UC-NRLF B 3 315 515 "■-%?. THE JAMES D. PHELAN CELTIC COLLECTION JL'jtfrravc^i b^y A-t'r*J^hi.wm u TUtc trj /Jukluk C^UytLiim^. B'jLXM^i "j}^:ai£'>^iM'^^ TSji^^ ^y 2"ii;si.A:^X). THE '■^'^^'•■'••i'UlV^N EMERALD ISLE: 3 Poem, BY CHARLES PHILLIPS, ESQ. ■ ■ li OF DUBLIN, BARRISTCB AT LAW, ^- ^ Author of the Life of J. P. Curran, Esq. Consolations of Erin, Speeches at the Irish Bar, Loves of Celestine and St. Aubert, &^ct DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT, EMBELLISHED WITH A PORTBAIT OF BRIAN KING OF IRELAND. *' Finibus occiduis desctibitur optima tellus, Nomine ct antiqitis Scotia scripta libris. Insula, dives opum» gemmarum, vcstis et auri, Commoda corporibus, acre, sole, solo, — Melle Quit pulclihs et lacteis Scotia campis, Vestibus atqiie armis, frugibua, arte, viris, UrsoruOT rabies nulla est ibi — sseva leonum Semina, nee unquam Scoticft terr& tulit. Nulla venena nocent, nee serpens serpit in herb&, Nee conquesta canit garrula rana l<^cu ! In qu&Scotorum gentes habitaren|crunOi/rt' .' • ' Inclyta gens hominum, milite, pacd,' HCteJ^ . P,9NATUS, NINTH EDITION. LONDON : FEINTED FOR J. J. STOCKDALE, 41, PALL MALL. 1818, PHEUN Printed by Cox and BaylUt Great Queen Street, Lincoln*^ lun-Field*. PT. es TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT, IRELAND'S HOPE, AND ENGLAND'S ORNAMENT; THE FOLLOfTING POEM IS, WITH HIS AUTHORITY, GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED. Sli^o, Ireland^ 2l2d April, 1812. 804105 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Cprporation http://www.archive.org/details/emeraldislepoemOOphilrich NOTICE TO THE FIFTH EDITION. A fifth edition of the following poem having been called for by the public, the liberal offers of its publisher have induced me to enlarge it by very considerable additions. Incessantly occupied by the avocations of professional life, I have not been able to devote, to any part of the poem, the attention which I wished, and I have therefore to claim indulgence for many inaccuracies, which, perhaps,, more leisure might have enabled me to have corrected. To the numerous criticisms by which I have been as- sailed, I am very little indebted for any opportunity of improve- ment. Tliey have almost altogether merged the literary ^ in the political consideration of the work, and pursued me with an asperity which but too manifestly marked a determination to censure, ratlier than to criticise. As a proof of this I refer the reader to a work called the Quarterly Review, combining per- haps more profligacy of principle, and more poverty of intellect than ever disgraced any press in any other country. The article with which they have honoured me, I point out with a conscious exultation, both to my friend^ and to my enemies 5 the former indeed have good reason to rejoice if this be all which the most r A 3 slavish and the most malignant of the latter can object to me. For myself, I shall only say, that it shall be my constant study rigidly to observe that line of conduct, which has given me the honourable distinction of the enmity of the Quarterly Reviewers! December 22, 1817, 99, Grafton Street, Driblin. PREFACE. A BRIEF outline of the following Poem was some time since presented to the Public under the title of " The Consolations of Erin." The reception of my rude and unfinished Sketch so far surpassed my most sanguine expectations, that, were it only out of gratitude^ I could do no less than endeavour to repay, as far as labour could repay, the loan with which I had been so prematurely honoured. Conscious, however, of many errors, and naturally fearful of more, the only apo- logy which I can offer, is, the purity of my motive. When I first embarked for England in the pursuit of my professional studies, my most poignant emotions were, as might be expected, love for my native land, and regret at leaving it ; but, the necessity of a separation, and the pros- pect of return, gradually subdued the force of feeling, and the first sight of England effaced, for the moment, ^very rival impression. With mute and wondering contemplation, I saw her rise before me in the solitude of the Ocean— the Hermitage of the Good, the Wise and the Free — the Temple A 4 8 TREFiCCt. where Milton worshipped— Shakspeare sung, and ChA-* tHAM slept — where Piety fled for her last earthly refuge, and Freedom hailed her insulated sanctuary ! Little was it to be wondered at that a youthful mind, thus contemplating her abstract splendour, should have expected, perhaps extravagantly, an individual conformity. But, alas^ what was my astonishment to find amongst those ** lords of << humankind,*' a prejudice against my native land, pr^o* minant above every otlier feeling— inveterate as ignorance could generate, and monstrous as credulity could feed J Was there an absurdity uttered-^it was Jmh I was there a crime committed —it was Irish I was there a freak at whieh folly woul^^^us^ — ^ frolic which Icyity would disbwn-*a cruelty at which' barbarism would shudder— none could hatch or harbour them but an Irishman 1 Ireland was the Ribald's jest and the Miser's profit— the Painter sold her in caricature, the Ballad-singer chaunted her in burlesque, and the pliant Senator eked out his stupid hour with the plagiarism of her slander ! In the very seat of Legislation is was deliberately asserted that Ireland was " a burthen *' on the empire! The judicious apothegm remains upon record, a solitary memorial of its author's eloquence and most characteristic specimen of his political sagaci^y^.rTa PREFACE. 9 those who could either utter or patiently hear such an absur- .dity, I adduce no argument— their ignorance is too preju- diced to be taught, and their prejudice too contemptible to be combated : but, to the liberal and the thinking, is offered, in the following pages, an imperfect summary of Ireland's benefactions, not only to England, but to the world— bene- factions, of deep interest to the nation which received, and of permanent glory to the nation which bestowed them. Elated as my spirit must naturally be at the recital of my country's jnerits, it is, nevertheless, bowed down with the consciousness of personal misrepresentation. Such is the unhappy state of Ireland, that Party brands the name of Patriotism, and a love for the land is deemed an enmity to the Government ! Our very Virtues are sicklied with the hue of Suspicion — our Liberality is Rebellion— our Candour, Craft — our Piety, Polemicks ! Whether it be by foreign gold or by native misfortune, there is generated within our soil a Monster, more watchful and more venemous than the vipers which shun us ; — awed by no virtue, subdued by no kindness and crushed by no correction^ it strengthens with our weakness and feeds on our famine;— like the poison- tree of Java * spreading his verdant branches to the sky, • See *' Sketches, Civil and Military, of the Islarid of Java.— Second " Edition." 10 FBEFACE. while it blasts and withers the soil which gave it birth. The Monster is Disunion. While that Hydra lives, Ire- land cannot prosper ; but let us once banish it the land, and we shall then see who dare refuse us a just right or offer an unexpiated inisalt. For myself, / here most solemnly abjure all party spirit fohatsoever — I merge the Partisan in the Irishman — the Sec- tarian in the Christian — the Romanist in the Man. I look upon my country as a Parent, and on her natives as Brethren; and, with that filial and fraternal spirit, I offer them ihk effusions of an heart which throbs but for their welfare. -flO 0C| THE EMERALD ISLE. x!iRiN, dear by every tie Which binds us to our infancy ; By weeping memory's fondest claims^ By nature's holiest, highest names, By the sweet, potent, spell that twines The exile's secret heart around, By woe and distance faster bound, When, for his native soil he pines. As, wafted o'er the clouded deep. And, shuddering at the tempest's roar. He thinks how sweet its waters sleep Upon thy lone and lovely shore : 18 THE EMEEALD ISLE. ^^^^^^0^^^^ By the indignant patriot's tear, Oh, even by misfortune dear. £bin, from thy living tomb Arise^-:tb0 hour of hope is come. ^. Xhi^koit wbal thou once hast been, r; •,;- ; -* . . . . Think on many a glorious scene Which graced thy hills and vallies green ; Think on Malacui the brave; Look on Brian's verdant grave- Brian — the glory and grace of his age ; Brian — the shield of the Emerald Isle ; The lion incensed was a lamb to his rage, The dove was an eagle compar'd to his smile ! Tribute on enemies, hater of war, Wide-flaming sword of the warrior throng, Liberty's beacon, religion's bright star. Soul of the Seneacha, " Light of the Song." THE EMERALD ISLE. 19 The sun has grown old since Clontarf's bloody wave. Saw thee sleep the sweet sleep of the patriot brave ; But thy glory still infantine beams from on high. The light of our soil and the sun of our sky ; And, centuries hence, Time shall see that sweet light, Unheeding his envy, still youthful and bright ! Oh ! had I the power, holy scourge of the Dane, To waken the glories that circled thy reign. The captive would triumph, the tyrant should die ; Yet alas, to the angels above 'tis but given, While chaunting the vesper of heroes at even, To pause, at thy name, 'mid the music of heaven, And shed the mute tear on thy memory ! Oh, there were days in the Island of Saints, No bard could dare to sing- Holy deeds, which, the pen that paints. Must come from an angel's wing I B 2 ^ TUB EMERALD ISLE. It is not now for an impious lime The hallowed tale to tell, Of sacred lore and song sublime And learning, spread through many a clime, By the tongue of Columbkille ! It is not now for a downward age, Or the feeble hand that writes, To dim, with his degenerate page. The wisdom meek, and martial rage, Of Conn of the hundred fights! It is not now for the spiritless song. Or the tame and tuneless lyre, To tell of the wondering crowds that hung On the hero hand and poet tongue Of CoEMAC — heart of fire! The days are gone, and the bards are dead, That well could tell the tale, THE EMERALD ISLE. Like the flower of the valley they flourish'd, and fled Like the song of the mountain gale. Where now the passing stranger sees Some orphan tree. Sighing, in the desert breeze, So piteously — There, once, the holy Druid prayed, Amid his stately grove, Or sweetly breathed the myrtle shade, As courtly knight and lady strayed, In ecstacy of love. It is not for the earthly soul These hallow'd sights to see. But, bursting from its sable shrouds, Like lightning from the midnight clouds. The buried age will rise and roll Before the child of poesy. 92 THE EMERALD ISLE. Arise, arise, thou vision bright ! Arise and glorify my sight ! Pour down thy radiance from on high, Glance but upon mine youthful eye. One glimpse of Erin's faded majesty ! Rise, visions of our golden age ! And flash your glories on my page ! Rise, ancient heroes of our isle ! And cheer your country with a smile ! Rise, shades of the departed years ! Rise, sages, bards, and holy seers ! Usher, Swift and Farquhar come From your star-encircled home ! — See, see, the vision passing by, See, how it glows along the sky, A grand, eternal galaxy ! Poor Erin, though surrounding night, May make that galaxy more bright. THE EMERALD ISLE. 23 Still hast thou hope some happy star Will lead in morning's lucid car ; For, even in this moment drear, Such splendid prodigies appear, That one must think their heavenly ray The promise of returning day. — See thy laurel-circled son Leading crimson conquest on — See how India comes from far, And looks on Lusitania's war — See how she waves her banner proud. And claps her hands and cries aloud, " Yield, Europe, half his fame to me ! " I nursed the child of victory ! " — Happy chief! upon whose head Contending climes their honours shed ! B 4 ^#^«/>#sr^^sr>#> £4 .THE EMERALD ISLE. Happy chief! ivhose sword has won A title, nobler than a throne. The kation-saving Wellington! And does not he — oh ! write the name In characters of living flame — Does not Shesiban refuse The gift of every stranger-muse, Bringing, with filial love, to thee, The glories of his poverty ? Still shewing others wisdom'a way, Still led himself, by wit, astray; Of contradictions so combin'd. With views so brilliant, yet so blind. That, in him, error looks like truth. Folly is reason, age is youth. ^qqi;ll fiib ;gniba9iuo".) Immortal man ! designed to be TJie country^ s own epitome; THE EMERALD ISLE. 25 #^^^*^*^^^^•^**s*^^^s#^^*^*s^^^^^^^*>*■^s/^ry^#^*rf^/^*^rs*s^. When thj keen flashes set no more The midnight table in a roar, Sages and wits alike shall come To heap their garlands on thy tomb. And every weeping muse, in turn, Clasp, in her arms, her fav'rite's urn ! ^'en from that urn shall rise relief, Glory will so illumine grief. Thus, when the radiant orb of day Sheds on the world its parting ray. The lustre all creation cheers. And orphan nature smiles in tears. Nor, Grattan, may'st thou stand aside When Erin counts her cause of pride ! Thou, thou who, in her darkest night, Rose like a meteor on her sight, When a native traitor's blow Laid thy lovely Erin low. 96 THE EMEBALD ISLE. Oh ! round that last ill-omen'd field, Where her high heart was forced to yield,* When, in its wrath, the midnight cloud Roird its thunder-laden shroud, Burning through storm and cloud, thy beaoi Shot, on her eye, a loftier gleam : CheerM her sunk heart, and bid her feel That virtue might be conqueror still. E^en, when the remnant of the fight, Her warriors, scorning chains or flight, Though dim their spear and cleft their shield, Hung on the limits of the field ; They watched, upon the cloud afar. The radiance of thy guiding star ; Radiance so grand, so pure, 'twas given To brighten earth and show them heaven — That heaven, Kirwan, which sent thee On earth to shew its purity ; THE EMERALD ISLE. 27 Bat which, enamour'd of thy tongue, Refused the blessing to us long ; And virtue now holds out to men The hope of hearing thee again. Apostle ! worthy of thy God ! Like him, a thorny path you trod, Shedding thine high and lioly grace . Upon a worthless, thankless race ! Blush, mitred dulness ! blush with shame, At Kir WAN's great, neglected name. But who is here with olive crown'd, With Echo listening for a sound, And all the passions bending round ? Ecstatic mirth and stern despair- * Owning alike their master there ! Whose is the wonder-working wand That conjures up the shadowy band — 28 * THE EMERALD ISLE. Bids sorrow, shame and rapture start From the recesses of the heart ; Calls the quick tear to Joy's blue eye, Alternate wakes the smile and sigh, And reigns, with sweet and proud controul, Unrivall'd sovereign of the soul ? CuRRAN, now I know thee well, 1 know thee by thy potent spell : But hence without applause from me ; I may not worship witchery. — Yet sure, if aught of magic art. With secret sway enslaves the heart, 'Tis when lovely woman's smile Resistless wings the fatal wile : Ah ! vain the hope, the eflFort vain To 'scape the soft and silken chain ; TUB EMERALD ISLE. 99 Nor can the captive muse repine /» A willing slave at Edgeworth^s shrine. Edgeworth I a parent's and a nation's pride ! Virtue's chaste guardian, Erin's virgin guide ! Star of thy sex ! round whom, on airy wing, Each grace meanders and the muses sing, Wisdom expands, wit's varied vision plaj^, Genius careers, while eagle fancy strays, Prometheus like, in envy 'mid the blaze ! Yes, if this earth can yield a ray divine, And Heaven's pure sun, with human shade, combine, 'Tis when, enshrin'd within a female form. Genius and virtue bear the blended charm ; They soften life, ameliorate their sphere. In joy adorn, and in misfortune cheer, Beam round our orb anticipated bliss, And half unfold a. future state in this : 80 H^ THE EMERALD ISLE. Happy the bard such union to reveal. But happier thou, fair Owenson, to feel ! Hail, Justice ! maid austere but mild, Hail to thy pure and patriot child ! Oh ! vain would be the poet's lay, • And faint and feeble memory's ray, And cold thy country's heart must be. When she forgets her Ponsonby ! While modest vfrorth and manly mind. With honor's spotless soul combined. While wisdom meek and honest zeal, The hand to act, the heart to feci. Claim, from this land, a tribute free. She'll not forget her Ponsonby ! But see who comes with careless measure, Looking bliss and breathing pleasure, THE EMERALD ISLE. • 31 Led along by Beauty's choir, With heart of feather, tongue of fire, A Cupid carrying his lyre ! 