
So the midnight storm in its fury came,
And cast this viper on the public stage
To play perfidiously the villain's role.
Which shocks the sense and horrifies the
soul.
II.
Of all the scourges that afflict mankind,
The lying tongue is far the worst of all:
Its damned, cursed sting remains behind
Long after years have told its victim's fall ;
Like some dire plague that sweeps across the
land,
And smites to death with sharp, unerring
blow
Although we know not the destroying hand,
The lonely hamlet tells its tale of \\
The poison'd arrow pierces but to kill.
But slander kills and after pierees still.
III.
Why could not this good world be niov'd
along
Without that hitter pain which slander
gives?
So that a man would rather serve than wrong
His fellow-man the little while he lives;
Like the great Master of the human ra
Who ciime on earth to save and teach
mankind.
His gret bequest in faith and hope and
grace.
His boundless charity He left behind:
It soothes to tenderness the human breast,
And lights our pathway to eternal rest
IV.
If calumny were but a mortal thing,
To live but for a time, then pass away,
Then to its victim hope might serve to bring
The prospect of a brighter, happier day.
!)30
POEMS OF LAWRENCE G. GOULDING.
But no; malignant slander never dies
Its vicious breath contaminates the air,
And swift as thought its damned stigma flies,
And leaves behind but torture and despair.
By Hcav'n accurs'd, no mortal tongue can
tell
Whence slander comes, except it be from
hell.
V.
The morbid mind, the savage appetite,
Like carrion-kites devour unwholesome
fare;
The vampire seeks its victim in the night,
When nature seeks repose from common
care.
The human ghoul, facetious or demure,
With lofty air or gentle, pious mien,
Who feeds on scandal like an epicure,
And slakes his thirst with rank malicious
spleen
The most perfidious wretch unwhipp'd is he,
The vilest thing that shames humanity.
VI
Tear'd and despis'd, a terror to mankind,
The slanderer revels in his neighbor's woe ;
With heavy hand e'en while his tongue
malign'd,
He never fail'd to strike the coward's blow.
Beyond the tomb by that infernal shore,
Where furies riot in eternal hate,
The slanderer wakes at last to sleep no more,
His guilty conscience struggles with his
fate,
The arch-fiend's howl is heard above the roar,
" The slanderer is mine for evermore."
ERIN! I ADORE THEE.
ERIX ! I adore thee,
Would I could restore thee,
To that bright goal before thee
To freedom's holy shrine ;
Where oft, our fathers kneeling,
While convent bells were pealing,
The foeman, red and reeling,
.Confess'd your right divine.
How brilliant, then, the story
Of Ireland's golden glory,
When bard, revered and hoary,
In epic verse sublime,
His harp the glory sharing
He told the chieftain's daring,
His noble, fearless bearing,
In ancient Gaelic rhyme.
He sung the dazzling splendor,
As he alone could render,
In language rich and tender,
Of happy Innisfail;
The lore of gifted sages,
Who, down from distant ages,
Told, in immortal pages,
The valor of the Gael.
Sweet home of boyhood's pleasure,
To me the exile's treasure,
I love thee without measure,
' Acushla gal machree!
And here, profoundly kneeling,
To Heaven's throne appealing,
My fondest wish revealing,
That I might see you free.
ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
[Dedicated to Rev. J. M. Kiely, rector of Transfiguration
Church, Brooklyn, whose learning, piety, and patriotism
eminently characterize the Irish priesthood.]
TRUE as the needle's to the pole, as this dull
earth goes round,
And certain as the lightning's flash evokes a
rumbling sound;
The Irish heart, where'er it beats, at home
or far away,
Expands with joy as morning breaks to hail
St. Patrick's Day.
Its advent truly chronicles the glory of the
Gael,
Since the banner of the cross was raised in
happy Innisfail;
Since the light of our enduring faith illumed
her pagan sky,
When Erin, faithful Erin, knelt to worship
God on high.
mi-: MS OF T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN.
931
Behold her in the Springtime of u blooming,
golden age!
The hope of nations, then unknown, writ in
her virgin page;
HIT mission sketch'd by Providence in
Christian robes array'd,
She preach'd, with burning eloquence, the
cross of her crusade.
And then, we see her seated on a throne of
blazing light,
Resplendent in her mission like the vernal
moon at night;
A crown of learning on her brow, the cruci-
fix her crest;
Her famous schools and colleges the glory of
the West.
Her holy men and women sought new fields
in ev'ry land,
Wherein to plant the tree of life to blossom
and expand;
Spreading hope and consolation around them
on their way;
Teaching liberty and progress where they
went or came to stay.
What precious fruits were gathered i:i the
vim-yards they hud till'd!
What richly laden granaries with golden
grain were lill'd !
While flocks raU-eufd from slavery were
nurtured in the fold,
By those faithful shepherds of the cross by
whom they were consoled.
What a glorious mission, Erin, for ages has
been thine!
And still goes onward, Erin, with no sem-
blance of decline;
Still preaching and professing; still disj
ing, far and wide,
That charity and peace and love for which
the Saviour died.
And iii that sacred mission, Holy Island of
the Sea!
Thy children, scattered o'er the earth, pre-
serve their faith in thee;
That faith, which knows no waning, seeks a
home beyond the skies,
Where, when human thrones have crumbled,
the immortal soul shall rise.
POEMS OF T, O'D, O'CALLAGHAN.
MOONLIGHT MUSI"N<.x
I.
I \ >r sad to-night in the mellow light
Of the silvery, pale-faced moon,
And the night-wind moans like the
tones
Of the Banshee's boding croon :
I sit watching the glow of the Hudson's flow,
As it dashes against the shore.
And its sprayi-y splash and unceasing dash
But sadden me more and more.
II.
Oh! my thoughts hie away to a bygone day,
In the "Green Isle" o'er the main:
'Mid each vale and glade where my boyhood
strayed
I'm wandering once again
In night's solemn noon when I watched \on
moon
Ascending the starry dome.
While her silver beams lit the si iceiiy streams
Where the sportive fishes roam.
932
POEMS OF T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN.
III.
Where I hailed the flowers in the Springtide's
hours
Fresh starting from the earth;
And the mushrooms, too, in the Autumn
dew,
I plucked as they got their birth
Where, in the shade by some ruin made,
Through the golden Summer day,
I oft mused o'er some tale of yore,
Of genii, ghost, or fay.
IV.
And dreamed the hours, while the Summer
flowers
Lent perfume to the gale,
W T hich sighed away all the live-long day,
With a sad, sad keening wail,
Through the ruined halls and the rent old
walls
Of tower and abbey gray,
Which bravely stand in that olden land,
Through chance and change alway.
V.
Through the regions vast of the storied past
My spirit wings its flight,
And the days long fled and the friends long
dead
Loom up in the weird moonlight;
And the hot tears start, and my home-sick
heart,
Sad, lone and sorrow-torn,
Throbs as 't would burst, as the hopes I nursed
In life's fair, cloudless morn ;
VI.
Seem buried all 'neath a funeral pall,
Like those friends of my early years,
Who have passed away to eternal day
From sorrow, and woe, and tears
Like that morning light whose radiance
bright
Ting'd life's stream with a golden sheen,
Ere worldly woe dimmed its genial glow,
And darkened each happy scene.
VII
But vain are tears for the vanished years,
For the friends who have passed away
To that glorious clime where old tyrant Time
Rules not with a despot's sway
From this world below, with its crushing
woe,
Its transient hopes and vain,
And its ills that crowd like cloud on cloud
Ere thunder rolls amain.
VIII.
Oh! this hour is meet to recall those sweet,
Though saddening scenes of yore,
For no sound is near save the dashing drear
Of the water 'gainst the shore,
And the night wind's rune like the rueful
tune
Of that harp * whose fairie strain
No power can sway save the winds which
play
Through Summer's bright domain.
THE RIVER OF TIME.
0, River of Time ! in the long ago thou wert
but a rippling rill,
And the dulcet rhyme of thy crystal flow
was sweet as a wind-harp's trill ;
That song of joy, like a lullaby, on the air
rose soft and low,
As thy ripples sped from their fountain-head
and flashed in the morning's glow;
While Earth's fair queen, in radiant sheen,
flower-crowned by angel hands,
The beauteous grace of her mirror'd face oft
scann'd in thy golden sands ;
And the dreamy moon, in night's mystic
noon, when her full, round orb shone
bright,
Gazed down with pride on thy silvery tide,
pale shimmering in her light,
While the primal stars in their gilded cars
rolled on through the azure height-
Fair glittering gems, bright diadems, high
set on the brow of night.
* The jEolian harp.
Ms OF T. O'D. O*OALLAGHAN.
O, River of Time! thy stream has swelled
thro' the centuried lupse of years
Has grown and swelled since of old it welled
from its fount 'mid the starry spheres,
Till now, broad and deep, with majestic
sweep, like the roll of an inland sea,
That stream, erst a rill, turns God's mighty
mill on its course to eternity !
Oh, methinks I hear, rising high and clear
on the ghostly midnight wind,
The surge and the roar of thy waves ever-
more, and the rush of the flood behind.
And the shrieks of the lost on thy bosom
tossed, like wrecks on the ocean waves,
Drifting out to sea, 0, River, with thee, far
away from the land of graves !
O, River of Time! from the days of yore
flowing on to the billowy sea,
Bring us back once more from the silent shore
the friends who have flown with thee,
The myriad host of the loved and lost the
hearts that were fond ah, me!
The beauty and bloom in the grave's dark
womb the spirits that wander free
From sin's dark slime in that wondrous clime
bright land of the ransomed souls,
Where Death's cold shadow never falls, nor
death-bell sadly tolls.
Ah ! in vain we crave, for thy ebbless wave,
when it passeth the grave's dark
bourne,
With its freight of souls, as it seaward rolls,
never can nor will return!
O, River of Time! flowing solemnly on, with
the wrecks of our hopes and dreams
On, evermore on to the great Unknown,
where the rapturing vision gleams,
And the white souls float in space, as the
mote on Summer's irradiant beams
Oh! swollen thy flood with the priceless blood
which ever and aye doth well
From human souls slain <>n Life's battle-plain
by the ambushed ho.- is of hell;
Sin's juggernaut rolls over prostrate souls
thick strewn on the field of strife,
While thy mystic tide with their blood is
dyed red blood from the battleof life!
0, River of Time! in the dim, dark past,
full many and many a year,
Thou'stleft thy fount on that sacred mount.
long lost to both " sage" and " se
No human eye, as the years sped by, ha*
beheld, I Ween,
That mystic mount, or that crystal fount, all
bright in its virgin sheen.
Since the first twain fell 'neath the tempter's
spell, amid Eden's flowery bowers,
When earth was young, ere yet upsprung the
thorns among the flowers ;
When thy limpid stream in the morning
gleam reflected the heavenly tow.
And Paradise rang with the silvery clang of
the harps of seraphic powers;
For Earth, at its birth, in its child-like mirth.
flower-gemmed and green and fair,
Careering through space, in emulous
with the stars and the spirits of air.
Was nigher, I ween, to the angelic scene,
than this Earth of ours to-day.
With its deep, dark crime, 0, River of Time!
in sorrow and sin grown gray!
LAMENT FOR THE IRISH I AIKIK-.
WIIKKK are the fairies of Ireland gone
Who dwelt here in days of yore ':
In vain we'd search for them no\ : mavronc
They have vanished for evermore.
Tho' the Ruths where they danced their
roundel
In the mystic noon of ni:ht.
Are still the name as in those old days
To outward sense and sight.
But changes we wot not of, have come
Over those old Ruths BO green :
Dark clouds shall loom 'till the day of doom
Where fotive troops have he-
Of merry making Klvrs, who sported away,
And Implied at mortal care
Who danced all night, ami slept all day
On flower beds snugly there.
934
POEMS OF T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN.
No more swells the Banshee's boding caoine
Over haunted vale and plain;
She, too, has vanished for aye, I ween,
And never will mourn again
For those of the old Milesian race
Who were pre-doomed to decay
In Death's oblivious and cold embrace
Ere a moon had waned away.
Where is the gay little Cluricaune now
With his hammer and stool and awl,
And his quaint French hat cocked over his
brow,
And his Spanish boots nice and small?
No more will he chant his merry old song
'Neath the mushroom's friendly shade,
As he patient sat through the Autumn day
long
For evermore plying his trade.
Where is the Phooka with sable mane
Wild floating in the wind,
And (never yet checked by mortal rein),
Whose speed left thought behind;
Whose eyes like fiery balls glowed bright
As he swept over hill and dale
In his mad career through the live-long night
Till the stars waxed dim and pale ?
All, all are gone, aye, forever gone,
They have vanished this many a year,
And their ancient halls stand drear and lone,
Without a sound of cheer
To wake the echoes which long have lain
In dreary and silent thrall,
And chase that heavy gloom again
Which looms like a funeral pall
O'er the silent realm of Faerie land,
Hill, rath, and crag, and lake
No more, no more, will the fairy band
Night's mournful silence break
With their merry songs, or their roundelays
In the moon's pale, silvery light;
Alas ! alas ! like those good old days,
They have vanished from mortal sight.
Ah ! well they loved the olden land,
Through chance and change alway
Her castles tall, her mountains grand,
And Abbeys old and gray
Her mystic raths, and murmuring rills,
Her crystal wells and sheeny lakes,
From Antrim's coast and Wicklow's hills
To Kerry's grim and towering peaks.
Where are the Fairies of Ireland gone
Who dwelt there in days of yore ?
In vain we'd search for them now; mavrone
They have vanished for evermore.
They have faded away with the land's decay
Where they ever loved to dwell,
And their festive halls are mute to-day
'Neath lake and rath and well.
Some say they have followed the exiled Gael,
(Tho' others that romance have
spurned),
And some assert but I doubt the tale
That they have to Heaven returned
That home which they forfeited long ago
For opposing the Godhead's will;
But wheresoever they've gone or go,
My blessing be with them still.
IN MEMORIAM.
GENERAL JAMES SHIELDS.
DIED JUNE 4, 1879, AT CAKKOLTON, MO.
I.
A MONTH since thine ashes were laid, Shields,.
To rest in thy Western grave,- 1 -
A month in death's trappings arrayed,
Shields,
Lying stark by Missouri's wild wave,
And not one Irish poet or bard, Shields,
Though rhymers a legion there be,
O'er thy heroic clay, battle-scarred, Shields,.
Has chanted a requiem for thee !
II.
Old Ireland is mother of sons, Shields,
Eight famous in historic lore,
Of soldiers who stood by their guns, Shields,.
On battle-fields crimson with gore:
The O'Neills Shaun, the valiant, and Owen,
Shields,
I 'UK MS OF T. O'D. 0'CAIJ-.\(,IIAX.
Fought bravely for freedom of yore;
'Honest the hills of thy native Tyrone,
Shields,
Their memory is green evermore.
III.
And Sarsfield was clever and brave, Shields,
Defender of Limerick's wall;
At Landon he found a red grave, Shields,
And Ireland long mourned his fall;
Tom Meagher was brilliant and bold,
Shields ;
Gallant soldier of Freedom proved he,
Where battle's mad billows high rolled,
Shields,
Like the waves of a storm-lashed sea !
IV.
Phil Kearney was found in the front, Shields,
When freedom stood struggling for life;
In many a fierce battle's brunt, Shields,
His sword-flash illumined the strife!
Kilpatrick rode fearless and free, Shields,
On many a dead-cumbered plain;
When Sheridan gave greeting to Lee, Shields,
Dark treason fled, routed amain !
V.
Soldier-heroes besides those we've named,
Shields,
Have sprung from the old Gaelic sod,
Before whom pale cowards slunk, shamed,
Shields,
In the presence of man and of God;
But 'mongst all her soldiers of fame, Shields,
In ancient and modern day,
Thy country shall treasure thy name, Shields,
In story and record and lay.
VI.
And Freedom will never forget, Shields,
Her gallant and chivalrous knight,
Who on many a battle-fiel<l met. Shields,
The foes who dared question her right;
Those wounds on thy cold clay attest, Shields,
How freely thy blood had been sheil.
\\Yath the star-spangled flag of the West,
Shields,
In Heaven's own glory outsnrea-l !
VII.
On Mexico's tower-capped hills, Shields,
Old Echo is whispering thy name;
By Mexico's rivers and rills. Shields,
The peasants remember thy fame;
Though years nigh two score have flown by,
Shields,
Over Mexican valleys and bowers,
Since you planted the starry flag high,
Shields,
On her Capitol's turrets and towers.
VIII.
CONTRERAS, in letters of gold, Shields,
Is blazoned on history's scroll ;
CHERUBUSCO'S proud story'll be fold,
Shields,
While men deeds of valor extol;
CHEPULTEPEC'S record shall stand,
Shields,
While the " Star Spangled Banner " floats
free;
CERRO GORDO towers solemn and grand,
Shields,
Monumental forever of thee!
IX.
The memory of Winchester's day, Shields,
Is linked with thy name evermore,
Where Jackson's grim host in dismay.
Shields,
Fled, vanquished, thy onset before;
Till the last flickering moment of time.
Shields,
Expires in the red flame of Doom,
Tin- light of that storv sublime. Shields.
Shall shine Jnid thy sepulchre's gloom!
V
No "Soldier of fortune" wert thou. Shi-
Save fortune (uncertain) of war:
And nought of war's fortune. I trow. Shields,
thine, save the red l>:ttle-saur!
Ah! meagre and mean the reward. Shi.
Dead soldier of Freedom, th.
But Honor shall evermore -mini. Shields,
The ashes which hallow thy grave,
POEMS OF T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN.
XL
On this, Freedom's memoried day, Shields,
While her cannon triumphantly boom,
This tribute I tearfully lay, Shields,
With reverent heart, on thy tomb.
May Heaven grant peace to thy soul, Shields,
High o'er the fierce storms of War !
While. Missouri may ocean ward roll, Shields,
Undimmed be the light of thy star.
New York, July 4, 1879.
AN IRISH-AMERICAN LAND LEAGUE
BALLAD.
I.
COERCE away, while yet you may;
Your sway is nigh its ending.
The people's will you may trammel still,
But the Right shall stand unbending.
You may crowd your jails with " rebel " Gaels,
And flash your hireling sabres
In Ireland's face; but the brave old race
You'll find as stubborn neighbors.
II.
Your pompous force, both foot and horse,
Your " Peelers " and your cannon,
March back and forth, from south to north,
By Avonmore and Shannon.
Be this your day to make display
Of steel and guns and banners ;
But, by our land ! with steel and brand,
We'll teach you better manners.
III.
By Jove and Mars! your "Coldstream
Guards,"
Your footmen and your " Lancers "
Shall soon retire before the fire
Of Freedom's grand advance, sirs;
For, Saxons, know, where Thames doth flow
In tortuous, muddy courses,
We've men enough of Gaelic stuff
To smite your hireling forces!
IV.
On Saxon land our legions stand
United and reliant;
And there you'll feel old Ireland's steel
When those men rise, defiant,
To burn and sack, 'mid ruin and wrack,
Your cities and your castles ;
Then, then shall quake, and, palsied, shake
Your lordlings and their vassals.
V.
From " Treaty Stone " to old Athlone,
By Shannon's storied water,
Hill, vale and glen, dwell daring men,
Unf earing death or slaughter;
Where songful Lee flows to the sea,
In waves of crystal beauty,
Are brave men true, to dare and do
In danger's hour of duty.
VI.
Tipp'rary's vales hold gallant Gaels,
Who dread nor gun nor sabre :
When comes the fight for Ireland's right,
They'll bravely " die to save her.''
Round Ulster's coast a mighty host
Of patriot men stand ready;
Give Connaught's sons e'en empty guns,
They'll march to battle steady.
VIII.
On Leinster's plains and broad domains,
Where erst ruled brave O'Beirne,
Are Celts galcre, ^enough or more
Old Dublin to environ,
And plant the " Green," in victory's sheen,
On rampart, tower and Castle,
Whence now, old foe, 'mid Ireland's woe,
Outrings your heartless wassail.
VIII.
By Hudson's banks our Celtic ranks
Stand vigilant and stern;
We've brooked too long our country's wrong,
And now for vengeance yearn.
Reserve your power until the hour
Of Gaelic vengeance direful,
When on your shores impetuous pours
The tide of valor ireful.
l'oKM>
T. O'D. ()'( 1 AI.I.AGHA.Y
IX.
For eeuturied years of blood and tears,
Since false MacMurrough's treason,
Our native land you've chained and banned
With "neither rhyme nor reason;"
You've ruled by force, and, what is worse,
\\\ force and fraud united :
But mark you, Bull, the cup is full ;
Those wrongs shall now be righted.
X.
That land is ours, and, by the powers
That reign above, we'll gain it !
Your braggart sway has had its day.
With bayonets to maintain it.
That day's nigh past; the die is cast :
Lo ! Freedom's dawn is streaming
On Ireland's hills and streams and rills!
This is not idle dreaming.
FAITH, HOPE AND LOYK.
WHKX our lives are on the wane, and youth's
sunlit joys are fled,
And we long to end earth's pain and lie down
among our dead;
When our dearest ones have flown, and life's
tree stands bleak and bare,
Its sere Autumn leaves far strown spectral
symbol of despair
Then comes Faith, with guiding hand, point-
ing, 'mid the gathering gloom,
1 >Vr Death's river to that land mystic land
beyond the tomb,
Where our friends expectant wait, they whose
souls have flown before,
'Round the Great White Throne, elate, for
our coining evermore.
When life's storms come rushing down, like
rude Winter from the pole,
And misfortune's dark clouds frown, like
grim fate, o'er heart and soul:
When Faith's pole-star in life's skies wanes
to weak and tlickeriu^ rav.
And our deeds of hi^h emprise echoe-
from yesterday :
When our dreams of pride and pnw'r prove
nought else than Dead Sea fruit,
And the sorrow of the hour 'round our 1.
strings twines its root
Then Hop.- sprin-reth from the slough of
that dark hour's deep despair.
And with pinion strong, I trow, upward
cleaves the lurid air.
Till God's light, heart, soul and brow fills
once more with radiance rare.
When earth's loves all scattered lie. dead on
Memory's charnel waste,
And the love-light in the eye lacks the old
fire lewd or chaste;
When our airy castles grand, frescoed by
Love's magic art,
I 'rove but fabrics built on sand, and our fairie
dreams depart ;
When the heart-strings thrill no more 'i.
the touch of fond desire.
And fair " Love's young dream *' is o'er.
youth's incandescent fire
Smolders darkly on life's hearth, and
ponder sad and lone,
On the vanished joys of earth that our dream-
ful days have known
Then the soul, like carrier dove, fain would
spread its winirs for home.
Where God's all-absorbing Love tills. like in-
cense, Heaven's dome.
God of mercy and of love, God of justice ami
of truth.
From Thy throne supreme above.
from sin's bane and ruth!
When our life's green Spring is past, an
Summer waned away.
And its Autumn's faded fast, and its Winter.
L r rim and irrey.
-'hills the life-blood in the heart ;
vision of the soul.
Pill our Ihes s.-eiii but apart of sad Nat,
dreary dole
Then. O Father! when old Karth seei
corpse within its shroud
Vouchsafe us a second birth, 'neath '.
sorrows bent and l>-.\>
Grant us Love and Faith and Hope, our
poor, trembling souls to .-.
Let us not in darkness grope through
Winter to the gi
938
POEMS OF T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN.
OUR 'PRISONED IRISH CHIEF.
I.
PARNELL ! all hail ! in Saxon jail
To-day immured
Bold champion of our trampled race.
Who've long endured
Deep wrong, though strong each man among
The Clan-na-Gael
Who long to front the battle-brunt
In Innisfail.
Thou'st nobly strove, with patriot love,
For native land ;
In Freedom's cause 'gainst alien laws
Your fight was grand ;
Since gallant Tone fell stricken, prone,
Since Edward's spirit fled,
Since Emmet died by Liffey's side,
Than thou none truer led
The Celtic race, with chieftain grace,
Brave heart and hero head.
II.
When clouds hung dark o'er Ireland stark
A corpse almost ;
When cynics said the cause was dead,
And Ireland lost,
Your spirit flamed, your banner streamed
Like meteor bright,
And lit the land from shore to strand
Bold beacon light.
Brave Chief! to-day within those gray
Old walls of stone !
Thy grand soul shines, like diamond mines
To light us on ;
Nor gyves nor chains can shackle brains
Or brawn like thine;
Thy spirit soars o'er Ireland's shores
From brine to brine
III.
Dear 'prisoned Chief! the Saxon thief
Our rights who stole,
With guilty fear may hold thee there
In dungeon's dole;
Kilmainham's walls and felon stalls
May shut the sun
Out from thy sight ; but Ireland's fight
Goes bravely on.
patriot heart ! how true thou art
Let history tell;
This much we know old Freedom's foe
Fears thee, Parnell !
None braver rose to beard our foes,
Through all the years,
Than thou, Chief, whose battle brief
Blanched England's Peers,
IV.
Parnell, 'tis well, in dungeon cell,
A martyr thou
Truth's coronet sublimely set
Upon thy brow!
Nor prison's murk, whose shadows lurk
In corners dank,
Can dim thy light which shineth bright
By Liffey's bank.
Chained chieftain now like eagle thou
Wilt soar anon
On pinion strong, when Saxon wrong
Is past and gone;
" Old Ironsides " brave soul abides
In thy heart's core;
With those of old in fame enrolled
Thy name ranks evermore.
V.
Nor woman's tears, nor craven fears,
Have we for thee
Who'st fought the fight 'gainst fraud and
might
For liberty ;
No banshee croon with woeful rune
Is meet to-day;
No funeral knell with solemn swell
Sounds " clay to clay."
All that is past, and now, at last,
Let triumph's song
Ring out amain o'er hill and plain,
And vales among,
For thee, bold chief, whose sorrow brief
Is but prelude
To vict'ry's strain a people's paean,
For new-born nationhood.
POEMS OF T. O'D. O'CALL AC HAN.
VI.
On with the cause! nor idly pause
While still remains
One cursed link, with rusty clink,
Of Ireland's chains.
Parnell, to-day, within those gray,
Cold prison walls,
Wields mightier rod than when he trod
Proud Britain's hulls.
My countrymen ! be guarded then
Let wisdom guide
At Council Board ; and gun and sword
Be yet untried ;
The day will come, at tuck of drum
And trumpet blast,
When freedom's force, both foot and horse,
Shall smite at last
That hireling host whose braggart boast
In Ireland's face is cast.
THE MARCH OF SCIENCE.
OUT upon this " march of science," with its
wheels of Juggernaut,
Crushing out the soul's reliance on kind
Nature's tender thought
Severing that fond alliance which in solitude
was wrought!
Hill and glen and dale and meadow rest no
more in solitude,
For in sunshine and in shadow iron footsteps
now intrude;
Nor remains an El Dorado in recesses of the
wood.
Birds of song within the forest silent sit t In-
whole day long,
While old Echofindeth no rest, hills or woods
or vales among;
But the Poet is the sorest and the saddest of
the throng.
As the dove, of old tradition, flying outward
from the Ark,
Found no green spot on its mission 'mid the
watery desert dark,
So the Muse, to-day, in vision findeth Nature
dead and stark.
Bridges span brook, creek and river, cir
solitude in twain; '
Sylvan sunbeams, frightened, quiver, shadow-
guarded all in vain-
E'en the hoary mountain.* shiver, from the
summit to the plain.
Silence peaceful shelter seeketh vainly, vain-
ly thro' the night :
Still, as backward she retreateth. like fair
maiden in affright,
Science his advance repeateth in his rude
and iron might.
Iron horses, snorting, prancing through the
valley and the plain.
Fright the timid moonbeams dancing on the
greensward of the lane
In their mad career advancing, like fierce
demon-steeds, amain.
Hills that erst were Nature throning, now
are tunneled through and through.
And their ancient trees are groaning oak
and pine and ash and yew ;
List! the grey old rocks are moaning, while
the wind is wailing, t
Like a mighty boa constrictor, iron bands
coil round the earth
Or, to speak in language stricter, huge octo-
pus, monstrous birth;
Sceptred Science is the victor, banning van-
quished Nature's mirth.
Mother Earth! cease, cease thy weeping for
the dead and Imried {mat;
Fateful shadows o'er thee creeping, dark
eclipse upon thee e;;
Time is madly onward sweeping, for this age
may prove his last
Out upon this "march of science," steel-be-
dight and iron-shod!
Man may style it self- reliance. Who is man ?
>V///.v soul, a clod
And his " march " means rank defiance of the
laws of nature's God.
POEMS OF WILLIAM D, KELLY,
FANNY PAENELL.
WOE and alas,
Unheralded, how often cometh death :
Swifter than ever summer tempests mass
The clouds that hide the lightning under-
neath;
Faster than whirlwinds gather, and then
move
In rapid race across the startled waves,
It comes betimes, and hurries those we love
To early graves.
"Well may we weep :
The bravest of our sisters here lies dead,
Where the sad hearts of stricken kindred
keep
Their mournful watch above her narrow bed;
Grief is not weakness here, and we who stand
Tearful beside this lifeless form of clay,
Not for ourselves, but for her motherland,
Sorrow to-day.
For whose dear sake
She, whose mute lips were touched with
sacred fire,
Bade her sweet harp its sweetest chords awake
That all the world might know her heart's
desire;
Soft as the cooing dove's could be her song
When she would sing her love for Innisfail,
But when she branded tyranny and wrong,
Fierce as the gale.
Ah! bright blue eyes,
In whose clear depths we saw the soul within,
No more in mute but eloquent replies
Shall ye flash courage to your kith and kin :
Sweet, silent lips, so tenderly and oft
Whence flowed the numbers of immortal lays,
Never again shall Erin hear the soft
Notes of your praise.
Had she survived
To see the glory of that coming day,
When her dear land impoverished and gyved,
Cast all its woes and manacles away,
Death had not seemed as cruel then as now,.
When hence it calls her as the dawning
bright
Flushes the paleness of her mother's brow
With its glad light.
Over her grave
Green grow the triple leaves forever more :
Of her young life and love she freely gave
Their best endeavors to her native shore.
Sing, summer winds, your sweetest lullabies
Above the grasses on her tomb that grow,
The bravest daughter of green Erin lies
At rest below.
AN APRIL FANCY.
AROUND the borders of the meadowlands,
Broad belts of green upon whose bosoms
show,
Where, smiling at the contrast, April stands^
Glisten white circles of remaining snow.
The robin flitting yonder through the hedge,
Where the warm zephyrs welcomes to him
croon,
Scans these white fringes on its outer edge,
And marvels if he northward carne too
soon.
The lissome rushes and the slender reeds,
Awakened by the singi7ig of the brook,
Look with amazement on the ermined meads,
And wonder if the summons they mistook.
The little flowers, whose slumber-laden eyes
Open beneath the kisses of the rain,
View the pale lingerers with quaint surprise,
And half incline themselves to sleep again.
" But it is spring ! " cries April, as in glee
She twines a snowdrop in her flaxen curls ;
" I merely called these strangers in to see
How emeralds would look offset with
pearls."
POEMS OF JOSEPH I. C, CLARKE.
OUSTER'S LAST CHARGE.
BATTLE OF THE LITTLE BIG HORN', JUXE
25, 1876.
ON through the mist of the morning,
On through the midday glare ;
A hard, rough ride by the Rosebud's side,
Cutting swaths through the sultry air.
With tightened girths and with bridles free
Their sabres clattering beside the knee;
Pistol and carbine ready at hand,
And one brave heart through the wide com-
mand, [red
Rode the sun-browned troopers till eve grew
Rode Custer right at the column's head.
" Small rest to-night ; by to-morrow's sun
We'll strike the red man's trail,
But an hour to breathe till the fight is won,
Till the climax caps the tale." [more,
And the troopers spring to the saddle once
For Custer has heard that the Sioux are near,
And he longs for Glory as never before,
And he knows not the name of doubt or
fear.
" On by the stars, scan well the trail,
And miss not an Indian sign."
Now the dawn is gray and the stars are pale,
And hope is high on the lengthened line
The hope, half joy, of the soldier's trust,
That waits not trump or drum.
" Scatter out, my lads, so the heavy dust
Shall not tell the Sioux we come."
But up on the hills, a moveless shape
An Indian plumed for war
Sees the mad advance, sees the carbines
glance
'Mid the galloping lines afar.
" Custer, the Chief of the Yellow Hair,"
He mutters with bated breath,
"Boldly you ride to the red man's lair:
Welcome, white chief, to Death.''
And Custer, still at the column's head,
Spurs on that none may share
The first glance down the river's bed
The game he's hunted there.
Brave child of the battle, with hope elate,
See you not with your frank blue eyes
They are five to one and they lurk and wait,
On every brow the stamp of Hate
That never wears out or dies.
But the soldier turns in his saddle and
cries :
" Hurrah for Custer's luck, the Sioux
Have met me face to face,
The game, lads, is for me, for you,
Who would a step retrace ?
Not one, for never twice to man
Such battle-chance was given
To snatch red honor in the van
Since yon steep crags were earthquake
riven.
Reno, dash over the river there.
God, how the prancing devils swarm !
The squaws shall wail
Thro' the mile-wide vale
When sweep we down it like a storm.
Mine be the charge on their midmost band."
And his broad-brimmed hat in the air he
tossed.
Now, lads, ride on like a prairie flame,
You follow a man who has never 1-
I'hree hundred horsemen spring at his heels,
And every trooper his ardor ft
\ml the clatter and rush of their horses' feet
The terrible rhythm <.f War repeat,
As they sweep by the bluffs while, cocked at
hand,
Their earhines glint long tho brave com-
inantl,
luster in front, down ; incline.
nto the Indians' ambushed line.
POEMS OF JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE.
On through the smoke of the battle -
Dimming the blinding glare,
A headlong ride to the riverside,
Cutting swaths through the redmen there.
Cutting swaths, but the troopers are falling;
Falling fast, while the swarming foe
From the earth and the hills seem to grow,
And the roar of their rifles, appalling,
Rolls out in a long thunder rattle.
See ! Custer has swerved from the river,
"Fire! fight to the hill ! we'll have Reno
soon here ! " [quiver,
His voice like a clear trumpet sound, without
Is heard by the remnant unfallen. A cheer
Is their answer; but leaving their cover
Fresh swarms of the Sioux ride down on
the band.
In the grim wild fight from the river
Three hundred had shrunk to a score,
Their track was of heroes' gore
And corses of heroes who went to rest
Fighting one against ten, but breast to breast,
With savage foes in their death-embrace,
The brave and the braves dying face to face.
Unhorsed, in a narrow circle
That blazed at its outer rim,
Whence their fast-fired bullets hurtle,
Stood Custer and ten with him.
" If Reno comes he will find us here,
If he comes not we'll meet him there"
And he looked up to Heaven unblanched by
fear,
With the sun on his yellow hair.
" Here, while a man is left," he cried,
" Let a gun be heard till dust is dust.
Death is in front, but the end of Fame
Comes not to the brave who keep their
trust."
A rampart of dead men around him,
Doomed Custer stands all but alone.
He but speaks through the mouth of his rifle,
And there's death in its every tone.
On through the smoke of the battle,
With maddening cries on the air,
The wild Sioux rush from the riverside
Like wolves on a man in their lair.
Like wolves, and trusting to numbers
They sweep on the desperate few,
Who each bid a stern adieu
To the tried, to the trusted and true,
Then die where they stand, as the oncoming
yell
Of the savages lifts up its chorus from hell.
Ere the horse hoofs trampled the ramparts
dread
The last of the whole command lay dead,
A sight for the world, in pride, to scan,
While Valor and Duty lead the van.
They charged, they struggled, THEY DIED
TO A MAN.
And Fame will never forget that ride,
That wild, mad dash to the riverside,
Where Custer died.
AT LIBERTY'S FEET.
I.
GODDESS, slow-born of the ages Liberty,
light-giving soul !
Raised, looking seaward, gigantic in sheen
of bronze,
What dost thou see in the wastes afar,
Beyond where the waters throb.
Out where the future's nurselings are
And the woes of the future sob ?
What glory the coming day dons,
What gleams and what glooms hither roll ?
II.
Here we have set thee in majesty fronting
the rising sun,
Rock-bastioned, steel-strengthened and
splendid with crown of fire,
To last while man treads the circling
world,
To hold us to hate of the wrong,
To live 'neath Love's banner unfurled,
To be good and for Justice strong,
To ascend, to uplift, to aspire,
To stand fast by each right well -won.
POEMS OF JOSKI'H I. ('. CLAUKE.
III.
Dost thou see the fulfilment of this, grand
Queen of all men free !
The old law moving to better, the new
law on to the best,
Ever on Toil a more sunny brow,
Ever in thought a purer flight,
With songs of sweetness undreamed of
now,
Silver laughter and golden light,
A bond of Trust from east to west,
A band of Peace from sea to sea ?
IV.
But ah, when thy mantle of bronze has
crusted with rust of green,
And the fresh-cut stones at thy feet are
worn by cycles of storm,
And all who gazed at thy new-lit flame
Are gone on the wind of Time,
Shalt thou stand for an empty name ?
Shall our hopes and dreams sublime
Be as rust and dust of thy form,
Be as dust of thy rust of green ?
V.
Oh never be thou in one glory dimmed or
thy stars be less,
Great image of all men's strivings to reach
man's topmost goal !
Thy flame we'll watch for the years un-
born,
Though the olden wrongs die hard ;
Thine altar with flow'ring deeds adorn ;
Thy throne with our lives we'll guard,
That thou may'st enter the broad world's
soul,
Forever to light and to bless.
A DECADE OF LOVE.
Ax angel came down with a golden lyre
And the strings of the lyre were ten,
And the sounds of, its notes, phi veil one by
Trembled and intertwined; [one,
And he passed away ere the playing was done,
But the harmony dwelt on the wind
Like the mingling of all the celestial choir
And the echoes it waked were ten.
A spirit came bearing a chalice of t-
And the sighs that he breathed were ten.
And the tears from the chalice dropped one
by one
On my bride's fair face and mine;
But above us was glowing Love's glorious
sun,
Whose rays are a joy divine
That shines serene through the passing
years
And the drops that it dried were ten.
A nymph came laughing o'er fields of June.
And the roses she bore were t
And they dropped from her fingers, one by
one,
Kissing our brows as they fell,
While her laughter rang clear as the str.
lets run,
Or the tones of our marriage bell,
Till our hearts beat time to the blightsome
tune
And the perfumes she breathed were ten.
Oh decade of love to my marvelling soul !
Can the years be truly ten
That have flown like a rhapsody, one by one.
O'er me and my darling bride ?
Was it yesterday morn that her heart was
won y
Oh, years that in moments glide!
Still rapt into ecstasy may ye roll
Though time counts slowly ten.
June 18, 1888.
SPECULUM VIT^E.
LKT us look in the glass for a moment.
Let us brush off the mist from its face
The mirror of life that is broken
When Death in our ears knells the token
To crumble in space.
Wo must fall whether praying or pii
Whether fearing or mocking the Mow.
Ilrush the mist from the mirror, then, trem-
bling;
The grave is no place for dissembling
There vaunting lies low.
944
POEMS OF JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE.
The eyes, as they glaze to earth's glory,
Peer into that mirror of pain
Where the slain of our years lie all gory
Bent over by grim shadows hoary
Eecording each stain.
Not a blot nor a blemish escapes them,
The sins of the lone and the crowd,
The crime where we pandered or paltered.
The dark things that lips never faltered
There cry out aloud.
They are there, and no tempest can hide
them;
They glow with accusing and shame.
Tho' the years be all dead, they are living.
'Mid the silence they cry for forgiving
With direful acclaim.
On the wreck-plank of life is there pardon
When joy is worn hollow in sin ?
When the heart sees no light in the sparkle,
Nor gloom where the drowsy waves darkle
O'er f oeman and kin ?
Then brush the world's mist from the mirror
While life in our bosom is sweet,
And turn, with a love of the purest,
O'er pathways the fairest and surest
The trace of our feet.
GERALDINE.
THE rose is sweetly blushing
And virgin lilies bloom,
While Summer-winds are bearing
Their heaven-sent perfume,
And blithe. young birds are singing
Upon the beechen tree
Beneath whjose shade I'm thinking,
Dear Geraldine, of thee.
The vesper bell is tolling
Its solemn, measured chime,
And nature all seems telling
Of the golden Summer time.
But the sun shines not forever
And Summer perfumes flee,
And so these musings whisper,
Dear Geraldine, of thee.
For when in Old Dunleary,
On many a Summer's eve,
We wandered through the meadows
The future's spell to weave,
My joy, my rose, my sunlight,
Lily and birdie free
Were love bound and I dreamed for aye,
Dear Geraldine, in thee.
All's gone save mem'ry's lonely smile,
From Erin far away ;
Thy glowing soul to Heaven flown,
Thy frame in churchyard clay.
While the inward hope celestial
Is all remains to me,
And a dream across the twilight,.
Dear Geraldine, of thee.
1865.
ON THE SOUND.
AT eve from the Pilgrim's lofty deck
As we cleave through the waveless Sound
I gaze on a hamlet's spire a speck
Far over the land's dim bound.
I fancy I hear its silvery bell-
As from out of the sunset's soul
Sound over the opaline sea to tell
Of a calm life's joy-lit goal.
A yacht with its canvas and masts aglow
In crimson and gold of the west [know.
Points fair for the shore where the bell, I
Is singing its song of rest.
fair bark reaching for home and cheer,
With ripples aflame at thy prow,
1 would that my haven of life were near
And lovely as thine is now !
But, lo ! a fisher with shadowed sails
Steers into the north and the night
Where a dark cloud over the water trails
From the sky's still starless height.
brave bark driving on duty's track
Where it takes thee, shine or shade,
With thee goes my heart 'neath the night
and rack
And the storm for our work-world made !
POEMS OF MICHAEL J, W \ LSH,
IN MEMORIAL.
SADLY repining and musing alone
Over hopes that are blighted forever and
flown ;
As the past that was blissful I sadly review,
I am thinking, and fondly, my lost love of
you.
I have tokens, my darling, and long may
they last,
To remind me of thee and the beautiful
past
The past which to me in my sorrow doth
seem
Like a spell of enchantment, a vision, a
dream.
There is sorrow and grief at my heart every
day,
And each night, as the little ones cross them
and pray.
That heart in its anguish is rent to the core
As they mention the name of my Katie
atthore.
No more shall I drink the rich measure of
love
That was balm to my soul, like a smile from
above,
For its source has run dry, and my darling
doth sleep
In a cold, narrow cell where the tall willows
weep.
My own love! my lost love! I seek no re-
spite
From the grief that is mine; I shall ;
invite
A means to forget thee; henceforth, love, for
me
There is nothing but sorrow and thinking of
thee.
Full soon shall the summer lend beauty again,
Through its sunshine, to woodland, and
meadow, and plain ;
But the summer to me can no pleasure im-
part,
For the winter of sorrow has blighted my
heart.
I will go to your grave when the roses are
blown,
They'll remind me of thee that was fondly
my own;
There my heart will find ease in the tears
that I shed
As I kneel 'mong the sad, silent homes of
the dead !
AN IRISH SON'-.
AIR: / d Mourn the Hopet."
HAS fate, alas! consigned thee
To endless wrongs, asthore -ma -chree?
Shall the future come to find thee
A captive still beside the sea ?
Or will thy sons, united,
At last throw down the gage of war.
And, till all thy wrongs are righted,
Give blow for blow, and scar for scar f"
Though dastards base defame thee,
To us thou'rt always Innisfail.
And. henceforth, to reclaim thee,
The sundered children of the Gael,
With torch and brand united,
Will truck the footsteps of th.
And. till all thy wrongs are ri^ht.-d.
(Jive scar for scar and Mow for Mow.
N,,r do they strninrle vainly.
Who keep the beacon lights ablaze;
better thus than tamely
Yield up, before the world's gaze,
946
POEMS OF MICHAEL J. WALSH.
The sworn ties that bind us,
Sent down from " bleeding sire to son/
And that -ever true will find us,
Till, gra-ma-chree, thy rights are won.
O'CONNELL'S BIETHDAY ANNIVER-
SAEY CELEBRATION.
I.
1 FAIN would weave, in deathless song,
A chaplet worthy of the fame
Of him who Kerry's hills among
Shed lustre on our country's name.
Of him, who in the penal times,
E'er those who hear me yet were born,
Denounced the demons by whose crimes,
Our mother land was rent and torn.
II.
As Cam Terul salutes the sky,
A giant 'mong his lesser neighbors,
;So he, o'er men, rose ever high,
Till heaven smiled upon his labors.
And royal apes and vassal lords
Blanched pale before his higher station ;
With Irish pike he dared their swords,
Why did they yield emancipation ?
III.
" That drop of blood " was all a lie,
No Kerry man was ever born
Who would not choose to fight and die,
Than live a slave, a thing of scorn,
Nor say that Ireland's great tribune,
To end all foreign domination,
Would shrink from blood or wild commune,
To make his bleeding land a nation.
IV.
'Tis Kerry's boast, no brighter name
Illumes the page of Ireland's story;
The world pays homage to his fame,
And crowns him with a wreath of glory.
Down through the years no other land
Was ever blest witn fairer token,
Of purpose high sublime and grand,
Than ours, when Erin's pride had spoken
V.
His spirit lives at Ballyheigue,
Where, like his voice, and never ceasing,
The breakers roar, and where the League
By rebel force, goes on increasing.
From Traleetown to Dingle Bay,
Thence to Listowel, up near the Shannon,
The moonlight men still lead the way
Beyond the reach of English cannon.
VI.
oercion greets them with a frown,
They show no panic or alarm,
The people's voice 'twill never drown,
'Twill only nerve the rebel's arm.
But come what may, we're rebels still,
Like Emmet, Tone and Hugh O'Donnell ;
Then, brothers mine, your glasses fill
To the memory of our own O'Connell.
MUSINGS REMINISCENT.
DARK visaged Fate looks through the clouds,
to-day as in the past,
Nor forty years have cleared away the shad-
ows 'round me cast;
When Fortune's then uncertain hand, at boy-
hood's early morn,
Saw me descend old Shannon's tide an exile
seaward borne.
Ah! well do I remember now the sad, sad
parting scene
When my young heart was riven sore con-
tending ties between ;
I wept the friends I left behind, whilst those
I longed to meet
Spoke to my heart, across the main, in ac-
cents fond and sweet,
At length came days of transient bliss, re-
union's welcome boon,
Brought sunshine to the exile's home, alas, to
vanish soon ;
The cherished friends that blessed my life
with ardent love and strong,
Are sleeping now in alien graves, their ex-
iled race among.
POEMS OF GERALD ( AIM.KTON.
Mnvrone! the pleasant days are gone, when
life was young and gay ;
The hurling matches on the green have long
since passed away;
Alas ! the sturdy villagers, so full of heart
and soul,
With their " Comauns," no more I'll see doing
battle at the goal.
And though I've passed through busy scenes
down through the fleeting years,
Though joy and sorrow gave their meed of
pleasure and of tears,
It seems as though 'twere yesterday, that.
sore at heart, I cast
On scenes forever dear to me my parting
gaze, the last.
I watched the dear old hills recede, and
though the sun shone bright,
My eyes grew dim, nor ask me why, to me
the day seemed night;
The ocean's rim reached to the sky; behind
its wall of blue
I left my heart ; 'tis there to-day, my native
land with you.
POEMS OF GERALD CARLETOR
ASPIRATION.
UPWARD as the mountain eagle,
When the storm-cloud hovers nigh,
Scorns to fold its quiv'ring pinions
Where the darkling shadows lie;
But above the rolling thunder,
Wheeling in his tireless flight,
While the earth he spurns beneath him-
Basks in Heaven's unclouded light.
Upward as the little oak tree,
Bursting from its prison clod,
While to earth its roots are clinging,
Hears its head above the sod;
As the sky-lark heavenward springing,
With the morning's earliest ray,
Woos the golden sunlight streaming
Through the portals of the day.
Thus with true and noble purpose,
Let us seek a higher life
Ever upward, ever onward,
Never weary of the strife;
'Till the Glorious Sim of Science,
I Bursting through far realms of light,
Sheds a flood of undim'd radiance
Through the shadows of the night.
THOMAS MOORE. 1
ILLUSTRIOUS poet! thou whose tuneful lay.
Wakes in the heart the beams of freedom's
ray,
Whose love-fraught pen replete with tender
est light
Cheers from its transient gloom fair Ireland's
night,
We hail thee! joyous bard of Erin's story.
And twine our hearts in wreaths to deek thy
glory.
We linger o'er thy lays of byirone d.
And shower on thee the well-earned meed of
praise ;
Hail bard of Erin! the Muses loved thy
song,
The patriot heart dost still thy notes ]>n>
long.
The " loves of angels " now thy chorus I
And heavenly houris chant thee on the wing.
Tom Moore! I bless thee not when from thy
heart
This bygone legend found a new born-]
!) unvHIIngof Moore's Monument Conceit
Oroyc.N.Y.,MyP'
948
POEMS OF MINNIE GILMORE.
I bless thee not when by yon lake's dark
gloom,
The beauteous Kathleen found a watery
tomb.
St. Kevin ne'er had felt her blue eyes
love,
Or she had rested ere she soared above.
Again we tread with thee the magic strand
Thy princess peerless trod in Cashmere
land;
"We catch the tear the mournful Peri wept
As downward from her heavenly home she
swept;
With Khorassan's veiled prophet we have
wailed
As at his charnel vows his lost bride paled.
In childhood's years I've roamed with Lalla
Rookh, [brook ;
Her beauteous soul has touched each fairy
The Parsee's love of her transcendent tale
Has from my o'erwrought soul brought forth
a wail,
I see the " Harem's Light," the Sultan's pride
Rest for one golden hour, the monarch's
bride.
Brilliant and tender, gay and passing sweet
Unworthy we thy glorious memory greet,
Bard of the Emerald Isle, thy peerless name
Has stamped thy memory with undying
fame, [fade,
While Ireland lives Tom Moore can never
No greater name can e'er his laurels shade.
POEMS OF MINNIE GILMORE.
THE RIVER ON THE PLAIN.
ON high Sierra a young spring glows,
White as a babe, from its natal snows.
The soft winds over its cradle sway;
Croon, as they rock it, a roundelay.
Their dewy chaplets tell mists in gray,
Veiling it chastely from day to day :
And flocks of raindrops, on earthward quest,
With light wings dimple its pulsing breast.
A crown of sunshine it dons, as born
Of ruddy Eos, the infant Morn :
A crown of starshine it dons by night,
Waiting the kiss of the pale moonlight :
As censors swaying, blown pines that guard,
Pan it with odors more sweet than nard,
And strong young eagles, on royal wing,
Winnow the heart of the mountain spring.
Over the mountain a streamlet speeds,
Spurred by the prick of the bulrush reeds.
The woodbine tracks it from ledge to ledge,
Twining her tendrils along its edge :
A willowed army, with cedared flank,
Presses its pathway, close rank on rank :
And files of fir-trees, armed with cones,
Riddle its picketing, lichened stones.
Bright bluffs and canyons it spans apace,
Clematis after, in purple chase :
Her wee green tassels the wild hop sways,
Listing its lyrics through sunny days :
The timid aspen takes heart and dips
Tremulous boughs for its warm young lips :
The blue wind-flower holds out her cup,
Yearning its ripples that sparkle up
And coyly tinkles the plashed harebell,
Ringing the way to her citadel,
POEMS OF MINNIE (JILMORK.
As down the mountain the streamlet speeds,
Spurred by the prick of the bulrush reeds.
Over the prairie a river glides,
Tuft-grass a-tilt on its sloping sides.
Its white foam ripens to buds of spray,
Blooming the river as field of May :
It gaily sprinkles with opal show'r
Robes of the glittering mustard-flower:
Then slows and hushes, where rose on rose
Beside it anchors in pink repose.
Under the heavens, its clear tide glints
Rich as a rainbow in tangled tints :
And fair as Eden, along its flow,
Gardens of vetch in the sunlight glow.
Yet on forever, with panting breast,
Presses the river in vague unrest.
O, little recks it of mountain spring,
Winnowing eagles, and winds that sing !
Of piney gulches it leaped in glee,
Chasing the blue-eyed anemone :
Of cloistered canyons with scented ways,
Flowery haunts of its early days.
For naught that has been, nor naught that is,
Merits the river's light loyalties
But fairer ever, as moon than star.
Visions, that shadow what were or are/
Of goal that beckons, whose fair shores lie
On the veiled breast of futurity.
Alas! river, not we, not we,
Meetly may chide of disloyalty!
Nor bid you tarry, while yet you may.
Prizing the bloom of your sunny way
For we, too, reckon to-day a bond
And yearn the morrow that wait.- l>c\ond.
A PIONEER
SEE thet tent t liar, wlmr' th' grass
Follers up th 1 mounting-pass?
See thet chap ez looks a clown,
Walkin' slowly up an' down ?
Thar's his tent, sir, an' t liar's him
Ez ye axed fur poet .Jim.
Wot on 'arth folks gits ter see
In thet feller, squelches me.
Dashed ef I hain't showed th' way
Three more times afore, tenlav.
Nuthin' much, he ain't, in look
S'pose ye've hearn ez he writes books ?
'Read em?' Jest draw mild, panl ! M ':-
Ya as ! thet's jest th' sort I !
Knowed his father; me an' him
Onct wuz pards. He wuz a limb,
Old Jim wuz in his young da;
Till one year he tuk a craze
Fur a gal ez with her par
Kem ter summer on th' Bar.
W'ite an* peaky; a poor lot
Not my style by a long shot !
Full o' flowery, high talk
Ez hed nary stem nor stalk.
Howsomever, Jim wuz struck
Hard an* hot; an' she, wuss luck,
Caved-in ter his han'some fa. , .
Settled down in thet same pla
Stayin' jest till thet cha{> kum.
Then put out her light, sir, plum '!
Jim died later, fifteen year.
Jest ez he hed struck luck here
Left his claim an' tent t-r him.
Thet poor chap thar poet Jim.
W'uMn't guess it, seci'n him,
But he hed th' sues, hed Jim,
Ter git sweet upon my gal
My one ilarter. sir. my .Sal.
Hi! l>ut thet ni:ht !>'* wux thick
I swar some. I did. ly Nick!
Sal, she cried. /. wimmen do,
Hut I guess xhe'll live it thro'.
Taint fur her. so prnrt an* trim.
Ter l.e j.-.-t Mi-' I'-'.t Jim!
950
POEMS OF MINNIE GILMORE.
Hain't no gumption, tliet Jim hain't
Gosh ! his ways 'ud rile a saint.
Works a spell, when he's cleaned out,
Then jest idles roun' about,
Roamin' up an' down th' pass,
Lyin' in th' summer grass,
Starin' up them same old skies,
(Ez is kin ter his blue eyes )
Watchin' now, jest a wild rose
Bowin' ez th' breezes blows,
Lookin' up et them dark pines
Yaller when th' noon sun shines,
Countin' all th' birds thet fly,
Smilin', sighin'; by an' by
Sets ter writin' fur dear life
Nice chap thet, ter hev' a wife !
Wot's his line trees, birds, an* stars,
Ain't it ? Tho't so ! Like his mar's.
Fore she merried, she writ, too,
Hevin' nuthin' more ter do.
Gals afore they git a beau
Kinder find life dull, ye know,
An' some high uns tek ter rhyme,
Jest ter pass away th' time
Wich I ain't on leanin' rough,
Ez they'll drop it sharp enough
Et a chance ter settle down,
With a man an' babies roun'.
But a chap with no more vim
Then ter be a poet, like Jim
Shunt it, pard, it makes me sick !
Eh ? thankee ! Yer a brick !
Prime stuff thet! More? No, pard, no !-
Wai, I don't keer let her go !
Ain't no poet, ye ain't, sir ! Hey ?
Blast my ears, wot's thet ye say ?
Jest thet same, sir ? Wai, I vum !
Dern my boots ef thet ain't rum !
Tuk ye fur a tearin' swell.
Jest a poet ? Ain't thet a sell !
Eh ? Good Lord ! Let me set down !
Jim th' talk o' town on town ?
Great folks thro' th' hull wide land
Holdin' him warm heart an' hand ?
Him th' pride o' comin' times,
Jest thro' his falutin' rhymes ?
Him a gen'us him a star
His name ringin' near an' far
Gold a-runnin' up his claim ?
Gosh!
Jim, I say! Jest aim
Roun' our way some night, an' wal,
S'pose ye jest talk over Sal ?
A SORGHUM CANDY-PULL.
FIVE miles out from house or village stands
the old farm on the prairie;
From its roof red lanterns dangle, lest we
miss the lonely way.
Lamps are shining at each window, in the
barn and in the dairy,
And red pine-flames on the snowdrifts o'er
the kitchen threshold play.
Rows of sleighs stand in the barnyard; rows
of steeds paw in the stable;
There is sound of many voices, then a sud-
den listing lull,
As we sweep through the great gateway to
the porch beneath the gable,
Where the farmer bids us welcome to the
sorghum candy-pull.
At the door his good wife curtsies, with both
hands outstretched in greeting;
Points us up to the front chamber, where
young voices bid us " Come! "
And we file up the wide stairway, followed
still by her entreating
That we " Give th' gals our bunnits, an' jest
make ourselves t' hum."
On the top stair wait her daughters, twin
wild-roses blushing newly
In their fear lest " city-people find wild wes-
te'n doin's dull "
Till their warm young hands enfolding, we
assure them, (and most truly,)
That we know no sweeter frolic than a sor-
ghum candy-pull.
As we enter the bright kitchen, the gray host
presents us duly :
"Friends, th' city-folks from east'ards, ez is
stoppin' ter Mis' West's."
POEMS OF MINN IK <;ILM<KK.
961
And the bows and handshakes over, the red
logs are kindled newly,
And a hush of expectation deepens 'mong
the waiting guests.
Then from off the high pine dresser comes
the great, brass shining kettle,
And the farm-wife pours the sorghum till
the girls proclaim it full;
When they lift it to the fire, and the former
from his settle,
Claps his knee, and hurrahs gaily for the
sorghum candy -pull.
As the pine -flames leap and crackle, we can
see the sorghum stealing
In great golden coils that shimmer round
the kettle's circled brim;
And the lads crowd to the pantry, tall heads
dodging the low ceiling,
For the great spoons peeping brightly from
the shelf's resetted rim.
Then what gallantry and blushes, as each to
his chosen maiden
Holds the shining pewter handle, the deep
bowl still in his hand;
And the pretty, quaint procession, as they
file in twains, so laden,
And group gaily round the kettle, at the
leader's blithe command !
Swift the first spoon seeks the sorghum, and
the stirring goes on fleetly,
Two hands clasped about the handle, hers
for holding, his to guide;
And as o'er the ruddy hearthstone, soft young
cheeks flush out so sweetly,
0, I dream the flames steal deeper, and warm
soft young hearts, beside!
And as twain each twain replaces, till the
spoons have all been christened,
Sitting back in the still corner, while the
kettle brims and boils,
To my heart float faint, stray echoes of shy
words the fire has listened,
As the spoons went slowly circling through
the golden sorghum-coils.
Out unto the ice-bound bucket go the last
twain, snows unheeding,
For a bowl of water sparkling from the well.
like rare old wine;
And what pretty anxious faces, and what
rapture swift sueeeeo!in<r,
As the sorghum seeks the bottom in a crisp
and brittle line !
Then the putting out of platters; routing of
canine infringers;
And the restless time of waiting till the frosty
air shall cool;
And the eager choice of partners, and the
buttering of fingers,
As the farm-wife names the candy as all
ready for the pull.
What a merry tussle follows, with the golden
ropes that shimmer
Titian-red between the embers, and the lamps
of ruddy light;
And what rival boasts and daring, while the
gold grows ever dimm.
Till the yellow merges slowly first to cream
and then to white !
What an awed and anxious silence, as from
defter hands fall gleaming
Hearts, and rings, and blent initials, linke.l
in true lovers' knots
And what calls for water, after, for the sticky
palms' redeeming,
And what girlish toss of ribands, and what
brushing off of spots!
Then the bearing of the candy, in a
dish to the table
In the dining-room adjoining, where the juicy
apples wait :
Where the giant-jugs of cider foam like nec-
tar of old fable,
And the nuts for philopening lie in lone and
dusky state.
And the merry hours that follow, winged in
jest and song and lau^h;
While the apples grow but phantoms, and
the nuts but shells that seem,
And the cider ebbs out surely as the candy.
that leaves after
But the lovers' knots, that cherished, pledge
each maid a charmed dream.
Twelve strokes echo from the stairway.
the last good-nights are spoken.
Kre the steeds turn from the stable*, and the
sleighs stand at the door;
952
POEMS OF EDWARD J. O'REILLY.
And the farmfolk from the threshold, after
each, in kindly token,
Throw a pippin from the basket newly filled
from their rich store.
As the merry sleighs speed by us, I lean back
against the cushion,
And the moonlight blinds me strangely, for
my eyes and heart are full,
As I question if my city, with its eastern
wealth and fashion,
Boasts so truly sweet a frolic as a sorghum
candy-pull.
AFTER THE BALL.
O LITTLE glove, do I but dream I hold thee,
So warm, so sweet, and tawny as her hair ?
Nay ! from her hand to-night I dared unfold
thee,
As we went down the stair.
She said no word; she did not praise nor
blame me;
She is so proud, so proud and cold and
fair !
Ah ! dear my love, thy silence did not shame
me,
As we went down the stair.
Thy dark eyes flashed; thy regal robes arrayed
thee.
In queenly grace, and pride beyond com-
pare;
But on thy cheek a sudden red betrayed thee,
As we went down the stair.
0, lady mine, some near night will I prove
thee!
By this soft glove I know that I may dare
Take thy white hand, and whisper, " Sweet,
I love thee,"
As we go down the stair!
POEMS OF EDWARD J, O'REILLY.
THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE.
BESIDE her couch I bend the knee,
Where she, my earliest love, had died,
And vowed she should in Heaven be
Though not on earth my spirit bride.
Upon a foreign soil my oath
Of love proclaimed her mine to be,
But she had deemed it wise for both
To wait till fortune smiled on me.
When fortune came death trod the path
Of gold the fickle god had taken,
And smote the idol in his wrath
For whom I would have all forsaken.
A relic from the emerald sward
Which I had plucked from Erin's breast
J placed, as love's supreme reward,
Above her exiled daughter's rest.
She bade me plant it o'er her dust
I promised it, and own I wept;
In truth it was a holy trust
That darkest demon would have kept!
She loved the land that gave it birth,
And deemed if it should mark her grave
She still should sleep 'neath Irish earth,
Despite the barriers of the wave.
Long may its tender plumage wave,
Enjoying spring's first virgin smile,
And bloom above her foreign grave,
As when it graced her hapless Isle.
Her tomb, the Mecca of my love,
Shall be the temple of my prayer
That I may meet her yet above
And live forever with her there.
POEMS OF EDWARD J. < 'i;Kl LLY.
LIFE.
WHAT is life ?
A fated being sent from God
To tread the path his fathers trod,
To toil for gold, perchance in vain,
With heated brow and hurried brain,
And, dying, all forgotten, go
To the deep shades of death below,
With darkness rife ?
What is life ?
A war with all of human breath
Hushed only by the conq'ror Death!
Ambition, honor, glory's dreams,
Are shadowed with deceptive names
Even love's a mockery of life
'Tis strife all strife!
Is life no more ?
Yes with its dark, chaotic gloom,
Withering all that erst should bloom
The Eden of primeval earth,
Proclaims some relic of her birth
And through all human bosoms still,
Inspires the heart's instinctive will,
Upward to soar!