'Tis he, the bard of voice divine. Sweet melodist of love and wine ; He on whom monks and minions rail, The Muse's little nightingale: He round whose cradle, ev'ry rival muse Pour'd the rich perfume of Castalian dews, While Freedom, bending o'er her laurell'd boy, Bade Venus weave his wreath and wept with joy : Yes, Erin, *tis thy patriot son, Thy simple, sweet Anacreon ! MooRE, though around thy laurell'd head. No splendid ray can shine. Save that which heaven's own light will shed . On such a brow as thine — 32 THE BMBKALD ISLE. Yet, when you die, Genius will grieve upon thy tomb, Freedom lament thy early doom, And fresh, in Erin's fond heart, bloom The verdure of thy memory ! Thy dirge shall be the lover's sigh ; Thy monument, the myrtle tree ; While widowed Nature, weeping nigh, Shall close her poet's obsequy. Nor shall one tear less sacred fall Upon the grave of worth, Because unblazon'd is its pall, And titleless its birth—* Away, away, the herald's scorn. Full many a noble heart was humbly born ! 'Mid the heath of the valley the violet blows ; Through the sands of the desert the fountain spring flows; And e'en on the briar-bush blossoms the rose, With the breath and the beauty of morn. r THE EMERALD ISLE. 33 Oh, could he, from his cradle to his grave, Writhe through life's agt)ny5 ^ heart curs'd slave ! Could he, defying sharae, despising truth, With ev'ry vice of age defile his youth, Could he renounce the path his fathers trod, Barter the Gospel, and despoil his God, He still might sink to infamy and state, Branded with rank amongst the modern great ! But, kneel to heaven, with thy country, Moore, And bless the virtues that have made thee poor ; Virtues, that loathe the honours of an age When want of crime is want of patronage. In better times, if e'er a better fate Shall raise that country to her ancient state. When, with a throbbing heart, she shall survey The friends and glories of her wintry day, Genius shall pause before her patriot's tomb. And, in their blended tears, thy laurels bloom — c 54 THE EMERALD ISLE. Unfruitful laurels ! ever doomed to wave, A green, but joyless, foliage, o'er the grave.— Who but with M oorb would woo thy sacred shade, Culling the chaplet fated ne'er to fade, Rather than glitter midst a shameless band, Rich in the ruiu of their native land. Take the lyre, thou Child of Song ! But keep it not from Cupid long ; , Yet can the God of Love refuse A moment of his darling Mose, To celebrate a land which pajrs To him such pure and pious praise ; To celebrate, in deathless strain, Its honor, without spot or stain, Its spirit brave, its social glee. Its heart-felt hospitality- Its fire and mirth and martial iame, Concenter'd all in Moira's name? THE EMERALD ISLE. 35 Yes ! if in human hearts there be A symbol of the Deity, A feeling of celestial birth, Which raises man above the earth, Ennobles life and death defies. And wings our spirit for the skies, MoiRA, 'tis that which gives to thee The patriot's immortality — It lends thy star a ray more bright, Sheds on thy name a purer light, And gives thee, more than wit or birth. The meed of honesty and worth. In faith it glads my heart to say, That even in thy winter day. There is a patriot pure and free, To think, poor Erin, upon thee — To sweep, with angel hand, aside The lures of luxury and pride ; c 2 36 THE EMERALD ISLE. ^ ^s*V*^sry^ *v^^ ^^^^^S*N*^ And, great in all the world can give, Alone for thee contented live. Yet, Erin, few there surely are, And, oh, be these from memory far, Who do not love to think on thee And the pure joys of infancy ! No matter where the exile goes. O'er sultry sands or Alpine snows, Or where no mortal foot before Had dared the desert to explore ; Where wild tornadoes pour their wrath, Or serpents hiss along his path : At night, when wearied and alone. He rests upon the shapeless stone. E'en o'er that broken hour of sleep Delicious thoughts of home will sweep, And his hush'd spirit give a tear To all that charm'd and sooth'd it there ; THE EMERALD ISLE. 37 ^.^sr>^^s^v^.'S«^^s«^^k«s#^s«s^iV«s^«s#># ^>#<#^>#«^. The hazel wood, the village green, Of his rude bojish sports the scene — The woodbine bower, the hawthorn glade. Where first he met his mountain maid ; With all the loves of that sweet soil Where friendship gave a charm to toil, And mirth lent poverty a smile. Oh sweet Killarney, who that e'er Adored thy sylvan scene, When russet autumn's morning tear Impearls thy hills of green, Can bid thy memory depart, , Or tear its worship from his heart Though oceans intervene ? Oh ! can he forget thee, and e'er be forgiven. Who has seen thee allgemm'd with the glories of heaven, c 3 38 THE EMERALD ISLE. When the red sun is rising o'er Mangerton Mounts When the diamonds are flaming in Mangerton fount, When the lonely cone of Mucruss spire, Glitters — a pyramid of living fire — And lovely Innis,- fallen isle, Its varied beauties just awake, Shews, basking in the momiDg's smile, Its glorious image in the lake ? — When there is not o'er the ample sky A cloud to tinge its orient hue, When there is not e'en a zephyr's sigh, To rob the rosebud's trembling dew, Or wake the sweet sleep of the waters blue ? KiLLARNEY ! at creation's birth, Thy garden of delight was given, To cheer the way-worn child of earth With thy anticipated heaven ! THE EMERALD ISLE. 39 Eden's fairest, wildest llowers. Breathe around th' Arabian sigh — Every bird of Eden's bowers Thrills the rival melody — Whether each little laughing isle Catches the wanton summer smile, Or the rude spirit of the storm Roars round each giant mountain form, The changeful climate finds in thee Only a varied harmony ! * '^ # ♦ * •♦ * ♦ ♦ « ♦ * • # . <» ^ ^ « « Oh-^what a sight it is to see Killarney's naval pageantry — When the wild note of the woodhunter's horn Awakes the hill spirit to worship the morn, c 4 40 THE EMERALD ISLE. While the fays of the glen and the sprites of the fountain Affright the red deer in his flight o'er the mountain ! — Oh — what a sight it is to see Killarney's naval pageantry— When the snow white sail in the sunbeam isstreaming. When the pennon of green o'er the billow is beaming, When the barks, with their burthens of beauty and song, Bound o'er the silvery surges along, While the firmament's blush gives the water its glow, As if anxious to share in the magic below ! The eye that beheld, from the summits a&r, All the blaze of that scene, to the vision thus given, Would fancy each barge were an animate star, And the billows that bore them a miniature heaven ! 'Tis all as by enchantment wrought. Above — around — below — The mind, by inspiration caught. Flies to its God, nor wastes a thought Uport our world of woe. THE EMERALD ISLE. 41 Oft have 1 seen, in pride of song, The naval pageant move along, Bearing the hunters of the deer, Propt upon their beechen spear, The chieftains of the valley round, Each with the green arbutus crowned — The minstrel band — the mountain train-— The peasants of the peaceful plain. Encircling many an island glory, The wond'rous theme of rustic story. Where wizard stream and woodland fay Oft turn the winter night to day. And ev'ry fancied flow'ret's bell Is but, in truth, a fairy's cell !— Nor, marvel thou, such magic tale O'er rustic reason should prevail; For nature, in her wildest mood. So prank'd that watery solitude 42 THE EMERALD ISLE. With every shape to charm the eje, And every sound to soothe the ear, Philosophy might pause to hear The spirits of another sphere, Nor ever dream its dulcet sigh Belonged to this world's minstrelsy ! Glorious Glena ! how can I e'er Forget the day to friendship dear, When first I heard the horn awake Th' etherial echoes of thy lake, While fairy bower and wizard brake. From every viewless cavern'd rill, FeaVd such a sweet, responsive strain, To the rude minstrel's trumpet thrill. That Hope herself would deem it vain To wish such melody again ! Scarce had the angel chorus died, (For surely to such tongues 'tis given, To chaunt the choral hymns of heaven) THE EMERALD I^LE. 43 When the mute, rocky, mountain side, In rival minstrelsy replied, And everj' russet woodland cell. And sylvan stream, and silent dell. With such enchanting music rung, It seem'd as ev'ry leaf around Sprung into extasy of sound, And ev'ry flinty rock had found More than an Angel's tongue ! Let sage philosophy explain The secret wonders of the strain, That charms the rustic ear ; Whether it be but fancy's dream. Or the wild spirit of the stream. Or some melodious wandering sphere, Or pining Echo's love sick sigh, Or the swan's anthem ere he die, / 44 THE EMERALD ISLE. Or angel music in the sky, It is a wonderous song to hear ! ♦ ««♦«» IK « « » » « Oft, mid the lovely, moonlight scene, When wood, and hill, and islet green. Sleep in that moonlight ray. The peasant pilots, as they steer. To wife, and hearth, and children dear. Amid the sparkling spray, Will linger on their homeward way, Ldst'ning that lone, delightful, lay ! Their faith forbids, it e'er should be This earth could hold such harmony. And deems the tones that float along, With such melodious soul of song. Are the sweet strains that angels sing. Waving aloft the viewless wing, THE EMERALD ISLE. 46 As through the fields of light they rove In ceaseless extasy of love : — Or, 'tis th' etherial choral hymn, The welcome of the brave, Or their aerial requiem, O'er love's untimely grave : — Or, oft they say, it is the sigh Of thy sad spirit, Liberty, When some young victim breathes away his bloom, A primrose offering on thy wintry tomb I But 'tis not meet, with curious eye. To scan the woodland witchery ; For very oft are plainly seen The little gentry of the green, Wheeling their fantastic flight Around Glena's enchanted height, Or dancing o'er the silvery spray, To their own magic roundelay, Amid the " pale moonlight : " 46 THE EMERALD 18LE. And he must be a loreless wight, Who does not know, full well, The mysteries of such a sight He may not safely tell.— The Gentry are a jealous race ; And few, that have a touch of grace, For Sabbath suit, or tenants' treasure. Would fain incur their high displeasure. Where is the fool, would wish to ride Upon a thistle stalk astride, For ever and for ever ? Or pine, within the dungeon cell, Of the cunning fly flower's bell^ Where friends could find him never ? 4» ♦ » # • • # • « ^ # • Children of nature ! sacred be. Thy simple, safe, credulity ! THB EMERALD ISLE. 47 Nor let the lore-learned sons of pride Their rude simplicity deride ; For wisdom, in her wisest mood, Might scrutinize that solitude, And fancy, in her happiest dream, Beside the Muses' haunted stream. Might sweep, with music-waking wing. The sweetest, wildest, saddest string, Woo'd by the amorous breath of spring. Nor hear the plaintive heaven of sound, Killarney's tonguelesa mountains breathe around ! Dear native land, though distant now. The days, when o'er thy mountain's brow, With footstep light and spirit gay, I brush'd the morning dew away, Or paused to mark the rural grave Where sleep the ashes of the bruve — 48 THE EMERALD ISLE. ^^^^^*^^^^ ^*>*>,#^*^^^^^^^*^^*^«^^./^*^r*^*^^>*^*#^»^^^^^*^ Still ever dear shall be the scene, Though savage oceans roll between ; Still shalt thou be my midnight dream, Thy glory still my waking theme ; And evVy thought and wish of mine, Unconquer'd Erin, shall be thine! Who but has felt, by fate impelled to roam, The holy spell that binds the heart to home ! Who but, at times, has tum'd a tearful eye To the dear, sainted spot of infancy ! There is a sweet enchantment in the sound, That fills the soul, and sheds a balm around. Conjures to view, life's lovely, orient form, When even sorrow's cloud assumed a charm, And youth on memory's lip impress'd the kiss Of all its innocence, and all its bliss. THE EMERALD ISLE. 49 Dear to the soul is every meteor ray. That lights the landscape of that vernal day. And bright the vision now, which, while it play'd, Too happy childhood saw involv'd in shade — The playground scene — the field of young renown — The desk, made awful by the master's frown — The truant scheme — the airy dreams of life — The Sunday grandeur, and the schoolboy strife, Recall to memory's heart the charmed hours, When, led by Fancy through her fairy bowers. Youth play'd in sunbeams and reposed on flowers ! These, as in other lands the exile strays, Will oft recall the scene of happier days. And in their vision every care forgot, Bind his sad heart to the associate spot. A nobler people than our island race Old Ocean holds not in his vast embrace : 50 THE EMERALD ISLE. Unskilled in forms and unrefin'd by art. Their virtues rush abruptly from the heart ; Virtues which decorate their humble lot. And breath a blessing o'er the strawbuilt cot ! Ill omen'd cot ! where wretchedness and want Hold their sad state and rear their wrinkled front, Yet crown'd with joys, which luxury in vain Seeks in the follies of her pampered train. There nutbrown labour smoothes the bed of straw, Health glads the boird, and nature gives the law ; Light-hearted laughter hails the ready jest, And honest welcomes cheer the stranger guest. Oh ! surely here, by heaven's own hand designed, Here may be found the elemental mind : Th' immortal spark, that shooting from the skies Into man's heart, or damns or deifies. See where, with sighs, recumbent on the soil. Yon naked peasant steals an hour from toil. THE EMERALD ISLE. 51 ^S»^yS#S^ /^^^ *\*s^>S*S*^sN*SA^^^./N/S* ^>r^ ^^^^ ^<#* *V^^«#^ !*>#># ^v/sr^S/sr ^S*S^./S*^ While the wild fury of the winter storm, Familiar grown, but steels his manly form : See on that brow, in characters divine, How nature's noblest, grandest, features shine : See in that eye the pure Promethean flame, Celestial as the heaven whence it came : See, in the heavings of that artless breast, The swelling grandeur of its g^odlike guest : By nature formed upon her noblest plan. See that majestic model of a man ! Is it his fault, ye " lords of human kind," That brutish ignorance benumbs his mind ? Is it his fault, apostles of the grave, That superstition brands him for her slave ? Is it his fault, ye pillars of the state. Ye, whom his toils make rich, his tributes great. That, while untutor'd reason drops the rein. Dupe of the vile, the vicious, and the vain, D 2 52 THE EMERALD ISLE. Wielded at will, by prejudice or spleen, He moves submissive on— a mere machine ? Oh ! blasted ever be the barbarous code That wrings him from his reason and his God, And from the living altar tears a brand To shame religion and consume the land ! Nature's own children ! who that e'er has seen Thy Sabbath-groupings o'er the festive green. Where innocence arranged her village court, And sires and matrons mingled in the sport ; Who that has seen thee in the battle-day. When war's hoarse clarion roused his dire array. Pouring thy mountain-torrent, swift and strong, Where death career'd and ruin roU'd along, But wept in heart, to think that warrior band Triumph'd for all, except its native land? Ah ! vain to thee, poor land, the varied fame Thy splendid exiles pour around thy name : THE EMERALD ISLE. 53 Vain the triumphal arch, the trophied car, The wreaths of peace and crimson wrecks of war. No, not for thee they thunder o'er the main, Tame the wild wave, or rule the battle plain ; No, not for thee they weave the magic song, Or lead the arts in willing chains along : Their holy toils enrich some distant land. And foreign welcomes bless the banish'd band ! Sweet land ! around thy shores of purest green The lingering Syrens hail their island queen, While the rude spirit of the wintry air Smiles o'er the wave, to woo thy image there. How oft, when glorious morning's rosy beam Gemm'd with its infant kiss thy mountain stream. Have I beheld thee, from the breezy height, Unveil such beauties to the blessed light, D 3 54 THE BMBRALD ISLE. That while the viewless seraphs of the sky Woke their wild matin to the Deity, Fancy might worship a celestial voice^ And kneel before the pictured paradise ! Who, that has seen thy grand romantic hills Rolling through vales of gold their virgin rills. Thy varied charms, thy ever verdant fields, Where Ceres, half unsought, her harvest yields ; Where the safe shepherd ev'ry foe defies, And the coil'd viper droops his crest and dies ? Who, that has heard the music of thy brakes, Or seen thy little inland ocean-lakes. Where countless diamond-islets sweetly shine, Set in the crystal wave by hands divine. But would desire to share his joys with thee, Or lose his woe in thy society ? And are there some, alas ! for whom, in vain. Nature thus spreads the riches of her reign ? THE EMERALD ISLE. 55 Some, who behold this native paradise, But as a vile purveyor to their vice, Destin'd to feed the ever-craving hand In its profusion to a foreign land ? Who can retrieve a country's ruin'd state. If her own children leave her to her fate ? If, while her drooping sons require support, Their proper patrons seek a foreign court ? Neglected land ! how often have I seen The human cargo leave thy hills of green, While many a group, assembled on the shore, Wept o'er the friends they could behold no more. Ere the proud bark, with streamers sadly gay, Bore them for ever o'er the watery way ! Ah ! tear-swoll'n billows raised her to the sky, And her sails shivered in the human sigh ! D 4 66 THE EMERALD ISLE. How oft has tongaeless pity mourned in vain. The heart-sent sorrows of the village train ! As, their poor cottage closing'from their view, They bade, with broken sighs, their last adieu ; Forced from that long endear'd, that early home, Without a roof, in stranger-climes to roam ! And yet, though hard the fate that bade them rove Far from the country and the friends they love, Scarce they repined : their wither'd hearts were dead, Save to the misery from which they fled ! Oft had they joined, perhaps, the haggard throng, Bearing the now neglected fleece along. In the sad emblems of a mourning dressed, Which their own fainting forms too well expressed ! Oh ! 