Poor child of toil !
Stricken with life's organic care,
Wake from thy dreams of sad despair;
The earth which seems to thee so dark,
Shall perish, but that vital spark,
The soul by the Deity first given,
With the seraphic host of heaven,
Shall play its part.
JULY THE FOURTH.
IMMORTAL day! thy history writes
The epitaph of kings,
And bids the soul take nobler flights
Than even Homer sings.
A continent bows down to thee,
The herald of its peace,
And while its giant breast is free
Its homage ne'er shall ce.
There was a day when it was crime
That sealed for death the brow
To pray at freedom's holy shrine,
So firmly guarded now.
Then Hessians for a bloody mite
Obeyed an idiot king,
And eclipsed for a time the light
A nearer day should bring.
Now from this broad, unmeasured shore
Illumed by freedom's rays,
The cannon to the skies shall pour
Its tributary blaze!
And from the instruments of death
The millions will conspire
To show with one united breath
Their rights were won by fire!
Bright day! thy dawn made Heaven cheer
The patriot fathers on
Till mankind owned, in every sphere,
Their work was nobly done !
And when God's herald gave a tongue
To what He made us be,
With patriots' love the angels sung
"America is free ! "
THE PARTING.
THE bark weighed slowly from her seat,
While on the strand a crowd
Of kindred viewed the human freight
With hearts and spirits bow'd;
And as she glided like a bird
Above the gathering spray
'Mid sighs and tears their prayers were heard
That o'er her liquid way
An angel pilot might preside
And be the wandering exiles' guide!
The bark now seems to strike a cloud
In earth's last guard of air
Ere lost within the ether shroud
That wraps it slowly there,
A maiden still surveys the main
Though all have left the heaeh.
And deems in fancy's kindling flame
The bark in vision's reach:
Her musing spirit soars in air
And travels with her lover tin
PRESENTING THE SHAMROCK.
THE IEISH SOLDIER TO COLUMBIA ON ST.
PATRICK'S MORNING.
Columbia, gra, just bear awhile
With a soldier of the rank and file,
A stepson from the Emerald Isle,
Your uniform adorning,
Who comes his poor respects to pay,
In the good old democratic way,
To wish you on St. Patrick's day
The very crame of the morning;
And ask you, Ma'am, if you would wear
Amid the glory of your hair,
Right in that nest of Cupid's there,
This emblem of his sireland !
Fed by soft winds, and rarest dew,
Wept down from skies of softest blue,
This little sprig of Shamrock grew
Near the very heart of Ireland !
You now have royal beaus, aroon,
Who flash about you late and soon,
Like stars about the summer moon
Outrivaled by your glory;
But in the days when you were young,
And sleuth hounds on your traces hung,
And royal lovers gave them tongue,
'Twas then a different story;
But in those dark and bloody days
Old Ireland rose beyond the says
And backed your throne-upsetting ways,
In the face of rack and prison,
And gave you all she had, asthore,
Strong arms, true hearts, and love galore,
And cheer'd you from her sea-beat shore
Till all your stars had risen.
When you had sprung from war's alarms,
Jack Barry took you in his arms,
And smiled to see your budding charms,
On a cold St. Patrick's morning.
He wrapped you in the flag and said,
"When thrones are moldered, empires dead,
Amid the stars she'll hold her head,
Their petty kingdoms scorning ! "
Montgomery was standing near,
And on your pleased and listening ear
Rang Dragoon Moylan's charging cheer;
While the Shamrock was adorning
That curl-crowned head and brow of thine,
Along the Continental Line,
That cheer was passed with nine times nine,
On that St. Patrick's morning.
You may forget those misty things,
Which time hath shaded with his wings,
And yet they are the living springs
Of all your fame and glory :
When Jackson fought at New Orleans,
And by his side the Jasper Greens,
You were a maiden in your teens,
And can't forget the story
Your olden foe had come, once more,
To trail you as in days before:
You met him on the sounding shore
And dared the haughty foeman!
Then Jackson shook your banner free
And swore, " By the Eternal, she
" Shall hold her course o'er land and sea,
Nor cringe, nor stoop, to no man ! "
And in your fullest womanhood,
Sure, Ireland's sons about you stood,
And freely poured their hottest blood
For you, their second Mother;
Where'er along the battle tide,
One of your own boys fought and died,
An Irishman was by his side,
Like brother unto brother
Tho' sundered in the plodding mart,
You cannot tell their graves apart,
Two in race, but one in heart
For God and godlike freedom !
Whene'er the dread occasion comes,
And War should lower above your homes,
Lo, at the rattle of your drums,
They're ready when you need 'em !
POEMS OF MICHAEL SCANLAV
068
Your cheeks like reddest roses blow,
Your eyes with fires of freedom glow,
Your bosom, chaster than the snow,
Can dare the world's inspection;
In looks, in acts, in pride, in mien,
You seem like nature's freeborn queen
Darlin\ n 1 if tie bit of green
Wimlil xii it ifnnr Jim- complexion;
By tears bedewed, by martyrs blest,
'Twas borne in many a gallant crest,
'Twas worn on many a queenly breast,
And decked their golden tresses ;
And he who to this emblem's true
Can ne'er be false, aijru, to you,
Till the emerald fields wherein it grew,
Are turned to wildernesses !
Just bend your regal head awhile !
No wonder, darlin', that you smile,
A soldier of the rank and file
Has mighty awkward fingers
About a head of 'wildering curls,
But faith as true as lord's or earl's,
And heart as gentle as a girl's ;
Don't blame him if he lingers
About your wealth of sunbright hair,
To set Old Ireland's Shamrock there,
May blackest sorrow be his share
Who would the twain dissever!
Now raise your head to all men's view,
Columbia, while I drink to you,
" The Green, the Red, the White and Blue
Forever and forever! "
THE MANCHESTER MARTYRS.
Oh, bless the Great Jehovah, whose mighty
spirit saves!
He will cleave the crimson ocean, and con-
duct us thro' its waves:
In Manchester our martyrs lie, moldering in
their graves,
But their souls are marching on 1
Glory, glory, unto ye, men !
Tyrants trembled 'fore ye three men !
Ye light up the wilderness for freemen,
As they go marching on.
Within the Kntrli.-li prison they dug their
felon graves,
Their lion hearts, 'neath foreign earth,
tramped down by feet of slaves,
But away, beyond the ocean, by the roaring
Irish waves,
Their souls are marching on.
Glory, glory to the people !
Ring out wild anthems from the steeple.
Tremble, ye tyrants, for the people
Are marching, marching on !
From their red graves in the dungeon will
spring a mighty tree,
Beneath whose spreading branches, flushed
with fruit of liberty.
We'll chant the choral anthem of the people's
jubilee,
As we go marching on !
Glory, glory unto ye, men !
From the graves where they planted but three
men
Will spring up an army of freemen,
To march for freedom on !
The voice of retribution rings along the con-
scious stones,
The blood of martyrM legions beats anew
about their bones,
The heart of hell is quaking for its palaces
and thrones
As we go marching on!
Glory, glory to the people !
Ring out the news from each steeple,
" God is the Priest of the people.
And leads them safely on ! "
The earth rolls on rejoicing, for the peopl. -
move as one,
Their backs unto the purple past, their facet
to the sun.
Whose light HiiiLrs hack the shadows, as the
1 > regnant ages run.
And man goes man-Inn;: on!
Glory, glory to the few men.
Whose flame fed the spirit of the now men:
The stars will rejoieo when all true men
Will march, together, on!
956
POEMS OF MICHAEL SCANLAN.
Oh, God is everlasting, crowns and thrones
are transient things;
The glitter of earth's palaces, the viciousness
of Kings,
Will pass like empty phantoms 'neath the
sweeping of His wings,
As He goes marching on !
Glory, glory alleluiah !
Vanish Kings, alleluiah!
Freedom shall live, alleluiah !
While rolls the green earth on.
A PRISON LOVE SONG.
[This " Love Song " might have been sung by any of that
magnificent band of men who made " Millbank " and "Pen-
tonville " Red Letter names in the annals of Ireland and Black
Letter names even in the dark and bloody annals of British
prisons].
The shadows deepen into night
A night sans sky or stars !
Whose vesper hymn, to weary hearts,
Is grating bolts and bars !
thou who art my strength by day,
My thoughts, my dreams by night,
Come, spirit of my early love,
And make my dungeon bright.
Come in thy beauty and thy grief,
And thy enduring faith.
Lest, in my weakness, I rebel
Against this life in death;
For I was born upon the hills,
And grow not used to chains
The}' work a madness in my heart,
A fever in my veins.
1 know not when I loved thee first,
For on my father's knee
I heard the story of thy wrongs
And those who died for thee;
And as I grew, that crescive love
Consumed me like a flame
And here to-night, in felon bonds,
I love thee still the same.
The Saxon lord, by force and fraud,
Has wooed thee long and vain;
He has his herds on ev'ry hill,
His ships upon the main;
But thou dost spurn his wealth and pow'r,
And hold him far apart
No wealth can buy, no pow'r can force
The fortress of thy heart.
Couldst thou forget thy heritage,
Made sacred by defeat,
And wear his robes of shame and sit
A handmaid at his feet,
Then would I curse the rueful hour
I took thy lover's vow,
And dared the felon's awful doom
For one as false as thou !
Bethink thee how thy lovers loved,
And how they died for thee !
Their bones have bleach'd on ev'ry strand
And whiten'd ev'ry sea!
How well they fought, how proud they stept
From scaffold to the skies !
Now spreads their unavenged blood
A sea before mine eyes!
Thou didst not quail when sore beset,
Nor bend to his desire,
When he, to break thee to his lust,
Robed thy fair limbs in fire;
And couldst thou now, when heralds sing
The dawn of Freedom's morn,
Forswear thy heritage of hate
For heritage of scorn ?
Love, he knows thee not ! So sure
Of thy deep faith am I
As that the old and changeless stars
Still deck the midnight sky ;
Upon that faith I rest secure,
I suffer and grow strong
My spirit, from this prison cage,
Goes out to thee in song.
Love, come kiss my eyelids down,
For I am full of pain
Send holy sleep, for in my dreams
I'm young and free again ;
Alas, thy face, save in those dreams
I never more may see !
But neither time, nor change, nor death
Can shake my love for thee.
POEMS OK MICHAEL SCANLAN.
THE SPELL OF THE COULUN.
[AN IRISH SETTLER OK THK ILLINOIS.]
Adown the broad river and over the prairie
The Summer moon shines, like a night from
lost years
A dream of old moonlights ! Come hither, my
Mary,
And sing me the Coulun, the music of
tears;
'Twas the caione of some minstrel, whose
proud heart was broken
When Ireland lay crush'd under rapine and
wrong,
A sigh for lost freedom, ere Mercy had spoken
The words which enfranchised his spirit of
song.
Oh, brown were thy tresses they're gray now,
ma colleen !
And blue were thine eyes as the blue skies
above,
When first, in fair Desmond, you sang me the
Coulun,
And an Irish moon hallowed our pledges
of love;
What visions of freedom, what hopes for the
morrow
Within our young spirits of ecstasy
bloom'd !
But there flows 'tween the moonlights a
deep sea of sorrow,
Within whose dark bosom those hopes lie
entomb'd.
Tho' Time, love, hath stolen your locks' amber
glory,
And waves his white banner above your
fair brow,
The years of our exile seem like an old story,
For the Spell of the Coulun is over us now
And we wander, young lovers, by ruin and
river,
Where Legend lends Fancy bright pinions
of flight,
And our spirits are singing, " Forever and
Ever,"
And an Irish moon hallows our love with
its light!
Oh, bless thee, old minstrel, whose magical
numbers
Still sigh for lost freedom, still hymn the
grand faith,
That Ireland will rise from the tomb where
she slumbers
Array'd in new beauty, triumphant o'er
death
And bridging the moonlights with love, my
dear Mary,
The prayer of our hearts is, "God send
that blest day;"
Methinks when it dawns on our grave on the
prairie
That shamrocks will spring from our
moldering clay !
A CHRIST M A > II A NT.
A truce to all our bickerings, a short farewell
to hate,
For Love, with all his retinue, stands knock-
ing at the gate ;
Let antique Mirth sweep from the hearth
the ashes of Despair.
And light old fires of revelry to lay the
of Care :
What tho' the world of raM>le<lom hath
trailed us in the stn
We're Kings to-night and Fate shall crouch
a vassal at our feet!
For we will drink nepenthe from the flagon
of old times,
\\liilo Love, from his high campanile, shall
peal his Christmas chimes.
What tho' the World hath caught us in the
winter of its tears,
And led our fine ambitions thro' a wilderness
of yean!
we coine forth.
Ami our unrehukintf spirits, o'er defeat, pro-
claim our worth.
To-night we stand above the storm, where
men and angels n
Old moonliirlit* silv'rini: all tho hill*, life's
wreck beneath our feet,
D58
POEMS OF MICHAEL SCANLAN.
While our thoughts, like benedictions, run
to rhythm and to rhyme,
As Love, on bells of Memory, rings out his
Christmas chime.
So set the yule-logs blazing! For to-nighi
must Life assume
The cap and bells, and flying feet, and GrieJ
forget her gloom :
We'll have no skulking spectres 'round to
mar our regal mirth
Ev'ry face must catch its glowing from the
firelight on the hearth;
Ev'ry heart must beat a measure that shal]
breathe of pray'r and praise,
Like the echoes of old pleasures from the
halls of other days
'The bells of inspiration peal in fancy's far-
off clime !
'Tis our lost selves of better days that ring
this Christmas chime.
Ring out! ring out! with silver shout, winged
voices of the bells,
And hither summon all who sleep in Mem'ry's
magic dells!
First, bid her come, now nameless, in the
robes she used to wear,
The roses glowing on her cheek, the sunlight
in her hair,
Her gentle spirit breaking upon her lips in
smiles,
Like a tranquil river flowing about its rosy
isles
That beauty whose enchantment about all
hearts is flung
By the poets sublimated, by the minnesingers
sung.
Bid the young all come in laughter, and the
old in quiet grace,
Every dimple, every wrinkle old-time beau-
ties on each face;
Let Woman come in sweetness, and Manhood
clothed in power,
With Childhood's rosy weakness, and Girl-
hood in its flower,
And Grief shall lose dominion, and Love as-
sume control,
And all life's cold misgivings shall be lifted
from the soul ;
While, to gild the gloomy present, we'll ring
in the olden times,
Like a ship with blessings freighted, on the
rolling Christmas chimes.
So, a truce to all our bickerings, a long fare-
well to hate,
To Love, and all his retinue, fling open wide
the gate !
We've had some dreams of death and graves,
and partings and hot tears,
And Sorrow told her litanies into our 'wil-
dered ears:
'Twas all life's fever'd fantasy! Our friends
are by our side
The maiden and the lover, the bridegroom
and the bride
While in each eye seems glowing the light of
fadeless climes,
And all the spheres seem rolling in a sea of
Christinas chimes.
THE FENIAN MEN.
I.
See who come over the red-blossomed heather,
Their green banners kissing the pure moun-
tain air,
Heads erect, eyes to front, stepping proudly
together,
Sure Freedom sits throned in each proud
spirit there!
Down the hills twining,
Their blessed steel shining,
Like rivers of beauty they flow from each
glen
From mountain and valley
'Tis Liberty's rally,
Out, and make way for the Fenian Men !
II.
Our prayers and our tears have been scoffed
and derided,
They've shut out God's sunlight from spirit
and mind;
Our Foes were united, and We were divided,
1'oK.MS OF MK'HAKI, S( .\\I..\.\.
We met, and they scattered UB all to the
wind :
But once more returning,
Within our veins burning
The fires that illumined dark Aherlow glen,
We raise the old cry anew,
Slogan of Con and Hugh
Out, and make way for the Fenian Men !
III.
We have men from the Nore, from the Suir
and the Shannon,
Let the tyrants come forth, we'll bring
force against force ;
Our pen is the sword, and our voice is the
cannon,
Ilifle for rifle, and horse against horse.
We've made the false Saxon yield
Many a red battle-field,
God on our side, we will do so again,
Pay them back woe for woe,
Give them back blow for blow
Out, and make way for the Fenian Men !
IV.
Side by side for this cause have our fore-
fathers battled,
When our hills never echoed the tread of
a slave,
On many green fields, where the leaden hail
rattled,
Thro* the red gap of glory, they marched
to the grave.
And we, who inherit
Their names and their spirit,
Will march 'neath their Banners of Lib-
- erty; then
All who love Saxon law,
Native or Sassenah,
Out, and make way for the Fenian Men!
V.
Up for the cause, then, fling forth our green
Banners
From the East to the West, from the South
to the North
Irish land, Irish men, Irish mirth, Irish man-
ners
From the mansion and cot let the slogan
go forth.
Sons of Old Ireland.
Love you our sireland, now '?
Come from the kirk, or the chapel, or glen ;
Down with all Faction old.
Concert, and action bold,
This is the creed of the Fenian Men.
AUTUMN LEAV1
We've seen the Spring in budding beauty
blowing,
The dappled meadow and tin- waving wood;
We've seen the regal Summer richly glow-
ing
The full-blown bloom of gorgeous woman-
hood;
And visions pure and longings soft and tender
Beguiled us thro' the dewy days of Spring;
We've glozed, entranced, by Summer's tropic
splendor,
By crooning streams or ocean's murmur-
ing
With sympathetic hearts, while Nature
grieves,
Let us go forth into the woods and gather
Autumn leaves.
How fair is earth when Spring, with subtle
fingers,
Hath decked her form in robes of match-
less green !
How fair when brown-browed, passioned
Summer lingers
Sun-crowned upon the hills, a tropic <|uoen!
But fairer yet when Autumn's dying glory
Hath lit her funeral firet* within the woods;
When winds, like wailing dirges, tell t hi-
story
Of transientness unto the solitudes;
When sombre suns eiiL'olden lonesome
And all nightlong the soul is hushed uith
lullaby of loaves.
A gracious sadness steep* the woods and
meadows,
And all the day* seem golden afternoons
Alight with melancholy suns; weird shadows
Flit alon<: the hills like mystic runes;
The songless birds on silent wings are flying
POEMS OF MICHAEL SCANLAN.
The mute, cold shadows of the summer
birds;
And voices, better felt than heard, are sigh-
ing
Old songs that still evade our warmest
words ;
While Nature, nun-like, tearless sits and
weaves,
In placid sorrow, fringed with hope, a shroud
of Autumn leaves.
Behold these boughs, by rough winds rudely
shaken,
How all their leaves in show'rs come rust-
ling down !
How like the heart by sorrow overtaken
And all its blossoms to the tempest blown !
Beneath these spreading boughs, in summer
gloaming,
Has beauty sat, enthralled in love's sweet
wiles,
While, odor-laden, came the night winds
roaming,
Like wanton dryads, thro' these leafy
aisles;
He tells his love, she listens and believes
Here, for love's sake, we'll sit and sigh and
gather Autumn leaves.
Here, where his whispered vows were warmly
breathed,
Here, where her unseen blushes went and
came,
Here shall our memorial leaves be wreathed;
Look, here is one his very tongue of flame !
And this, her glowing cheek by passion
wasted.
When her fond heart was swooning with
delight,
When her long fasting spirit wildly tasted
The bliss of plighted troth! 0, Love! 0,
Night!
Long-linked affinities! tho' death bereaves,
You breathe your summer bloom once more
into these Autumn leaves.
Thus when the woods have shed their leafy
glory,
And winter whistles thro' their sleety
boughs,
These Autumn leaves will still repeat the'
story
Of Summer rapture and of lovers' vows :
Still shall we sit beside the sighing fountain
Still shall we wander thro' the pathless
woods,
Still shall we climb the soul-uplifting moun-
tain,
Still breathe the bliss of fragrant solitudes,
Still, hand in hand, reel out the golden eves,
And birds will sing and breezes sigh among
these Autumn leaves.
Each leaf shall be a prophet's tongue to-
preach us
The vanity of time-consuming strife;
Each leaf shall be a lover's tongue to teach us
That love alone can light the waste of life.
Thus shall our hearts be so divinely blended,
So firmly pitched in one unchanging tone,
That, softly touched or by rude fingers
rended,
They'll breathe of love, redeeming love,
alone !
So shall we pass thro' life's declining eves,
Until we wander thro' the woods that know
not Autumn leaves.
OUR NATIVE LAND.
The day is dying,
The eve is sighing,
Our bark is flying,
Before the wind;
The sunset's splendor
Falls soft and tender
Upon the green hills
We leave behind :
Our tears are flowing,
The while we're going,
For Love is showing
The mountains grand,.
The glens and meadows,
In lights and shadows.
And the pleasant valleys
Of our native land.
POEMS OF MICHAEL SCANLAN.
Oh skies grow brighcr!
Oh winds blow lighter!
Let not the night or
The deep sea hide
From our fond vision
That dream elysian
That flings its beauty
Across the tide !
Ah, poor hearts beating,
There's no retreating,
The winds are cheating
With whispers bland;
The hills are sinking,
Our souls are drinking
The last sweet vision
Of our native land.
They say the gold land
Is a brave and bold land,
(Alas, the old land
Is sad and low !)
And the winds that fan her
Bright starry banner
Are never freighted
With her children's woe !
We've read her story,
Of light and glory,
'Neath ruins hoary,
Antique and grand,
And we will prove her
That we can love her,
And still be true to
Our native land.
Each thought we knew, love,
Was but for you, love,
And so, old true-love,
A fond adieu !
While night is shading,
We see thee fading,
A sea-nymph dipping
'Neath ocean blue;
But Love has painted
Thy face, sweet-sainted,
In hues all teinted
By Heaven's own hand,
And in our spirit
We'll proudly wear it,
And so be true to
Our native land.
THK SPIRIT OF DRKAMS.
The Spirit of Dreams in her fantasy sought
us
What time our young hearts unto Dr<
html belong
And all the bright gifts of her empire .-In-
brought us
The mirage of Youth and the magic of
Song,
The vision of Hope and a vista, unbroken,
Of Life flowing onward, all sunshine and
flow'rs,
Thro' valleys of light, where, our wishes once
spoken,
Their balm and their beauty and wealth
should be ours.
There temples to Truth should arise in new
splendor,
And Friendship and Love should preside
at each shrine,
While Pity, with Pow^r, as high priest, to
attend her,
Should rule the fair queen of this empire
benign;
There Man should essay in the spirit of
duty,
For Glory should sit at Humanity's f'
And Woman, endow'd with new strength and
new beauty,
Should make, with her smiles, our Acadie
complete!
Oh vision of Hope, and oh, vista of glory!
Oh gleam of white pinions, that flash and
that flee!
Ye seem but the dream of an old Summer
story,
The voice of dead lips ami the sob of the
Where now are the tow*rs ami the domes of
that City
That grandly arose in the Spirits' domain;'
Its temples are dust, and Love, Friendship.
and
Are jests on the lips of the proud and pro-
fane!
962
POEMS OF MICHAEL SCANLAN.
Oh Spirit of Dreams ! come again and restore
us
Thine empire of Faith for this empire of
Strife;
Oh, spread, as of old, thy bright fantasies
o'er us,
And lead us away to the dreamland of Life.
Here Bedouins smite while the drifting sands
blind us,
And hate in the flash of each scimetar
gleams !
Oh, when shall we leave the red desert behind
us,
And wander again thro' our Eden of
Dreams ?
THE TRIBUTE OF SONG.
My voice and the song which I sing thee
May pass like a sigh on the wind,
May pass, with the love which I bring thee,
Nor leave a remembrance behind ;
But thou art my spirit's devotion,
And song is that fond spirit's pray'r,
And were I adrift on the ocean,
Alone, I would sing to thee there.
Did I, like the geni inherit
The wealth of the sea and the mine,
I'd fly, on the wings of the spirit,
And lay all that wealth on thy shrine ;
Or had I the pow'r to restore thee
Lost freedom, more precious than gold,
The world should stand silent before thee,
Or sit at thy feet as of old.
Oh, thou hast brave hearts to recover,
Thy rights and redress ev'ry wrong,
While I, with the faith of a lover,
Can give but the tribute of song ;
But 'tis not with song I'd assail thee,
Could fervor but render thee free,
My life, would my life but avail thee,
I'd give unto freedom and thee.
LOVE COMES BUT ONCE UNTO THE
HEAET.
Love comes but once unto the heart
But once and never more,
When Youth sits by Life's smiling tide
And softly woos him o'er;
In after years a joy may come
As full of peace and truth,
But never more that first, wild love
Of the bounding days of youth.
The first young flowers of early spring
Sleep folded thro' the night,
But 'neath the smiles of morning ope
Their red lips to the light;
Thus sleeps the heart, 'twixt bud and bloom.
Thro' boyhood's April hours,
Till Love laughs in upon its dreams
Like morning to the flow'rs.
There is a vision haunts the breast
That never will depart,
It will not die, it cannot fade,
But just as wears the heart.
How fond we fold the curtains round,
Lest other eyes may gaze
Upon our hearts, while we look on
This dream of other days !
The dove, with death within her breast,
Will rise on trembling wings,
And reach the woodlands where her mate
Upon the green bough sings;
So will the fond heart journey back
Across life's sea of tears,
With death upon its wake, to find
Its love of early years.
ADIEU.
[After the manner of the old Irish and Highland laments.]
He stood within his fathers' home,
His home no more to be,
For like a wail of warning rose
The soughing of the sea,
POKMS OF MICHAEL SCAN LAN.
Whereon his good ship rode at bay
To bear him from the shore
"Adieu, forevermoiv, iK-ar friends,
Adieu, forevermore!"
As down the orchard walks he went
The robins piped his name;
He paused upon the trysting stile,
The West was all aflame ;
And she, the best belov'd of all,
Wept at her mother's door
"Adieu, forevermore, my love,
Adieu, forevermore 1 "
He turned upon the shore and saw
The slanting sunbeams fall
Across the meadows and the brook,
And 'gainst the castle wall ;
The milkmaid sang her evening song,
The echoes sang it o'er
"Adieu, forevermore, dear home,
Adieu, forevermore ! "
He stood upon the deck and felt
The fresh winds blowing free
Upon the swelling sails, and heard
The moaning of the sea;
And darker grew the twilight gloam,
And fainter grew the shore
"Adieu, forevermore, dear land,
Adieu, forevermore!"
"A long farewell to thee, dear land,
We sigh unto the sea;
Our hopes lie toward the setting sun,
Our hearts fly back to thee;
'Tis grief upon the heaving main
And death upon the shore
Adieu, forevermore, dear land,
Adieu, forevermore 1 "
WHEN I was a bachelor, young and hearty,
Sporting, raking,
Merry making,
In gay delights
I spent my nights,
The pride of each frolic and party;
I had friends whom I loved and who loved
me,
In their kindness, who never reproved m< ;
I was full of youth's fires
And wild desires,
And gave play to each spirit that moved me;
My only care
Was dance and fair,
I was merriest of the nierfy
Of all the gay boys,
For frolic and noise,
In the beautiful City of Derry.
But discontent, like a blight, came o'er me,
Song and story,
Gold and glory,
Mixed in gleams
Of glowing dreams,
Were flowing forever before me !
I resolved to cross o'er the ocean,
To carve out wealth and promotion,
Come back, make amends
By enriching my friends
'Twas a wild but a beautiful notion;
So I bid good-by
To my friends, and I
Kissed my love's lips of cherry,
And the very next day
I sailed away
From the beautiful City of Dem.
I worked on many a winding river,
Vale and mountain,
Never counting
The years go by,
So sure was I
In my dreams that Fortune would give her
Kifh stores of golden treasurr.
Pour out her wealth without im-asi
That I spent my life
In labor and strife,
And fled the gay smiles of pleasu re ;
Still dreaming of home
Ami bright days to come.
When the boys should all dub me Sir T.-rry.
And flowing with cash,
IM cut :i big dash
In the beautiful City of Derry.
POEMS OF MICHAEL 8CANLAN.
I went to the land where the ore was growing,
Where Fortune's holding
Her purse at the golden
Gate that leads
To the flowery meads
Where the golden sands are glowing;
I wrestled with mountain and river.
Within me the hardness of fever,
Tunnelled and fought,
Barter'd and bought
I'd have gold or burrow forever,
For at every stroke
An angel spoke,
With bright eyes and lips of cherry,
" We wait for you
O'er the waters blue,
Come back to your friends in Derry."
At last fair Fortune came up smiling!
With the witch's
Smiles came riches
To bless me at last
For the barren past,
And her years of deceit and beguiling;
And soon o'er the blue waters going,
With fair winds merrily blowing,
The days of my youth,
Like the breath from the south,
Warm, soft round my senses flowing,
By my side on the green
Was Kitty McQueen,
And we danced to the " Humors of Kerry "
The moonbeams danced too,
As they used to do
In the beautiful City of Derry.
An Irish summer night was shaking
Her dark locks over
Her ocean lover;
With pale surprise
She ope'd her eyes,
And beheld the morning breaking;
'Twas then o'er the blue waves appearing
We saw the green hills of Erin,
The sun burst in light
Thro' the shadows of night,
And we hailed the bright omen with cheer-
ing.
Into the bay
I sailed that day
And leapt into a wherry ;
The dream I prized
Was realized
I was rich in the City of Derry !
I looked around in wildest wonder,
Paused and falter'd,
Things looked alter'd,
In all the place
I knew no face,
The town seemed all battered asunder;
I asked for my friends in the city,
I searched thro' the maidens for Kitty,
But none heard before
Of the name that I bore,
Till an old man looked on me with pity,
And said, with surprise,
While the tears filled his eyes,
"Why, God bless me! your name must be
Terry,
Who sailed away
On that long summer day
When we were both boys in Derry! "
" Many a year your Love sat sighing,
Patient waiting.
Never mating,
Her heart beat true
Alone for you,
She named your name when dying;
And oft, when the roses were blooming,
And the bees thro' the gardens went hum-
ming,
The boys used to meet
At the end of the street
And talk with delight of your coming;
But the long years pass'd on,
And took, one by one,
The sad, the serene, and the merry-
Some gone o'er the waves,
And the rest in their graves
In the beautiful City of Derry."
I went to the Green, saw the merry making,
Bright eyes glancing,
Light feet dancing,
Dancing, too,
As we used to do; [ing.
They danced on my heart, for I felt it break-
I saw the maids green garlands twining,
I'nK.Ms OF MICIIAKL OAVANAOtt
I thought of a loved one long pining,
I looked for her eyes
To the blue summer skies,
And the stars seem'd in mockery shining.
I said to the girls,
With the long, sunny curls,
Who danced to the " Humors of Kerry,"
Oh, maidens, go pray,
How can you be gay
And so many green graves in Derry ?
I wander away in the shadowy gloaming,
Sadly musing,
Always choosing
Tin- i>:ith of glooms
Among tin- tombs,
Ami think do they know I'm coming?
I sit on the graves where they're sleeping,
Lone watch, in return, I'm keeping;
And this is the me.-.)
Of worldly greed,
Sorrow, and woe, and weeping.
I'd give all the gold
The ocean could hold
To kiss my Love's lips of cherry.
Be young once more
With friends galore,
In the beautiful City of Deny.
POEMS OF MICHAEL CAYAMGH,
MYSTERIES.
AIR " Sliabh-na-mhari."
How strange the subtle, mysterious power
That sways his spirit who's doomed to
roam,
When contemplating some simple flower,
Which decked the fields of his boyhood's
home!
Who that has loved sees those azure blos-
soms,
But treads, in fancy, the hallowed spot
Where throbbed responsive two trusting
bosoms
And fond lips murmured "Forget-Me-
Not!"
The Primrose fair, that perfumed the hedges,
By which, in childhood, I loved to play
With one whose true heart required no
pledges,
With moistened eyes I behold to-d:iy :
It bloomed in beauty where last I kissed her,
Ere I departed to cross the wave :
The flower so loved 1>\ my gentle sister,
Now shuds its fragrance above her grave.
Those sweet home-charmers I seldom greet
here
(They rarely bloom in a stranger clim
But there's a wizard I daily meet here,
Whose spell annihilates space and time.
"Green Erin's Emblem!" with blossom-
golden,
That links my heart with its triple band
Of Nature's twining, to memories olden
Of Love, and Friendship, and Native Land.
LEATH SLICJHK'WK Knell. Mi
CKAl'-TI ( liriNN.*
From all the rivers which son or daughter
Of Adam prizes, the world within.
The ' Branch ,..f Beauty ! " you bear-" I
From Youghal Harbor to Cappoquin :
For. nowhere else do the dancing billows,
In slanting .-un beams so softly >li.
As where they stream through thy fringing
willows
Lentil Mii/he'il ir Ewhni"
Okuinnt
Half w > 'twill Tougha! and Cappoquin.
966
POEMS OF MICHAEL CAVANAGH.
'Twas there, in old times, a jilted lover
Met a blooming lass on a summers day;
She, blushing, owned that " a tickle rover
With her young affections had fled away;"
To soothe her sorrows and end Ms straying,
Their severed heart-strings they jointly
twine;
And ten thousand pipers have since been
playing
" Leatli Sliglie'dir Eocliail's Ceap-ui-
Chuinnf "
Where the limpid flood to the South is
sweeping,
For a backward glance at loved Knock-
meldown,
Lies, crowned with oak-wreaths, like wood-
nymph sleeping,
In mirrored beauty, my native town:
God guard the hearts that those gray roofs
cover,
Whose fervid pulses respond to mine,
When in raptured visions I fondly hover
"Leatli Sliglie'dir Eocli ail's Ceap-ui-
Ohuinn."
Then fairy music seems floating o'er us,
As larks pour down their melodious floods;
While, all around, springs the thrilling
chorus
Of Irish songsters, in Irish woods :
The vesper-bell, in the "Abbey " ringing,
Sounds faintly sweet at the day's decline;
And, in the moonlight, the boatman's sing-
ing-
"Leatli Sliglie'dir Eochail's Ceap-ui-
Chuinn"
I sadly wake from those dreams Elysian
To find the vision dissolved in air,
And God's bequest to the " Clan-Milesian ! "
Usurped by robbers hell-planted there:
That Erin's children the loving-hearted,
Should seek new homes o'er the ocean
brine,
To sigh through life for the friends they
parted
"Leatli Sliglie'dir Eochail's Ceap-ui-
Chuinn.''
A CAOINE
FOR
ANDKEW O'MAHONY CAVANAGH,
DIED APEIL 27, 1879.
DEDICATED TO HIS MOTHER.
Though bright the May-day sun illumes the
west,
My soul gives no response to Nature's joy;
For in the green oak's shade I've laid to rest
Our. "Baby Boy!"
This tearful Spring Death's flood has burst
its banks,
O'er our hearts' garden desolation spread,
But for the flowers yet spared we give Him
thanks,
Who'll raise the dead.
With loving friends the pangs of grief I've
shared,
Who now will share a parent's grief with
me?
Would that from this those stricken hearts
were spared
Beyond the sea !
They shared my joy when our beloved was
born,
The hopes forerunning all his future years;
They'll mourn him (now that I am left for-
lorn),
With kindred tears.
The hopes that seem but visioned memories
now,
The love that centred round " His Mother's
Son!"
God only knows to His decree we bow
" His Will be done."
An " Irish shamrock " on his breast he bore
A " true-love token " to the faithful band
Who still the glorious " Three-in-One " im-
plore
To bless our land.
I loved to teach our boy to love the " Green,"
To lisp his childish prayers in Erin's
tongue;
To chant for him the lays sublime Oisin
Melodious sung.
POEMS OF MH'IIAKI. < AY \V\UI.
To croon, while he clung nestling to my
brea.-t.
Old rhymes of Erin's glories and her
wrongs;
The lullabies to which he sank to rest
Were Irish songs.
I hoped to rear him in the ancient creed,
Teach him to think of his old race with
pride,
To live like them true men in word and
deed
Die as they died.
That, gifted with the might which knowledge
brings,
And trained to wield a soldier's weapon
good,
He, in the People's struggle with the Kings,
Would show his blood.
That haply when I'd run my destined race,
(Pray God to find a grave by Amhan-Mor's
banks),
My free-born boy would take his father's
place
In Erin's ranks.
That in the cause of Fatherland and Right
He'd prove a credit to the name he bore,
And see the Isle illumined with Freedom's
light
From shore to shore.
Those glowing hopes have sank into his
grave
Earth's emanations all have now grown
dim; [save,
The Beacon Light, which shone Mankind to
Encircles him.
Christ said, " Let little children come to Me,
Of such the Kingdom is composed of
Heaven."
For those consoling words our thanks to Thee,
Good Lord, are given.
Thanks for Thy precious gift of Christian
Faith, [*J*t
That teaches us to lift our t oar-dimmed
And see, beyond the misty "Vale of Death."
Life in the skies.
I know that through those boundless starry
spheres
Our little cherub floats on radiant wings;
That with his l.h-st angelical compeers,
Thy praise he sings.
I know he's happy in Thy Home above;
I strive to be resigned, but yet I miss
(Forgive, dear Lord, this yearning human
love)
Our " Birdie's kiss."
Yet Nature's love must spring from source
divine,
A pure ethereal essence like tin ^oul:
Man's heart is but its temporary shrine.
Thy home its goal.
When his pure spirit sought Thy mansion
blest,
It bore away a portion of my heart.
To light, with Love's electric flame, the
Ere I depart.
I pray Thee, Lord, to guide our steps alway.
Whate'er the means Thy wisdom doth em-
ploy;
Till, in the light of Thy eternal day,
We meet our boy.
MY iiMsn BLACKTHORN.
(A
*
(The Banl inritrth / * t ""mi
True sons of the old land.
Of Brian and Eoglmn;
Fill up, with a bold hand.
This pure lnni- :
For in liquor tli
This blest night we'd scorn
To wet our truiskten. <>r
To toast my blackthorn.
(/// npHtrnjthitfth tlif nhl *'"/.)
To the " KiH-k of Dromaiiii!*
(The place where it grew in).
v .|iiutT (if ye can) a
Full |iiart of this lirrwin':
A POEM BY KATHARINE MURPHY.
For there, in full sight of
Where we, boys, were born,
The blossom shone bright of
My Irish blackthorn.
(He recalletli youthful days.}
There, in March, the young thrushes
We sought ye remember;
And from brown hazel bushes
Plucked nuts in September;
And druichteens, with the girls,
We picked on May-morn
When the dew gemmed with pearls
The blooming blackthorn.
(And the brave days of old.}
In old blood-letting days,
On that Rock, high and hoary,
Fiery bards hymned their lays
To the Geraldine's glory;
And, ten ages before,
There Oisin wound his horn,
While the Fiann chased the boar
Through the copse of blackthorn.
{He caressingly addresseth the "blackthorn."}
Prized gift from my sire-land,
I feel, when I grasp you,
A hand-shake from Ireland !
Then tighter I clasp you.
When I'm waked, let no wreath
My plain coffin adorn;
But, beside me in death,
Let them lay my blackthorn.
(He exhibiteth " the ruling passion strong in
death.")
Then, when over the Styx
I shall find myself landed,
'Mong our old fighting "bricks"
I'll seek " Looee-Long-Handed ! " *
So when Gabriel's trump
All the nations shall warn,
O'er the Sassanach's rump
He can swing the blackthorn.
(He toasteth " The boy who cut his stick"}
"An Ceangal (The winding up)
" Sho do slantha! O'Hogan ! "
Who brought my stick over;
All through life may your brogan
Tread lightly " in clover; "
May you ne'er want a " snifter "
Of "malt "or "old corn,"
When a rifle you'd lift, or
An Irish blackthorn!
* " Long-Handed-Looee " I was a King
Whose fame old poets loved to sing.
'Tis he that sword or axe could swing
In glorious battle fray.
They say his equal ne'er has been
Encountered on an Irish green,
Save Oscar Champion of the Fiann !
In Erin's later day:
For forty years King Looee reigned,
And victories, in scores, he gained,
His " right to rule " his hand maintained,
Until liis head was white:
Then, circled by the braves he led
(A chief of chiefs alive and dead),
He filled a hero's crimsoned bed
On Usnagh's olden height.
A POEI BY KATHARINE MURPHY,
SENTENCED TO DEATH.
With the Sign of the Cross on my forehead,
as I kneel on this cold dungeon floor,
As I kneel at your feet, reverend father, with
no one but God to the fore;
With my heart opened out for your readin'
an' no hope or thought of relase
From the death that at daybreak to-morrow
is starin' me straight in the face,
I have tould you the faults of my boyhood
the follies an' sins of my youth
An' now of this crime of my manhood 111
spake with the same open truth.
You see, sir, the land was our people's for
ninety good years, an' their toil
What first was a bare bit of mountain brought
into good wheat-bearin' soil;
A POEM BY KATHAKIM: MIIMMIV.
'Twas their hands raised the walls of the
cabin, where our child her were born
an' bred,
Where our weddin's an' christenin's wor
merry, where we waked and keened
over our dead;
We wor honest an' fair to the landlord we
paid him the rent to the day
An' it wasnt our fault if our hard sweat he
squandered an' wasted away
In the cards, an' the dice, an' the race-course,
an* often in deeper disgrace,
That no tongue could relate without bringin'
a blush to an honest man's face.
But the day come at last that they worked
for, when the castles, the mansions,
the lands,
They should hould but in thrust for the
people, to their shame passed away
from their hands,
An' our place, sir, too, wint to auction by
many the acres were sought,
An' what cared the sthranger that purchased,
who made 'em the good sale he
bought ?
The ould folks wor gone thank God for it
where trouble or care can't purshue,
But the wife and the childher Father in
Heaven what was I to do ?
Still I thought, I'll go spake to the new man
I'll tell him of me an' of mine;
The thrifle that I've put together I'll place
in his hands as a fine;
The estate is worth six times his money, and
maybe his heart isn't cowld :
But the scoundhrel that bought " the thief's
pen'orth " was worse than the pauper
that sowld.
I chased him to house an' to office, wherever
I thought he'd be met,
I offered him all he'd put on it but no,
'twas the land he should get;
I prayed as men only to God pray my prayer
was spurned and denied,
An, what mattered how just my poor right
was, when he had the law at his side ?
I was young, an* but few years was married
to one with a voice like a bird
When she sang the ould songs of our country,
every feeling within me was stirred.
Oh! I see her this minnit before me, with a
foot wouldn't bend a croneen,
Her laughin' eyes lifted to kiss me- my dar-
lin', my bright-eyed Eileen!
'Twas often with pride that I watched her,
her soft arms fouldin' our boy,
Until he chased the smile from her red lip,
an' silenced the song of her joy.
Whisht, father, have patience a minnit, let
me wipe the big drops from my brow
Whisht, father, I'll thry not to curse him;
but I tell you, don't prachetome now.
Excitin' myself? Yes, I know it; but the
story is now nearly done;
An', father, your own breast is heavin' I
the tears down from you run.
Well, he threatened he coaxed he ejected:
for we tried to cling to the place
That was mine yes, far more than 'twas hi.-,
sir; I tould him so up to his face;
But the little I had melted from me in
makin' the fight for my own.
An* a beggar, with three helpless childher,
out on the world wide I was thrown.
An' Eileen would soon have another an-
other that never drew breath
The neighbors wor good to us always but
what could they do agin' death ?
For my wife an' her infant In-fore me lay
dead, and by him they wor kilt.
As sure as I'm kneeling before you, to own
to in if share of the guilt.
I laughed all eonsolin* to scorn. I didn't mind
much what I said.
With Kileen a corpse in the barn, on a bun-
dle of straw for a bed;
But the blood in my veins boiled to madness
do they think that a man is a log?
I thracked him once more 'twas the last
time and shot him that niirht like a
dog.
Yes, 7 did it; / shot him but, father, let
thim who make laws for the land
Look to it, when they come to judgment. f..r
the blood that lies red on inv hand.
970
A POEM BY THOMAS J. M'GEOGHEGAN.
If I dhrew the piece, 'twas they primed it,
that left him sthretched cowld on the
sod:
An' from their bar, where I'm sintinced, I
appeal to the bar of my God
For the justice I never got from them, for
the right in their hands that's un-
known.
Still at last, sir I'll say it I'm sorry I took
the law into my own;
That I stole out that night in the darkness,
while mad with my grief and despair,
And dhrew the black sowl from his body,
without givin' him time for a prayer.
Well, 'tis tould, sir; you have the whole story;
God forgive him an' me for our sins;
My life now is indin' but, father, the young
ones, for them life begins;
You'll look to poor Eileen's young orphans ?
God bless you. And now I'm at paice,
And resigned to the death that to-morrow is
starin' me sthraight in the face.
A POEM BY THOMAS J, M'GEOGHEGAN.
THE HERO OF THE HOUR.
The prison doors are closed on you, yet still
your hopes are bright,
They fling you in a dungeon when you dare
defend the right.
They think to crush your spirit, but 'twill
take a bolder flight
Up, up, towards Freedmen's meteor as it
flashes through the night !
And thus, O'Brien, they tell us they have
branded us at last,
A " felon " in a convict's cell, with lawless
ruffians classed,
Yet still we see asthore machree, you never
can lose caste
Among the Gael while still you nail your
color to the mast !
That color is the Irish Green, the same which
fluttered o'er
Your sire's * legions when they chased the
Danes from Erin's shore
0, for an hour of Brian's power to lift that
Green once more
And give our foe back blow for blow amidst
the battle's roar!
The will remains to break the chains that
bind our native land.
His sons are true to Brian Boru, and, noblest
of the band,
*Brian Boru.
And thou, O'Brien, whose one design is but
to do and dare,
That Freedom's eagle yet may soar through
Ireland's mountain air!
The vile, malignant Tories, may bolt your
prison doors,
And bind you there, still through the air
your chainless spirit soars !
They cannot chain that spirit down ; it bursts
and breaks away,
Like phantom bright that sweeps by night
o'er ocean's voicef ul spray !
Your spirit moves the Irish heart, and thrills
it through and through;
It throbbed before, but now still more, since
you prove real and true :
Nay, from the precincts of your cell your
spirit now can wield
More power to kindle Freedom's flame than
armies in the field !
Let Tories call thee traitor; let Tory knaves
deride,
We know thee as our hero, for thou art Ire-
land's pride,
And Tories feel that Irish steel could scarce
prove such a power
As you prove now with knitted brow THE
HEEO OF THE HOUK!
POEMS OF JOHN WALSH,
THE FEAST OF GILLA MORE.
A BALLAD OF THE BLACKWATER.
I.
There was feasting in the castle,
And they danced within the hall,
'Till the rusted armor rattled,
That was pinned upon the wall;
For when Gilla More held wassail,
There was plenty at his door,
And a welcome for the stranger
To a place upon his floor!
But macrachf and macrarh!
There was one sad heart and sore,
That was forced to join the revel
Of the chieftain Gilla More.
II.
Right royally the chieftain,
Sat his board like any king,
And his bearded captains round him,
Made the clinking glasses ring;
And a stranger sat beside him,
In the Saxon's silken guise,
With a fawning smile upon his face
And cunning in his eyes.
While macracli! and macrachf
'Twere the captains' hearts were sore,
For he wooed the only daughter
Of the chieftain Gilla More.
III.
"Arise, our guest and comrade! "
Said the chieftain Gilla More,
"And lead our daughter in the dance
Upon the sanded floor!"
Then up stood he the Saxon,
\\ itli a haughty air and high,
While the sun-browed eaptains bit their lips,
And swore as he passed by.
For, macrachf ami tinicrach!
'Twas a trying hour ami sniv
For the sunny-hearted daughter.
Of the chieftain Gilla More.
IV.
" 'Twere better far," they whispered,
" She were spear-deep in the clay,
Than be that cunning Saxon's bride
For one short winter's day."
" Ho! strike the swelling music loud
And clear the dancing floor
For my heiress and her lover ! "
Said the chieftain Gilla More!
Then macrachf and macrnrh!
With a heavy heart and sore,
Did the maiden leave her oaken seat
And stand upon the floor.
V.
When up the lofty hall there strode
A swarth Milesian knight,
With cap in hand and pointed shoon,
And golden spurs so bright :
His waving cuilfion floated down
Upon his purple vest,
And five bright colors jauntily
Were striped across his breast.
Then macrachf how she blushed
1 the sunshine floated o'er
The fond face of the heiress
Of the chieftain Gilla More.
VI.
He stood before the chieftain.
And he smiled into his face:
" I am come to j<>iu your re\el.
And to claim a knightly pi...
Then I tell you by this g<><.d right hand,
That often grasped the sword.
That I give \oii Iri>h/ui7///''
To my ball and to my board! "
Then inncriK h f and mnrrm-li !
I>id the clansmen laugh aloiul.
While upon the gazing Si
Many scornful eyes were bowed.
972
POEMS OF JOHN WALSH.
VII.
The stranger seized a mother,
And he held it to the light.
" Oh, Gilla More, here's to your weal,
I drink your health to-night
Here's strength to us, and black dismay
To all who hate the Gael!"
With wild "Farrahs ! " they drank with him,
" Success attend the Gael ! "
But macrach ! and macracli !
'Twas the Saxon stared awide,
And held his hand as stark as tho'
'Twere pinioned to his side.
VIII.
Then he, the gallant Irish Knight,
Took Mourna's snow-white hand
Did ever pair so young and fair
To dance a measure stand ?
Then quoth the Knight, " Mac-Gilla More
I came to claim my bride
Long since I won her heart and hand
Beside the Finisk's tide ! "
Then macrach ! and macracli !
Did the clansmen's eye-balls glow,
While with mailed fists they madly
struck
The table many a blow.
IX.
There reigned an iron silence,
When the Gilla More stood up
With one hand on his graven skein
While th' other held the cup
" 'Tis right, and you have won her !
And I pledge you troth to-night,
For the Saxon is a laggard,"
"And a coward ! " said the knight.
Then macracli ! and macracli !
With what joy and wild uproar
Did the stranger kiss the daughter
Of the chieftain Gilla More.
X.
"Aye! a coward, and a recreant,
And a traitor double-dyed,
For I've known his Saxon features
And his hateful scowl of pride;
When we trailed the Butlers' banners
Thro' the Glen of Aherlow,
He was with us in the morning
In the evening with the foe ! "
Then upon the trembling Saxon
Did they rush with fierce "Farrah!"
Like an eagle on his quarry,
Or a wolf upon his prey.
XI.
"And he sought my life in combat,
And by every fiendish guile
Did he try to win my blooming bride
My Mourna's sunny smile;
Ten times he sprawled upon the earth
Before this hand of mine
For I am John Fitzgerald,
Of the House of Geraldine! "
Then macrach ! and macrach !
Like the mad waves of the sea,
When they lash the shore in winter,
Was the clansmen's shout of glee.
XII.
" By the grey head of my father ! "
Said the chieftain Gilla More,
" I would be first if he should lie
A corpse upon my floor;
But he feasted at my table,
And he ate my salt and bread,
And that I broke ajailthe
It shall never yet be said !
Then open wide the draw-bridge,
Let him hasten from my door,
For my Irish blood is boiling ! "
Said the chieftain Gilla More.
XIII.
There was feasting in the castle
'Till the revels shook the wall,
And brave knights in purple vesture,
Without number, thronged the hall;
They spoke in silver phrases
To the ladies blooming fair,
And they led them in the flowing dance,
The daughters of green Eire.
And macrach ! and macrach !
Not a weary heart nor sore
Saw the wedding of the heiress.
Of the chieftain Gilla More.
POEMS OF JOHN WALSH.
THE BRIDE-SIDE.
The stream pours down through the dancing
reeds,
And the long grass waves by the tide-side,
And the wild birds dive 'mid the flaunting
weeds
That fringe the banks of the .Bride-side;
The herdsmen whoop to the drowsy kine
That wind to the mountain's wide side,
And peace and plenty they breathe around
The pleasant banks of the Bride-side.
The fresh, the fair, the green old fields
Still stretch by the babbling tide-side;
But alas ! for the fresher and fond young
hearts
That bloomed by the banks of the
Bride-side.
Ah, me ! but the years they have tarried long,
And many have rolled above me,
Since my boyhood flowed like an Irish song
From the lips of the maid that loved me;
When the pebbly stream stole away the hours,
As I fished by the gliding tide-side
And my life seemed wreathed with summer
flowers
When I played by the happy Bride-side.
The pebbly strand and the bending banks
Still stretch by the bubbling tide-side;
But the time is gone when my heart was
young
By the pleasant banks of the Bride-
side.
But I hold my own against death and thrall,
And ne'er do I mean to give in,
Though the foreigner's frown, like a jet-black
pall,
Still shadows the laud we live in,
I will till my fields in the fresh spring's prime,
Still trusting in God that's o'er me;
I will brace my heart for the coming time
That I now see clear before me ;
For to work and hope is the right of man,
And labor has many a bright side ;
So I'll cling to the soil where I gladly toil,
By the pleasant banks of the Bride-
side.
62
WESTWARD, HO!
Westward, Ho ! Westward, Ho ! to the
land of the rolling prairie;
Westward still, and for evermore ; so there's
food in the land, what care ye?
Hope, and health, and strength and wealth ;
they are smiling there before ye.
Death and doom, and a pauper's grave, hold
sway in the homes that bore ye.
Westward, Ho! and westward still, for the
scourge is behind that drives ye
From the green old hills and the pleasant
vales; sure the wrongs must be deep
that drive ye
From the mountain sides where the Fenian
chiefs as we read in the olden story
With their deer-hounds dun, chased the ant-
lered elk thro' the twilight dim and
hoary.
There's many a green wood and pleasant
glen, there is many a home in Erin,
Where the pillared towers of the Priests of
Baal to the clouds their heads are r
ing,
Where the full moon shining as white as
snow on the holy well-springs glances,
And the bounteous streams of the island
flow while the light on their bosom
dances.
Westward, Ho! for it seems that a curse
on the head of your tribe is falling;
A heavy, woeful, and blighting curse, your
hearts and your souls appalling.
Eating into the core are the rusted chains,
with the famine-shriek howling round
you,
While the pleasant fields that your fathers
tilled with a motherly love surround
you.
Westward still, hardy souls and true, there
is gold in the land of tin- stranger,
Wealth and riches are waiting there, to be
won but with toil and danger;
But the manly heart and the iron hand, they
will cherish the roof above you,
And honor and plenty will laugh in your face,
with the innocent ones that love you.
974
A POEM BY MARCELLA A. FITZGEEALD.
Westward, Ho! for a long time yet who
would live as a slave in Erin ?
With the cowardly brand of the Helot's lot,
on his blushless forehead bearing,
To crouch like hounds from each tyrant's
frown, to tremble and cringe beneath
him,
When a gleaming brand in his strong right
hand were the way that a MAN would
meet him.
Westward, Ho! for many a chief in that
land of the brave and bold are,
Who will stir your blood with their tongues
of fire, or will teach you the trade of
a soldier,
When you grasp the steel, and your strong
hearts feel that the green is above
you flying,
The flag of the home that you left in woe,
when your eyes were dim with crying.
Ah ! there are our bravest and noblest ones,
the flower of our race and nation
The truest children that Erin nursed, since
the Geraldines' generation.
They are filling their ranks, and taking their
place for God knows but how much
we need them,
And he of the " urbs intacta " * is there
like a Moses prepared to lead them.
Then, Eastward, Ho ! to the rising sun, ye
come ploughing the breast of the ocean
Fair blow the breezes that fill your sails with
a pleasant and gentle motion,
Till you cheer the captive that wept so long;
till you burst her chains asunder,
When you wake the hills with the welcome
news till it peals through the glens
like thunder.
THE SUMMING UP.
I have seen the shadow of Brian Boru, with
the Dane beneath him lying,
And the gauntleted arm of Owen Roe with
the Saxon before it flying,
And I know what will roll from a cycle of
years, for they say I'm a seer and a
prophet,
But I tell you the truth as it seems to my-
self, without hope of reward or of
profit.
* Thomas Francis Meagher.
A POEM BY MARCELLA A. FITZGERALD.
A CHRISTMAS THOUGHT.
'Tis once more the joyous Christmas, and
while bells are gaily pealing,
Calling to the mountain echoes, laughing
o'er the smiling plain,
Whence the sprites of darkness hasten driven
backward by the music,
Which the blessed bells are scattering o'er
the earth in silvery rain.
While the hymn by Angels chanted over
Bethlehem's lowly grotto
Thrills the gray dawn of the morning,
soaring upward to the sky,
Calling faithful souls to hasten with their
loyal love and homage,
With their humble adoration to the Lord
and God Most High.
Friends beloved, before the Altar where the
Infant King reposes,
While the glad "Venite" pulses on the
music-laden air,
Lo! the shining hand of Memory strews
o'er us her fragrant roses,
And the names of all our dearest breathes
in each heart-spoken prayer.
OF MRS. A. ]-.. KM;I>.
There we clasp the links long severed by the There, where heaven SIM-IMS near. -r to us, and
power of change or absence, the gifts the Infant Saviour
Brings to all this glorious morning, burn
with pure celestial glow,
Links of love, of kindred, friendship, that
on Christmas days of yore
To our hearts the loving greetings of the
holy season wafted,
To our lives the cheering sunshine of a
happy Christmas bore.
Do we pray that countless blessings fall >n
you in fullest measure.
And your lives, dear friends, forever in
joy's peaceful currents flou.
POEMS OF MRS. A. E. FORD.
A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW.
The surging sea of human life forever onward
rolls,
And bears to the eternal shore its daily
freight of souls,
Though bravely sails our bark to-day, pale
death sits at the prow,
.And few shall know we ever lived a hundred
years from now.
O mighty human brotherhood ! why fiercely
war and strive,
While God's great world has ample space for
everything alive ?
Broad fields, uncultured and unclaimed, are
waiting for the plow
Of progress that shall make them bloom a
hundred years from now.
Why should we try so earnestly in life's short,
narrow span,
On golden stairs to climb so high above our
brother man ?
Why blindly at an earthly shrine in slavish
homage bow ?
Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hun-
dred years from now!
Why prize so much the world's applause?
Why dread so much its blame ?
A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of
fame;
The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn
that dyes with shame the brow,
Will be as long-forgotten dreams a hundred
years from now.
patient hearts, that meekly bear your
weary load of wrong!
earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and, striv-
ing, grow more strong,
Press on till perfect peace is won; you'll
never dream of how
You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hun-
dred years from now.
Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that
freedom, right and truth
Alone may rule the universe, for you is end-
less youth:
When 'mid the blest, with God you rest, the
grateful lands shall bow
Above your clay in rev'rent lovcuhm.
years from now.
Karth's empires rise and fall. O Time! like
breakers on thy shore;
They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down,
and are no n,
The starry wilderness of worlds that
night's radiant brow
Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred
years from now.
976
POEMS OF MRS. A. E. FORD.
Our Father, to whose sleepless eyes the past
and future stand
An open page, like babes we cling to Thy
protecting hand ;
Change, sorrow, death are naught to us if we
may safely bow
Beneath the shadow of Thy throne a hun-
dred years from now.
THE CAPTIVE.
[Edward O'Meara Condon, who was arrested and tried
with the " Manchester Martyrs," is still a captive in a British
prison.]
'Tis night, the dull day's drudgery is done,
And in his cell the captive sits alone
The grated vault his jealous keepers give
Him barely space to breathe in, not to live.
All's dark, all silent, neither sight nor sound
Breaks through the gloom, the solitude pro-
found,
Save where, "drip, drip," slow from the
tomb-like walls
In heavy tears the gathered dampness falls,
As if more soft than rulers' hearts, each stone
Wept o'er the woes of him compelled alone
In dreary desolation, rayless night,
To pass the days Jehovah made so bright.
Resplendent sunset, calm and blessed eve,
That come the weary spirit to relieve,
You can not gather friends around the
hearth,
To cheer the hearts that languish 'neath the
earth.
The dungeon-fettered bears his doom alone,
And sighs to those who can not hear his
moan:
" friends, my friends, away beyond the sea,
AVhose days are dark with sorrowing for me,
In spite of rocky wall and iron door,
My heart, my thoughts are with you ever-
more.
My child, my child, my careless, happy boy,
Why must my darkness cloud your days of
joy?
And oh, my faithful wife, whose youthful
head
Is bowed to weep the buried, not the dead,
Alas ! how dreary have I made your life
A lonely widow, yet a captive's wife.
My mother's cheek is channelled with the
tears
Shed for her prisoned son; my father's
years
Are dark with grief, with hopes that failed,
and I,
The cause of all, can neither live nor die !
Oh, for the thunder's crash, the earthquake's
shock,
To rend these cursed doors, these walls of
rock,
And strike with awe the earthly powers that
dare
Deny God's creatures his free light and
air
That pile the earth above the living head
And yet forbid the slumber of the dead !
" Land of my deathless love, fair storied isle,
When, when shall Freedom on thy valleys
smile ?
Thy day must come. Can despots dream
they bind
The soaring soul, the strong, unfettered
mind ?
These chains that keep my limbs from being
free
But link my heart more strongly yet to
thee ;
This loathsome cell that's never blessed with
day,
The silent witness of my life's decay,
My spirit spurns, and eagle-like can soar
Away, away to thee, my native shore.
When thy oppressors in the clay shall rot,
All, all except their cruelty forgot,
Green as the laurel shall their memory be
Who bore captivity or death for thee,
Old trampled land. Through centuries of
wrong
Thy mighty soul unbowed has swept along
Fierce torrents of oppression ; but thy night
Of woe must end in Freedom's glorious
light."
I'OKMS OK Mi;s. A. K.
GOD PITY THE PO<H.'.
The wild, rushing wings of the Tempest are
The frost-fettered laud like a spirit of
wrath ;
His fierce, icy breath with keen arrows is
piercing
The breast of the wand'rers who stand in
his path;
The earth in a trance lies enshrouded in si-
lence,
The storm king knocks loudly at window
and door;
The prayer of the pitiful fervently rises
God shelter the homeless and pity the
poor !
God pity the poor who are wearily sitting
By desolate hearth-stones, cold, cheerless
and bare,
From which the last ember's pale flicker has
faded,
Like hope dying out in the midst of de-
spair ;
Who look on the wide world and see it a
desert
Where ripple no waters, no green branches
wave,
W T ho see in a future as dark as the present
No rest but the death-bed, no home but the
grave.
God pity the poor when the eddying snow-
drifts
Are whirled by the wrath of the winter
wind by,
Like showers of leaves from the pallid star-
lilies
That float in the depths of the blue lake
on high;
For though they are draping the broad earth
in beauty,
And veiling some flaw in each gossamer
fold,
That beauty is naught to the mother whose
children
Are crouching around her in hunger and
cold.
God pity tin- poor, for the wealthy are often
As hard as tin- winter, and cold as its snow;
\\hilofortune makes sunshine and summer
around them,
[woe;
They care not for others nor think of their
Or if from their plenty ;i trifle be given,
So doubtingly, grudgingly, of ten 'tis doled.
That to the receiver their " charity " .-eemeth
More painful than hunger, more bitter
than cold.
God pity the poor! for though all men are
brothers,
Though all say " Our Father," not mine,
when they pray,
The proud ones of earth turn aside from
the lowly,
As if they were fashioned of different clay;
They see not in those who in meekness
and patience
Toil, poverty, pain, without murmur endure.
The image of Him whose first couch was a
manger, [poor.
Who chose for our sakes to be homeless and
God pity the poor! give them courage and
patience [brave,
Their trials, temptations and troubles to
And pity the wealthy whose idol is Fortune,
For gold can not gladden the gloom of the
grave:
And as this brief life, whether painful or
pleasant,
To one that is endless but opens the door,
The heart sighs while thinking on palace
and hovel,
God pity the wealthy as well as the poor.