'twas a scene to make young folly sigh, To wake the tear in stern ambition's eye, Touch the hard heart of avarice to the core. And melt the soul that never felt before ! THE EMERALD ISLE. 57 ^*^*^^^^#^ In every hideous form was famine there, While want, and wretchedness, and wan despair, A feeble, glimmering, animation shed Through the pale wasted frame, which — else was dead ! But who can paint their dire, domestic scene, Where with affrighted eye and haggard mien, The parents mingle the heart-piercing cry O'er the cold bier where their young darlings lie ? To many a wintry hour that faded boy Lent the gay plume and golden wing of joy, And many a night, with bitter woes opprest. That little maid in hope's rich colours drest. Tho' small the shed, their infants' rosy smile Gave it the splendours of a palace pile ; Though scant its board, their infants' harmless jest Enriched the fare and turned it to a feast. Visions of future bliss their cares beguiled, And fancy's cherub pointed to their child. 58 THE EMERALD ISLE. Unhappy pair ! if industry could save Thy famish'd offspring from an early grave, They still had lived thy labours to assuage, Console thy sorrows, and support thy age ; But heartless grandeur spurned thy native toil, To cheer th' extortions of a foreign soil ! Oh ! a time there was, when Erin's own Left her not thus deserted and lone : When Erin's prayer Was her own monarch's care, And through her whole isle, reflected, shone The light and the love that encircled her throne ! Oh ! had I but the envied power To sing the brighter, earlier hour! Then would I sing the happy day Which saw thee reign with regal sway : THE EMERALD ISLE. 59 Then would I sing thine age of gold, Thy virgins bright, and heroes bold ; And ev'ry trump should sound their fame, And ev'ry tongue should bless their name, And ev'ry flower should droop its head, And on their tomb its odour shed : But to no human tongue 'tis given To use the privilege of heaven. Celestial beings chaunt their dirge, The syrens sing in it on the surge, It makes the winds of heaven to sigh, So sweet and sad its melody. When evening comes, on pinion grey, To weep for the departed day. The spirits of an higher sphere Are sent by the Immortal here ; They come, a seraph choir, to mourn Upon the hero's laurelled urn : 60 THE EMERALD ISLE. And so unearthly is their song. The peasant, as he goes along, Invents a thousand marvels dire To tell around his rustic fire. He tells of many an elfin fay He saw amid the moonbeams play ; Or, shooting through the midnight gloom. To guard the slumbers of the tomb ! But yet not sprung from terror pale Is that poor peasant's simple tale ; For, if, you rise 'ere early morn, Or echo hears the hunter's horn. The sylvan landscape will appear Glistening with many a dewy tear : The tears which angel eyes have shed In sorrow for the sacred dead. But to see the hallowed sight, You must steal an hour from night; THE EMERALD ISLE. 61 For SO divine the tears that grace The hero's sacred resting place. That when the sun with vision bright Beholds them glittering in the light, He sends, by heaven's own desire, A ray of his celestial fire To kiss the heathbell's weeping cup, And drink the pearly odour up. Yet, Goldsmith, Orpheus of the wild, Nature's own darling village-child. Could but a patriot prayer of mine Draw thy sweet spirit from its shrine, Then might I^wake the mournful tone And angels think it was their own. Enchanting Goldsmith ! who, that e'er has seen The Sabbath-wonders of thy village green ; Who, that has heard the strain that nature sung. While the glad heart gave echo to the tongue. 62 THE EMERALD ISLE. But wept, in woe of heart, to think that he, The sweetest, simplest child of minstrelsy, In utter want through stranger realms should roam, Without a patron and without an home ! Sweet bard ! long, long, around thy saered urn, Nature's own family will meet to mourn : There will the village preacher breathe his prayer, The lovesick maid will sigh her eecret there, And many a time, amid its artlese woe, Their hearts will bless the bard that ^leepB below. Farewell poor bard ! peace to thy injur^ shade — Another land thy country's debt has paid ! And virtue's pencil has inscribed thy name, Where kings, and saints, and heroes, share thy fame. Yet, is't not sad to think that ev'ry slave May walk through life, in splendour, to his grave ? That he, upon whose brazen forehead, time Has 'rased stupiditi/ and written crime^ THE EMERALD ISLE. 63 ^^>#S*»^>r«*'^#>*^'*>/s^ *^r\f #«S^<^\/\^^«/<^^^<#> May roll his wealth before the public eye. While modest genius glides unheeded by ? Genius, which, like the lily, pure and pale, Blossom'd in tears, adorns the humble vale, While he, who breathes the odour of its bloom. Sees it, unheeded, withering to the tomb ! Then, Burkk, should thy immortal form Arise, majestic, 'mid the storm ; As when fair justice saw thee stand With client nations at thy hand, While wealth, and rank, and beauty hung Upon the magic of thy tongue I Oh, 'twas a noble sight to see How talent shadowed pedigree ; And thou, poor orphan of the sod, Prov'd thy nobility from God ! 64 TU£ EMERALD ISLE. wr»#s#^^^i* And Berkely, iif thou, vision fair, With all the spirits of the air, Should'st come, to see, beyond dispute, Thy deathless page thyself refute ; And in it own that thou could'st view Matter — and it immortal too. And wit, and comedy, and love, Should come with Congreve from above; And Swift, the wonder of the age. Statesman, yet patriot ; priest, yet sage : Who sought the mob, admired the crown. And shamed the church, yet graced the gown. Impassion'd, without love or fear. Witty, yet solemn and severe ; So much at war his word and deed, Antithesis was still his creed : And sure the life must love inspire. Where all find something to admire. THE EMERALD ISLE. 65 Fond of the nation he disown'd. Still on her hour of hope he frown'd ; But when her hour of struggle carae. And Ireland half embraced her shame. Then was his hour— the champion rose, Terror alike of friends and foes ; Unarm'd, save in the mighty zeal His country forced his heart to feel ; In shame and pride and sorrow strong, The scornful patriot rush'd along. Like lightning on the slumberer's eyes, Flashing his glorious energies. Nor did the noble ardour die 'Till Ireland could her foes defy ; And its last fierce, indignant ray, Vanished amid the blaze of day : Then, then his native soul return'd. And e*en the soil he sav'd, he spurn'd ! £ 66 THE EMERALD ISLl^. To friendship and to feeling dear, Immortal Sterne should next appear, With Cupid gaily running after ; Encircled in a myrtle crown, And covered with a cleric gown, The jest of jollity and laughter. Thou, magic Spenser, should'st be seen, Ranging the fairies on the green, To tell them how, one winter night, When moon and stars refused their light, And not a sprite could vigil keep. You stole upon their sovereign's sleep. And took a wand of wonder dread, Which gave a charm to all you said ! Nor should'st thou, Farquhar, absent be. Child of wit and soul of glee ! THE EMEBALD ISLE. 67 Swan of the stage ! whose dying moan Such dulcet numbers poured along, That Death grew captive at the tone, And stayed his dart to hear the song ! Source of refin'd and rational delight, Through joy, to virtue, see the stage invite. Amusing moralist! whose splendid art, Seriously gay, amends and soothes the heart, With willing homage at thy shrine I bow, To pay the humble, but the grateful vow. Long had the rival muses urged their claim To the green garland of poetic fame : High and superb, upon her throne of fire. The tragic sister swept her living lyre ; While, at the call of thei^ommanding queen, ^' embodied passions rushM into the scene, ' b2 ' » THE EMERALD ISLE. Fear, anger, frenzy, strain their aching eyes, As Mossop rages and Fitzhenry dies, What heart but bleeds while Cato smiles in tears, And sire and patriot in Quin appears : Who, with a soul, can nature's pang endure, j^hile Barry trembles in the tortur'd Moor : And see, for ages shaded from our view, Macklin give life to the revengeful Jew ? Fired at the sight, Melpomene arose. Smiled on the scene and half forgot her woes ; Sure of success she viewed the victor train, And hailed the glories of her rising reign. Clive and Comedy came together, Waving wild their wand of feather Round and round the antic throng, Led along By their airy song. THE EMERALD ISLE. 69 ^v»^»#^^^^^^^^^/s^^^*^^>^»^»^/^»s»>,/^»^^^s»s»'^^»s»^ ^y^^^^^^f^.^^^^.^.^^. Lewis, linked with ease and laughter, Beck'ning humour lingering after, Half willing, half afraid to fly, And lose the light of Jordan's eye ; Jordan still, with airy glee. Wheeling round Euphrosjne, Robbing now her rosy wreath, Catching now her balmy breath ; Little loves and graces bound her. Sylphs on airy wing surround her : Her printless footsteps fresh luxuriance fling. And flowers and perfumes breathe eternal spring ! Lulled by the magic of her honied strain. The rival Muses own'd th' alternate reign. With mutual feeling each their feuds forsook. Combined their efforts and created Cooke. Lord of the soul ! magicRm of the heart ! rbre child of nature ! fosterchild of art ! ^ E 3 ^ VO THE EMERALD ISLE. ^>f^^-*^ ^^**^»^^ How all the passions in succession rise, Heave in thy soul and lighten in thine eyes ! Beguiled by thee, old Time, with aspect bljthe, Leans on his sceptre and forgets his scythe ; Space yields its distance, ancient glories live, Ages elapse, remotest scenes revive — For thee creation half inverts her reign, And captive reason wears a willing chain. But see within her garden bower The lovely Juliet pensive lean ; Herself, the fairest, sweetest, flower. That ever graced the isle of green ! Oh ! she is lovely to behold, With eye of blue and braid of gold ! Her bosom is pure as the virgin-snows ! Her blush and her breath — they have rifled the rose ! THE EMERALD ISLE. 71 ^* '^>r>4>./Vith.a sigh for the present and smile on the past. The meteors of heaven unveiling his form. The spirit of Ossian should ride on the blast. Oh ! when he awoke his wild harp of the mountain, Or shed the sweet light of his slumbering song. How the moss-covered rock, with its crystalline fountain^ Would pour forth the bodiless, magical throng, To catch but one cadence and boast it along ! THE EMERALD ISLE. 75 ^»>»«».^^\r.»^> How the holy sound Would call around The vision of former years ! The virgins bright. In their mantles of light. Would forget the virgin's fears ; And the fire-edg'd cloud Shew its warrior crowd Careering their airy spears. Full many a day Has roU'd away, j Since they heard that tuneful tongue, And many a sword Has lost its lord, Since simple Ossian sung. The pride of his string Were a rural race. Their solace, the spring, Their subsistence, the chace ; 76 TUB EMERALD I8LB. ir'rfS«s^.#s#\r^^#s^^>tfS^^N«s^^«^«»./>#^^ And they lay down to rest From their frugal repast, Content should fate bring A rude Cairn at last ! Sure, 'tis a sad, yet soothing sight, To view the desert scene, Where once the sword, in freedom's fight, Wav'd, from countless Varriors, bright, Each shooting, like a star of night, His splendour o'er the green. When tir'd, at eve, the pilgrim leans Upon some rocky pile, Of days long gone the lone remains, Sav'd, by their rudeness, from the Vandal reigns. Which, red and ruthless, swept the plains Of this ill-fated isle— THE EMERALD ISLE. 77 .r ^sf«^s«s^^ ^K^^ ^s/vr ^ 1^ 0«<^^^^ ^v«>^^^^ ^^N^ rf^^^ ^^#^A^^<^ ^^>^ ysr^ He little thinks the mossy stones Beneath his feet, Afford some hero's hallow'd bones Their cold retreat ; Once saw the pomp of mourning pride, And heard the virgin's sigh Swelling the sweet and solemn tide Of ancient minstrelsy ! Perhap's, e'en there, on Fingal's arm A thousand heroes hung, While OssiAN, music of the storm, The battle anthem sung ; Or there QEmania's palace rose In more than regal pride, Ollam inhaled a nation's woes, Conn's fiery sceptre crush'd her foes, Or noble Oscar died. 7& THE EMERALD ISLE. ^r^^^sr^^^^ Alas ! for thee, Erin, gone hy is thy fame, Forgotten thy glories and blasted thy name ; And thou stand'st like a tree, by the lightning's tiame, Of vigour and verdure and promise bereft ; And, as if to enhance, while they solace thy shame. The tombs of thy fathers are all thou bast left. Yet the spot where their ashes now sleep in the shade May one day relume faded liberty's fire, The vow of the brave be triumphantly paid. And his sword, a bright homage, with reverence laid At the shrine of its impulse, the tomb of his sire ! Though 'twere treason to speak it, yet still in our blood The flame of our fathers shall glow. At once, the bright hope of a better abode, And the ray of this prison below. THE EMERALD ISLE. 79 «^^^s#s#>^«#>^^sr>^ As weary and sad, by the winter wind driven, The tempest-tost mariner sees from afar. Smiling its peace on the turbulent heaven, The mild-beaming light of some glimmering star ; Thus, Erin, though tempest thy triumph enshrouds, And night rolls around thee her car of the clouds, No darkness shall dim thee, no tempest affright, While thou see'st in the heavens thy fathers* sweet light. 