THK CKKKN AND
Who quails at the frown of power, who talks
of a hopeless land ?
The re's hope for the daring ever, and strength
for the willing hand :
There's light in our grand old banner, and
glory in every fold :
Then down with tlieinight of tyrants and tip
with the green and -old!
D78
POEMS OF MRS. FELICIA HEMANS.
The scorn of the stronger nations you've
long in the dust been trod ;
You've bent to the lash with patience, and
looked through your tears to God;
You whine to the Lord of Armies, who smiles
on the brave and bold,
But strike, and His strength will aid you to
raise up the green and gold !
Work, work, for the days are fleeting, e'en
now may your chance be nigh ;
And oh, if your hands are folded, how swiftly
the time will fly!
The wreath of the victor never was seized by
the dull or cold,
'Tis ceaseless and strong endeavor must raise
up the green and gold.
Up, up, for our grand old Island ! On, on,
with the world advance !
.Dash into the sea her fetters : she'll leap from
her death-like trance.
Bright light to the homes long dreary, and
hope to the hearts now cold;
Then down with the might of tyrants, and up
with the green and gold !
You sleep while the lands are waking, and
stand while they're marching on:
You dream while they forge their armor, and
stoop while their rights are won;
Success is the meed of labor, and grasped by
the true and bold ;
Then toil for the fall of tyrants, the rise of
the green and gold.
men ! if your hearts are earnest and true
as your hands are strong,
Ring out to the world around you the knell of
the reign of wrong.
Brave bells are the flame-tongued cannons,
on them let that knell be tolled,
Down, down with the might of tyrants, and
up with the green and gold !
POEMS OF MRS, FELICIA HEM AM
THE RHINE.
It is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards lav-
ing.
I see the bright flood shine !
"Sing on the march with every banner wav-
ing
Sing, brothers! 'tis the Rhine!
'The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial
river !
Be glory on thy track !
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver
We bear thee freedom back !
Hail ! hail ! my childhood knew thy rush of
water
Even as my mother's song;
That sound went past me on the field of
slaughter,
And heart and arm grew strong !
Roll proudly on ! brave blood is with thee
sweeping,
Poured out by sons of thine,
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were
leaping,
Like thee, victorious Rhine!
Home ! home ! Thy glad wave hath a tone
of greeting,
Thy path is by my home,
Even now my children count the hours till
meeting;
ransomed ones! I come.
Go tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee
never !
Sound on by hearth and shrine !
Sing through the hills that thou art free for-
ever
Lift up thy voice, Rhine!
1'uKMS (>K
HKMANS,
WASHINGTON'S STA'IT K.
Yes! rear thy guardian hero's form
On thy proud soil, thou Western World,
A watcher through each sign of storm,
O'er freedom's flag unfurled.
There, as before a shrine, to bow,
Hid thy true sons their children lead;
The language of that noble brow
For all things good shall plead.
The spirit reared in patriot fight,
The virtue born of home and hearth,
There calmly throned, a holy light
Shall pour o'er chainless earth.
And let that work of England's hand,
Sent through the blast and surges' roar,
So girt with tranquil glory stand
For ages on thy shore!
Such, through all time, the greetings be,
That with Atlantic billow sweep!
Telling the mighty and the free
Of brothers o'er the deep !
THE BETTER LAND.
" I hear thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! 0, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ?
Is it where flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle
boughs ? "
" Not there, not there, my child ! "
" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds on their starry
wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
"Not there, not there, my i-hild ! "
" Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine:
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral
strand ?
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land I" "
Not there, not there, my child! "
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair
Sorrow and death may not enter there:
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the
tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child ! "
A PARTI.M; sn\'G.
When will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me ?
When the last red light, the farewell day,
From the rock and the river is passing away
When the air a deepening hush is fraught.
And the heart grows burdened witli tender
thought,
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?
When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hoars
fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more
may tread
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of mo?
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream
Then let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, friends I
Thus ever think of me
Kindly and gently, but as one
For whom 'tis well to l.e lied and gone
As of a bird from a chain unbound.
As of a wanderer whose home is found
So let it be!
POEIS OF DANIEL CRILLY, M. P.
"THE END 0' THE ROADS."
There are scenes in our land and their praises
have long
Wrought a charm as they've echoed from
story and song;
In Leinster those scenes sparkle bright by
the score,
And Ulster, and Munster, and Connaught
have more;
There are lakes and broad rivers and moun-
tains and glen,
Where the bird builds her nest, and the fox
makes his den;
But of all the bright spots hymned in sonnets
or odes,
There is none loved by me like " the end o'
the roads."
In the sweet distant time when my life was
still young,
And the hours flashed as sunbeams on heart
yet unwrung
When the world seemed to me free from sor-
rows and sins,
And nought knew I of care save when
" poundin' the whins,"
Or when " gatherin' heads " or when " hurdin'
the cows,"
While the laughter of comrades rang high
through the boughs
Then all boyish burdens, all wearisome loads,
Were made light by the spell of " the end o'
the roads."
Tor 'twas there after Mass-time on Sundays
we'd seek [a week,
All the boys and the girls we'd not seen for
Nor long at that trysting-place had we to wait
For Terence or Jemmy, for Mary or Kate ;
There, too, with eyes dancing, we'd fashion
the fun,
To bring joy in its train ere the set of the sun,
And countless as sands on the shore were
the modes
In which mischief was planned at " the end
o' the roads."
'Twas from there on St. John's Eve we'd
speed up the braes
To kindle for miles all the whins in a blaze,
Or set out with minds seldom shadowed or
sore,
To cross o'er the top of Slieve-Ban to Clough-
more.
Was there crow's nest to rob? Was there
hare to be chased ?
Were the lish to be netted in silence and
haste ?
Were the birds to be snared in their wooded
abodes ?
You might hear 'neath the hedge at " the
end o' the roads."
For there oft in summer we've raced to the
shore,
And have launched our light craft and then
bent to an oar.
Or with sail boldly swelling have sped on
our way
Through the blue sunlit waters of Carling-
ford Bay,
While our laugh and our song stirred the
waters beneath,
As we swept past Greencastle, Greenore, and
Omeath
Oh, never the wealth from the mines' choic-
est lodes
Could make hearts light as ours round " the
end o' the roads."
Ah ! where are they now, who thus gathered
of old ?
Some have mingled their dust with Kilbro-
ney's dark mould;
POEMS OF DANIEL CHILLY, M. I*.
981
Some, found homes in strange lands wa.-died
by cold alien seas,
Where their graves are now swept by the
harsh foreign breeze.
And with those who remain rests the hope
evermore
That when earth's rugged pathways are all
trodden o'er,
When they journey no longer 'neath life's
pressing loads,
They'll unite as when young at " the end o'
the roads."
THE HILLS OF MOURNE.
The grey mists steal from out the sky with
silent sombre tread,
They veil the lowlands from the sight, they
hide each mountain's head,
The noise of busy marts is stilled, the streets
are filled with gloom,
And in them forms appear and fade like
shadows from the tomb,
But if the darkness felt around were black
as raven's wing,
I'd see as if the sun shone high at noonday
in the spring,
And I were to Slieve Donard's peak by some
magician borne
The heather, grass, and crags that crown the
proud old hills of Mourne.
I know them all as when in youth I knew
my mother's face,
In childhood's hours I gambol led five and
grew up at their base,
I climbed their sides through brackens high,
when boyhood's years were mine,
I've rested on their topmost heights to watch
the sun's decline,
And ev'ry nook, or knoll, or crag from
Cloughmore to Croc Slice,
Across Slieve-Ban and Keady, are familiar
still to me;
Anil ever while the strength God gives re-
mains with me unworn.
I'll bless them and I'll love them well those
sweet old hills of Mourne.
No fairer hills are mirror'd where the Rhine's
blue waters play
Than those that break the moon's pale beams
in Carlingford's broad bay;
No prouder hills, to me at least, point up-
ward to the skies
In any land than those on which I first cast
youthful eyes;
And should Dame Fortune only deign to
smile upon my days,
I'll haste me home and by those hills I'll walk
my quiet ways
Until death comes; and when my bones by
friends to earth are borne,
I'll rest at peace because I lie beside-the hills
of Mourne.
THOMAS DAVIS.
Great minds, endowed with power to fashion
men
For giant purposes, for noble ends
That can knit foes in bonds fresh as friends.
Are God's chief artificers. Be the pen
Or sword the instrument they use, what
then ?
Our nature moulded by this touch ascends
To higher plains, and lifted then- it Mends
With all we count as good within our ken.
Such potent mind was his who taught his
IMCC
To look from thraldom sunward, and who
To Ireland's life new sweetness und new
light :
Who scourged with iron force the habits baae
That fostered but the instinct* of the -la\e.
And held our land from Freedom, Union,
Right.
POEMS OF JOHN J. McGINNIS,
MY FIRST LOVE.
In childhood's days my heart's delight,
To eyes with love enraptured,
With Irish scenes first met my sight
And all affection captured;
Her artless smile in lone exile
Is beaming always near me
Her winsome grace in every place
I wander e'er doth cheer me.
Her features formed in perfect mould
Admired by all are dearly,
And every line of worth's true gold
To my fond gaze shows clearly
The beauties fair and virtues rare
That e'er are with her dwelling,
Tho', o'er them all, a darkening pall
Her mournful state is telling.
Tho' rolling seas of seething foam
Between us wildly thunder,
She still appears with that old home
Which memory ne'er will sunder;
And as the sun, when day has run,
Behind leaves shadows dreary,
Whene'er my thought from her is brought
My heart is sadly weary.
The light of honor's diadems,
Which crown her person charming,
Still scintillates the burning gems
That are love's feelings warming;
Oh ! many a heart for her did part
With all that manhood cherished,
And nobly strove to win her love,
Till hope, with life, had perished.
With pangs of sore unhappiness
For conquests more she's sighing,
Yet, dream not that 'neath loveliness
Coquettishness is lying;
Oh, no ! A trace of such disgrace
Can ne'er her charms appear in ;
She's pure and true, and loved by you
Is my first love Green Erin.
THE VOICE OF SONG.
Where are the bards whose mighty song
Rushed as a lava tide,
Bearing the burden of right and wrong,
Scathing the tyrant, smiting the strong
Nerving the timid, thrilling the throng-
Say is the song-spring dried
Where are the bards ?
Dublin Nation.
Where are the bards ? They are living still,
Their strains are sweet as ever,
And strong and deathless as the will
That bows to desjpots never;
Their lyrics charm the Celtic soul
That breathes this side the ocean,
And stirring bars of their music roll
To the land of their hearts' devotion.
The Irish bards may in exile live
But their song-spring dried ? No, never
Their lays are as nerving yet and give
New strength to use the lever
Which works its way underneath the wrongs
That threaten Ireland's morrow
The hopes that live in their martial songs
Are stars in her night of sorrow.
The shells that stir on each Irish beach
At the wavelet's every motion,
If you lift them up to your hearing's reach,
Will whisper the emotion
That steals across the waters blue
In breakers of song-voiced passion,
To fill those shells and the caverns, too,
In no changeless mood or fashion.
The white-capped waves on Atlantic's breast
Are the storm-signs of their feelings,
That sail along with never a rest
Till they merge in vengeful pealings;
The rushing hate of the Irish race
Is voiced in that ocean thunder,
While tides beat in at a surging pace
The towering sea-banks under.
POEMS OF JOHN J.
Nor has the muse from Ireland flown
There is "T. D. S.," the charming.
Whose metrical words and fiery tone
The Castle deems alarming;
There is Katharine Tynan, sweet and strong
And " Droilin " ever tender,
And a dozen more whose welcome song
Brings forth the cause's splendor.
But if these were dead ; if our singers all
Had rest within that region
From which to earth inspirations fall
To bless our poet legion;
The spirit of 'Forty-eight would fire
That poor downtrodden nation
Which scorns its care when touched the lyre
That breathes of jubilation.
EXILED REFLECTIONS.
'Tis summer in Ireland ! The streamlets are
leaping
Adown the brown mountains to kiss the
green sea,
The mists are unrolling and shamrocks are
creeping
Through grasses that cover the wide-
spreading lea;
The lambkins are bleating, and every green
valley
Is blessed with the music that charmingly
flows
In ripples that glide 'neath the thorn and
the salley
By banks where with violets true Irish love
grows.
The thrush leaves the thorn, and her notes
are now ringing
In madrigals gentle to swell the glad praise
That skylark in mid-air so lovingly wing-
ing
Is singing in outbursts of merriest lays;
New life's in the land where the farmer's eyes
rest on
The promise of produce the landlord shall
claim,
While peace steals from high just to place
its own crest <>n
The scenes that to me are all seasons the
same.
Tis summer in Ireland! And now three
and twenty
The memories of childhood me backward
allure
From loneliness here to where friends are
in plenty
Where nature is wealthy and human kind
poor;
Where the grasp of the hand speaks the
strength of the feeling
That lives in the hearts never cha:
but true
That never yet felt low hypocrisy stealing
Their pure-blooded veins or their warm
tendrils through.
Dreaming once more of the haunts of young
pleasure
Oh! what a joy to forget our exile.
And stroll back again in each hour of our
leisure
To spots that we knew in our own lovely
isle;
To fancy again that we live where are glun. -
ing
The hues that are stolen from Heave
own dome,
[s a magical art with illusions most trancing
Whose beauties grow dearer wlu-n longer
from home.
ANSWKi;iv, I"'; !.>',
iVhy does he love thev ': \\ . r. the wondrous
glory
His fancy sees within the future fair
tut painted for thee. thou would'st know
the story
That's whispered to him now and
where:
[*wo eyes that twinkle with expressive humor.
A tongue that speaks as prompted l>y the
heart
D84
POEMS OF RICHARD W. COLLENDER.
That heart that only knows deceit through
rumor,
And, true to nature, never flirts with art.
Nor are these all ! A deeper sense of feeling
Pictures the beauties that the soul alone
Through mystic haunts with searching vision
stealing
Can realize, for are they not its own ?
Jewels these are and from no earthly
places [above-
Charms willed thy person by the One
Angelic attributes whose virtue graces
Thy very being and inspires his love.
The stream can tell not why it seeks the
ocean,
Nor shamrocks whisper why they love the
dew;
Nor songbirds say why chorus-voiced devo-
tion
Is due the summer this they never knew;
Nor can the blossoms in the zephyrs swaying
Divine the secret of each 'customed hue;
They feel, but know not what is o'er them
playing
It is their nature; this his nature, too.
But yet one cannot say his love like these is,
To change with seasons, or to ebb and flow
As tides, or rise and fall as do the breezes,
Or with the blossoms just to come and go,
No, love with him is not -an idle fashion,
Put on and off as fancy's whims may force;
But is his life at least it adds a passion
That is as changeless as the sun's own
course.
POEMS OF RICHARD W, COLLENDER,
A SONG.
.A health to poor old Ireland,
And her flashing Flag of Green,
To her sunny bosom rising
From the ocean's glossy sheen.
Like a queen in beauty beaming,
While the big waves dance and play
At her feet, like suppliants bending
With a seeming fond delay.
Bright hearts glowing, bumpers flowing,
In her unbaptized potheen;
Oh, comrades, drink to Ireland
And her flashing Flag of Green.
A health to poor old Ireland,
And her glinting Flag of Green,
To her saints in glory gleaming
To her chiefs of mighty mien;
Her heroes, bards, and sages,
The dreams around them cast,
The giant men of story,
The pillars of the past.
Oh ! we boast them, we toast them,
In unbaptized potheen;
Oh, comrades, drink to Ireland,
And her flashing Flag of Green.
A health to poor old Ireland,
And her flashing Flag of Green,
To the days its bright folds streaming
O'er each conquered field was seen,
To the hardy deeds of daring,
Old Limerick and Benburb,
To the time, the men, the valor,
That did oft our proud foe curb.
Oh, we cling to them, we drink to them,
In unbaptized potheen;
Oh, comrades, here's to Ireland,
And her flashing Flag of Green.
A health to poor old Ireland,
And her drooping Flag of Green,
While the clouds of darkness lower
And the ray is scarcely seen,
While the death-grasp thickens tighter,
And her life-blood ebbs away,
While her health and hope are flying
From her breast in pale dismay.
Still endearing, still unfearing,
In unbaptized potheen ;
Oh, comrades, drink to Ireland,
And her flashing Flag of Green.
POEMS OF RICHARD W. Cnl,LKM>Ki;.
A healtli to jtoor old Ireland,
And her flushing Flag of Green,
To the better days before us,
Robed in glowing Summer sheen,
To the morning when her soldier sons
In ordered lines are seen,
To the hand that plants above the Red
The Harp of Gold and Green.
Bright hearts glowing, bumpers flowing,
In our unbaptized potheen :
Oh, comrades, drink to Ireland,
And her flashing Flag of Green.
TO H. W. COLLENDER,
WITH A BROTHER'S LOVE.*
THOUGH wide is the ocean between us that
rolls ;
Though fierce raving storms disturb its
dark sea;
Dear HUGH, they can never unlink from our
souls,
The chains of affection which bind us to
thee.
And ever a thought from this heart will be
winging,
Its flight o'er the waves and the ocean to
thee;
And back in my dreaming it comes to me
bringing,
Thy form of old 'neath a smiling roof tree.
Ah ! gloomy and sad was the dawn of the
morn,
Which told of thy quitting that Old Home
and me;
An outcast, an outlaw poor, lonely and lorn:
Thy high hopes defeated no Country for
thee.
Yes dark was thy fate then. 'mid pi-ril and
danger;
Asahelmless bark on a treacherous main.
Exposed to the tempest a fate-stricken
ranger;
With no hope thy lost home and thy rights
to regain.
* Hugh \V. oll.Mi.ler was one of tlu- t-xilwof IM*
But tin- Searcher of la-arts looked <.n thine
witb a .smile,
Its throbbings He knew were for .It;
and Truth ;
In the cause of thy injured and .-utTcrin-
\\ ! the thoughts and aspirings of thy
ardent youth.
And He succoured thee on thro' tlmt dark
time of can-.
He gave thee a home of affection and ;
And peopled with bright hearts fond, 1"
and fair;
And brightened with Liberty's light from
above.
The hearts in that home these eyes ne'er have
beheld,
And Fate has ordained that wt- dwell still
apart
By some mystic tide of affection impelled,
\Ve mingle and never in thought they
depart.
And a hope a fond hope, do I nurse thro'
the day,
And dream thro' the long silent hours of
the night;
Of a honu tilled with faces now far, f.r
away
In Green Erin illumined by Liberty bright.
Could I once see that day, could I once see
that home.
All this heart's earthly longings were fully
allayed
For one hour of such joy beneath H; ;
blue dome.
It were happy within the still grave to be
laid.
Though vast is the Ocean between us that
rolls
Though wild raving storms disturb its
Set;
Dear Iln.n. they r unlink from our
nig,
The chain?. >f atTcction which hinds ;
thee.
ix, August, 1860.
986
POEMS OF RICHARD W. COLLENDER.
AN ELEGY.
ADAPTED FROM THE MEXICAN.
FADING, fading, fleetly fading,
All earth's splendours pass away.
Those that seem to mock decay,
Like lilies by the cool stream shading
The tide of time, soon shall bear away.
Purple, gorgeous type of power,
And the rose, fair beauty's hue;
One fate and brief day have the two
Like flowers that drink the sightless shower,
Twin buds that glint in dawning's dew.
Glistening in its crystals gleaming,
Dight in its pearlets glad and gay
(Like angels' tears o'er their decay),
Soon the day-god's bright eye beaming
Their tinsel blossom in blight shall lay.
All is fleeting, fading, changing
All subjected to one sad doom
Flowers their gorgeous morning bloom
For scentless blight ere night exchanging,
Mortals, life for the charnel gloom ;
Aye, in the noon of their pride and splendour,
The weak, the mighty, the fair and brave,
In cot and palace, on land and wave,
To the one great Rule their allegiance ren-
der
The wide, big earth is a narrow grave;
All sprung from earth, and unto it clinging,
Allegiance pay to the grim King, Death !
To his rule despotic and sudden scathe,
Save where, like sun-flowers, fair souls,
springing,
Live in the glowing, bright sun of faith.
Aye, as the fountain, the stream and river
Flow downward ever and ever on,
From meadows glancing or mountain dun,
To their deep grave, the wide ocean ever,
Deepening their path as they downward
run.
Where are the great of the olden glory,
Who sate in canopied golden thrones,
Who ne'er knew poverty's pains and
moans ?
Deep in the vault is their transient story
Writ in the dust of their crumbled bones.
Theirs were power and pomp and treasure;
Law with hosts was their simple word :
Flattery's fulsome breath they heard ;
Short was their day ere its noontide measure :
Low they're laid by the smiting sword.
Fading, fading, fleetly fading,
Gone like vapour before the wind,
Like the fabled fruits of the tempting rind,
Their fallen thrones, so short-lived, aiding
To stamp the lesson they left behind.
Ours is to-day whose is to-morrow ?
Amid earth's bustle and rolling hum
This voice will speak to the dull and dumb ;
Yours is the present, from it to borrow
Life and light for the time to come.
Up, 0, my friends, lift your hopeful voices.
Your hearts and tongues lift in tuneful
praise
To where the Sun-God's true splendours
blaze
Where all is glory, where all rejoices,
Beaming with beauty that ne'er decays.
CAPPOQUIN, July, 1868.
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLUE PLUME.
A LEGEND OF THE BLACKWATER.
[In the time of John Earl of Desmond the English garrison
at Youghal were attacked and routed by the Irish forces, and
obliged to fly from the town in their boats. Though it was but
a temporary riddance, and they, alas! but too soon returned,
yet a fair day's work and the sturdy workers deserve some
commemoration.]
THE waves of Blackwater laugh lightly be-
tween
Tall wild waving woodlands all glossy and
green.
Where silence resides, 'neath their dark dewy
crest,
Our giant forefathers found shelter and rest;
POEMS OF i;i< MAKD \v. COIJJ-NDKK.
087
And revelled and courted, and hunted the
deer,
And feasted and drunk of the red wine and
beer,
And marshalled in glory to meet the stout
foe
So rhyme we a wreath of their famed Long
Ago.
Gay banners are floating on Strancally wall,
Proud soldiers are thronging round Stran-
cally hall,
The eaxlach * has blazoned the war summons
stern,
To galloglass tall and to light-footed kern.
Like mountain streams rushing all speedily
down,
They haste over hill, glade, and wild moor
and brown,
And sweetly, Blackwater their fair weapon's
sheen
Flings backward in light to its woods glowing
green.
Like bees in the summer they swarm, they
come;
Like winds on the hill-side, their deep ilin
and hum ;
Like rocks mid the waters, each stout heaving
breast
Flings off every terror; and lightly they jest,
And long rings their laughter, and feasting,
and cheer,
While circle broad mdherx of brown ale and
beer,
And bright beats each gallant heart, glad-
some and light,
While gayly they bustle and trim for the fight.
A voice speaks aloud from the dark oaken
hall-
- Ho! Dmial Dim. (juick, my black steed
from the stall."
'Tis the Dark Knight, and donning his hel-
met and plum. ,
And grasping his long lance, he strode from
the room.
* A mounted courier.
At the door neighs his charger, with bowed
neck of pride,
The fosterer, Donal Dhu, stands by his
He springs to the saddle, each wild voi
still,
Each man in his place, and the word is
"E08CHOILL."t
The waves of Blackwater laugh lighth
tween
Their tall waving woodlands, all glossy and
green, [ti
And many a bright band and gallant saw
But never a brighter than that sunny day.
Their steel armour glistens, their proud
chargers prance,
Their bannerets wave from each tapering
lance
A Blue Plume is kissing the light sunniuT
shine, [H JU ..
The Dark Knight of Strancally heading tlu-ir
*****
In the old town of Youghal that stands by
the sea,
The Red Flag is floating, all glorious and
free;
Mijrh, high o'er the Clock Gate, and hi.irh
o'er the town.
In speaking defiance it proudly looks down.
The red Saxon soldier is seen on the walls.
His home o'er the waters his rude heart n -
calls,
As the broad sun is sinking, and twilight
steals down
O'er moorland and mountain, with many u
frown.
The nijrlitwatrh is set, and a vigilant guard
O'er the slumbering town holds a close wjitrh
and ward,
The sentinel, treading his lone chilly round.
I k> into ttie dim gliding shadows around.
Mo! 'tis l.ut the trees or the wind thr.
their leaves,
Methought of the ghosts, the rude IV
believes;
wot! I am sick of these wild- I d.-.-larr.
. merrie Knirland. I wish I W:i
> .,>,;
988
POEMS OF EICHAED W. COLLENDER.
But, lo! the dusk shadow at morning ap-
pears,
'A rampart that bristles with lances and
spears,
Where, grinning through earthwork and piles
stoutly strewn,
Are cannon, and matchlock, and bright
musquetoon,
Where helmets are gleaming and wild sol-
diers throng,
And quick comes the lightening shower, red,
loud, and long;
The Irishrie batter the town through the
day,
At even, before them a breach gaping lay.
Farrali to the onset! with wild shouts of
glee.
The Saxons are ready. Like sea meeting sea,
They mix and they struggle, they sink and
they rise,
Their war-cries like thunder-peals ring to
the skies,
Like tempest-tost waters, they sway to and
fro;
Broadsword to battle-axe, stout blow for
blow;
. They thicken, the strife gathers round them
and o'er
Till the breach like a hell gaping wide seems
to roar.
The fair Irish pause. Blood of Brian ! they
quail;
A moment, a moment their hearts seem to
fail.
See! the Dark Knight is waving his bright
plume of blue,
" St. Patrick for Strancally, Sliannet Aboo ! " *
Like lions, their blood seems within them to
burn,
Like hawks on the quarry, they rage and they
turn,
Like a tempest that sweeps o'er the loud-
lashing sea,
They charge till the stout Saxons turn them
and flee.
* A war cry of the Geraldines.
The Saxons are flying they rush to the
shore,
And hot at their heels do the proud Irish
pour.
The Dark Knight is dealing destruction
around,
Till a giant behind lays him flat on the
ground,
Saying, "Ha! have I trimmed thy gay
feathers so blue."
"Dliar Dliia! then here is a keepsake for
you 1 "
The bright spear of Donal Dhu flashed as he
spoke,
And straight through the skull of the grim
giant broke.
The Dark Knight is down, in a death-seem-
ing sleep,
And gory his wounds are, and varied and
deep.
When life pulsed anew in his pain-troubled
breast
A fair Irish maiden sat watching his rest.
What boots it to sing how she tended him
then
How love sprang between them, and strength
came again;
How back to his home when a few months
were o'er,
The Knight of the Blue Plume a noble bride
bore.
The waves of Blackwater laugh lightly be-
tween
Tall wild waving woodlands, all glossy and
green.
There is sheen on the wavelet and balm on
the air,
And music and health in their beauty they
bear.
All, all to the brave men of yore that they
gave,
Is wasted in nursing the cold crouching slave.
Shall Fame reach them never, sa^e story or
song ?
How long shall they slumber "How long,
Lord, how long ? "
POEMS OF JAMES WHITCOMB RILKT.
M. FKKTKKS' ForUTJI.
IT is needless to say 'twas a glorious day,
And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle
way
That our forefathers had since the hour of
the birth
Of this most patriotic Republic on earth!
But 'twas justice, of course, to admit that
the sight
Of the old Stars and Stripes was a thing of
delight
In the eyes of a fellow, however he tried
To look on the day with a dignified pride
That meant not to brook any turbulent glee
Or riotous flourish of loud jubilee !
So argued McFeeters, all grim and severe,
Who the long night before, with a feeling of
fear,
Hail slumbered but fitfully, hearing the
swish
Of the sky-rocket over his roof, with a wish
That the urchin who fired it were fast to the
end
Of the stick to forever and ever ascend :
Or to hopelessly ask why the boy with the
horn
And its horrible havoc had ever been born :
Or to wish, in his wakefulncss, glaring
aghast.
That this Fourth of July were as dead as the
last!
So, yesterday morning, McFeeters arose,
With a tire in his eye and a cold in his nose,
And a guttural vnii-r in appropriate Key.
With a temperas grutT as a temper could
be.
lie growled at the servant he met on the
stair
Meeause he was whistling a national air.
And he growled at the maid on the balcony,
who
Stood enrapt with the tune of "The lied.
White and Blue."
That a band was discoursing like mad in the
street,
With drumsticks that banged, and with
cymbals that beat.
And he growled at his wife, as she buttoned
his vest,
And applausively pinned a rosette on his
breast
Of the National colors, and lured fnm
purse
Some change for the boys for fin
and worse;
Ami she pointed with pride to a soldier in
blue,
In a frame on the wall, and the colors :
too;
And he felt, as he looked on the features, the
glow [ago.
The painter found there twenty long years
Ami a passionate thrill in his heart, as he
felt
Instinctively round for the sword in his belt.
What was it that hung like H mist o'er the
room ?-
The tumult without and the music the
boom [fife?
Of the cannon the blare of the bugle and
NI> matter! McF -t.-rs was kiwing his wife.
And laughing and < ryingand wa\ ing his hat
Like a genuine soldier and crazy at ti
Hut it's needless to say 'twas a glorious
And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way
That our forefathers have H nee the hour of
the birth
Of this most patriotic Republic on earth!
990
POEMS OF JAMES WHITCOMB KILEY.
AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album
all alone
And muses on the faces of the friends that
he has known,
So I turn the leaves of fancy till in shadowy
design
I find the smiling features of an old sweet-
heart of mine.
The lamplight seems to glimmer with a
flicker of surprise,
As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in
my eyes;
And I light my pipe in silence, save a sigh
that seems to yoke
Its fate with my tobacco, and to vanish in
the smoke.
'Tis a fragrant retrospection for the loving
thoughts that start
Into being are like perfumes from the blos-
soms of the heart;
And to dream the old dreams over is a lux-
ury divine,
When my truant fancy wanders with that
old sweetheart of mine.
Though I hear, beneath my study, like a flut-
tering of wings,
The voices of my children, and the mother
as she sings,
I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me
any theme
When care has cast her anchor in the harbor
of a dream.
In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds
a charm
To spice the good a trifle with a little dust
of harm
For I find an extra flavor in memory's mel-
low vine
That makes me drink the deeper to that old
sweetheart of mine.
A face of lily beauty and a form of airy
grace,
Floats out of my tobacco as the genie from
the vase;
And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of
azure eyes,
As glowing as the summer and as tender as
the skies.
I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little
checkered dress
She wore when first I kissed her and she an-
swered the caress
With the written declaration that " as surely
as the vine
Grew 'round the stump, she loved me " that
old sweetheart of mine.
And again I feel the pressure of her slender
little hand
As we used to talk together of the future we
had planned
When I should be a poet, and with nothing
else to do
But write the tender verses that she set the
music to.
When we should live together in a cosy little
cot
Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden
spot,
Where the vines were ever fruitful and the
weather ever fine
And the birds were ever singing for that old
sweetheart of mine.
When I should be her lover forever and a
day,
And she my faithful sweetheart till the gold-
en hair was gray;
And we should be as happy that when cither's
lips were dumb
They would not smile in Heaven till the
other's kiss had come.
*******
But, ah ! my dream is broken by a step upon ,
the stair,
And the door is softly opened, and my
wife is standing there !
Yet with eagerness and rapture all my vis-
ions I resign
To greet the living presence of that old
sweetheart of mine.
T1LK
OH, the drum !
There is some
Intonation in thy grum
Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit
dumb,
As we hear
Through the clear
And unclouded atmosphere,
The rumbling palpitations roll in upon the
ear!
There's a part
Of the art
Of thy music-throbbing heart,
That thrills a something in us that awakens
with, a start.
And in rhyme
With the chime
And exactitude of time
Goes marching on to glory to thy melody
sublime.
And the guest
Of the breast
That thy rolling robs of rest
Is a patriotic spirit as a Continental dressed ;
And he looms
From the glooms
Of a century of tombs,
And the blood he spilled at Lexington in
living beauty blooms.