'Mid the gloom of the storm that clear light shall arise. The light of the brave, of the good, and the wise, Through tempests still lucid, through centuries young ; And thou, native Ossiant, long gladden our eyes, Though Scotia, unfilial, the solace denies. Sweet bard of tradition ! bright beacon of song ! Nor should'st thou, youthful shade, unsung remain, Though kings denounced and bigots curs'd the strain ; 80 THE EMERALD ISLE. Thou, whose rich bud just breathed upon the land, Blushed on our crimes and bowed beneath their hand. Ah why, thou pure, soul-breathing flowret of May, Did you spring in our climate of storra ! Some holier land and some happier day, Would have open'd its bosom, and brighten'd its ray. To chase every pestilent phantom away. That frighted thy lily form ! And in time thou wouldst pour, sweetest blossom of spring, Such balm-breathing gratitude there, That the wild bird would come by thy beauties to sing, And shed, as he passed, from hb odorous wing. All Araby's fabled air ! Though cold in the desert thy relicks repose, 'Mid the shriek of the winter blast, Like flame, in our heart's blood thy martyrdom glows, And will while memory last. tHE EMERALD ISLE. 81 And yet the wild heath-bell, that sighs in the wind As it shadows the patriot's grave, Is dearer by far to the sensitive mind, Than the marble enshrining a slave. It was meet, youthful shade, for a barbarous age, To squander, with bloody and bigotted rage, The glories of genius away ; But, like mist on the mountain, the cloud shall be driven, When the orbit eelipsM will career throughout heaven The light of a purer day ! Lo! by the sod where classic Barry sleeps, Genius, low bending, droops the wing and weeps ; No shadows float — no sounds awaken there, Save the sweet sigh of the surrounding air. Or purer accent of some angel's prayer : F 82 THE EMERALD I9LB. While heaven's bright bow, with orient ray serene, Sweeps its high arch and consecrates the scene. Oh thou ! to whose pure glance was given, While yet on earth, the opening heaven ; Though in thine own elysiuni placed. With circling saints and heroes grac'd, Whether with glance of fire you fling Young roses on Aurora^s wing, Or circle Iris, in her flight, With fancy's gayest robe of light, « Or deck, at eve, th' autumnal sky In all its rich variety — Refuse not, thou, one summer smile Upon the lonely western isle. Where first around thy infant head The sun its loveliest shadows shed, THE EMERALD ISLE. SS And nature bless'd thy early view With every rich and varied hue, That decks the rose or prisms the morning dew ! Woo'd from his silent, rustic tomb, The shade of Carolan should come ; And see his harp of music hung Upon some hoary hawthorn tree, And hear the little robin's tongue Learning its plaintive melody : While every warbler brings its young To hear the lovely vesper sung, And round the choir the fairies play And dance their magic roundelay ; Till the last breath of parting even, Sweet and slowly floating by, Carries the concert up to heaven, All fragrance and all harmony. IP g. - 84 THE EMERALD ISLE, *'»^^^'^^<»''»>^i»'*S^^'»>^^S/V»^V^i#S»^^>»-»/S»S^^S#S»^S»»»^V^^N»S»'^S»^#r^^^^^^N^ Oh then it joy'dray heart to see The patriot son of industry Hold out to me his rugged hand, And swear not such another land Our Sovereign had at his command ; Or give me half his scanty store And sorrow that he had no more. Then would he, in his simple way, Along the neighbouring valley stray, To tell me all that surge had seen. And all the glories of that green, In Erin's elder day. Alas ! where once the palace rose, And spread its gales the festal bower, There now the desert hawthorn blows, Or, browsing on the woodbind flower>>:iuo/n don<'. The red-deer feariesiSBtr^yJj/iiil \([9to1 i? iIoub 'lO »■» *. THE. EMERALD ISLE. 87 That spot where, as the sun-set threw On wood and lake its purpling hue, The harp and horn both sounded high The call of graceful revelry. Now nought is heard but, shrill and harsh, The bittern booming in the marsh. Or the lone shepherd's shout of fear, To fright the savage prowling near. Now all is featureless and lone, Save where, upon the heathy ground, Lie the huge heaps of printless stone, By time and tempest scattered round : Bleaching in the mountain blast, And mouldering in the mountain rain. The symbol of the ages past, The ruins frown in proud disdain. Casting their chill and mournful shade Upon the spot, where low are laid p 4 88 THE EMERALD ISLE. ^^^^^#^^^>^»^^#^^^^»>^^s#«^^>^^>^^^^^^»^#>^■^.^.^s^s^^^/^»^s»^^s»s»'^^'<>^^»^»>^^^^^^^^^»^^|^^^^»»« Their mighty chiefs and warrior men, Their murder'd friends and heroes slain, And all the trophies of their glorious reign ! Blest love of country ! o'er the exile's way Thou shedd'st thy sweet and solitary ray, Cheering the rude inhospitable wild, Where never fragrance breathed nor flow ret smiled ! The wounded soldier mid the battle-blast, The wave nur^'d sea-boy on the bending mast, The child of peril, and the slave of toil II diJ Wringing his pittance from a stranger's soil, Smiles on thy cherub-vision in the sky. And hugs his chains, to taste it ere he die ! Alike, all ages own the patriot zeal : The sons of ev'ry soil its instinct feel — Cradled on rocks, or cavern'd in the sand, The soul exulting owns its native land, THE EMERALD ISLE. 89 ^.#^*^»^s^»^l»^»s»^^^#»#<»>»,»,#^»^.^^^».#>^^ And poor amid the riches of the earth, Pines'for the, barrenness that gave it birth ! Throughout the globe there breathes one holy race In whom the holy feeling finds no place; Or should the flame, by all the world confest, Glow in a solitary Zealot's breast, edT Oh I woe to him, detraction's blasted heir. Poor outcast child of sorrow and despair ! Shew me the prodftgy who dares to feel. And feeling, dares confess^ thfe patriot zeal, One who, alike despising court or crowd. For bribe too honest, and for mobs too proud, One who, nor worshipping the rabble cry, Nor merging freedom in monopoly. Dare between throne and people boldly stand, Expose the factions that despoil the land, 90 THE EMERALD ISLE. And feeling all her injuries his own, Act for the country, and for her alone ! * '• Heavens ! who shall save him from his double fate, The court's suspicion and the people's hate ? Vainly he pleads the holy vestal-flame, The spotless motive, the unsullied fame ; Vainly he points to the polluted page. Where his loved native land, through many an age. With her heart's blood th' alfernate serpent warms, Folded to death within her children's arms ! He sinks unpitied to an early grave. By prince deem'd traitor, and by people slave ! Mother of Ebin ! where thy in&nt boy Wakes the first impube of maternal joy, While bending o*er, with anxious eye, to trace A father's features in its smiling face. You pour to heaven the pure unconscious prayer. That joy may play for ever pictured there ; THE EMERALD ISLE. 91 Add to that prayer, that Erin's woe or weal May never blast him with its withering zeal ! And yet there was, tradition tells, a time. When to adore our country was no crime — When our own heroes nobly held the helm, And Irish talent sway'd the Irish realm, Nor roamed abroad, Cain's curse upon its brow, To pledge to foreign thrones the exiled vow ; Weaving the glorious wreath its fathers bore Round the rude genius of some nameless shore ! Ah ! where are novr the relicks of that day ? Fled like the phantom of a dream away ! Where are our temples, where our regal throne ? E'en as that airy vision, lost and gone ! Is there no orphan column in the wild, To mark where once its parent palace smiled ? Has there no shrub of all the regal bower ff Survived the ruin of the tempest hour ? 93 THE EMERALD ISLE. Have gem, and throne, and tower, and titled bust, All, with their owners, mouldered into dust ? All, all are gone, e'en as the viewless wind. Leaving its ruined tracery behind ! All, all are gone, fled like the azure light, That shoots its splendours o'er a northern nighty '> iror!/ As radiant and as rapid in their flight ! Gone e'en the harp our early minstrels strung. To strains the Te'ian poet might have sung, While, cheer'd by liberty's eelestial smile. Such dulbet melodies awoke the isle, That the tired, homeward mariner would stay. To hear the syren of the western sea ! Oh ! pilgrim of this downward age ! Smile not, a sceptic, on my page. Although the sainted minstrel's brow Withers in wreathless winter now, THE EMERALD ISLE. 93 Believe it, there was once a time, When genius was not deemed a crime, And foul oppression dare not brand The lovers of their native land. Though with the glories of that ancient day. Thy meed, sweet minstrelsy, has passed away. Though gone the genuine noble of the soil. Though cold the hearts that cheer'd the tuneful toil, (Hearts that disdained, with base and bare deceit, O'er the lone grave a grief to counterfeit. And a poor, posthumous affection feign, When, even if sincere, the woe were vain) : Still then, arrayed around our native throne, Toned like the spheres, our native genius shone; Then every reign beamed honour on the bard, And ev'ry honour brought its rich reward. Conscious of virtue, monarchs loved the name That gave their lives to everlasting fame; 94 THE EMERALD ISLE. *^sr^^^<^#^^*^*«r #■ And round the galaxy, where music beamed Its soul ethereal, ev'ry splendour streamed. War's fiery meteors, psmsing in their path, Smiled on the strain and blush'd away their wrath. Love, bliss, and beauty, blessed the heav'nly throng, And passion fled before the '' light of song." Without the bard, the monarch lost the gem That gave a lustre to his diadem ; Without the bard, no more religion heard An accent worthy of her sacred word ; Peace gave her sweetest echo to his tongue, And o'er his harp the helm of conquest hung I And is that day of glory o'er ? And will its light return no more ? Or must the eye that sees it bright, Visit the sad and silent tomb. Where dire tradition's 'twinkling light But feebly decorates the gloom, THE EMERALD ISLE. 9^ And memory's lamp-like splendour shed A radiant mockery o'er the dead ? Yet it is good for man to turn E'en to that sad sepulchral scene ; Haply some spark from virtue's urn May wake ambition's soul to burn, And be again what once has been. Another age might raise the mouldering fane, Succeding minstrels might revive the strain. The fallen temple and the prostrate tower, The ruined column and the leafless bower, Might rise beneath some future patriot's hand, And, proud in native beauty, bless the land. But where, alas ! shall weeping Erin find The power to renovate her faded mind ? That mind of fire, the meteor of the field, Spirit sublime ! alone untaught to yield. 96 THE EMBBALD ISLE. <^^>«^kf>#^^A That mihd of love, lord of the smile and sigh, Alone untaught the science to deny. That mind so fraught with ev'ry varied charm, So brave yet meek, so wise and yet so warm, That, like the tints celestial spirits weave Through the sweet azure of an autumn eve, Its contrast blushed the lovelier on the eye, Blended by heaven's own hand to harmony ? Where is it now ? e'en with that varied sky, As beauteous born, alas ! as soon to die. Futile the courage, chivalrous and vain The might that smote, and swept away the Dane ! For foreign eyes blooms bright ambition's morn, To foreign hands preferment holds her horn ; Round foreign brows is glory's garland bound, In foreign ears does honour's clarion sound : THE EMERALD ISLE. 97 Alone the sons of Erin meedless stand, The only aliens in their native land ! \ Was it for this the ancient falchion gleamed ? Was it for this the battle-meteor beamed ? Was it for this the red-branch hero's eye Flamed on the minstrel's patriot prophecy, And saw his life-blood gushing with a smile, To think his child should hold the rescued isle ? Unhappy isle ! by various woes oppress'd. Of knaves the plunder, and of fools the jest ; With too much honour falsehood to suspect. With too much candour cunning to detect. With too much warmth the dupe of ev'ry wile, With too much faith the victim of a smile ; Doom'd by thy very virtues to decay. And through excess of blessings formed a prey ! 98 THE EMERALD ISLE. *^*^^y^^^ **r>r^^^ Shades of our Sires ! in pity turn aside, Nor view the fallen objects of your pride ; View not the phantoms that defile your name^ The living libels on your ancient fame, The vampyre-sprites that issue from your graves, And shade in virtue^s form the soul of slaves ! Gone are the days when the western gale Awoke every voice of the lake and the vale, With the harp, and the lute, and the lyre ; When Justice uplifted her adamant shield. And valour and freedom illumined the field With a sword and a plumage of fire ! Gone are the days when our warriors brave Bounded the surge of the ocean wave; When the chief of the hills held his banner of green, And the shamrock and harp on that banner were seen, As the pastoral hero assembled his band. To lead them to war at his monarch's command— THE EMERALD ISLE. 99 Yes, his own native monarch, unfetter'd and free As the wild bird that perched on his mountain tree. Ah ! where are that monarch and mountain tree now ? And where is the wild bird that perch'd on its bough ? The wild bird's feather now wings the dart That drinks the red blood of the hero's heart ; The monarch has faH'n, and the mountain tree Bears Erin's hope o'er the distant sea ! But Erin ! you never had mourn'd the sight, Had you brandish'd your spear in your own good fight : Had you boldly stood on your mountain crag And wav'd o'er the valley your sea-green flag, Soon, soon, should the stranger have found his grave Beneath the red foam of the ocean wave ; And the stranger's fate should be told by the gore Of the stranger's corse on his native shore ! But he came not in arms, and our generotis isle, Unheeding his sword, was betray'd by his smile ! G 2 100 THE EMERALD ISLE. Yet fraud or force attempt, in vain, To sway the patriot's ardent soul, Proudly it vindicates its reign. Crumbles the tyrant's impious chain, And soars sublime above controul ! A moment paused the heart of fire, That knew not to deceive, More in compassion than in ire, O'er human guilt to grieve, A moment fell the pious tear, To parted freedom given ; Not, on a darling parent's bier, Could infant eyes shed drops more dear Than that, to heaven. The patriot's bosom panted high As griefs soft image died, And blushing, on his frenzied eye Rose Erin's injured pride. THE EMERALD ISLE. 101 ^^^>^S^^«» ^^^^Nr^^>#<^^>#>^4^S^^ Roused at the sight, the mountaineer^ With readj' hand, Seized his artless, rustic spear ; Throughout the land, The rock and the glen Sent their warrior men ] To the patriot field ; And the side of the hill, As it shone o'er the rill, Seemed a living shield ! At the bugle's shrill breath The stag, in affright. Shot over his heath. Like an arrow of light ; Our isle was awake, From the bray to the brake, At the summons of war ; G 3 102 THE EMERALD ISLE. And the spears of the brave, From the summits afar, Crested the wave, Like a shooting star ! If humanity shews to the God of the world A sight for his fatherly eye, » *• ' '• • • • 'Tis that of a people with banner unfurPd, * '. .' ' • • •*'••'. Resolved for their freedom to die. Tis a spark of tlie Deity bursting to light. Through the darkness of human controul, That fires the bold war-arm in liberty's fight, And flames from the patriot, burning and bright, Through the eye of an heavenly soul ! Oh ! was it not noble and fair to behold Our isle, like a warrior, laced, With her spear of the hills and her buckler bold, Her banner of green and her helm of gold, Stand ready for battle braced ! THE EMERALD ISLE. 103 ' ^<^^ ''^'^^ ^>«^ ^^^ ^■'^^ ^^>^ ^^^^ i/^^ i^^>^ ^«^s^ #>4s^ ^>^sr #<^S#> ^^1^ The sun on that day Sent his holiest ray. To brighten the patriot plume ; The shamrock was seen With a lovelier green. And the air shed a sweeter perfume. The face of our isle Wore an heavenly smile, As if conscious and proud of her brave, And the laurel flower, At that holy hour. Bowed its bloom o'er the warrior's grave, To tell him the land He had died to defend Was no longer the home of a slave. No, there is not a spot where the pious are laid^ But an angel is hovering near, Q 4 104 THE EMERALD ISLE. To guard their high slumber and gladden their shade With the triumph of purity here ; And nature on that angel eye Still casts a glance of sympathy ! Ye sainted spirits of the air, To whose angelic guardian care The patriot's cause is given, Oh, on the memory of that day, Beam down the purest, holiest ray That glows in heaven ! And thou, lamented, honoured sire, Too early lost for Erin's fame, Pour from on high thy hallow' d fire. And purge away thy country's shame. Prison of islands — land without a name I Leinster ! if birth alone had made thee great, Nor worth confirm'd the ordinance of fate ; THE EMERALD ISLE. 105 If, midst the titled rabble, thou hadst stood A lie to rank, a ridicule on blood ! Content to shine amongst a shameless band, The gilded robber of thy native land, Thou should'st have gone, to time's remotest age, The blot and burthen of the poet's page; Thy vice immortal, thy enjoyment o'er. Verdant in shame when thou could'st sin no more ! 'Tis the high mission of the muse's choir, To soar through ether on a wing of fire, Shed round the humble saint their holy ray, And circle guilt with an eternal day : They beam on virtue its immortal grace, They blast the wreath of the successful base. Roll their high spheres harmoniously along. Stars in their course and syrens in their song ! Leinster, when traitors stained the robe of power. When ermined tyrants ruled their little hour, 106 THE EMERALD ISLE. When guilt was greatness and corruption wealth, And sacred piety an act of stealth, 'Twas thine to vindicate the claira of birth, Shew that e'en still a noble might have worth, And prouder dignities than dukedoms prove In the heart's homage of thy country's love. Patriot, thou art not gone ! thy holy name Still from our hills a beacon light shall flame ! Devouring fate may close the bad man's doom. Crumble the throne or crush the pompous tomb ; But virtue bruised exhales a purer breath, Sighs fragrance forth, and triumphs over death. Thus some proud oak high shoots its stately form. Blooms in the blast and strengthens in the storm, Pride and protection of its native glade, The winter's grandeur and the summer's shade !— • When all its verdant honours shrink with age And leave it shieldless to the tempest's rage^ THE EMGHALD ISLE. 107 The hoary sovereign revives his reign. Breasts the high wave, and bounding o'er the main, Still mocks the storm and still defends the plain. Celestial vision of that sacred day. Blush down thy grace and beautify my way ! From shapeless ruins and a dreary wild, Where once the harvest of the hamlet smil'd. From foreign pride and native folly free, My wearied spirits seek repose in thee. Proudly the glories of thy reign I view, Hang o'er the scene and ev'ry charm renew ; Fancy again the patriot banner sees Wave 'mid the music of the mountain breeze ; Again beholds rejoicing commerce ride, Free as the winds that waft her o'er the tide, Or sighs, entranced, where once in truth she hung On the sweet tone of Flood's harmonious tongue. }08 TUB EMERALD ISLE. '^^»^A»^^*#^^>»»## Thou, mystic pile ! our glorj and our shame, Ray of our pride and ruin of our name ! * Where are the days when pure thj patriots rose, To raise our greatness and redress our woes ! When Grattan thunder'd round thj ample dome^ And patriot genius found a kindred home ! When silver Burgh poured on the nation^s ear Strains such as Athens had been wont to hear ; While smiling Erin claimed thee for her own, And reason hailed her decorated throne ! Alas ! where once uprose the temple's porch. And holy breathings woke the altar's torch, Where patriot tongues their sacred music pour'd, Now heartless traders heap their sordid hoard ! Rapine, exulting, spreads her impious spoil, And withered avarice affects a smile I < But cease, indignant heart, lament no more, Let trade reign still where triumphM trade before; THE EMERALD ISLE. 109 ^ 4V^ #^s^^s/s/'#^<^^s/<# #.#^ 4< The time must come, when heaven's avenging hand Shall smite the dome and vindicate the land, Shewing its pillar'd pride in ruins hurled, A wonder and a warning to the world ! Britain beware — nor vainly think that he. Faithless to us, can e'er be true to thee I When conscience, country, kindred plead in vain, Dragg'd, all dishonoured, to the shrine of gain, Can foreign climes assume a dearer claim ? Can alien sighs awake the patriot flame ? Believe it not — the traitor's impious soul Blasphemes at grace and banishes controul ; It loaths all nature but the fruit of crime. It counts by guilty deeds the course of time. Sees hell itself but as the ideot's rod, Deifies guilt and mortgages its God ! % Heav'ns ! when I seglhis lovely soil. The tyrant's sport, tnPbigot's spoil. i^his t^bij 110 TUB EMERALD ISLE. Contending furies shake my frame ; Fever'd with rage, revenge and shame, I call on mercy'is self to fly, Arm'd with tlie sword of destiny, And sweep away the mtirderous brood Carousing on my country^s blood. Who spurn the path a Saviour trod, To bend before a party god ! Too long has meek religion bled Beneath the christian hand. Too long has persecution shed Its poison through the land. It were a tale to glut the pagan ear, A tale which Christendom might blush to hear; But to recount the deeds of blood anddhame, Sanctioned, oh horror ! by that^viour's name ! THE EMERALD ISLE. Ill Where are ye, self-styled ministers of heaven, Ye to whom Christ's inheritance is given ? Ye, holy men, who in his path have trod, Ye, meek apostles of the lowly God ? Ye, in whose sacred, half-celestial hands, Salvation's awful hazard trembling stands ? Ye, who in conscious purity have stood Before the deathbed with a Saviour's blood ? J ust Heaven ! what motley groupe is that we see, Bending before the human Deity ? Are these the great Eternal's humbk train. Crouching to courts for a terrestrial gain ? Or 'is't an infidel and ribbald deed, To curse and ridicule the christian's creed ? Ah! not the heathen wit Voltaire diffused,' Not all the stubborn sophistry of Pain, Th' unearthly treasures wild Rousseau abused, Or fierce M ahommed's blood-converting reign, 113 THE EMERALD ISLE. # ^^^^^^ #^^ ^^^^^^ Aimed at the gospel grace so vile a blow, Or proved so deadly and so damn'd a foe, As he who wash'd the thorny garland's gore, Daring to gild the wreath a Saviour wore ! Ill do the 'broider'd vest and titled shame Suit an assumption of the Christian name ! Ill do their wealth the simple tenet prove, Of him whose only wealth was placed above ! Ill do their rank the holy martyr shew, Whose sole sublime distinction was his woe ! — Ascendancy ! thou name to Christ unknown, Vile bastard of the altar and the throne ! Aping Jsc A riot's cunning through the land, Grace on thj brow and gold within thy hand, Call thyself what thou wilt, thy choice is free To any name — save Christianity. When sects aspire religion feek the shock, And pensioned pastors make a listless flock. THE EMERALD ISLE. 113 The spruce stipendiary, in robes of state, Consigns, too oft, the Gospel to its fate. Viewing the page, in heavenly light arrayed, As the mere manual of a worldly trade. ^ Hence, with her poppy wreath and leaden wand, A brutal ignorance usurps the land. That land, where learning once sublimely rolled Its floods of amber o'er a bed of gold ; That land, amid whose full meridian day Rejoicing genius plumed its eagle way, While sacred science poured her copious urn. And thou, with " thoughts that breathe and words that burn," Sweet Poesy ! amid thy airy train^ Waved the wild wing and woke the dulcet strain ! Hence we behold the sacred robe assumed By some, whom fate to other functions doomed, H 114 THE EMERALD ISLE. While genius rarely dare usurp the gown, Scar'd by power's cold neglect or folly's frown. Hence, when against all Gospel rule, we see A sect the nursling of a ministry, God's holy trust is merged in Cjesar's name, And want of interest is want of claim. If fortune beckoned virtue to her throne. If proud preferment beamed on worth alone, Vainly might sects assail the christian churchy Safe while such pillars propt its sacred porch ; Vainly might dullness, swoll'n in mitred state, Sneering at modest talent's thread-bare fate, Deride Ma gee, neglected for an hour, Or KiRWAN, gone without a smile from power ! True, some there are, round whose anointed brow The rays of heaven in simple grandeur glow, THE EMERALD ISLE. 115 Men by especial Providence designed, To bless, adorn, and civilize mankind, Whose lives illustrate their immortal text, Lights of this world and emblems of the next ! Oh here, in filial fondness, let rae bend Before thy resting place, my earliest friend I Thou ! whose pure culture waked my infant thought, "While thy life proved what all thy precepts taught. He was a man to friendship's memory dear, Skilled in each art the social soul to cheer, One who, despising all the grave grimace Of those who wear their worship in their face, Beamed round the circle of domestic love The ray serene he borrow'd from above. For many an hour, from manhood up to age, Conscience alone his wealth and patronage, He stood sublime, like Israel's sainted rock, A desert fountain to his fainting flock, H 2 116 THE BMERALD I8LE. Shedding around the diamond dews of even — Himself unsheltered from the winds of heaven ! Yet why lament alone o'er worth's decay ? Too blest if worth alone had fallen a prey ! How ofl, alas ! has mourning Erin seen The christian contest stain her virgin green ! How oft has he, who bade all warfare cease And to the angry tempest whisper'd peace, Heard on her shores his name the battle knell. And seen his holy cross the beacon-light of Hell ! Oh! be that impious warfare o'er ! Oh! may its fires return no more ! Oh ! if no tongue of holy grace Should bid the lawless tempest cease, Let suppliant Erin's voice be heard, Though weak her tongue, yet wise her word. The word of peace. THE EMERALD ISLE, 117 Think, think, sons of Erin, on all we have lost. Oh ! think on our former pride. Then unite and be free, nor relinquish the boast For which our brave ancestors died. Remember the glory and pride of your name, 'Ere the cold-blooded Sassenach tainted your fame, When merit was fortune, for virtue was power. And reason, not bigotry, guided the hour. Though now all dreary and decay'd Our ancient glories lie. Some blessed spirits love their shade And guard their memory. Tread but the spot, though barren now, Where meek Religion's angel-vow * In pious hope was poured ; H 3 118 THE EMERALD ISLE. Or stray along the desert heath, Where genius sighed its parting breath, Or martyr'd virtue smiled on death, Or valour waved the sword. Though want and wildness reign around, Nor earth give soil, nor echo sound. An awe upon the heart will steal, And conscious Nature's instinct feel 'Tis holy ground ! Is there within the isle a soul, But owns the sad, sublime controul, As oft by patriot impulse led To where Kinkora's palace shed Its splendours on the flood ; Or Clonmacnoise uprearedits head Amid the sacred wood ; THE EMERALD ISLE. 119 Or — oh ! for ever be the name Circled with glory's brightest flame, Proud Tar a's temple stood ? Tara ! the day of thy splendour is o'er ! Tara ! the grace of thy glory is gone ! Where thy column's high capital triumph'd before. The wind-beaten traveller sees not a stone ! Through thy shadowless moor the night bird screams. O'er the moss of thy ruin the bright moon beams, While round thee chill winter his thousand streams Rolls, cheerless and lone ! And yet, thou pale moon-beam, there once was an hour When you strayed o'er a lovelier scene ; As sculptured arch and antique tower, Blending their shade 'mid the hawthorn bower With ivy'd moat and myrtle flower, You shadowed o'er the green. H 4 120 THE EMERALD ISLE. And yet, thou shrill, ill omen'd bird of the night, There once was an holier time, When the verdureless heath you now fill with affright. Streamed with harmony's silver light ; While the stars of peace and the swords of fight • Cheer'd the harp's sweet chime — The heath, where winter now rolls along The rage of his mountain tide. Once saw the pride of the regal throng Mingle its courtly halls among. While sweet and wild the soul of song . In varied echoes died i Oh Tara ! but 'twas fair to see Thy court's assembled majesty ! All that man deems great or grand. All that God made fair ! The holy seers, the minstrel band. THE EMERALD ISLE. 121 ^rfNrv*#v^^ Heroes bright and ladies bland, Around the monarchs of the land Were mingled there ! Art thou the festal hall of state. Where once the lovely and the great, The stars of peace, the swords of honour, Cheer'd by the ever gracious eye Of Erin's native majesty, Glitter'd, a golden galaxy. Around the great o'Conor ! And did these ruined ivy'd walls Once glow with gorgeous tapestry ? And did these mute and grass-grown halls Once ring with regal minstrelsy ? Chill is the court where the chief of the hills Feasted the lord and the vassal. And winter fills, with its thousand rills, The pride of ©'Conor's castle ! THE EMERALD ISLE. Oh, it is good, thou mouldering pile, To see thy sad decay — Thou art the emblem of the isle Where once thy Lord had sway: The isle where once the saint and sage Mellow'd the fires of a trophied age ; The isle where liberty waved the wing, And echo hung on the minstrel's string : The isle of the fair, The isle of the free, Tliou, mouldering pile, is now like thee. Like thee, the heart of the hero is cold ; Like thee, the tale of the hero is told. All the pride of the regal hour, All the bloom of beauty's bower, All the rays of the grass-green gem That flamed in Erin's diadem. Are faded, like thy ruined tower ! THE EMERALD ISLE. 123 Yet still, all mouldering as thou art. All featureless and rude^ Sweet is the sigh that swells the heart While musing on thy solitude ! Gone are the glories of thy day ; Yet such a scene Tells Erin's sons, though passed away, They yet have been. Oh ! if e'en from the silent call of death Spirits regenerate ascend the sky, Child of my country's pause amid this heath There is a magic in its memory That must not die, Alas ! and shall that aged pile Never in ancient splendour smile ? And shall the lonely owlet hoot For ever through its ivy'd wall? 'Oi^vr^.^sysr «vr ■/■' Beneath his torch the altars burn And blush on the polluted urn ; Beneath his christian foot is trod The symbol of the christian God ; The plunder'd fane, the murder'd prie^. The holy pontiflPs age oppressed, Religion's blush, and nature's sigh, Proclaim Napoleon's piett/ ! ! Where'er his locust legions veer Ruin and woe and want are there, And dreams of future murders sweep Across their fever'd hour of sleep. Thus, mid the desert's careless blight, A vulture pauses in his flight. And on some rock's congenial breast Unwilling takes his wither'd rest. Again on rapine's wing to rise The taint and terror of the skies. 126 THE EM&RALD ISLE. Peasant of Erin — think on this, Encircled by domestic bliss : And when with wife and children dear You take your sweet, though homely cheer, Teach them to bless their heavenly Sire That they enjoy their evening fire. And live where they can share with thee The profits of their industry. I love thee, Erin ; yet before The Gallic fiend should taint thy shore, Myself would seize the flaming brand And burn the verdure of the land. In vain has Nature blessed our isle And banished venom from its soil, — In vain adorned our landscape green With hill and vale and varied seene, — In vain with music filled our brakes, With tufted islets gemm'd our lakes, THE EMERALD ISLE. 127 And such high mountain-glories shed That heaven rests upon their head,— In vain bestowed us beauty bright To grace the day and bless the nightj — If thus we trust the tempter's voice And violate our paradise ! A purer star ascends the sky And beams its radiance from on high, On many a glorious trophy won, And many a deed of valour done, Adorning thy captivity ! * Sweetly it smiles — as if to say. Soon, soon shall dawn the rising day Of such a nation's liberty. Strange— that a noble, generous land. Enabling others to withstand The foreign tyrant's fierce command, Should not itself be free ! 128 THE EMERALD ISLE. <«*^^^^«^^•4^^^^^«^ A Strange — that a warrior, bold and brave, Should o'er the foe his banner wave, Yet reap no fruit from victory! No matter what the bar to fame, Nor how disqualified the claim, Erin has sent her warriors bright To win the laurels of the fight ; From him, her chief and champion bold, Down to the simple peasant-name Whose whole nobility is fame : He, who on Barossa's height Stopp'd the Eagle in his flight And spurn'd its crest of gold. No, not a trophy of the day Which Erin did not bear away ! And see, where comes the god of war, In his blood-emblazon'd car ! THE EMERALD ISLE. 1S9 Its front of fire — its seat of steel— The forked light'ning is its wheel ; And see, triumphant with him, see The laurell'd goddess Victory ! They pause — she waves her falchion sharp, Sounds her high horn and leans upon the Harp ! Sudden, the glories of the elder day. Roused at her call, in splendid vision play : Tradition's cloud moves slowly on her sight, Gemm'd with the stars of legendary might ; A smile celestial hails the laurell'd train, Sucli as of old, upon the battle plain, Beam'd on their helmed heads triumphant o'er the slain ! Nor deem it strange, a smile so bland Should greet that brave, heroic band ; For though, through time's dark vista, we Their twinkling forms but faintly see, I 130 THE EMERALD ISLE. They burn as brilliantly above, Fann'd with the breath of angel's love, As when they deck'd their distant day With glory's pure meridian ray. Not De{Ti:ingen's undying name. Not Fontenoy's eternal fame. Nor e'en Cremona's classic flame. With pui-er lustre play — M onarchs may fall beneath their foes, Ages elapse, and nations die, But, round the hero's hallow'd brows, Pure and imperishable, glows The halo of eternity. Still, hovering round that vestal light, Angels awake their airy lyre, And still, to feed that vision bright, The comet rolls his flood of fire ! THE EMERALD ISLE. 131 s#>>^N*vr.A#>w^*^*^ >/'<^./srv/> Thus, Wellington, when from us here, 'Mid many a mourning nation's tear, Thy glowing orb must disappear, It shall arise, In brighter skies. Our path to cheer ; And many a future child of war, Amid the battle's adverse sky, Shall watch afar That hob| star, Still leading on to victory : And he shall see that leading light Girt with many a satdlite : The heroes ^ow who fling their shield Before thee in the battle-field, When thou art gone, Shall guard thy throne, I 2 132 THE EMERALD ISLE. Superb, on high, Still catch thy day. Reflect its ray, And cheer their isle With the bright smile Of constellated majesty ! Rich in hereditary fame, Rich in his own ennobled name, Rich with Egypt's garland fair, ^ But richer in his country's prayer, 'Mid trophies without envy won, Thy orb shall circle, Hutchinson. And Cole shall shine o'er Maida's field, And Pack, unknowing how to yield ; Nor go without thy bright reward. Thou name-redeeming Beresford. THE EMERALD ISLE. 133 Nor thou, brave, laughter-loving Doyle, Pure symbol of thy native soil : Long may'st thou lead thy hero band, Guards of their Prince and glories of their land I But, Muse, forbear — as well thy power Might count the varying vernal shower. Or leaf on the autumnal wood, Or billow on the wintry flood, Or aught fantastic shadow vain That flits across the wilder'd brain, As limit, by thy humble page. The deeds of each revolving age ; For through the retrospect of time. The range of every varied clime, Thy country's glories soar sublime. Yet ah ! like the pale lamps that shed A radiant mockery o'er the dead, I 3 134 JHE EMERALD ISLE. <<^ .