And his eyes
Wear the guise
Of a nature pure and wise;
And the love of them is lifted to a something
in the skies
That is bright,
Red and white,
With a blur of starry light.
As it laughs in silken ripples to the bi
day and night.
There are deep
Hushes creep
O'er the pulses as they leap.
And the murmur, fainter growing, on tin-
silence falls asleep:
08
While the prayer
Rising thriv
Wills the sea and earth and air
As a heritage to Freedom's sons and daugh-
ters e \i-ry\vl,
Then with sound
As profound
As the thunderings resound,
Come the wild reverberations in a throe that
shakes the ground,
And a cry
Flung on high
Like the flag it flutters by,
Wings rapturously upwards till it nestles in
the sky.
BABYHOOD.
HEIGH-HO, Babyhood ! Tell me where you
linger;
Let's toddle home again, for we have gone
astray
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me
by the tinircr
Back to the lotus lands of the Far-away!
Turn liaek the leaves of life don't read the
story
Let's find the pii-tures and fancy all the
reel :
W- ran fill the written pa-res with a brighter
glory
Than old Time, the story-teller. at hi.-
bertl
Turn to the brook where the honeysuckle.
tipping
OVr its vase of perfume, spills it on the
bra
Ami the Itees ami humming birds in ecatafy
ripping,
in the f.iirv flagons of the bloon
locust trees.
992
POEMS OF ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.
Turn to the lane where we used to " teeter-
totter,"
Printing little foot-palms in the mellow
mould
Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the
water
Where the ripples dimple round the but-
tercups of gold.
Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the
gravel
Of the sunny sand bar in the middle tide.
And the ghostly dragon fly pauses in his
travel
To rest like a blossom where the water-lily
died.
Heigh-ho, Babyhood! Tell me where you
linger;
Let's toddle home again, for we have gone
astray
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me
by the finger
Back to the lotus lands of the Far-away.
THE MAID OF ERIN.
METHOUGHT I saw her, beauteous, stand
Where day-beams darkened down the west ;
A golden harp was in her hand,
The sunburst sparkled on her breast ;
And round about her shining hair
Was twined a wreath of shamrocks fair.
Serenely framed, in robes of snow,
Betwixt the glowing sky and sea,
A rosy splendor seemed to flow
From out her wind-blown drapery;
And lissom form and lovely face
Were full of rare majestic grace.
" 0, peerless Beauty! Maiden sweet! "
I, kneeling, cried, with outstretch'd arms;
" The sea lies docile at thy feet ;
The world is captive to thy charms;
The lights of heav'n around thee shine,
The glory of the earth is thine I"
But lo ! a voice in far-off tones,
That pierced the distance clear and low :
" 0, child of Erin's martyred sons
Why dost thou mock me in my woe ?
Draw nearer still, and, closer, see
The glory earth hath given to me ! "
Ah! then with strangely throbbing heart,
And forehead damp with falling dew,
I tore the veil of mist apart
That shut the Maiden from my view,
And saw her as she truly stood,
Her feet and ankles bathed in blood !
Around her temples, pure and grand,
A crown of thorns was tightly press'd;
A cross was in her bleeding hand,
A lance embedded in her breast;
And thro' her white robe flowed a tide
Of blood drops from her virgin side.
I could but kneel ana kiss her feet
All mangled, like a broken flower.
Surpassing fair, surpassing sweet,
She seemed to me that solemn hour;
For, in her stigmas, faith descried
The red wounds of the Crucified.
" 0, more than martyr ! Joy or fame
What boots it all," I cried, " to thee ?
More blest art thou in grief and shame,
Than in earth's false felicity.
Heiress of wounds and woes divine,
The glory of the Lord is thine !"
POEMS OF JOIIX LOCKE.
THE DEATH OF THE LILY.
TIIK lily died last night:
I heard a whisper tremble from the mere,
I marked the crescent of the rou ml in-: year,
Pale from the mellow lustre of its light.
I saw the lily dead :
Her floating bier of reeds and woven grass;
Her shroud a moonbeam, and her requiem
mass
The hollow music from the wiPows shed.
AVliile all the rushy things
That grow and green beside a summer
mere,
Wailed thro' the glamour of the atmos-
phere
An anthem, as on airy cither-strings
The lily slowly rocked
In the dim light upon the grassy pool,
Fragile and pure, funereal and cool,
Her waxen lids in deadly slumber lock'd.
Oh, grieving heart of mine!
(I said, with tears), Oh, friends! that
mourn with me,
The legend of the soul's lost purity
Is written in the lily's swift decline.
Take ye the idle pen,
And let me weep until the purple dawn;
A something pure from out my life has
gone,
And it can never, never come again!
POEMS OF JOHN LOCKE.
MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST.
[ The incident which prompted the writing of the following;
lines was related to the author l>y a friend on his return to
America from a visit to Ireland. On the voyage over the
American gentleman made the acquaintance of an old Irish-
man, who, in his frank and candid way, told him that he had
been thirty years in the States, and that he was then going
home to spend the evening of his life amid the scenes of
his boyhood. The old man's deep anxiety to see Ireland
once more made the author's friend take a special inter-
est in him. The night before the boat reached tin- IrKli
shore they both remained on deck, and as thodawning broke
they were rewarded for their weary vigil by beholding the
dim outlines of the Irish coast. The sight awakened the
old man's slumbering enthusiasm, and his first impassioned
* \< Lunation was : "The top <' the niornin' to you, Ireland,
alanua ! " ]
THAN-A-MO-DHIA! but there it is!
The dawn on the hills of Ireland-
God's angels lifting the night's black veil
From the fair, sweet face of my sireland ;
Ireland! isn't it grand you look,
Like a bride in her rich adornin'.
And with all the pent-up l\e of my heart
I bid you the top >' the niornin'.
This one brief hour pays lavishly back
For many a year of mourning;
I'd almost venture another flight
There's so much joy in returning
Watching out for the hallowed shore,
All other attractions scorniif :
Ireland! don't you hear me shout
I bid you the top o' the niornin'!
Ho, ho! upon Cleana's shelving strand
The surges are grandly beating;
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out
To give us the kindly greeting.
In to the shore the sea-birds fly
On pinions that know no drooping,
And out from the cliffs with welcome charged,
A million of waves come trooping.
kindly, generous Irish land,
So leal and fair and loving,
No wonder the wandering Celt should think
And dream of you in hid roving!
The alien home may have p-ms and gold,
Shadows may never have gloomed it.
Hut the heart will sigh for the absent land
Where the love-lights first ilium Vd it.
And doesn't old Cove look charming there,
Watching the wild waves' motion.
Leaning her hack up iiirainrt the hills.
And the tips <>f her toe* in thu ocean?
994
POEMS OF JOHN LOCKE.
I wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells
Oh, maybe their chiming's over,
For it's many a year since I began
The life of a AVestern rover !
For thirty summers, astliore macliree,
Those hills I now feast my eyes on
Ne'er met my vision, save when they rose
Over memory's dim horizon.
E'en so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed
In the landscape spread before me;
But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would
ope
To see Texas' sky still o'er me.
Oh, oft upon the Texan plains,
When the day and the chase were over,
My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave
And around this coast line hover!
And the prayer would rise that some future
day
All danger and doubting scornin',
I might help to win for my native land
The light of young Liberty's mornin'.
Now fuller and truer the shore-line shows
Was ever a scene so splendid ?
I feel the breath of the Munster breeze
Thank God that my exile's ended !
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again,
The vale and the cot I was born in!
<0 Ireland ! up from my heart of hearts
I bid you the top o' the mornin'.
THE WIDOW'S FAREWELL TO HER
SON.
WELL, Shamus, may God be with you,
And give me your parting kiss
Through all the troubles and changes
I thought 'twould ne'er come to this !
But you'll think of me sometimes, Shamus,
When over the stormy sea
When the waves of the windy ocean
Are rolling 'twixt you and me.
Yes! you'll think of me, Shamus darling,
When far from the lonely glen,
Though I never may hear your footsteps
Or look in your face again.
For I know they'll bury me, Shamus,
Down deep in the churchyard clay,
When the wintry winds are sweeping,
And ma bouclial's far away!
I thought you'd be near me, Shamus,
When the long, long weary years
Should bow my head with their burdens
Of sorrows and anxious fears.
But you're going away mavourneen,
And I never shall see you more;
When I'm dying sure you'll be roaming
Far off on the stranger's shore.
Away in some crowded city,
Or down by the silent sea,
Longing, alas! but vainly,
For message or word from me;
But some of the kind old neighbors
Will write to you o'er the sea,
To tell you my heart and pulses
Are stilled astor macliree.
Then, if ever you come back, Shamus,
Come back o'er the ocean wave,
Won't you steal in the hush of the twilight,
To visit my lonely grave ?
You know the spot in the churchyard
Where they'll lay me down to rest,
Just under the slender hazel,
With my feet to the starry west.
Now, Shamus, may God be with you,
When over the stormy sea,
And remember ould Ireland always
Wherever your home may be.
And you won't forget me, darling,
When far on the stranger's shore,
Ma boj;chal, my heart is breaking,
And I never shall see you more.
POEMS OF JOHN I.oi K K.
A THOUSAND LEAGUES FROM CAR
LOW TOWN.
[Scene: Castle Garden. N,-\\ York.]
ALONG the cold, dark city's streets
The wind of wild November blew,
And cloud and vapor thick and gray,
Hid all the sky's o'erurching blue,
When thus I heard a maiden fair,
In sad and tender accents say :
"Ah, me! they little think at home
How lonely I am here to-day."
Methought I heard her voice before,
Her face was like a face I knew;
So from the heartless crowd I turned
For I, oft touched by sorrow, too,
Knew how to feel for others' woes,
For hearts that joy but seldom bless'd
And oft had found a sweet relief
In soothing souls by anguish press'd.
And thus I said : " Hast thou, sweet maid,
Along the path of sorrow trod
Sad wandered o'er the desert ways,
Thy pilgrim staff, strong hope in God ? "
Her white hand trembled as she spoke,
And meekly bow'd her Grecian head,
And o'er her cheek the first faint flush
Of early April roses spread :
" No sorrow dimmed my girlhood's days;
The desert ways were strange to me,
Till from my own f;iir country home
I turned and came across the sea.
A fond, fond mother cared me then,
But she no more shall kiss my brow,
For when I left her poor heart broke
She sleepeth in God's acre now !
" I lived a league from Carlow town,
Just near the Barrow's winding tide;
And often in the summer eves
I roamed along its woody side.
The throstle through the twilight hours
Sang softly from the hazel tr
And every wind that stirred the flow'rs
Flung fragrance 'round my love and me.
"As on the Lora's deek I stood,
Tin- sadness came that brought unrest;
And then the winds that filled her sails
Quenched joy's last flame within my breast
And now unknown, un cared for In
I weary wander up ami down
The grief and hunger at my heart,
A thousand leagues from Carlow town,"
I told her tristful tale to one,
\\ hose heart had ne'er heard sorrows
moan,
But down her cheek the round tear rolled,
As if the sorrow were her own.
Then from the cold November wind,
In from the darkness and the rain,
We bore the lonely, wandering one,
And strove to make her blithe again.
But woe is me! the sickness came,
HT trembling voice grew faint and weak;
The lilies faded on her breast,
The roses paled upon her cheek.
She drooped and languished day by day,
The grief and fever kept her down:
And with th' old memories next her heart
She died far, far from Carlow town.
MILKINfi-TIMF.
GKEEN* were the meadows and blue was th
sky,
Soft o'er the harebells the Juno wind was
blowing;
A wave-sounding songlet. the river n.ll,-,
And close to us Brindle and Dhrimin
lowing.
They knew it wan milkinir-tinie so did we
both:
But as well mipht we strive t<* prevent the
stream flowinir.
As try to shake off Love's Arcadian ninth.
Though all the oM e..ws in the kingdom
were lowing.
996
POEMS OF JOHN LOCKE.
out,
The corncrake's cry sounded shrill from
the hollow;
And Brindle and Dhrimin grown weary no
doubt
Moved lazily homeward ere we rose to
follow.
O darling, my heart in the love-lighted rays
Of that eve if it could would for cen-
turies dally;
I'd surrender a year of these soul-dulling days
For another such hour in that Ossory Val-
ley.
But a wearisome way lies between me to-
night
And the scene of that evening's celestial
enjoyment;
I can only write of it ah ! if I could write
All I feel, this dull pen had meet bardic
employment.
We, too, are apart there's a bridgeless ravine
'Twixt the pathways we tread; yet your
heart will not wonder
Why mine is close linked to that long-van-
ished e'en,
By a tie that no time or mutation can sun-
der.
SONG OF THE IKISH MOUNTAINEER.
HUKRAH, men, hurrah, for the wild Irish
hills,
Where the brown heath and green fern
grow,
Where the iron cliffs frown o'er the long,
level plains,
And the bright bounding rills ever flow,
Where the peasants leap bravely along the
gray rocks,
While the tempest-shout rings loud and
clear,
And the eagle soars proudly the tall crags
above
Hurrah, I'm a wild mountaineer.
I'm a wild mountaineer, and the hills are my
home,
And the deep hollow cavern my bed,
Where the dark-frowning limestone and
brown granite arch
The crystalline dome overhead.
I care for no master, no landlord I own,
In battle no foeman I fear;
Hurrah, then hurrah, for the mountains
again,
And the life of the wild mountaineer.
When our fathers, o'erwhelmed in patriot
strife,
Saw their standard go down on the plain,
'Twas here to the mountains they came to
recruit
Their ranks and their vigor again.
And when Freedom's glad clarion shall sum-
mon once more
Our kindred to shoulder their spears,
The first to respond and the last to retreat
Will, I ween, be our brave mountaineers.
Then hurrah, men, hurrah, for the wild Irish
hills,
Where the brown heath and green fern
grow,
Where the iron cliffs frown o'er the long,
level plains,
And the bright, bounding rills ever flow.
Where the tall lithe-limbed peasants are
hardy and strong,
And cherish through each changing year,
The fame of the fathers who died long ago
Hurrah, I'm a wild mountaineer.
POEMS OF MRS, JOHN LOCKE,
(MARY COOKEY.)
ECHOES THAT CHRISTMAS BKIV,>.
THERE was never a day in the stretch of
years,
That has dawned and died since I left thy
shore,
My land of the manifold trials and tears,
That some thought of thee was not wafted
o'er
Old Ocean's tide, to my throbbing heart,
From the rural haunts where the hawthorns
bloom,
Where lovers loiter, so loth to part,
In the lingering twilight's favoring gloom.
To-night, from Memory's silent deeps
Scenes from my youth's old home arise
Fair pictures from Fancy's highest steeps
Are thronging before my tear-dimmed
eyes;
While I sit and muse, in my dreamy way,
Of that dear Green Isle, and her matchless
charms,
I curse the hand and the despot sway
That have forced me out of her fondling
arms.
For, of all the lands on this fair, wide earth,
With their countless beauties of sea and
sky,
The one that cradled and gave us birth
Should be ours to live in, and there to die,
But, alas! for that long-afflicted land.
Whose rich-loamed fields such treasures
hold,
She's still the prey of an alien band.
Who turn the fruit of her womb to gold.
No spiritless hours filled my girlhood's days:
O'er steepest mountain, through deepest
glen,
Rang echoes of stirring, rebellious lays,
When the land was alive with stalwart
men
Men with the quick, hot pulse of youth.
Bound by the ties of brotherhoods vows
With souls of honor, and hearts of truth.
Dauntless bosoms, and Godlike browg.
Not theirs the blame if the effort failed :
They fought against desperate odds and
fate.
The right went under and might prevail.-.;;
But they kind led the fires of a stubborn hate.
They woke the land from her languid tram -e,
And quickened the pulse they found so low;
And taught her to gaze, with a sharpened
glance,
Square in the face of her planning foe.
Now, cast with the rest of her scattered race,
Found far and wide 'neath the blue of
heaven.
Still eager as ever the foe to face
Is that veteran remnant of Sixty-seven:
And some in death's eold, dreamless sleep
Are laid in this friendly soil to re
And some were borne back over tin-
To their long last home on Ireland's breast.
wonderful land, by the wind-swept
My first true love in the long ago,
Made dear by many sweet bonds to me
Are thy lied<:e-rinnned haunts where wild
rcses blow!
Thou haM -triv-rs. now,ofthe purest mould
Though lacking the lire of that Fenian
time
And under their ^uide. untiring and bold.
May Liberty's belU ring their cheeriest
eliinie.
Tis Christmas night, while I build my
dreams
Of a future bright for our beauteous i-1- .
And paint her li.-lds and her (lowing streams
Illumed by the li/ht of Freedom's smile.
9!) 8
POEMS OF MRS. JOHN LOCKE (MART COONEY).
That the Yule log's glow, with the conflict's
cease,
May find on her features no trace of tears;
And her Christmas times, with good cheer
and peace,
Be blithe as they were in her happiest
years !
CHRISTMAS MEMORIES.
I PICTURE the old folks to-night, not cheerful,
But silently sad by a lonesome hearth,
Gloomily musing with grave eyes tearful
On the sorrows and losses of earth.
What a picture of life before them passes !
What a host of memories must arise !
Forms all damp from the graveyard grasses,
To sadden their sombre eyes.
They'll think of the absent ones they scolded,
In the hope of bending the strong self-will ;
And then of the dead, with fair hands folded,
Lying so white and still.
They'll remember them all, whate'er their
number,
They'll pass and repass as the fire-light
glows
The exiled waifs and those that slumber
In peace where the shamrock grows.
Ah ! Christmas-time is a time for thinking
When snows are deep and the frost winds
keen
When the last red beam of the sun is sinking
'Xeath the sea with a stormful sheen.
The fire's red hollows fill up with faces,
All young and fresh as the dawn of May;
But out from the glowing mystic spaces,
There soundeth no laughter gay.
Oh ! if the wings of love would bear me
Home to-night o'er the bounding main,
I would steal so soft that they would not hear
me,
And peer through the window pane.
But my soul would be sorely smitten
If the place were dark and the hearthstone
drear,
There may be a change, for they have not
written
A word in more than a year.
Ah! when the cares of life come crushing
In our own lives from every side,
With wave after wave of trouble rushing
O'er the soul like a foaming tide
Folk cannot write with a doleful story
Of their long, hard struggles they send no-
word,
But Christmas comes with its snow flakes
hoary,
And memory's pulse is stirred.
The heart goes back with an old-time longing
To the home that sheltered it long ago;
And a thousand tremulous thoughts come
thronging
Each with an odor of mistletoe.
And it matters not how our spirits are
maimed
How our lives with troubles be fraught
A father or mother's face comes framed,
In the heart of a tender thought.
CIS-ATLANTIC MUSING.
ONLY three years; yet it seems an age
Of yearning heart-love and care
Since I've heard in my own land the New
Year's chimes
Peal out on the midnight air
Out o'er the frost-crisped hills and fields,
Away to the farthest bounds
Of echo's reach, from the beautiful bells
Rolled a volume of glorious sounds.
Only three years since I stepped from the
shore,
When new day, with bright hopes reborn,
Burst in golden shafts 'tween the sapphire bars-
Of the eastern gates of morn; .
POEMS OF MRS. JOHN LOCKK (MAK'V COONEY).
I sailed away o'er the blue, cold sea,
Yet no fear in my breast would rise.
For what or for whom had I periled my life
And sundered its sweet home ties ?
I was happy at home till my soul was stirred
And my thoughts took a wider range,
And my dreams went out o'er the unseen
waves
To a new world, vast and strange.
'Twas like as my life grew twofold, and one
Was struggling with tortured breast,
While the other one roamed in restless search
Far out in the crimsoned West.
What cared I that life from one's land and
kin
Was bitter or hard to bear
Comprising many a heart-pang sore
And many a sad, salt tear ?
My life was lost in a love unknown,
That in welcoming gladness smiled,
Waiting my advent. I seemed to be
Obeying an impulse wild.
I leaned on the rails of the steamer's deck,
Looking back o'er the stretch of sea
That was distancing far my native land
And all that was dear to me.
Had I cheated myself into the belief
That no sorrow my soul oppressed
That there must be another love somewhere
More potent than all the rest ?
Now my life is linked with that new-found
life
Whether for weal or woe
For him, for me, as Time's wheel whirls
round,
The gathering years must show.
We must have our trials and our struggles,
too,
But the future fair days may hold.
He's wise and sometimes wild, hut. <>h!
At heart he's as good as gold.
And there's never a cloud on his cheerful face,
Nor gloom in his hopeful eyes,
So clear and keen that their depths of blue
Seem borrowed from May-day sk.
Ami the laugh leaps up from his genial 1.
So careless and void of guile,
As he mirthfully tells me for richer times
I must wait for a little while.
Well, we have wealth in each other's love,
and so
Let the years their shadows fling
Upon our brows, with their winter snows;
In our hearts can be always spring;
And out on the starry midnight air,
O'er the old land's vales and dells,
We'll hear again, in glad, glorious tones,
The peal of the New Year's bells.
ELLIE.
I WAS 1 1 ream ing so strangely of Ellie dream-
ing of Ellie all night;
She comes to me always in trouble, looking
so tearful and white.
Ellie was handsome and haughty, seeming so
stately and cold;
But Ellie was truthful and tender her heart
was a treasure of gold.
Ellie and I were children only two years
between;
Children and girls together. Ah! Ellie was
proud as a queen ;
I was studious and thoughtful more like a
woman than child,
Wistful and wise as a fairy Ellie was
thoughtless and wild.
Ellie was fair, with a fairness of face so pecu-
liarly sweet
That, in all my sad, wearisome wandering,
one like her I never could in.
But, prone like a blight-stricken lily, slowly
bent the proud, beautiful head.
And the pure sjiirit soared from earth's j<:
Ellie, our sister, was dead.
Twas the first time death came to our house-
hold: and, oh! in her freshness and
bloom.
In the llower o; developing fairness, young
M u'gie was marked for the tomb.
1000
POEMS OF MRS. JOHN LOCKE (MARY COONEY).
Ere the fourth moon had rounded to fulness
and the tears at our loss were scarce
dried,
'Neath the green, swampy sward of old Mot-
hill the sisters were laid side by side.
Ellie sleeps under the shamrocks, fondly
clasped to old Motherland's breast;
But she comes to me over the ocean when-
ever my soul is oppress'd;
For Ellie had love that was stronger than
death, when those loved were in strife;
Ellie 's well cared for in heaven, and I I'm
a world-anxious wife.
In the home of my heart and my youthhood,
the land of my sorrow and pride,
With a mother's love lighting me onward, it
was not my luck to have died;
There was exile and troubles before me, and
work I was given to do;
Ellie and Maggie are cared for, but I have
my trials to go through.
A PATRICK'S DAY GIFT.
Written, while Residing in the Old Country, to
a Very Dear Friend then in America.
As a token of the friendship,
Ever fresh, that fills my heart,
To mine eyes that oft, while toiling,
Cause the trembling tears to start;
I have culled for thee a bouquet,
Bright of heaven's own radiant sheen;
'Tis a tiny bunch of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
Other hands for thee may gather
Flowers of fondness, rosebuds fair,
Blue forget-me-nots, sweet violets,
Carnations red, geraniums rare,
Such as tell of love tales tender;
Still from me, with smile serene,
Take this little gift of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
From the hillside where, in youthhood,
Thou hadst loved always to roam,
I have gleaned them while the dewdrop
Laved, like tears, the sparkling loam,
To bring back to thee of old times
Every fond, familiar scene;
Take my little gift of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
Kiss them once before they wither,
Press them closely to thy heart;
Breathe one blessing on the giver,
Faithful still, though far apart;
And for sake of Erin mother,
Crownless crushed, though beauteous
queen,
Wear rny tiny bunch of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
I might cull for thee of field flowers,
Purple harebell, primrose mild,
And the golden-bosomed daisy,
Yellow cowslip, leaflets wild;
But of hope, of truth, of fondness,
Sweeter souvenir, I ween,
Is my little gift of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
Reaching thee from fair Kilkenny,
Will they not thy fond soul charm?
Oh, to hear the words of greeting,
Gushing from thy brave heart warm.
From one loved haunt where thou hast wan-
dered
Oft at sunset's glorious e'en
Gathered I this gift of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
'Tis a trifling boon to send thee,
But as emblems of esteem,
Of a friendship ever verdant,
Not the memory of a dream;
As a pledge of truth untarnished,
With no shadow on its sheen,
Take my tiny bunch of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
From the dear old place of trysting,
With great love, tear-laden eyes,
Thou wilt hail them fondly, proudly,
And look on them as a prize;
With my own heart's holiest yearning, .
Love, as in life's spring-time, keen,
Take my trifling gift of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
I'OKMS OF I;ICIIAI;I> MX. HALE
1001
Once, in girlish mirth, I gave thee,
Gathered from a wayside hedge,
Shrinkingly some pale primroses,
Of youth's early griefs a pledge;
And to-day, as emblems tender.
Of the love no cloud could screen,
Take my tiny bunch of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
Sorrow came in silent anguish,
Swift and burning flowed my tears,
And the bright young brow grew clouded,
Shadowed as it still appears:
But as types of truth, unchanging,
That will be hath always been,
Take my little gift of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
Life was sweet while thou wcrt near me,
Oh, what deep-felt joy was mine:
Though I t rein 1 -led, scarcely
Lifting my drooped eyes to thine:
Of those days as dear mementoes.
I, heart bounding, stooped to -l.-an,
Fresh for thee this gift of shamrocks
Blooming beautiful and green.
Reverently they now remind me
How, unfearing tyrant laws,
Thou, with patriot soul unflinching,
Toiled unwearying in the cause;
Then, for love of Erin mother,
Chained and bowed 'neath sufferings keen,
Wear to-day my gift of shamrocks,
Blooming beautiful and green.
POEMS OF RICHARD MacHALE.
A LOST FRIEND..
A TIME-PIECE was the gift a cherished friend
Once gave me, saying, when I ceased to
care
For it, 'twould show my love had run its end.
And I received the present and did swear
That, while its hands my own had power to
move,
The gift would be to me most fondly dear,
That e'en in this I would my friendship prove.
I gave the pledge and felt no tinge of fear.
The time-piece for a while it was my pride
To keep as I had vowed it would In- kept,
And, like my tongue, thus far it never lied,
And, like my love, it never, neu-r slept.
But richer friends soon stole my heart away,
And the vile treachery it seemed to know,
For in its cold, neglected pl.i.-e one day
It gave a mournful tick and censed to go.
And there corroded by long gathering r\\>\.
The once-prized token of affection st
Till I had power the new friends all to tru.-t.
And find that every one the trust 1-et rayed :
Too late then all my zealous care returi
For though a deep remorse had tilled my
heart.
The little clock my fond advances spurned.
It stopped just after I had made it start.
Ami when, affection beaming from his .
It pleased God that my olden friend should
come
And see the gift that I had sworn to pr
So voiceful of my vow and yet so dumb.
He turned from me as he would turn from
crime,
And slowly said: " 1 may not trust apiin.
For though my u'ift cannot record the time.
It can the treachery of faithless men."
I pleaded hard that my neglect WM brief,
And to forgive me begged him o'er and
I thought his love would come to my relief.
And make us friends as we had bet--
But though it seemed so for a little while.
Alas! it was not as my heart desir.
I MM rust e'er minted with his sunniest smile.
The love chords of his heart seemed worn
and tired.
1002
POEMS OF RICHARD MAcHALE.
And thus we drifted on apart, till now
Of all our love there lives no single ray,
And when we meet a civil word or bow
Tells of a friendship lightly thrown away
And it will ever, ever be the same,
For friendship is, as all mankind doth
prove,
A fragile mechanism in a fragile frame,
That stops if not kept active by the oil oJ
love.
TO A SHAMROCK.
Taken from the Martyrs' Tomb in Grlasnevin.
THOU art withered, little shamrock, and there
is no brightness in thee ;
Thou seemst desolate and stricken as the
land that gave thee birth,
But I know how loving exiles' hearts would
throb with joy to win thee,
And I view thee, little shamrock, as a gift
of priceless worth.
Thy tender leaves were gathered in that
graveyard o'er the ocean
Where the dust of Ireland's martyrs has
been laid away at rest ;
And cold, indeed, would be my heart and
wanting in devotion
If I failed to love and cherish such a sweet
and holy guest.
Thou art withered, little shamrock; so are
tongues that loved to praise thee
In the sweet and soulful music of our
bleeding mother land.
Thou art crumbling, little shamrock; so are
hands that sought to raise thee
To be emblem of the freest race 'neath
God's all-ruling hand.
Yes! thou'rt crumbling, little shamrock,
and ere many days pass o'er thee
None can tell that thou wert gathered
from dear Erin's sacred sod ;
So it is with noble hearts and true that loved
the land that bore thee
With a love as pure and holy as the love
they gave to God.
But those tongues and hands and true hearts,
though within the cold grave sleeping,
Have not lost the pow'r they wielded in a
holy cause on earth,
For as their glorious memory down time's
dark flood goes sweeping,
Once barren soil is watered and new pa-
triots have birth,
So with the little shamrock that an Irish
exile reaches :
It brings him back, in thought, to kith and
kin beyond the foam ;
Tis a messenger, a missioner that ever, ever
preaches
The doctrine that the faithful heart will
ever stay at home.
THE FALLEN.
BE bravely just and praise all good work done !
Be chary not of honor and applause
To those whose bold persistency has won
A Titan eloquence unto our cause.
But oh ! remember, too, the men who thought
That Liberty was worth its fullest cost ;
AVho through their chains and death a revo-
lution wrought
The men who fought and lost.
Remember what nobility was theirs,
In failure calm, unflinching to the last,
Charming the world, and leaving to their
heirs
A record that will never be surpassed.
What though they fell 'mid coward curse
and jeer,
What though in pauper graves their bones
were tossed,
Do not the humble mortals like to gods appear
Who battled thus and lost ?
God bless the humble graves where such men
rest,
For their deeds wakened up the world to
know
That you were of the sad ones and oppressed,
Their tragic fate brought comfort to your
woe.
POEMS OF 1,'KV. WM. -I. McCLURE.
And as you crown your victor chief with hays
When you unto the promised land have
crossed,
Oh! spare some flowery garlands and some
praise
For those who fought and lost.
I LONG TO SERVE MY LAND.
I CARE not to be high or
In martial deeds of fame.
Nor yet where statesmen congregate
To win a deathless name.
'Twas never my desire to be
By fortune's fair winds fanned
Enough this simple wish for me:
I long to serve my land.
It matters not the how or where,
In exile or at home,
Within my native village fair
Or far beyond the foam,
If but the friends, some future day,
Who round my tomb may stand
Can read that, in his humble way,
He loved and served his land.
THE MANLY M \
His words, a reflex of his la-art.
Are bold; and he will not he swa;
He scorns all diplomatic art
And cannot quibble or evade.
A holy love his guiding light.
This is his platform and his plan :
Speak always truth, do ever ri^ht
Say, is he not a manly man ?
Angered by even word or look
That might retard a hoped-for end,
Yet mildly yielding to rebuke.
If, haply, he himself offend.
In age as earnest as in youth.
For freedom ever in the van,
But never sacrificing truth
This seems to me a manly man.
These men, in love and hatred strong,
Add glory to our glorious cause,
Although they train not with the throng
And hear not often " loud applause."
They dare abuse as they would <la:v
The scaffold or the prison pen.
Ah! brothers, always speak with care
Of these unselfish, manly men.
POEMS OF KEY. WM. J. McCLURE,
THE CRUSHED ROSE.
A ROSE lay crushed upon the sod,
I'.v some unknown anil heedless heel
That o'er it ruthlessly had trod.
But could not all its beauty steal.
'Twas withering on the dew-damp ground.
Snatched from its life-providing stem:
Its sweet companions blushed around :
Though crushed and dead, 'twas one of
them!