<>#vr .«\^ ,«sr^ .^v«^ ^.^^ A'^ 'wrv^- .^^-^ ^.«v^ .^.^rvr ,«^rv^ ./s^^ Glories like these can only throw The useless pride of pompous woe On the cold corse that sleeps below ! Exposing but the mournful fate Of joys they can't re-animate ! By such sad light, poor land, we see The surface of thy misery — We see thee e'en by grace to ruin driven, A victim shivering in the smiles of heaven ! Thy fields untill'd, thy ancient spirit fled, Thy arts decay'd, thy' bright ambition dead, Curs'd with a creed by Providence designed A beacon light, a blessing to mankind ; Blasted with genius, whose untutor'd force Rolls wildly through its mis-directed coUrse, All the rich gifts of heaven prpfanely spurned, Or plundered from thee, or against thiee turned ! Oh I let me pass from such sad scenjes away, To the fair promise of an happier day. THE EMERALD ISLE. 135 When, every mist of prejudice dispelled, Her fetters broken and her factions quelled. Our prostrate country shall survey with shame The faded relicks of her ancient fame, Blush o'er the civil bloodshed of the field, Where those who conquer fall with those who yield, And sounding high her trumpet o'er the grave, Blest with the ashes of the holy brave, Wake tbeir tomb'd spirijts to that sacred sky, Where peace shall join her hands with liberty. # * ^> * ^ # » Weak was the hand, unskill'd the tongue, And the rude lyre uncouthly strung. Which thus has sighed its simple strain, Poor country, o'er thy prostrate reign ! I 4 136 THE EMERALD ISLE. But yet, how could I silent see, Though all unused to minstrelsy. Thy regal pride, thine ancient name, Thy trophied chiefs, thy martial fame, Condemn'd to bear the ribald jest, At random on thy patience cast. E'en by the reptile, vermin brood, Who feed and fatten on thy blood ! And yet perhaps this artless lay May wake my country's latent fire, Or cheer her exile far away, Or string again her silent lyre. Haply beyond the distant sea. As lone and sad the wanderer strays, Musing, poor Erin, upon thee. Scene of his happy infant days. Some soothing breeze may waft the song, Though simple yet sincere, along. THE EMERALD ISLE. 137 And grief's tempestuous throb subside At the faint tone of former pride. Oh Erin ! blest shall be the bard, And sweet and soothing his reward, Can he but wake one patriot thrill For days, though gone, remember'd still ; Whate'er may be his humble lot. By foes denounced — by friends forgot. Thine is his soul — his sigh — his smile — Gem of the Ocean !— lovely Emerald Isle ! NOTES ON THE POEM. Look on Brian's ^verdant grave. — Page 18. The most vigorous and dangerous enemy whom the northern foreigners experienced in Ireland, was the hero, so celebrated in the annals of his country by the name of '' Brian Borhoime." The infancy^ of Brian was spent in the field, in which, when general to Iris brbther the King of Munster, he particularly dis- tinguished himself against the Danes who had invaded Ireland. On his brother's death he was chosen King, and his reign presents a bright assemblage of every virtue which can endear the h^art, and every talent which can adorn the reason. In war, victory pursued his path; in peace, the arts embellished his repose. Property respected, oppression punished, religion ve- nerated, invasion crushed, literature encouraged, and law maintained, were the sacred characteristicks of *^ The softest soul flows from each warbling string, " Soft as the breezes of the breathing spring ! ^' Music has power the passions to controul *' And tune the harsh disorders oi the soul. NOTES ON THE POEM. 156 ^*^ The ANTiauARY by his skill reveals ^' The race of kings, and all their offspring tells^ ^^ The spreading branches of the royal line, '^ Traced out by him, inlasting records shine. " Three officers in lowest order stand, " And when he drives in state attend the King's command." At Kirwan's great^ neglected name. — Page 27. Kirwan — '' the glory of the priesthood and the " shame." The powers of this amazing man were SO transcendant, that, when he preached, it was found necessary to surround the church with an armed force, in order to guard against the impatient multitudes which assembled to hear him. In the course of his divine mission he obtained, in the cause of charity, above .5^60,000, and at length fell a victim to his great and continued exertion. I remember, when in college, meeting the funeral of -Kirwan ; it was attended by the children of every cha- , rity school in Dublin : and a sad sight it was, to see the widow and the fatherless in the procession of their ^leparted benefactor. Those who are acquainted with 156 NOTES ON THE POEM. the usual routine of church preferment will not be sur- prised to hear that this inspired genius, after a long probation of poverty, was rewarded hy a deanery of j^600 a year J in a miserable fishing village in Ireland! Paul preached in the wilderness ! " He called forth," said Mr. Grattan in the Irish House of Comraons, " the latent virtues of the human ^^ heart, and taught men to discover in themselves a '^ mine of charity, of which the proprietors had been " unconscious : in feeding the lamp of charity he ex- ^^ hausted the lamp of life. He comes to interrupt the " repose of the pulpit, and shakes one world with the " thunder of another. The preacher's desk becomes •^^ a throne of light. Around him a train, not such as '" crouch and swagger at the levee of viceroys — horse, ^*' foot, and dragoons, but that wherewith a great ge- ^^ nius peoples his own state — charity in ecstacy and " vice in humiliation : — Not as with you, in cabinet " against the people, but in humiliation — Vanity, arro- " gance, and saucy empty pride, appalled by the re- " buke of the preacher, and cheated for a moment " of their native improbity and insolence. What " reward ! St. Nicholas without or St. Nicholas with- NOTES ON THE POEM. 157 ^ in ? The curse of Swift is upon him, to have been ^' born an Irishman — to have been a man of genius and " to have used it for the good of his country. Had " this man, instead of being the brightest of preachers, '^ been the dullest of lawyers — had he added to dul- ^' ness, venality — had he aggravated the crime of ^^ venality by senatorial turpitude, he had been a ^' judge ; or had he been born a blockhead, bred a " slave, trained up in a great English family and " handed over as an household circumstance to the " Irish viceroy, he should have been an Irish Bishop '' and an Irish peer, with a great patronage, perhaps ^^ a borough, and had returned members to vote " against Ireland ; and the Irish parochial clergy ^' must have adored his venality and deified his dullness. " But, under the present system, Ireland is not the '^ element in which a native genius can rise, unless he ^V sells that genius to the court, and atones, by the ^^ apostacies of his conduct, for the crime of his « nativity." It is impossible to deny the truth of this melancholy picture. There is not a superficial observer who may not see it every day exemplified in Ireland, in every 158 NOTES ON THE POEM. profession, but above all others in the church. If X were to select one instance out of many, it should be that of a man, on whom the public eye has long been turned with esteem for his virtue, veneration for his talent, and disgust at his neglect — need I mention the learned author of the work on the atonement. At the bar, Doctor Magee might have been a judge, in the army, a general, or in the senate, a minister; — but in the church, his gown accuses his genius, and he fades away before the excrescences of wealthy ignorance or the risings of decayed nobility. Happily for him his splendid talents have placed him beyond want ; but it is an injustice to the world that such talents should pine neglected 'mid the seclusion of a college. Ex uno disce omnes. I confess the state of the church has often struck me with extreme astonishment, and devoutly have I prayed for another reformation, after contrasting the laborious indigence of a curate, struggling to maintain the decencies of life on ^70 a year, with the compa- rative ease of a prelate, wallowing in its luxuries on an iacome of j^20,000. Va mihi ! Sus atque Sacerdos / Of the Irish bishops I have little knowledge : they NOTES ON THE POEM, 160 may be very good kind of men, and doubtless they are so. Doctor Stock is the only one amongst them whose name has been in our day attached to literature. The remarks have, however^ been extorted from me by the melancholy neglect of the most splendid prodigy the church ever produced; and perhaps, if Lord Harrowby would lend his intelligent mind to their consideration, he might infer a very simple reason, why " dissenting sects are springing up like mushrooms."'— (See his Lordship's speech on the subject of the church, June 1810.) But happier thou^ fair Owenson^ to feel. — Page 30. Sydney Owenson, married to Sir Charles Thomas Morgan, M. D. This lady, who moves in the highest sphere of fashion, acquired great popularity by her various novels : particularly by that of the Wild Irish Girl, and subsequently by the Missionary, an eastern tale ; and the enlarged edition of St. Clair, or the Heiress of Desmond. The latter is an elegant speci- men of epistolary talent, and is embellished with ^ highly finished potrait of the fair author. 160 NOTES ON THE POEM*^ — O— Oh sweet Killarney, — Page 37. To those who have not visited Killarney, the account which I have given will appear an exaggeration ; but to those who have, it will, I have no doubt, appear infinitely below reality. It is crowded with such various beauties, that it is quite impossible for either pen or pencil to do it j ustice. Mountains of stupendous height, rising one above another in the most sublime perspective, now exhibiting all the abruptness of the barren rock, and now covered with forests of oak, within which the lakes, all studded over with islands of the most diversified beauty, gradually embosom themselves, form a tout ensemble which no imagina- tion, however fertile, can surpass. The spectacle of hunting the red deer, which has now become extremely rare, and with which I was^ indulged in the autumn of 1814, is most delight- ful. The animal is traced to his lair on the evening previous to the chase, and notice having been given of his retreat and its discovery, the next morning the whole population of the village literally empties itself NOTES ON THE POEM. 161 on the lake to enjoy the diversion. The day on which I was so fortunate as to behold it, we counted no less than forty-eight boats, all filled with well dressed people. The mornings was niost favourable, and the little fleet proceeded in the caution of silence till it arrived in a beautiful bay formed by the finely wooded mountains, on the declivity of one of which the stag was concealed. The boats all anchored. The moun- tain appeared in the most lonely solitude ; the silence of death prevailed all around, when a signal gun was fired, and instantly, as if by magic, the summits of all the hills appeared crested with mountaineers to prevent the deer's escape, which he was seen perpetu- ally attempting, affrighted by the chorus of a fine pack of stag hounds, which made the whole country vocal with their music. The sudden transition from the death-like silence to the enlivening animation of the scene, brought strongly to the poetic mind the fine description given by Walter Scott of the rising of Rhoderick Dhu's band amongst the mountains. After he is completely exhausted by the chase^ the deer generally rushes into the lake to swim across it, L 162 NOTES ON THE POEM. and followed by all the hounds is intercepted and saved by the boatmen. But infinitely the greatest curiosity of Killarney is its echoes, which are heard to the greatest advantage opposite the romantic mountain called the Eagle's Nest. A horn is sounded at about two hundred yards distance from the hill, and when the trumpeter has played a few bars, he ceases. All is silence for seve ral seconds. The mountain then commences with the first bar, and continues faithfully to the conclusion. When that mountain has ceased, another continues, and so on, the strain gradually becoming more mel- lowed, and at length dying away in the distance. Such is the effect of a single horn ; but I was assured that every distinct instrument of a military band, playing in concert, would be individually answered by the mountain. The repetitions by the various hills in succession, on a favourable day, have been alleged to be counted by the inhabitants to a number almost incredible. I can however vouch, on my own autho- rity, that I heard five distinct repetitions, as it appeared to me, from five difierent mountains. The effect is quite enchanting. NOTES ON THE POEM. 163 Another peculiarity of Killarney is tlie arbutus shrub, growing to the size of a forest tree, and lite- rally forcing its passage through the solid marble, where there is not the appearance of even a grain of soil to sustain it. This tree is one of the greatest beauties of the place, and is seen to the best advantage in the month of September, when its lively green is variegated with crimson berries. September is indeed the month in which all the lakes appear in their fullest perfection. It is melan- choly to think that this heavenly spot, so calculated to excite every pleasing emotion, should have been polluted by the miseries of warfare. But, alas, what part of Ireland has escaped them ! They shew, on the verge of the lake, the ruins of a fine old forti- fication, called Ross Castle, which was once besieged by the English, and has acquired, at least, a village immortality, by the heroism of o'Donoiiue, one of the lake heroes. The tradition of the place reports that he shut himself up in the castle, and defended it with the most courageous obstinacy, until at length it began to totter beneath the artillery of the besiegers. He then called his followers round him, told them 164 NOTES ON THE POEM. that he foresaw the captivity of his country, which he had done all in his power to avert, and would not live to witness. Having uttered these words, he dashed himself from the battlements into the waters of the lake which washed them. Such is the legend of the country: and there is scarce an island round the castle which has not been appropriated to some pur- pose of o'Donohue's, just as its shape may have struck the peasant's fancy. Thus one is called his library^ another his prison^ a third his gun^ and so on. The villagers and mariners of the lake hold his memory in the most enthusiastic veneration, not unallajed bj some degree of awe. He is supposed often to ride his white charger upon the waves at the sun-rise ; and one of the boatmen actually offered to swear to me he once saw him — so strong was the effect of imagination ! But if ever there existed a place where such fancies are excusable it is Killarney ; and indeed I do not know that it would not be a kind of disappointment to find it without them. NOTES ON THE POEM. 165 — O- Unconquerd Erin. — Page 48. It is the boast of Ireland never to have been con- quered. Her first invaders, the Danes, did, it is true, establish a settlement in the country ; but it was rather the temporary I\aunt of a barbarous banditti, than the peaceful residence of established conquerors. After years of rapine, murder, and desolation, they were utterly extirpated, leaving, in place of the venerable monuments thej had destroyed, a few rude forts and rocky circles, to remain at once the record of their crimes, their follies, and their failure. It is well ascertained, that the Romans never landed in Ireland ; and the English historians pretend, on the faith of Tacitus, that it was from contempt, as they were informed that a single legion and a few auxiliaries would be sufficient for its conquest. It must not be forgotten, however, that this redoubted piece of infor- mation is, by Tacitus himself, put into the mouth, and derived from the authority of, a faithless Irish chieftain. The Irish historian relates, that so little was Crimthan, the king of Ireland at that time, afraid of an invasion I. 3 166 NOTES ON THE POEM. of the Romans, that he absolutely sailed to the assist- ance of the Picts, led an irruption into a Roman pro- vince, and returned home covered with its spoils. Surely this open violence was a much greater provo- cation to Rome, than that which tempted Caesar to his incursion on England ; and so far from the authority of Tacitus being decisive on the subject, we find him, in his life of Agricola, saying, that the Romans wished to conquer Ireland, in order that the tantalizing spirit of liberty, so near them, might be taken from the view of subjugated Englishmen. " Ut libertas tanquam e ^' conspectu toUatur." Csesar himself was so ignorant of Ireland, that he merely speaks of the size of it from report : " Hiber- " nia dimidio minor, ut existimatury quam Britannia." Why Caesar did not turn his arms to Ireland can now only become the theme of visionary calculation or in- genious conjecture. It is far from probable that he, who could squander his force among the fens of Britain and their ferocious natives, would look with an eye of contempt upon the natural and spontaneous fertility of Ireland. Much more likely does it appear, that the politic commander finding a nation of such extent, NOTES ON THE POEM. 167 daring and dauntless under the very eye of England, and of course superior in discipline, prudently turned to acquisitions of easier accession, from the trying con- ieat with a then happili/ united people^ where every heart was free and every hill was a fortress. The example of Switzerland, in our own day, has shewn of what such a people are capable, even against the opposition of science, intrepidity, and power the most disproportionate. Before the landing of the English, we have the testimony of Ireland's most un- blushing slanderer, Cambrensis, that Ireland had extirpated her former invaders : ^^ Hibernia," says he, " ab initio ab omni aliarum gentium incursu libera " permansit." To the consideration of this so much misrepresented invasion, which a few mendicant minions have not scrupled, in the face of history, treaties, and their ozQn experience^ to magnify into conquest, we now come. Henry II. was our first royal importation from Britain, and he laid the basis of that conduct of his country to ours, the contemplation of which bars all originality in future crime, by affording a precedent for every vice of which the human heart is capable. L 4 168 NOTES ON THE POEM. So far was Henry IL, however^ from having conquered Ireland, that we find him, on the 8th of October, 1175, entering into a treaty of peace with Roderic O'Conner, as monarch of the country, the terms of which treaty are still extant in Rymer's Fcedera. This treaty was afterwards shamefully violated by the English, even as confessed by the English historians, and the example of regal perfidy found but too many imitators, in after times, upon the English throne. The Irish, however, never acknowledged, at any time, the supe- riority of England ; on the contrary, they always held her inhabitants in utter contempt, as a race who owed to them the little civilization they possessed, and repaid the gift with all the ingratitude of lingering ferocity. Thus, speaking of Charles the red-handed, Geoghegan says : " Les descendans de ce vaillant prince ne prirent " jamais des titres d'honneur des rois d'Angleterre, '' titres que la plupart des anciens Irlandois mepri- " serent." In confirmation of this assertion, we are told, by Warner, that when Richard II. landed in Dublin, he offered to knight some of the young chief- tains, but they instantly refused him, adding that, at the age of seven years, they had received from their NOTES ON THE POEM. 169 fathers much nobler dignities. The humblest Irishman of ancient times would have smiled at the idea of being: ennobled by a people whom they considered, says Nu- brigensisj as the scum of the ocean : " Impurum maris " ejectamentum." It is not my intention here to recapitulate the conduct of the English down to the reign of James II., be- cause, whatever gratification I might feel from behold- ing my countrymen supporting their assailed indepen- dence with the ardour of patriots, the pride of freemen and the dignity of princes would be more than counter- acted by the opposite balance of atrocious provocation and perfidious arrogance. Neither my pride nor my sensibility will allow me to ransack the ruins of human nature, even to adorn the decorations of our national structure. The treaty of Limerick has been kept precisely as all other treaties with this country were ; that is, violated in every particular. King William, indeed, the Draco of Ireland, left to England a legacy of perpetual per- secution to those who proved their best claim to the regal protection, by their adherence to an hapless king, and to his in particular, because the victim was his 170 NOTES ON THE POEM. father-in-law. But who could expect either gratitude or forgiveness from the gloomy murderer of Glenco ! I trample on the impious ashes of that Vandal tyrant, who persecuted Christianity and colonized ignorance among a people, venerable for their simple faith and ancient learning ! What a heart must he have had who could hunt his kindred into the very sanctuary of their misfortune, leaving it to future ages desolated and denounced, the scene of legalized barbarism and penal piety ! But may his crimes have mercy : their consequences have ceased. The christian hand of George the llld. has commenced the work of expiation. Guided by Heaven, he has dismantled the penal fabrick, Reaving to future sovereigns a glorious example, bj following which their throne will be strengthened and their death-bed consolatory. — o — Bearing the now neglected fleece along. — Page 56. The scene which I have here endeavoured to des- cribe, is one which the inhabitants of Dublin have but too often had the misery of beholding. When trade becomes stagnant in our metropolis, which, I am sorry NOTES ON THE POEM. 171 to say, it but too frequently does, at least so far as our native manufactures are concerned, the starving artisans of the Libert!/^ the great manufacturing district of Dublin, go in full procession, bearing the fleece, sadly decorated with black ribbands, through all the princi- pal streets, as a sort of mourning for the miseries they are enduring. I solemnly assure the reader that my description gives but a faint outline of the melancholy original ! Yet Goldsmith^ Orpheus of the world, — Page 61. It is quite impossible to read the life of Goldsmith, and his delightful poem of the Traveller, without feel- ing the strongest sympathy for its author. After a life all clouded by poverty and consecrated by genius, he died in London, and was allotted a place in Westmin- ster Abbey, where his own sincere friend, the great English moralist, graced his tomb with the following most deserved inscription ; 172 NOTES ON THE POEW. This Monument is raised To the Memory of OLIVER GOLDSMITH, Poetj Natural Philosopher and Historian^ Who left no species of writing untouched^ 9V Unadorned by his pen. Whether to move laughter Or draw tears ; He was a powerful master Over the aflfections^ Though at the same time a gentle tyrant > Of a genius at once sublime, lively, and Equal to every subject 5 In expression at once noble. Pure and delicate. His memory will last As long as society retains affection. Friendship is not void of honour. And reading wants not her admirers. He was born in the kingdom of Ireland, At Femes, in the province Of Leinster, Where Pallas had set her name, 29th Nov. 1731. He was educated at Dublin, And died in London, 4th April 1774. NOTES ON THE POEM. 173 And Swift the wonder of the age, — Page 64. A doubt has been attempted to be cast upon the birth-place of Swift ; but an account written by him- self, and now to be seen in the manuscript library of Dublin University, sets the question at rest. He there says he was born in Dublin. It is indeed fully proved by his own patriotic lines, in which he says : ^' Britain, confess this land of mine, " First gave you human knowledge and divine^ '' Our prelates and our sages, sent from hence, *' Made your sons converts both to God and sense. The following very eloquent character of this great man, extracted from a recent publication, has been attributed to the classical pen of Sir Wm. Smith, one of the Barons of His Majesty's Court of Exchequer in Ireland. " On this gloom one luminary rose, and Ire- " land worshipped it with Persian idolatry. Her true " patriot; her first, almost her last. Sagacious and '^ intrepid, he saw, he dared. Above suspicion, he " was trusted ; above envy, he was beloved ; above " rivalry, he was obeyed. His wisdom was practical 174 NOTES ON THE POEM. " and prophetic ; remedial for the present, warning '' for the future. He first taught Ireland that she " might become a nation, and England that she might '' cease to be a despot. But he was a churchman i his " gown impeded his course and entangled his efforts. " Guiding a senate, or heading an army, he had been " more than Cromwell, and Ireland not less than '^ England. As it was, he saved her by his courage, ^' improved her by his authority, adorned her by his " talents, and exalted her by his fame. His mission " was but of ten years, aod for ten years only did '^ his personal power mitigate the government. But " though no longer fe^areid by the great, he was not " forgotten by the wise; his influence, like his wri- " tings, has survived a century, and the foundations '^ of whatever prosperity we have since erected, are " laid in the disinterested and magnanimous patriotism " of Swift." Thouy magic Spencer. — Page 66. The peasantry still shew, in the south of Ireland, the little cottage in which Spenser wrote his Fairy Queen. NOTES ON THE POEM. 175 Nor shouldst thou^ Farquhar^ absent be* — Page 66. The last of Farquhar's plays, which he finished on his death-bed, is esteemed his best. It was written Jn six weeks, during a settled illness, and he'died, as he had often foretold, before the run of the piece was over. And sire and patriot in Quin appears ! Who^ with a soul, can nature* s pg^ng endure^ While Barry trembles in the tortured Moor? And see, for ages shaded from our view^ Macklin give life to th^ revengeful Jew ! Clive and Comedy came together. — Page 68. The lovers of the Drama record, with delight, the excellence of Quin's Cato, Barry's Othello, and Mack?^ lin's Shy lock. This latter gentleman was the first who reformed the part, Shylock having always been played, before his time, as a comic character ; he is also cele- brated for his admirable comedies of '' the Man of the World " and « Love a-la-mode/ ' 176 NOTES ON THE POEM. Of Mrs. Clive, Doctor Johnson said, that what she did best, she did better than Garrick. Or the sweet swelling echo of Albam/'s Ij/re. — Page 72» Albany is the ancient name of Scotland. — o — Poor Dermodi/. — Page 74. Dermody, a second Chatterton, died of want and disease the consequence of it, in England. See Ray- mond's Life, — o — A rude cairn at last ! — Page 76. The cairns are heaps or piles of loose stones, very common in Ireland. They are supposed to have been, anciently, the burial places of chieftains ; and indeed, to this day, the custom of erecting a cairn on the scene of any remarkable death is common amongst the pea- santry. To Sir W. Colt Hoare's very splendid work on ancient Wiltshire, I must refer those who wish for much curious informati^ on this subject. The most extra- NOTES ON THE POEM. 177 ordinary production of this kind^ now in existence, is that of Stonehenge, on Salisbury plain, on which Keating, our Irish Livy, makeh the following remarks: " The indefatigable Stowe, in his British Chronicle, " printed in London, in 1614, gives an a«count, that " the Germans or Saxons were so pleased with the '' fertility and air of the Island, that they barbarously '' murdered, at one massacre, four hundred and eighty '^ of the nobility and gentry of Britain ; and that ^' Aurelius Ambrosius, then King of Britain, caused " the stones that were brought by Merlin from Mount ^^ Claire, in the province of Munster, to be erected in " the same place where the barbarous execution was '' committed, as an eternal monument of German '^ cruelty upon the natives of Britain." Some time after, Aurelius himself was buried in the same place; and the same author observes, that these stones, when they were fixed, were called chorea gigantum. but now are known by the name of Stonehenge, on Salisbury plain. The historian farther remarks, that the Irish brought these stones with them from Africa ; and what Geoffrey of Monmouth observes is very remarkable, that no two of those stones came originally out of the M 178 NOTES ON THE POEM. sarae part of the country. It is, indeed, remarkable, that Cambrensis himself, in some degree, confirms this curious record. He says, " Fuit antiquis temporibus " in Hibernia, lapidum congeries admiranda quae et ^* chorea gigantum dicta fuit." For these opinions, I am too little of an antiquary to profess myself responsible. There are, however, in the fields around me, many similar monuments to that of Stonehenge, though of less extent. The stones of many are immense, and raised to an height, to the elevation of which human strength, w^ithout the aid of machinery, would in our day be quite inadequate. Perhaps^ e'en then^ on FingaVs arm. — ^^Page 77. Finn, or Fingal, was a general of Cormac O'Conn, King of Ireland. He planted a colony in Scotland, and by incursions at the head of his fian or militia, protected it from the Romans. He is the same whom Mr. Macpherson calls " King of the Woody Morven ;" and in order to claim whom for Scotland, he has re- course to the gross anachronism of making him con- temporary with Cucullin, who reigned two hundred years before ! ! NOTES ON THE POEM. 179 The following rhapsody, descriptive of him, has been ascribed to Ossian. " Finn, of the large and ^ liberal soul of bounty, exceeding all his countrymen ^ in the prowess and accomplishments of a warrior ; ' king of mild majesty and numerous bards. The ' ever-open house of kindness was his heart — the seat ' of undaunted courage. Great was the chief of the ^ mighty Fenii. Finn, of the perfect soul, the con- ' summate wisdom, whose knowledge penetrated ' events and pierced through the veil of futurity. ^ Finn, of the splendid and ever -during glories. ' Bright were his blue rolling eyes, and his hair like ^ flowing gold ! Lovely were the charms of his un- ^ altered beauty, and his cheeks like thie glowing rose. ^ Each female heart overflojs^ed with affectiori for the ' hero, whose bosom was like the whiteness of the ' chalky cliff! Finn, the king of the glittering blades ^ of war." — o — Or there CEmania's palace rose, — Page 77. CEmania, the superb palace of the Kings of Ulster. M 2 .180 NOTES ON THE POEM. Ollam inhaled