A kindly hand preserved the rose,
And placed it in a casket fair:
A soft voice said: " Howe'er life flows,
'Twill prove a moral mentor t i
Unconscious was the reckless heel
That crushed the rose upon the sod;
It could not all the fragrance .-:
That drew another soul to (J>
THK SUMMKK KAIN.
A ni.KssiNu from <;<>d i> the Mimmer r
-lung the world, whose dryness is i
The earth woos the clouds when tired of tin
sun.
Whose love's too ardent ere summer is done.
And pleads for affection tempered by tears,
For shadow mingled with shimmer of years.
1004
POEMS OF REV. WM. J. McCLURE.
merciful rain! the verdure is drenched,
And the thirst of panting nature is quenched.
Man looks o'er his fields of tillage revived,
The landscape shines forth like a sinner
shrived;
The brooks are aflow and the full streams run
Through scenes lit again by earth's glory
the sun.
MOORE'S CENTENARY.
May 28th, 1879.
A HUNDRED years ago a bard was born on
Irish ground,
A hundred years have passed, and as a bard
he is renowned;
His birth is marked in history, his fame in
verse and prose,
By countrymen, by . foreign pen, the world
his title knows.
With wreath of poesy is crowned that singer
of true song,
That lovers of sweet melody hath moved to
pleasure long,
And Thomas Moore is full secure in memory
stretching far
Whereto the future promises no black obliv-
ion's bar.
No songster else more varied or more tuneful
was than Moore:
Burns' tenderness, Heine's beauty and Be-
ranger's fire allure,
Yet other lands of South or North the
farthest and the near
In brimming minstrelsy, they've not the Irish
singer's peer.
The moods of joy and grief and love, of
battle and of peace,
He sang in strains that have not ceased, nor
will, till chaos cease;
For they're taken up from heart to heart
from lip to lip their tone
Is sounded, till the stranger feels the charm
as 'twere his own !
A loving touch was Thomas Moore's that the
harp of Erin thrilled;
With the presence of his music the Irish
breast is filled;
'Twas caught from ancient ballad -tunes, 'twas
gathered as fine gold
From the deep-enriching mine of song from
Erin's heart of old.
Thus, while we wander back in thought
throughout a hundred years,
We mark the great and master-bard, e'en
through his country's tears,
And raise the voice of praise, and pray that
ever may endure
The memory of the Irishman and poet
Thomas Moore!
THE SHAMROCK AND LAUREL.
THERE'S a lofty love abounding
In the emblem of a land ;
There's a fellowship, confounding
The evil mind and hand,
In the token of a nation,
In the flow'ret of a race;
And a multiform oblation
Is lifted by the grace
And patriotism of millions
To the hearthstones, homes and hamlets
Where gush the native fountains;
To the valleys, groves and streamlets,
The cities and the mountains
With a pride as high as Ilion's!
As the Lily was the glory
Of the olden flag of France,
As the Rose illumes the story
Of Albion's advance
In the Shamrock is communion
Of all Irish faith, and love,
And the Laurel crowns the union
Of grandeurs interwove
Round the temple of the chainless
To the Laurel fill libations,
The cup with Shamrocks wreathing;
And before the monarch nations
Raise the symbol-breathing
Equal Rights to lordling's gainless !
I'OKMS OF .IAMl-> MUM'IIY.
1005
Interweave the lowly Shamrock,
Freedom's Laurel to endow:
Ay, unite with Ireland's Shamrock
Columbia's Laurel-bough
For there's hope and help unchary
Columbia's skies beneath,
And from ev'ry cliff and prairie
To Erin's hills of heath,
Salutations clear and cheerful
Resound across the ocean,
And Celts, in might increasing,
With patriot-emotion,
Vow in their souls unceasing:
" We will aid thee, Mother tearful ! "
SAINT PATRICK'S CATHEDRAL,
New York.
THE cause of God ennobles every work
Done for His glory. In far times and deeds
Rose the vast basilicas, and the seeds
Planted through Christ's blood had generous
fruitage,
Despite the wars of heretic and Turk.
How is it with the Church in this proud age?
Her children for her altars plant founda-
tions,
Erect the column and place the capital,
Till high the cross-crowned spire invites
the nations.
There rises o'er Manhattan a cathedral,
Venerable, yet new, of Gothic beauty.
It is a mark of holy love and duty;
'Tis a splendor, resting on earth in blessing,
Pointing to Heaven Christian Faith -on-
f easing.
EASTER LI Li:
WHAT may we offer to the Lord arisen,
To Him most precious, sweet and beaut,
ous?
Our hearts, all purified, like lovely lilies,
Our hearts, in God's attachment duteous.
Some flowers that grow beside an earthly
river
Are emblems of men's thoughts and yearn-
ings
Of human griefs and modesty of living
Of sensual and heavenward burnings.
brothers, sisters of the race of Adam,
Select your gifts from earth's bright floral
Yet gather nothing for your Lord eternal
That breathes not of His grace and moral.
Bring ye forth lilies of your hearts to give
Him,
Tokens of freedom from sin's fetter:
Ami, as they never fade in this life's winter,
They'll fructify unto a Better!
POEMS OF JAMES MURPHY,
THE ADVENT OF THE MILl->IA\s.
THE GIFT OF TIN: (JAKI.K 1 TO
THE summer sun is streaming o'er many a
galley tall,
Where Eastern wave, by Syrian coast, builds
up of foam a wall ;
Ami bright the golden streak of rays that
marks the vessels' track,
And bright the sheen of summer light tin-
parted wave gives back.
But brighter far the lines of light from wav. -n
swords that gleam.
And brighter still of hi^'h resolve in warrior
eyes the beam:
As from the galley's sun-lit decks into the
trmple's irloom
Pass armed hosts with plum-injj helm and
wave of tossing plum. !
Thr sacred shrine above them the spreading
sea before
Tin- silken sniN. a< \.-t unfurled, their wait-
ing galleys bore
POEMS OF JAMES MURPHY.
In shrouding mist and silence none dared
to whisper then !
Await the God of Destiny a thousand bearded
men.
No arching roof or canopy o'erspreads the
temple where
Before the awful shrine of Fate the mustered
warriors are
In solemn silent reverence the mystic words
of fate
From the High-priest of Prophecy the plumed
chiefs await.
A leader stands before them, whose broad
and ample breast
In mantling folds of purple cloth by kingly
right is drest;
A head above the tallest, his helm, athrough
the mist,
Beams bright as day with diamond and gleam
of amethyst !
That sword he bears, in Babylon from royal
hand he tore;
That golden circlet on his arm the regal
Pharaoh wore;
The diamonds on his sword-hilt, that gleam
like liquid fire,
Once graced the golden shrines above the
idol-gods of Tyre.
A warrior he of warrior race, Assyria owned
his sway ; *
His iron-bauds through Scythia tore their
resistless way;
And women wailed in Egypt, and cities lay
as lone
As Isis in the desert, when once his flag was
flown!
But leave he must ! The fabled isle, the an-
cient seer foretold f
In burning words of prophecy whose hills
were throned in gold
* See O'Mahony's " Keating." pp. 178-9.
I' Caicer,' 1 a principal Druid among the Gadelians [a kin-
dred race of the Milesians], informed them by his prophetic
knowledge that there was no country ordained for them to
inhabit until they arrived on the coast of a certain western
isle meaning thereby Ireland. Keating's Ancient Irish
History,
Whose streams were tuned to melody whose
shores with pearls were lined
And where the perfumes of the East sur-
charged the summer wind
Called him afar ! He cannot stay ! At night
the golden beams
That flooded that fair island-home, shone in-
ward on his dreams;
At day nor eastern wave he saw, nor eastern
land, nor sky
Along the golden rim of heaven sought out
that isle his eye!
And now, amid his followers, before the
shrine he stands
Before the unknown God that holds the fu-
ture in His hands
And a bright blessing prayeth he his fol-
lowers for, and on
That island-home, that fabled land, e're yet
his ships were gone.
The aged priest before them stands, the mys-
tic reed in hand :
"Milesius! Heber! Heremon! seek ye the
fabled land ?
My heart-strings rend at parting with grief
my breast is wrung
But a priceless gift I give thee: the Bless-
ing of the Tongue !
"A tongue for men to pray in to listening
gods on high,
A tongue whose ringing accents shall cheer
the brave to die
Meet, in the dark'ning even, when falls the
night above,
For red-lipped maids in Eire to speak the
words of love.
"A tongue wherein the Druid may worship
at the oak,
A tongue wherewith magician may hidden
spells evoke J
In airy mist at noonday shall her fair hills be
drest,
Or golden light shall deck her at eve at his
behest.
J The pagan Irish were enabled by their magic gifts to en-
shroud their enemies in a mist, whereby they were easily de-
feated. Keating.
POEMS OF JAMES .MUM'IIY.
"Its notes the flow shall rival of Eire's silver
streams,
Breathe it at night a benison falls on the
sleeper's dreams!
And angels' speech of sorrow (for ruined
souls) in bliss
Shall lose its tone of anguish when women
cry in this!"
The chieftain frowned in anger: "Not gift
like this," he said,
" Want we to stir the heart to love to sorrow
for the dead ;
For the brave heart to conquer, and the bright
blade to slay,
Shall win us woman's love, I trow let sorrow
those who may.
"Hast thou no other blessing?" "Hush!"
the aged seer replies,
" Than gleaming sword, or gallant heart, in
this more power lies;
Swords rust and throbbing hearts grow still,
but in this gift I give
Thy princely name and glorious deeds and
bright renown shall live !
"" Its kindling words shall valor feed within
thy children's breasts;
Its song shall prouder tribute be than heralds'
gleaming crests;
Its strains shall make their swords out flash
when dangers gather round;
And ever shall its clarion cheer o'er conquered
foe resound.
"Its trumpet tones in battle hour shall point
the lifted spear;
The battle-axe through surging foes shall
make a pathway clear;
For victory won its song of joy shall grace
the festive cup "
The sword-blades in their jewelled sheaths
came ringing swiftly up!
"But hand to hand unitedly on this condi-
tion rests
The mystic charm of victory that in this
blessing vests
Your ranks must join; your arms strike;
your valiant hearts must know
Nor treason nor disloyalty when dares your
strength the f<e:
" Else shall your pa?ans of victory be songs
of woe instead;
Else shall the conquering feet of foes above
your bravest tread;
Else shall but no! the perfumed breeze to
bear you hence away
Swells in your sails mine aged lips the rest
forbear to say ! "
He lifted high his trembling hands the
chieftains forward sprang
And, kneeling, with the clank of spears the
marble pavement rang;
A glorious sunburst flashed athrough the
temple's solemn glooms
A thousand swords outilashed! the air was
swept with tossing plumes!
Uprose the bannered lances, like lines of
tapered oaks;
Rang on the pave their sabres, like hammer-
ing forgeman's strokes :
A cheer arose! " The sunburst! The God of
Fate," they cried.
"Our banner in the golden sky with golden
light has dyed !
"Never to die that banner! Never that
tongue to die,
Till the warring world is voiceless, till the
sun dies in the sky:
Till the god-like gift of manhood dies out
from heart and veins.
And on the breast of Eire no son of our
remains.
"To the golden shores of Kirinn! To her
sun-lit hills!" The cry
In the mystic tongue, that now they spoke,
on the swelling breeze rose high,
And the silken sails and theeedar nuwta that
their tossing galleys bore,
On that Ka-trni \v.i\. . when the sun went
down, threw a shadow nevermore!
1008
POEMS OF JAMES MURPHY.
THE EXPULSION OF THE MOORS.*
'TWAS in Seville Cathedral; and many a
gorgeous hue,
The sunlight on the marble floor in chequered
tracery threw;
On carved screen and silver shrine, through
many a storied pane,
Pours, in all its wealth of glory, the golden
sun of Spain.
Nor Mass is said, nor organ peals therein this
harvest day,
Nor gather aught of worshippers before the
shrine to pray;
No prayers arise from kneeling forms for
mercy or for grace,
For penitent to armed men, and priest to
chief give place.
Sandalled and tonsured, mutely, with heads
and eyes bowed down,
The monks stand ranged in lengthening line
of sombre-colored brown,
While falls upon their listening ears, where
priests were wont to kneel,
The tread of armed warriors, the clank of
ringing steel !
" The Moor has passed the barrier ! " 'Twas
thus Count Maurice spake;
"And Spain from her long years of trance,
at length to life's awake;
Our King, with princely valor, the challenge
stout has ta'en,
And at his call are mustering the bravest
hearts of Spain.
" ' For Freedom and for Holy Church ! 'the
war cry has gone forth
From Seville and from Malaga unto the trusty
north;
Even now all Spain is gathering; and press-
ing southward fast,
The mountain chiefs of Arragon the Ebro's
wave have passed.
* This poem was intended t-o commemorate the call made
on the Irish people by SIB PHELIM O'NEIIX, in the great re-
bellion 1641; but, foi reasons, it took other shape during
composition, and appeared in this guise in the columns of
the Nation. Hence its appearance in these pages.
"Valencia sends her valiant lords with many
a gallant train ;
Never the cry for Liberty to Creuse has gone
in vain;
In every mountain gorge is heard of naked
steel the ring,
As Murcia pours her thousands forth to join
our Lord the King!
"The chivalry of old Seville have risen to
the call;
Count Alva's marching with his men from
Leon's seabound wall;
Bishops vacate their palaces; priests leave
the holy fane,
And mothers send their only sons to fight.
for God and Spain !
"Never since first the Moorish sword was
dyed in Spanish blood,
Never, since first the Crescent flag above our
fair land stood,
Never, since first a Spanish blade by Spanish
arm was bared,
The fight for home, with fairer chance, the
Spanish heart has dared.
"Will you stand still, when Spain is stirred ?
When Spain her children calls
To Freedom! will you dumb remain within
your convent walls ?
Will you not, like your brothers through
wide Iberia, bring
Your arms, to join at Toledo our sovereign
lord the King?"
With folded arms and bended heads the
monks unanswering stood;
Mayhap long years of solitude has chilled
their Spanish blood.
"Cloisters but ill teach nationhood- their
blood but sluggish flows
In coward veins," Count Maurice thought;
when slow the Abbot rose :
"For fifty years my life has passed within
these convent halls;
For fifty years the Mass I've said within these
sacred walls;
I'OKMS <>F .TAMKS MI'IMMIY.
1009
And not till now has vain regret within my
bosom stirred,
And not till now has passed my lips one vain
complaining word;
" But now I mourn my vanished strength I
mourn this palsied hand
Must fail to bear, when Spain has risen, the
soldier's warlike brand;
Else truly, as God breathed life into this
breast of clay,
And Spain gave of her generous strength,
mine arm were there to-day !
" The guerdon bright of those who tend the
sacred shrine is sure,
And their reward, exceeding great, will end-
less years endure;
The lives of those are blessed indeed whose
steps in peace have trod,
But they who fight for Home and Faith,
thrice blessed are of God!
"For He of old in Palestine, His chosen
leader gave
The stern command to smite the foe, and
none to spare or save;
At His behest the scimitar the gentle Judith
drew,
And Holofernes in his tent with* arm un-
shrinking slew.
At His behest did Gideon the tents of Midian
smite;
At His behest o'er Ajalon the sun stood in his
flight;
And Syrian hordes were scattered (as good
Elisius said)
When Samaria's sons, unconquered, swooned
on her walls for bread.
" What worse were they in Amaleck, whom
God's white wrath effaced,
Than those, of Moslem faith accursed, whose
swords our lands lay waste ?
Highest and holiest destiny the Spanish
heart may know,
To slay the foe and spare not! So, brothers,
arm and gol
"Not we not we the blood-shedders, but
they who seek our shame,
Who at their lying Prophet's call give our
fair homes to flame;
Yea! God will bless them lastingly who
fiercest strike the foe,
So, brothers, slay and fear not God bless
your arms and go ! "
Then from the forms uplifted, along the
brown-robed line,
Rang out a cheer that seemed to move Our
Lady's silver shrine:
And the brave cry the altars gave back with
echoing ring
"God speed the Spanish arms God bless
our Lord the King ! "
Doffed robes of brown doffed cincture grey
of cloistered life all trace;
And cuirass bright, and belted sword, and
spear, supply their place,
Showing to all (lurk cowardice or treachery
where it will)
The bravest hearts, when strikes the hour,
are in the cloisters still.
As well became their stainless lives, as free
from guile as dmul,
Their gallant heart's red welling flood for
Freedom bright was shed ;
And never cloistered convent .saw them kneel
to pray again,
For they died, where died the bravest, in the
cause of God and Spain !
ST. PATRICK'S DAY BY THK MIS-
MSSIl'lM.
FAR from the fair Green Islam!
Of the loving heart and hand.
We meet to-day by the rushing spray
In this glorious Western l:m<l,
With thoughts as deep and fervid
As when in early dreams
We saw arise in morning skies,
Green Ireland of the streams.
(Jrrcn Ireland of the streams, boys,
Dear Ireland of the stream-.
As when we dreamt >f Freedom
in Ireland of the streams.
1010
POEMS OF JAMES MUEPHY.
The graves our kindred rest in,
The ruins old and gray,
The holy hills of Ireland,
These be our toasts to day !
The hearths our mothers knelt at,
The legends old they wove;
But, above all, in cot and hall,
The treasured hearts we love
The throbbing hearts we love, boys,
The burning hearts we love,
Our cherished toast, our fondest boast,
The dear fond hearts we love.
And sing we too of those our sires
Who broke the foemen's laws,
And on the hill, through good and ill,
Rose up for Ireland's cause;
And all the mighty leaders
Who ruled, of old, the Gael,
And those who died in warlike pride
In the battles of the Pale.
In the battles of the Pale, boys,
In the battles of the Pale,
For those who died with patriot pride,
In the battles of the Pale.
Our gallant sires, they bore thee,
Bright land ! brave love untold,
They dealt the foe unceasing woe ;
They spurned his bribes of gold;
And dauntlessly they forayed
From many a castle hold,
With flashing sword by bridge and ford,
In fearless days of old.
In the gallant days of old, boys,
The glorious days of old
They poured their hot blood freely,
In the glorious days of old.
"To Ireland, boys ! to Ireland !
This brimming bumper drain,
And may we see great, fair, and free,
Our native land again :
.And not with chains unbroken,
And not in woe or pain,
May Ireland be, when next we see
Our native land again !
Our native land again, boys,
Our native land again,
With the help of God we'll tread the sod
.Of our mother -land again!
OUR CRY!
THEY speak us false who say our hopes of
Nationhood are o'er;
That shame and folly wait on him who
dreams these fancies more
Those dreams that, like the pillar-light that
wandering Israel led,
For seven centuries showed the way unto oar
martyr'd dead!
If peaceful hearths and plenteous boards a
- nation's needs suffice,
Sure never yet on chieftain's head were set a
felon's price,
Never O'Moore had drawn the sword had
Sarsfield cross'd the foam,
Never a grave Tyrconnell found beneath the
shrines of Rome;
O'Neale might rule his broad estates in peace
and power instead [upon his head ;
Of wandering, an outlawed chief a price
The bloodhounds ne'er had Desmond tracked,
his head were never brought
A present to the Saxon foe, if wealth were
all he sought.
Think you the dreams that, vision-like, for
seven centuries long,
Have brightened all these gloomy days when
right succumbed to wrong,
The glorious hopes that never ceased their
golden rays to give,
Shall shroud their light for one poor gift
the humble right to live ?
The laud is ours by right Divine no title
half so true, [our Freedom too !
By charter from God's signet hand we claim
And He whose breath the galleys steered that
bore our fathers here,
When next the Irish flag unfurls, shall make
His intent clear.
The songs in days of gloom and woe the
hunted minstrel tuned,
The lays the Irish mother o'er her sleeping
baby crooned,
The hopes that lit the beacon fires on many
an Irish hill [us still!
In '98 for Freedom were and they are with
A i'OHM liV 1'ATKK'K S. CI I.MnllK.
loll
We lack not hearts of chivalry let scot! and
scorn who may
To kindle bright as in the past the sacred
fires to-day;
Nor lack we ranks of serried strength to
fight for freedom still,
Let those forget the Olden Cause, or traitor
turn, who will.
Our land is crushed in bitter woe but not
so black as theirs,
Who once in Goshen ate their bread bestrewn
with women's tears;
Our future dark and gloomy looks what
brighter rays were shed
O'er those who through the parted waves of
Egypt Moses led ?
The God of Moses guideth us; He holdeth
in His hand,
To human prescience unknown, the future
of our land,
And never yet in Nation's heart so firmly
hath He cast
The love of Freedom strong as ours, but wins
its own at last.
What fear we ? Ashur's marshalled hosts re-
sistless in their might;
Sisera's legions countless were as stars of
summer night;
The spears that girt Samaria round like
web the toiler weaves
Were as the sands upon the sea, as thick as
autumn leaves:
>ue short night the marshalled host of
Ashur saw o'erthnnvn,
Before Baruck's undaunted men Si sera's
might had flown;
And Jordan's waters witnessed in panic dis-
array,
By sudden terror stricken the legions im-lt
away.
The hand that smote Sisera's hosts, that
Hand's potential still,
And now, as then, the tyrant's strength is
nought before His will,
But God helps those who help themselves.
even now as then ; and they
Who Freedom seek, through struggle !
and long must cleave their \v.
No cravens we to shrink the fight, let suffer-
ing come what may :
No coward hearts bear we who love the olden
flag to-day :
But trustify and sturdily like true and fear-
less men,
Are ready for the good old cause to challenge
Fate again!
The sapling on the mountain side (a tiny
seed at first)
A giant grown by light and air the iron
rock will burst;
So never yet the chains were wrought, a na-
tion's neck to bend.
The iron might of banded men could not
asunder rend.
A POEM BY PATRICK S, GILMORK.
IRELAND TO ENGLAND.
I.
EVERY man to his post at the shrill trumpet
sound !
With his hand on his sword let each true
man be found !
There's no power on the earth that can stand
in the way I fray.
Of the proud Irish lads when they enter the
II.
With a eanse that is just and u honrt that is
brave,
Is there one son of Krin who would be a
slave?
If there is let him die he's n stain on the
land!
Ae'Jl have none but fo-.-nien with strong
heart r.nd hand.
1012
A POEM BY REV. CHARLES P. MEEHAN.
III.
See the rivers of blood that for England we've
shed,
Fighting battles for her in the coat that is
red!
If she'll not do us justice let none stand be-
tween,
And we'll march to our graves in the coat
that is green.
IV.
But if England will come with her heart in
her hand,
And will say, " My brave boys, you shall have
your own land
If you swear that our union you'll never op-
pose,
We will drink to the shamrock that clings to
the rose.
V.
"We will give you 'Home Rule* with its
pleasures and cares ;
Go and make your own laws for your local
affairs;
But the Crown of Great Britain shall reign
over all
You must stand by forever in its rise or its
fall.
VI..
" Then what more do you ask, will you an-
swer us now ?
And for evermore banish that frown from
your brow !
Tis the voice of all England your rights to
restore
And from Ireland's old heart to remove every
sore.
VII.
Let these words once be heard in the isle ever
green,
And a million of healths will be drank to the
Queen.
If our rights we can have without striking a
blow,
Then we'll stand by Britannia our breasts
to her foe.
vni.
May the Lord in His mercy these tidings soon
send,
Then the whole heart of Erin with England's
will blend,
We will bury our sword there'll be joy in
the land
And forever and ever united we'll stand.
NEW YORK, March, 1889.
A POEI BY REY. CHARLES P. MEEHAK
BOYHOOD'S YEARS.
AH ! why should I recall them the gay, the
joyous years, [sorrow and by tears?
Ere hope was cross'd or pleasure dimm'd by
Or why should mem'ry love to trace youth's
glad and sunlit way,
When those who made its charms so sweet
are gather'd to decay ?
The summer's sun shall come again to
brighten hill and bower,
The teeming earth its fragance bring beneath
the balmy shower,
But all in vain will mem'ry strive, in vain
we shed our tears,
They're gone away and can't return the
friends of boyhood's years.
Ah ! why then wake my sorrow and bid me
now count o'er
The vanished friends so dearly prized the
days to come no more.
The happy days of infancy when no guile our
bosoms knew,
Nor reck'd we of the pleasures that with each
moment flew ?
POEMS OF REV. MATTHEW
LOIS
'Tis Jill in vain to weep for them the past a
dream appears,
And where are they the lov'd, the young,
the friends of boyhood's years ?
Go seek them in the cold churchyard they
long have stol'n to rest,
But do not weep, for their young cheeks by
woe were ne'er oppressed.
Life's sun for them in splendor set no cloud
ciime o'er the day,
Thut lit them from this stormy world upon
their joyous way.
No tears about their graves be shed, but
sweetest flowers be flung
The fullest off 'ring thou canst make to hearts
that perish young
To hearts this world has never torn with
racking hopes and ft
For bless'd are they who pass awny in
hood's happy years.
POEMS OF KEY, MATTHEW RUSSELL
OUR MIDNIGHT MASS.
LOXG hours ere yet the Christmas sun
Has smiled upon the snow,
When Father Christmas has but waxed
A minute old or so;
In the mid-hush of starry night
The joybells warble clear.
Out on the moonlight keen and crisp,
And through the warm air here.
Here, in this homeliest home of God,*
We kneel a happy few.
While the first buoyant Christmas glow
Serenely thrills us through.
At solemn hour and strange we kneel
Before our Captive's throne-
On this one night of all the year
He must not watch alone.
He is not lonely now. Around
The breath of prayer asecnds.
And night glares redder than tin- noon
With silence music blends.
Their souls are on the singers' lips.
They sing: "A Child t* lnrn !
Come, let us worship at the crU>.
For this is Christmas morn."
If. -rt I,.
* The room which served aa a char^l f-T the Jeaul
hen they flrst began their work in Limerick, in 18DO.
'Tis Christmas, and green arches rise
Of ivy, twined with flowers;
From lamp and taper mellow light
Streams round in joyous show
Nor deem that hearth -stone's ruddy blaze
Too home-like or too gay :
Our pilgrim-path is drear enough,
Beguile it as we may.
The light upon yon altar gleams,
And the Cross above the shrine.
And, higher up, on Him who points
Unto his Hi-art divine:
And on our Mother's queenly form.
Begirt with blushing flow
And on that meek old man whose smile
Half srnns to answer ours.
And then within the lustrous haze
I'.asks many a sculptured form
From wreathed wall and ceiling peer
The Christmas greetings warm.
But now a broader, merrier glow
The wistful ga/er charms
h to the nook where Mary beams,
Her Baby in her arms.
The same sweet Child dot! ms,
The Child-saint, raptured
Ami see! again It smilea at ne
Beneath the altar there.
1014
POEMS OF REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL.
There, poor and cold, yet tenderly,
The new-born Babe is laid.
"Who is He ? It is He who said,
"Be light ! " and light was made.
This is the birthday of God's Child :
For He was once a child,
Born for our sake in snow-roofed cave
One winter midnight wild;
Whilst angels chanted from the skies
(Are those their voices still ?)
" Glory on high to God, and peace
To mortals of good -will ! "
To-day that Child is born again.
The Midnight Mass has sped,
And Jesus steals in meaner guise
Our souls more close to wed.
I scarce may envy her who clasped
The Infant to her breast,
Since He, the Babe of Christmas, comes
In this poor heart to rest.
The Midnight Mass is o'er. The lamp
A paler radiance sheds
On cross and crib and gay festoon,
And all those drooping heads :
While flowers and leaves and happy hearts
Throb with a Christmas thrill :
" Oh ! glory unto God on high,
And unto us good-will ! "
For leaves will fall, and flowers will fade,
And Christmas tide will pass,
And hearts and hopes and fondest cares
May change, must change, alas!
Yet still let's keep the simple faith
Of those whose gifts adorn
This modest fane so lovingly
To welcome Christmas morn.
God's blessing on those kindly hearts,
And on each skilful hand
That with such quiet fervor wrought
What pious taste had planned.
Heaven is for such. Yet here, e'en here,
May fairest fate befall !
May Christmas last their lifetime round ! *
God bless us each and all.
* This was the Christmasof 1860, and before thenext Christ-
mas came round, one of the sisters referred to in the last
stanza had given herself to God, while God had taken the
othei to Himself. One is now a Sister of Charity, and the
other is, as we more than hope, in heaven. For which was
the minstrel's prayer best fulfilled.
THE FIRST REDBREAST:
A LEGEND OF GOOD FRIDAY.
A QUAINT and childish story, often told,
And worth, perchance, the telling, for it
steals
i Through rustic Christendom ; and boyhood,.
bold
And almost pitiless in pastime,* feels
The lesson its simplicity conceals.
Hence kind Tradition, to protect from wrong
A gentle tribe of choristers, appeals
To this ancestral sacredness, su long
In grateful memory shrined, and now in
grateful song.
One Friday's noon a snowy-breasted bird
Was flying in the darkness o'er a steep
Nigh to Judea's capital, where stirred
The rabble's murmur sullenly and deep.
Far had it sailed since sunrise, and the sweep
Of its brown wing grew languid, and it
longed
To rest a while on some green bough, and
peep
Around the mass that on the hill-side
thronged,
As if to learn whereto such pageant stern
belonged.
The robin whitebreast spied a Cross of wood
That lifted o'er the din its gory freight.
Beneath, the sorrow-stricken Mother stood,
And silent wailed her Child's less cruel fate.
But lest she mourn all lone and desolate,
Has reason whispered to that fluttering
breast,
Whom, Whom, on Whom those fiends their
fury sate ?
Mark how it throbs with pity, nor can rest,
Till it has freed its Lord, or tried its little
best.
And see, with tiny beak it fiercely flies,
To wrench the nails that bind the Captive
fast.
Ahi vain, all vain those eager panting cries,
That quivering agony ! It sinks at last,
Foiled in the generous strife and glares
aghast
* Un fripon d 1 enfant (cet age est sans pitie). La Fontaine.
I'M K.MS ()F KKY. M. \TTIIK\V
To seo the thorn-crowned Head droop faint
and low,
Mute the pule lips, the gracious brow o'er-
Wliile from the shattered palms the red
drops flow,
Staining the pious bird's smooth breast of
speckless snow.
That snow thus ruddied fixed the tinge of all
The after-race of robins; and 'tis said
Heaven's fondest care doth on the robin fall,
In memory of that scene on Calvary sped.
Hence, urchins rude, in quest of plunder led
To prowl round hedges, never dare to touch
The wee white-speckled eggs or mossy bed
Of " God's own bird." So from the spoiler's
clutch
''uld you, God's child, be free? Ah! feel
for Jesus much.
THE LITTLE FLOWER STREWERS.*
DEAR children, kiss your flowers, and fling
them at His feet ;
He comes, the Lord of flowers, of all things
fair and sweet.
His glory all is hidden, but who He is you
know:
Then throw your flowers before Him, and
kiss them as you throw.
Yet envy not the flowers that die so sweet a
death
One heart's fond sigh is sweeter than rose's
perfumed breath;
More sweet than sweetest incense the tears
of love that flow,
The thrill of faith tlmt mingles with every
flower you throw.
Yes, let your flowers be emlilems "f holy
thoughts and prayers
That from your hearts are springing for
hearts alone lie cares.
* These verse*, which borrow their name from one f ilu-
prettiest storlM ever written "'Hi' 1 Little KI.IW.T Swkpra"
w.-rc snirk-' ' c-liildrrii kis* erh hnn.lful of
flowers w ith which tht>y strrwrl th.' COfTtton of the Convent
( f y.-iv\. HiiKk'i.t str.'.'t. iniiiiin, duriiiK the ProoeMion of
. June 24, 1879.
< Hi ! may your hearts before Him with loving
worship glow,
Wliile thus you throw your flowere and kiss
them as you throw.
With lips unstained and rosy, kiss all the
roses fair
But thorns lurk 'mid the roses, and life is
full of care.
Accept its thorns and roses both come from
God, you know :
So bear your crosses gaily, and kiss them as
you go.
Not all your path, dear children, can smile.
like this, with flowers:
For lifetimes would be fruitless, if all were
sunny hours.
The rain and snow in season must make the
roses grow:
So throw your flowers, dear children, and
kiss them as you throw.
Ah! soon the rose-leaves wither we, too,
like flowers must die,
But in the heavenly springtime shall bloom
again on high,
That God unveiled beholding whom 'neath
these veils we know,
And at whose feet. <lear children, our flowers,
our hearts, we throw.
TO T. D. sri.l.l\
1:1 MUM; l\i* " Pi. I \ KOH TIIK s<
HUM'"."
Tin- .\nfinn. !'>!>. I 1 ,'. :
ive the little soiiL'-l'irds. and bid them
fill the gl
With mirth and life and motion, with melody
and 1"
Hut vet their fate so cruel we now tlu> less
dej>:
Since it h;:s forced tip :!lg fof US
olice III
1016
POEMS OF LOUISIANA MURPHY.
The chirping of the robin, the carol of the
thrush,
The nightingale's rich warbling, the sky-
lark's liquid gush
Each in the glorious concert of nature has
its part;
But better than all song-birds our Irish poet's
heart.
Then let the gentle birdies still flit from
spray to spray,
Still lilt their airy music and live their little
day;
But they for whom thou pleadest have no
such gift of song
As God has lent thee, Poet. Ah! be not
silent long.
POEMS OF LOUISIANA MURPHY,
"WHAT WOULD YOU DO FOR IRE-
LAND?'
WHAT would you do for Ireland,
When o'er the mist of passion tears
Rise mem'ries of the glorious band
Who strove for her through cheerless years?
To win, like these, and wear anew
The fadeless wreaths that hail the sky
From Erin's palm, what would you do ?
You ask me this, and I reply :
I'd write a song for Ireland
A ballad of the Red Right Hand,
Whose measures, ringing wild and free,
Would stir the pulse of Liberty;
And when courageous deeds had sprung,
Like off -shoots, from my words so sung,
A place I'd claim her crowned- among,
Saying, " Mine these deeds for Ireland ! "
What would you do for Ireland,
When by some high ambition stirred
Amongst the throng to take your stand,
Your name hath grown a household word ?
That ages thus should honor you,
And, meetly thus, your life complete,
What would you choose to-day to do ?
You ask me this, and I repeat :
I'd write a song for Ireland
A lyric for her hero band
My spirit to the world would give,
That I in it might ever live.
Were this my sole, undoubted claim,
To shine on Erin's roll of Fame,
I know she'd chronicle my name.
Saying, "This she did for Ireland!"
SONG.
FROM " DUNMORE."
I FEEL my heart and brain on fire,
On sad decline, whilst gazing,
Of all the valiant sons of Eire
Once held beyond all praising.
The mingled scenes I've looked upon,
These days of fierce endeavor,
Proclaim that chivalry is gone
From Ireland's shores forever!
CHORUS Sing sad a dirge in memory
Of Ireland's ancient chivalry!
Time was when woman's piteous plight
No cry appealing needed,
Forth from their scabbards at the sight
Strong swords were swift unsheathed ;
To-day strong men gaze carelessly
When she's to prison borne,
And Ireland's ancient chivalry
Her wailing daughters mourn.
CHORUS Sing sad a dirge, etc.
Dear maid, when in thy dungeon cell
The shadows close around thee,
Know there are willing hands which well
Would like to have unbound thee.
Yet stayed these hands from aiding thee,
And man may please thee never,
For thou'lt believe that chivalry
Is gone from us forever!
CHORUS Sing sad a dirge, etc.
POEMS OF LOt'IHANA Mi [{I'll i'.
OHOBU8,
FROM "DUNMORE."
HARK ! from the tomb they cry
Death to the tyrant!
Ring out our fierce reply,
Death to the tyrant!
High on the breeze it thrills,
Death to the tyrant !
Feur his pale visage chills,
Death to the tyrant !
Dark was the life he chose,
Death to the tyrant !
Dark be its sudden close,
Death to the tyrant!
For him no tear shall flow,
Death to the tyrant !
With him no blessing go,
Death to the tyrant !
Earth, Hell, and Heaven shout,
Death to the tyrant!
Whilst justice wild metes out
Death to the tyrant !
To him and his minion base,
The death linked with foul disgrace,
Death to them ! Death to them ! Death to
all tyrants !
SONG.
COULD I, an Irishman, prove ungallant ?
Verily, no, not I !
Pause when a widow protection may want.
Verily, no, not I !
Carp at her figure, her eyes, or her hair.
Hint that her age she does artfully wear,
Let such mere trifles my ardor impair !'
Verily, no, not I !
Shall I a proxy instruct on the ca.-
Verily, no, not I !
Am I unequal its bearings to face ?
Verily no, not I !
Could I unfeelingly turn me aside.
When, on my appreciation relied.
Widowhood i/iftcil in me did confide ?
Verily, no, not I !
Shall I prove false to so precious a trust ?
\Vrily, no, not II
Let her large funds uninvestedly rust ?
Verily, no, not I !
Happy idea ! Could any such be
Better invested, henceforth, than in me,
Know I than Hymen a better trustee?
Verily, no, not I !
BALLAD.
AM I of those we see, too late,
Life's early faults retrieving ?
Must I, too, share the sceptic's fate
Reduced to stern believing ?
At Love I've mocked, at Passion smiled;
To find my heart in peril
In sight of Nature's sweetest child,
An artless Irish girl !
So frank and free,
Yet maidenly,
This simple Irish girl !
I've drunk of Cyprus' sparkling wines,
A gay and laughing lover;
I've worshipped at a hundred shri:
The smiling, broad earth over:
I've sorrowed o'er a faded flower.
Penned sonnets to a curl.
Yet never felt true Passion's power
Till came this Irish girl.
Of wayward mood,
Ami charm subdued,
A winsome Irish
Oh! she is true, ami such as she
Response miirln aptly render
The honest heart's idolnt:
Whilst scorning wraith and splendor.
From such belief fond hopes n;
He'd be a soulless churl
Who'd gazo into those candid iye,
Ami dotiht my Irish girl
Whose orbs of blue
Proclaim her tn
My dauntless Irish girl.
POEMS OF ROSA MULHOLLAND.
EMMET'S LOVE.
IN yon green garden, sweet with hawthorn-
breath,
Knee-deep in flowers we talked of love and
faith,
year-dead Love, and, smiling, you and I,
We did not think of death.
The crimson rose, with rain-drops 'neath its
hood,
1 plucked for you reeked not with tear of
blood,
Like these I gather now; we did not sigh
When past us from the wood
The night owl whirred, as silver-sandalled
Eve,
With floating veils around her, 'gan to weave
Sad spells across the grass, and at our ears
Made the young pigeons grieve.
We had no sorrow; all that life we knew
Was like our summer walk 'neath skies as
blue
As violet-drifts, and we could see our years
Before us in the dew,
Like miles of hawthorn bloom the lanes
along,
That slant toward purple rain-mists out
among
The sunlit hills, while all the perfumed air
Is sweet with thrushes' song.
I had no fear save that some nobler eyes
Might win my love from me, so little wise,
So weak and small, although you called me
fair
With love that glorifies.
And I was jealous once. 'Twas thus it came :
I heard you say some other woman's name
I knew not, and my wits were all undone,
My heart was in a flame,
Till out you laughed, such laughter good,.
and cried,
" The land, my love ! Are you or she my
bride ?
No other rival have you but this one,
Erin, the queen sad-eyed ! "
And then you told me, for I had not known,
Pent in this garden, how the land made
moan,
The lovely flower-faced land that gave us
life,
A queen without a throne
A beggar queen, with bare feet in the snows,
No crown upon her head, and no sweet rose
Within her breast, with soft hands scarred
from strife,
Who weepeth as she goes,
A vagrant 'mid the kings and queens of
time,
Yet ever lovely in the gracious prime
Of beauty nourished by her children's love ;
Though monarchs fall and climb,
Still lives she 'mid the bramble and the
thorn,
Her fair face lifted to eternal morn,
While nest with her the lark and the pale
dove,
In the shamrock grass unshorn.
Weeping I heard, and cried your heart, I
knew,
Was Erin's more than mine. Love, it was
true.
For her you died, and where so cold you lie,
Under the shamrock dew,
I am forgot, and she is mourning still.
But then you chid me, telling many an ill
Her children bore, like savage beasts at bay
In hunted wood and hill,
POEMS OF K<A MrLMoLLAM).
1019
While all the thick-draped, wide-armed,
friendly trees
That hid their woes wore fired against the
breeze,
And near the mounds of flame the s'.ave-ship
lay
Fast-bound for foreign seas:
How in the mountain cave the priest was
snared,
The law-breaker who death and torture
dared
With Christ's red wine-cup in his obstinate
hand,
And crucifix all bared :
How you yourself beneath the sick moon's
beam,
Had heard strange flutterings and an eagle's
scream,
And seen a rood across the haunted land,
As in a horrid dream,
The dead Franciscan in his monkish gown,
His cord of poverty and shaven crown.
Swing from the bough and with the irrever-
ent winds,
Go wavering up and down.
I had not known, here in this garden green,
"Walled high with poplars and the tall beech
screen
Of hedges, where the white the red rose
binds,
Such things had ever been.
My days had been so fair, so tranquil sweet.
I'ntil you came ami made t lie world's heart
beat
For me, and 'twixt the fluttering of the
flowers
Showed me the yellowing \\ i
Love's harvest growing, our life's M
ance,
Out in the open where the shadows danee.
Dropped from the hill-tops with the slanting
showers,
Down-driven by many a 1:
And glittering spear of sunshine. Our i
right
That field of golden grain and waving I
And flame of poppies cooled with steadfast
Mile
Of meeker blossoms bright.
I had not known, nor yet full knowledge
came
Until your sudden sword leaped out in flame
Of hate for tyranny, and struck the Untrue
That willed your death of sh;.me.
On that red day that drained my world of
tears :
A dry old world, unknowing hopes or f
That weeps no more, but only groans and
turns
The wheel of its slow years ;
Asking for you with eyes that strain, and
stare,
And will not close though seeing you no-
where,
"While every floweret for a rain-drop burns
Under a mad sun's gl:
Save when the tender night will sometimes
have
A drop of dew for your unhoi:.
In that green gloom unnamed v '.
your <|U*
Hides all her vanquished !>:::\t .
Krin, the (jiieen who won you. She hath yet
Full many a love will woo her to fr-
She lies not prone upon one sp.
Seeking with dev
With dews of gni88 to Wet her with.
Sweet tea- r 'neath her fair !
To float her smiles along the coming years
Toward ' - sympathies.
She might have left me you.
It i- not .-he who cra\e- you from a'
And from below, with eyes that ha\
And voice like that wood d
1020
POEMS OF ROSA MULHOLLAND.
That ever moans, moans, moans and has no
word
To tell her pain, not Erin, whom your
sword
Leaped for, not she of whom you dreamed,
And with your death adored.
For her you died. Now would I that you
might
Have turned on me your sword, and in the
light
Have lived for her. Full sweet to me had
seemed
Forgetfulness and night.
THE BUILDERS.
I SAW the builders laying
Stones on the grassy sod,
And people praised them, saying :
"A fane to the mighty God
Shall rise aloft in glory,
Pillars and arches wide,
Windows stained with the story
Of Christ the Crucified."
I saw the broken boulders
Lie in the waving grass,
Flung down from bending shoulders,
And said, " Our lives must pass
Ere wide cathedral spreading
Can span this mossy field
Where kine are slowly treading
And flowers their honey yield.
"Oh, dreaming builders, tarry!
Unchain your souls from toil,
Leave the rock in the quarry,
The bloom upon the soil;
For life is short, my brothers,
And labor wastes it sore,
Why toil to gladden others
When you shall breathe no more ?
" Oh ! come with footstep springing,
With empty hands and free,
And tread the green earth singing
' The world was made for me! '
Pray amid nature's sweetness
In pillared forest glade,
Content with the incompleteness
Of fanes that the Lord has made ! "
The builders, never heeding,
Kept piling stone on stone,
Their hands with toil were bleeding
I went my way alone.
Prayed in the forest temple
And ate the wild-bee's store;
My life was pure and simple
What would the Lord have more ?
The years, like one long morning,
They all flew swiftly by;
Old age with little warning
Came creeping softly nigh.
Now (be we all forgiven !)
I longed to see, alas!
What the builders had raised to heaven
Instead of the tender grass.
I heard a sweet bell ringing
Over the world so wide;
I heard a sound of singing
Across the eventide.
What sight my soul bewilders
Beneath the sunset's glow ?
The fane that the dreaming builders
Were building long ago !
'Tis not the sculptured portal,
Or windows jewelled wide,
With jeys of the life immortal,
And woes of Him who died,
That fill my soul with wonder,
And drain my heart of tears,
And ask with voice of thunder,
" Where are thy wasted years ! "
But a thousand thousand creatures'
Kneel down where grew the sod,
And hear with glowing features,
The words that breathe of God.
Alone and empty-handed
I wait by the open door :
Such work hath the Lord commanded,.
And I can work no more !
A I '<>!: M I'.V A. M. SULLIVAN.
The builders, never heeding,
They lie and take their rest,
And hands no longer bleeding
Are folded on each breast
The grass waves o'er them sleeping,
And flowerets red und white,
Where I kneel above them weeping,
And whisper, " You were right."
A FLEDGLING.
A BIRD was sheltered in my breast
That sang both night and day,
And had I toil or had I rest
That birdie sang alway.
I sleeked its feathers 'gainst my heart,
And laughed to hear it sing;
The wind kissed not in any part
A sweeter, blither thing.
It piped upon the hedge-row green,
It sang up in the blue,
At morn it bathed in sunlight sheen
At eve it sipped the dew.
On one green bough it perched at night
And trilled through all my dreams,
And wakened me at peep of light
To see the first dawn-gleams.
It cooed so soft of moonlit eves
I dared not let it sing,
But covered it with red rose-leaves,
Its head beneath its wing.
I swore that we should never part,
And then I let it fly.
No music have I in my he-irt,
No more until I die.
HOPE DEFERRED.
A DREARINK.^S i-jime o'er me
Once, on a dim spring day;
The summer on before nit-
Seemed far and far away.
Full dark had reigned the win
With cloud, and mist, and gloom;
My spirit longed to entt T
Into the fields of bloom.
The tempest's wild repining
Made sorrow in my soul;
I craved the cheerful shining
When heavy clouds unroll.
I saw a gleam on heather
Stray through u rifted cloud;
The masses swept together,
The winds spoke fierce and loud.
The mist upon the mountain
Dropped down in hopeless rain ;
Fell in a bitter fountain
Over the grieving plain.
A POEM BY A, M. SULLIVAN.
THE DYING BOY.
" MOTHER, say why are you weeping,
Sitting there beside my bed.
While this weary vigil keeping,
And from tears your eyes are red ? "
"Ah, my child, I thought you sleeping,
And a rosary I suid."
" M. >t her. do M<>: thus le grieving
That all hope for me is \ain.
Do you WCCp that I am leaving
Sueh a world of jrrief and ja
. my ehild. in hope helieM
\\ < shall meet in Heaven aga
1022
POEMS OF M. J. O'MAHONY.
" Mother, where the flowers are springing
Make my grave among the trees,
That a requiem may be singing
Always o'er me in the breeze."
"Ah, my child, my heart you're wringing
By such bitter thoughts as these."
" Mother, 'tis not death before me
Brings this tear upon my cheek;
But my father he'll deplore me
Till his poor old heart will break."
" my child, may Heaven o'er me
Give the comfort we must seek."
" Mother, comfort him and give him
My own little cross of gold ;
Mother, cheer him, do not grieve him,
When this heart of mine is cold."
" my child, all heart will leave him,
And he will not be consoled."
" Mother ! hark ! what voice is saying
' Hasten, hasten, come away ' ?
I have heard sweet music playing
Somewhere near me all the dv.y."
" Hush, my child, 'tis I am praying
'Twas an echo you heard play."
" Mother, mother, who is crying,
And why turn you now so pale ?
Now I know that I am dying ;
'Tis the Banshee's mournful wail."
" Hush, my child, 'tis but the sighing
Of the beech trees in the gale."
"Mother! ah! my sight is growing
Dim; my feet are cold as lead.
Kiss me, mother; I am going,
Up." The weary spirit fled ;
And the mother's tears were flowing
O'er the features of the dead.
POEMS OF I. J, O'MAHONY.
A WELCOME TO A FRIEND.*
I.
HE comes ! for lo, the bright horizon bursts
with gleaming golden glee,
And fast shoots forth the rider from the
deepest depths of sea.
He comes ! the waves grow sadder in their
sullen monotones,
And joy is past the wailing of the wind's sep-
ulchral moans.
II.
He comes not as a stranger to the stran-
ger's heedless home ;
He comes not as an exile, where none might
bid him come.
No ! the very earth is cheerful, and his foot-
prints on her shore
Are cheered by fellow-workmen, whose wel-
comings outpour.
*Mr. Mannis J. Geary, of the N. Y. Herald, on his return
from England.
III.
Thou wert lonesome in thine exile thy home
was all to thee;
Though round about thee splendor flashed,
and Pleasure, proud, was free ;
But all her grand allurements could not
swerve thy noble soul ;
It yearned to see the beauteous land where
Stars and Stripes unroll.
IV.
Ta safailtliemor ta naliar mavoureen, ay us
failtlie nis !
The mothers of the weary heart and chil-
dren's longing wish,
Who watched while hours like seasons
weighed down their aching breasts,
Until the dove returned in their bosoms
now he rests.
POEMS OF M. J. O'MAHONY.
V.
The dreary clouds of England shall not
break thy slumbers now,
Nor heavy tread of man to toil, to furnace or
to plough,
Where mighty towers of labor vomit forth
their wealth of woe,
For "sundry blessings " crown thy brow and
in thy spirit glow.
VI.
Oh, could we give the greeting from out our
souls to-day,
We would give thee grace and length of days
upon the pilgrim's way;
But from our heurt of hearts, dear Friend,
our welcomes doth essay
And the uir resounds the echos of a loud and
long hurrah ! ! !
WASHINGTON.*
I.
FAR-FAMED Mount Vernon, fair shrine of
the brave,
l':ifold thy mantle of death let him come
forth
Who within thy breast serene hath slept so
long, so well,
Unto the land of love, which teemeth with
his worth.
II.
Oh, let his spirit beam in floods of light.
And mingle with the song of joy that floats
to-day
Unto that realm of peace where Freedom
reigns with God,
And prostrate angels ministering doth his
name essay.
*WritU-n in honor of tin- <Tlflir.iin>n ( tl ! lum<livih
anniversary of Washington'* Inaugiirntnu M Prwidcut <.f (In-
United StllttiH.
III.
Nor peaceful shall thine opening be, tomb!
But with thundVouB voice the very elements
might shake,
As he whom thou dost now, with awful grasp,
embrace,
When bade Columbia's fetters evermore cast
down and break.
IV.
But if the trump of man disturb him not,
Nor cannon's boom, nor shrieking maid, nor
warrior's cheer,
Let him still sleep on, unmindfully and
dreamless,
In his dream's fruition, when to him not
death itself wus fear.
V.
When nations waged with fearful thought
the blow,
Which shed the Patriot's paroxysmal pride,
and paralyzed the proud,
When Napoleon's shattered Throne stood
tottering in the grasp
Of England's ruthless hand, and Ireland's
Cross shone forth thro' Freedom's
cloud,
VI.
Then 'twas thine, mighty Man of War!
To raise that banner of the free, whose Stars
should shine
Through the dreariest dreariness of War's
direst gloom,
An. I crush thy foe beneath its Stripes thin
was thine.
Vll.
Then earth's proud nations' onward tnardi
stood still.
The heavens reversed a* thunder from thy
crashing gun
Reached the very Throne of (I nice, with joy
most (air.
And Angeli Bang thy immortality. o Wash-
ington ! !
POEMS OF WILLIAM BOWLING.
LOVE'S LONGINGS.
" Hei'e is the thought that makes my bliss:
To find a face that a child would kiss,
Gentle, tender, brave and just,
That a man might honor or woman trust."
J. G. WHITTIER.
MANY a time, in prose and rhyme,
I have tried arid tried to tell
The hope of hopes that makes my heart
With a love of life to swell ;
The hope that gilds each passing hour,
As its swift-winged moments flee,
With a warm glow of pure desire
Now comes, dear one, from thee,
From thee, and only thee.
Many a time, as day calls me forth,
I long for the time to come
When a loving voice might eager ask,
How soon are you coming home ?
And the voice so sweet to the mental ear,
Bringing life and joy to me,
Is but the echo of my heart,
Of a hope that's born of thee
Of thee, and only thee !
Many an eve, as I sit alone,
While the stars those eyes of night
Look from their homes in God's vast domain
With a solemn, tranquil light.
From year to year unchanged they look
Ever the same to me;
And Faith points them to my heart
As what it dreams of thee
With love and trust of thee.
Storms may come and life may frown
As dark as life can be :
What care I if you're all my own
If you but smile on me!
With constant heart that knows no change
Whate'er our fortune be,
Love shall the future overthrow;
My heart's hope's built on thee,
On thee, and only thee!
LINES.
To
EVEN simple words, when kindly meant,
May bring the heart supreme content,
May kindle hope or banish fear,
And make the path of duty clear.
Curbed as I am by rule and line,
Redundant fancy can entwine
Only kind wishes such as flow
From friendship's pure unselfish glow.
Time in its flight may bring to you
Strains far more sweet, but none more true.
"WHERE IS LITTLE MUCCO"?*
My spirit o'er an early tomb
With ruffled wing lies drooping.
And real forms of blighted bloom
Have in my heart left little room
For those of fancy's grouping.
The eyes that kindled with delight
In death are sunk and hollow-
No more I'll tempt the inborn might
Of that young heart to follow." J. D. FKAZER.
THE little voice is silent,
The little heart is chill,
The little feet in death's repose
No more obey the will.
The little hands are folded
Calmly upon his breast,
And the bright, joyous spirit
Has found eternal rest.
Ye who, like me, with nameless joy,
Have watched some tiny bed,
Can know how dark is hope's eclipse
When the little tenant's dead.
Though few and simple were the words
That little voice might speak
Yet for us no minstrel's muse
Could such melody awake.
* Mr. Dowling had lost a beautiful child. Returning from
the funeral, one of the little toddlers of the household met
the father at the door, and the first question he asked was :
" Papa, where is little Mucco? ' This incident suggested the
poem, under this title. EDITOR.
A 1'OKM I'.V MirilAKL DAVITT.
wondrous Heavenly Father,
Il"\v mysterious are Thy powers!
Tis but a few brief moments
Since this folded bud was ours,
Which now, like the smile of morning,
Can scan the realms of space,
With the halo of Thy glory
Evermore upon its face.
Drawn back again by daily toil
We seek our silent home;
We set the little shoes away
With a grief that's all our own.
In silent thought we move around
Through each familiar place,
But vainly bid our hearts forget
The joyous little face.
We know our love is selfishness
That would again reclaim
From a present home of endless bliss
To one of care and jiaiu.
We will span life's turbid river -
Soon its waters pass away,
And merge themselves in the Ocean vast
Of God's eternal day.
But look down from that home in heaven,
My beautiful angel boy,
Where thy untried spirit quaffeth
From the founts of eternal joy.
Let thy mother's sad, low wailing
Thy joyous spirit move,
To dry with thy anjrcl pinion
Her bounteous tears of love.
A POEM BY MICHAEL DAYITT.
INNISFAIL.
IN England's felon garb we're clad, and by
her vengeance bound ;
Her concentrated hate we've had her jus-
tice, never found.
Her laws,accurs'd, have done their worst ; in
vain they still assail
To crush the hearts that beat for thee, our
own loved Innisfail.
Nor can the dungeon's deepest gloom but
make us love thee more :
WeM brave the terrors of the tomb to keep
the oath we swore ;
In chains, or free, to live for thee, and never
once to quail
Before the foe that wrought such woe to our
loved Innisfail.
From Irish mothers' hearts has flowed this
sacred love of thee.
And Erin's daughters' cheeks have glowed
that love in deeds to see,
A coward-born fair lips will scorn, while joy-
ously they hail
The hearts that heat for love of thee, our
own loved Innisfail.
Then let our jailers scowl and roar when
cheerful looks we wear ;
The patriot's (lod that we adore will shield
us from despair.
Fair bosoms rise with love-drawn sighs by
mountain, stream and \.ile
And dav and night in prayers unite for us
and Innisfail.
. chained lu-neutli the tyrant's hand, l>y
martyr's Mood we swear
To Freedom and to Fatherland we till alle-
giance I*'
Nor felon's fate, nor Kngland'g hate, nor
hellish-fashioned jail
Shall stay this hand to wield a orand one
day for Innisfail.
POEMS OF JAMES THOMAS GALLAGHER,
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.
James Thomas Gallagher was born in Ougham, county of Sligo, Ireland, in 1855.
His parents, who belonged to the "well to do " farming class, intended him for the priest-
hood, but he chose rather the profession of journalism. He was for years connected
with the Dublin Nation and Shamrock, and some of his best and most spirited poems
were written for those journals. ],n the great struggle for the Parliamentary repre-
sentation of Roscommon in 1879 between Charles Stewart Parnell and the O'Connor
Don, Mr. Gallagher first distinguished himself. The distinguished Irish leader stated at
a public banquet given him in Roscommon " that without the assistance of the young
Poet he would never have won that O'Connor Don stronghold." For his service in that
struggle Mr. Parnell offered to procure his election to Parliament, but being too poor he
declined. In 1S80 he came to New York, in which city he still resides. His poems
and sketches are among the leading features in the best journals and magazines of the
city. In 1884 he entered Bellevue Medical College, graduating with honor in March
1889, when he joined the regular house staff of that institution as a surgeon.
OUR BELOVED DEAD.
IN MEMORIAM REV. THOS. N. BUEKE.
DEAD! Erin, weep! your friend is gone;
Your truest and your best;
The bright unchanging star that shone
Across your darKened breast.
The star, when slander's poisoned breath
Would blast your flower of fame,
Which scorched the slanderer to death
Immortal made" your name.
Yes, weep; the tongue is chained in death,
That pity woke for thee;
The voice is hushed, and still the breath
That told thy misery.
The arm that did defend the right
And battle with the foe
Will ne'er again storm falsehood's height
Nor lay a bigot low.
Oh! how the haughty foeman reeled
Before his lightning glance;
How soon he pierced the braggart's shield
With truth's subduing glance.
Such mighty flood of facts he poured
Upon the Saxon's head
That shamed, defeated, drenched and gored
The brazen liar fled.
Oh, patriot! and gifted sage
And eloquent divine,
Time has not traced upon her page
A grander name than thine.
But ah, too soon you passed away
Too soon withdrew your light
Still memory holds one treasured ray
To cheer us through the night.
Many a heart is sad to-day,
Many a tear is shed ;
Bright hope that cheered the exile's way
For evermore is fled.
Thou wert, brave Father Tom, the pride
Of all who love to see
Poor Erin take her place beside
The nations that are free.
Light press the turf upon your breast,
You sleep in Irish clay;
We'd rather all beside you rest
Than thus in exile stray.
Rest, spirit, rest! while bends a sky
Above your native shore,
Your name and fame shall never die
Shall loved be more and more.
POEMS OF JAMES THOMAS <;.\ I.I.Ai; II I.I;.
108?
ANNIE.
BRIGHT as the face of a morn in May,
When first from the East it wings forth it
bright way;
Sweet as the thrushes' first note in the grove
Or pale infant primrose, is Annie, my love.
Pure as the dew-drops that lovingly creep
Into the young lily's bosom to sleep;
Fair as the hawthorn wreath that is wove
By nature's own hand, is Annie, my love.
Chaste as the breath that at eventide flows
From the bright dewy lips of the opening
rose;
True as the vow of seraph above,
Rarest of rare ones, is Annie, my love.
TRUE LOVE.
OH, what on earth is half so sweet
As love, true love ?
An equal joy you'll only meet
In realms above,
Where all is beauty, all is bliss
One long day of happiness.
Oh, what on earth is half so bright
As love, true love ?
What thrills the heart with such delight
As love, true love ?
Not all the song birds, all the flowers,
That sing or bloom in earthly bowers.
Oh, what on earth is half so grand
As love, true love ?
Be its chain for motherland
Or mankind wove,
Its every link is rarer gem
Than ever flashed in diadem.
TELL ME YOU LOVE ME.
STAR of my night!
Sun of my day!
Happy when near thee,
Sad when away.
Beautiful maiden
With smile half divine,
Tell me you love me,
Say you'll be mine.
How dearly 1 love thee
Words cannot tell;
Mortal has n<
Loved woman so well.
Since first I saw thee
My heart is thine;
Tell me you love me,
Say you'll lie mine.
In every tress
Of thy rich, wavy hair,
That streams down thy neck
And shoulders snow fair;
In every feature
Such rare beauties shine,
I would not exchange them
For earth's richest mine.
Peace of my soul,
Comforter, kind,
Deep in my heart
And fond thou art shrined;
So deep and true
Time can't undermine;
Tell me you love me,
Say you'll be mine.
Oh, for that word
I'm longing to hear!
Earth knows no sound
Half so sweet to mine ear.
Oh, for those lips.
More ruby than wine;
Tell me you love me,
Say you'll be rnim .
GRANT AND DEATH.
THE hand of dawn with pencil bright.
Was tracing morning o'er the sky
iVhen Grant upn McGregor's height.
Beheld grim Death in armor nigh,
' hero of undying fame!
Who saved the Union, peace restored!
Grant! Victor! Chief! on Mars' red plain.
Yield, yield to Death thy flaming sword ! "
Spoke Grant ; and valor sat enthroned
Upon his brow's majestic field ;
' What victor never claimed before
To thee, King Death, my sword I yield."
A POEI BY JAMES MARTIN,
THE MARCH OF THE IRISH RACE.
0, spirits that watch for the coming dawn
at the promised Arcadian gate,
Have you read God's signs in the arching
skies, aud his lines in the book of fate?
Have your weary eyes been at last made glad
with the visions that seem to say
That the alien's cause, like the gloom it
. brought, is fading in death away?
! patriot hearts that have throbbed to be
free, as free as your sires of yore,
Do you feel the thrill of the roseate hope
you never had felt before?
0, bards, you may hush your requiem lays
o'er the loss of our glories gone.
For the Irish race, 'neath its banner of old,
is speedily inarching on.
Out of the valley of sin and death, down
from the barren crags,
Where a peasant toiled (that a lord might
wine) while his children slept in rags.
Out from the scorn of serfdom's shame, out
from the dungeon grim,
Out from the lair where gyves and chains
encumbers each Irish limb.
On, on to the vistas of human light, on, on
to the uplands, where
Men kneel at the shrine of freedom's God,
and the skies look ever fair.
On, on the shores where the sands be gems
that are kissed by the glad sunbeams;
On, on to each plain where the waving grain
from the golden meadow gleams.
Tip, up from the swamps where the fetid
gusts of the poisonous vapor kill.
On, on in the march of the people's might,
with the strength of a people's will.
On, on in the part of the human race, to the
light of a better day,
Where tyrants' thrones and sceptered drones
be ruthlessly swept away.
Where the earth shall riot store the stains
of an outraged country's tears,
And the world will bask in peace and rest
'neath the glow of the coming years,
Then hurrah! hurrah! for the onward march
to the gates of the promised land,
Where never again the sceptre of state shall
be grasped by an alien's hand.
0, shades of our Hugh and Owen Roe, and
Emmet, and Orr, and Tone,
The land that you died to disenthrall is
boldly marching on.
On, on through the night to the morning
bright where the green flag points the
way,
While her titled peers in terror fly like ghouls
at the dawn of day.
Till the castle be wrecked, and the last red
coat of its myrmidon hordes be
gone,
The Irish race, through time and space,
shall ever go marching on.
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