a nation's woes, — Page 77. Ollam Fodhla, the celebrated legislator of Ireland ; he was the institutor of the Feis Teamrach or parlia- ment of Tara. See Tara. Or noble Oscar died, — Page 77. Oscar, the son of Ossian, whose prowess has been immortalized by the poetry of his father. — o — Though Scotia unfilial the solace denies. --'Page 79. That Ossian was an Irishman I consider myself fully , warranted in assuming, notwithstanding the effrontery of Macpherson's fabrication. It is not easy to conceive how any one can be duped into a belief of the authen- ticity of Macpherson's Ossian, after considering with what petulant obstinacy he uniformly refused the pro- duction of the manuscript. The rational inference is, that he did not possess it ; and if not, how absurd is the idea that he could have compiled a regular epic NOTES ON THE POEM. 181 poem, handed down through so many hundred years by so frail and faithless a vehicle as oral tradition ! As to the authenticity of some of the minor pieces there is no doubt ; and the way in whith they travelled to Scot- land can be easily accounted for, by the circumstance of Finn's landing there with his Irish troops ; amongst whom, it is natural to suppose, the battle and hunting songs of their great national contemporary bard were in high veneration. There are few old peasants in Ire- land who cannot repeat many of those fragments, and who do not feel, even at this day, a superstitious re- verence for the prowess of Finn-ma-Comhal and the poetry of Ossian. There is no trace, however, of any perfect epic poem to be found, nor can any man of common sense expect it, after the lapse of so many centuries. That the Scotch have many of our customs and traditional songs is perfectly natural, as the colony will always retain some traces of the mother country. On this subject I refer the reader, not to any vague conjecture of modern days, but to the following con- clusive authorities of ancient writers. Cambrensis acknowledges that Niall the Irish mo- narch equipt a numerous fleet to invade Britain and M 3 182 NOTES ON THE POEM. Gaul, and by it expelled the old inhabitants from the North of Britain, and peopled it. " Gens," says he, " ab his propag'ia, specificato vocabulo Scotia vocatur " in hodiernum." — Topograph. Ilibern, caput 16. GiLDAS, a monk who wrote in 564, says, " Novis- " sime venerunt Scoti a partibus Hispaniae ad Hiber- " niam.'' The venerable Bede — " Hibernia, propria Scoto- " rum patria." Capgravius— ^^ Hibernia enim antiquitus Scotia '^ dicta est, de qua gens Scotorum.*^ Cesarius — " Ireland was properly known by the " name of Scotia, out of which a colony of the Scots " removed and settled themselves in the country pos- " sessed by the Picts in Britain." Buchanan (a Scotchman) — " Scoti omnes Hiber- '' niae habitatores initio vocabantur ut indicat Orosius ; " nee semel Scotorum ex Hibernia transitum in Alba- " niam factum, nostri annales referunt." James the First, in his Speech at Whitehall, de- clares, " I have two reasons to be careful of the wel- " fare of the Irish : first, as King of England, by " reason of the connection of the countries ; and ^KOTES ON THE POEM. ' ]83 '* next, as King of Scotland ; for the ancient Kings of " Scotland are descended from the Kings of Ireland.^^ Lord Lyttleton, in his life of Henry II. allows " the having sent forth a colony, which has risen to " such an height of dominion and greatness, is a glory " of which Ireland may justly boast." The reason why Ireland was anciently called Scotia was, because it took the name of Scotia, the wife of Milesius. Such are my authorities. Si quid novisti rectius istis Candidus imperti — si non, his utere mecum. Lo ! hy the sod where classic Barry sleeps. — Page 81. Barry, the celebrated painter, whose beautiful pieces, to be seen at the Adelphi in London, justly place him in the first rank in his profession. His paint- ing of Elysium is a rich spectacle to the eye of genius, aud fully justifies the opinion of Johnson, " that no " man brought more mind to his profession." See Boswell's Life. M 4 184 NOTES ON THE POEM. — O — The shade of Carolan should come, — Page 83. Carol A N5 the Orpheus of the Irish peasantry, was born in the count^^ of Westmeath in the year 1670. Poverty, the usual fate of genius, attended him, but, with the usual fire of genius, he overcame it. With no companion but his harp, and no patronage but his fancy, he found an easy access to the board of Irish hospitality, where his wants were a sufficient intro- duction, and his song an ample recompence. At an early age he had the misfortune to lose his sight by the small- pox ; but such was his fortitude, that he merely remarked " his eyes were transplanted into his ears.'' In one of his love songs, however, he touches on it in the following beautiful and pathetic allusion. '' Even he whose eyes admit no ray '^ Of beauty's pure and splendid day, '^ Yet though he cannot see the light, ^^ He feels it warm and knows it bright." In his rambles he met with the celebrated Gemi- niani, the same who said he found no music, on this side the Alps, so original and affecting as the Irish. NOTES ON THE POEM. 185 The foreigner wishing to surpass and perhaps surprise our peasant minstrel, played before him some of the most difficult Italian pieces ; but what was his asto- nishment at hearing Carolan, when he had concluded, distinctly follow him through all their variations, with a rapidity of execution and delicacy of touch peculiarly his own. Armed with his harp, Carolan was invincible ; and whether in mirth or in melancholy he swept its strings, nature was his instructress and sympathy his slave. The child of impulse, all his emotions were involun- tary. When warmed into any sudden sensibility of feeling, his heart, if I may so express it, was at his fingers' ends. It was in one of those moments of in- spiration that he poured forth his beautiful pieces of sacred music, and that delightful air called his Receipt^ better known perhaps by the appellation of Bumper^ Squire Jones. It is a general remark, that those who have been so unfortunate as to lose their sight, are often compensated by the superior quickness of the other senses. Of this our minstrel was a striking instance, as the following anecdote, related by Mr. Walker, will testify. In his youth he was much enamoured of a peasant girl, called 186 NOTES ON THE POEM. Bridget Cruise, who however was unpoetic enough to slight his advances, and they parted. After an inter- val of some years, Carolan went on a pilgrimage to an island in Lough Deargh, long venerable in the eye of rural superstition. On his return he found some devotees waiting the arrival of the boat, and taking the hand of a female in order to dseist her on board, he instantly exclaimed, ^' By the hand of my gossip '' this is the hand of Bridget Cruise ; " which indeed it proved to be ! I had the relation from his own mouth, said Mr. O'Connor, and in terms which strongly im- pressed me with the emotion which he felt at thus accidentally meeting the object of his early affections. I have remarked that Carolan lived on the casual boujity of those he chose to visit. To the universal courtesy of his welcome there is but one exception, and his poetic revenge affords a specimen of ready and caustic satire which ought not to be omitted. In one of his excursions he called at an house, where he had always been received with the ceadth milha foilthaj — an hundred thousand welcomes^ — the proverbial ex- pression of Irish hospitality. The master of the man- sion was unfortunately absent, and a ^^ pampered " menial," called O'Flynn, drove poor Carolan away. NOTES ON THE POEM. 187 He instantly sung, accompanied by his harp, the fol- lowing lines — ^^ What a pity hell's gates were not kept by O'Flynn, '^ So surly a dog would let nobody in!* Severe indeed must the inhospitable prohibition have appeared to him, whose heart was an almshouse, and whose little all was public property. By the death of Carolan, Ireland lost the last of those harmonious wanderers who were the minstrels of her ancient happiness —the music of her summer day. His thoughts, his love, his soul, his very sigh, was Irish ; and in the melodious mornipg of his national enthusiasm, when entertained at the residence of one of our fallen princes, he was heard to exclaim, " Here " and here only, in this house of O'Connor, my harp " has the old sound in it.^^ The following affecting anecdote will shew the amia- ble estimation of his private life. A short time after his death, his bosom friend and brother minstrel, M^Cabe, who had not heard even of his illness, went to see him. In passing through the church-yard near Carolan's cottage, he met a peasant of whom he en- quired for his friend. The peasant pointed to his 188 NOTES ON THE POEM. grave ; M^Cabe tottered to the spot, and sinking down on it in agony, after some moments, thus vented his poetic lamentation. '^ I came with friendship's face^ to glad my heart, '' But sad and sorrowful my steps depart -, ^' In my friend's stead, a spot of earth was shewn, '^ And on his grave my woe- struck eyes were thrown j '' No more to their distracted sight remained, '' But the cold clay that all they lov'd contained ! ^^ And there his last and narrow bed was made, *^ And the drear tombstone for its covering laid. '' Alas ! for this my aged heart is wrung, " Grief choaks my voice and trembles on my tongue 5 *^ Lonely and desolate I mourn the dead, iv / i i - *^ And thousands the bright ruin prove. ,,,3 jjj||x '^ ^' Even he, whose hapless eyes no ray'' '''■* ^^ ** Admit, from beauty's splendid day, " Yet, though he cannot see the light, *' He feels it warm and knows it bright. NOTES ON THE POEM. 193 *' In beauty, talents, taste refined, '*" And all the graces of the mind, '^ In all unmatched thy charms remain, '*" Nor meet a rival on the plain. *^ Thy slender foot, thine azure eye, ^' Thy smiling lip of scarlet dye, '^ Thy tcipering hand so soft and fair, ^^ The bright redundance of thy hair ! '^ Oh blest be the auspicious day '^ That gave them to thy poet's lay, '^ O'er rival bards to lift his name, ^^ Inspire bis verse and swell bis fame!" The following is his monody on the death of his wife. ^^ Were mine the choice of intellectual fame, n ^^ Of spelful song and eloquence divine, ^^ Painting's sweet power, philosophy's pure flame, ^^ And Homer's lyre and Ossian's harp were mine, ^^ The splendid arts of Erin, Greece, and Rome, ^^ In Mary lost, would lose tbeir wonted grace 5 ^^ All would I give to snatch her from the tomb, ^^ Again to fold her in my fond embrace ! 194 NOTES ON THE POEM. '^ Desponding, sick, exhausted with my grief, " Awhile the founts of sorrow cease to flow— *' In vain— 1 rest not — sleep brings no relief— *^ Cheerless, companionless, I wake to woe ! ^' Nor birth, nor beauty shall again allure, '^ Nor fortune win me to another bride 5 '^ Alone I'll wander and alone endure, '^ 'Till death restore me to my dear one's side. '^ Once cv'ry thought and ev'ry scene was gay, '^ Friends, mirth and music all my hours employed,— '^ Now, doomed to mourn my last sad years away, " My life a solitude,— ihy heart a void. '^ Alas, the change, to change again no more, " For every comfort is with Mary fled, *^ And ceaseless anguish shall her loss deplore, '^ 'Till age and sorrow join me with the dead ! " Adieu each gift of nature and of art, ^^ That erst adorn'd me in life's early prime, ^^ The cloudless temper and the social heart, ^^ The soul ethereal and the song sublime ! ^^ Thy loss, my Mary, chased them from my breast, '^ Thy sweetness cheers, thy judgment aids no more; *^ The muse deserts an heart with grief opprest, **^ And lost is every joy that charmed before." NOTES ON THE POEM. 195 -O — In Erin's elder day. — Page 86. , Perhaps the annals of the world cannot furnish a more striking instance of the savage effects of persecu- tion on the human mind, than Ireland. It will indeed be difficult to persuade those contemplating what she is, of the high station which she held at former periods; but unless the positive testimony of even hostile histo- rians be rejected, with an hardihood at which scepticism would blush, she must appear " the luminary of the ^^ western world, whence savage septs and roving bar- ^^ barians derived the benefits of knowledge and the *^ blessings of religion." " Many Saxons," says Lord Lyttleton, " resorted thither for instruction, and '^ brought from thence the use of letters to their ^^ ignorant countrymen. We learn from Bede, an " Anglo-Saxon himself, that about the middle of the ^^ seventh century, numbers, both of the nobles and " of the second rank of Englishmen, retired out of ^' England into Ireland, for the sake of studying theo- ^^ logy, and leading there a stricter life. And all these, ^^ the Irish, whom Bede calls Scots, most willingly re- N 2 19G NOTES ON THE POEM. '^ ceived and maintained at their own charge, supplying " them also with books, and being their teachers, '' without fee or reward ! a most honourable testimony '' not only to the learning, but also to the bounty and " hospitality of that nation. Great praise is also due " to the piety of the Irish ecclesiasticks, who, as we " know from the clear and unquestionable testimony of " many foreign writers, made themselves the apostles '^ of barbarous heathen nations, without any apparent " inducement to such laborious undertaking, except ** the merit of the work. By the preaching of these " men, the Northumbrians, the East Angles, and the '^ northern Picts were converted. Convents also were " founded by them in Burgundy, Flanders, Germany, " Italy, and other foreign countries, where they were " distinguished by the rigid integrity and purity of their " manners. So that Ireland, from the opinion con- " ceived of their piety, was styled (he Island of %.Saints:' TPb this generous tribute of Lord Lyttleton may be added the equally unprejudiced authority of another English writer of our own day. " In Ireland " (says Mr. Plowden) " did bur great Alfred receive his educa- NOTES ON THE POEM. 197 ^^ tion." Bede informs us that the Anglo-Saxon king, Oswald, applied to Ireland for learned men to teach his people the principles of Christianity ; and a foreign writer (Henrick of St. Germain) under the French monarch Charles the Bald, says, '' wliy should I men- *' tion Ireland ? almost the whole nation, despising ^' the dangers of the sea, resort thither with a nume- " rous train of philosophers." Camden also acknow- , ledges that " Ireland abounded with men of genius, " when literature was rejected every where else ; " and it is frequently related by our writers, in praise of a person's education, ^^ Exemplo patrum, commotus amore legend!^ '^ iTit ad HybernoSj Sophia mirabili claros." Spenser confesses that Ireland had the use of letters long before England, and the younger Scaliger, cla- rum et venerabile nomen, says, " du temps de Charle- " magna et 200 ans apres, omnes fere docti etoient " d'Irlande." The historian of Charlemagne, Sanga- lus the Monk, asserts that the Colleges of Paris and Pavia were founded by Irish monks ; and according to Polido*^ Virgil, King Alfred sent Johannes Scotus Erigena, his own tutor, from Ireland, to be the first N 3 198 NOTES ON THE POEM. public professor and teacher at Oxford. Ireland itself was formerly studded with seats of learning, and the College of Armagh alone contained, as we are told, at one time^ seven thousand students ! However these bulwarks of our ancient learning may be sought to be undermined by the political vermin of our day, we may be solaced by remarking, that they were held in suffi- cient estimation by that pure and practical philosopher who, by the piety of his life, has given a currency to virtue, and by the splendour of his intellect, shed a glory on his country. " I have often wished," says Doctor Johnson, " that Irish literature were cultivated. '^ Ireland is known to have been once the seat of piety '' and learning, and surely it would be very accepta- ^' ble to all those who are curious, either in the origin <^ of nations or the affinity of languages, to be further *^ informed of the revolutions of a people so ancient ^and once so illustrious." Without however having ffllburse to the venerable authorities of the dead, per- haps there may be found, even in our day, some faint and shadowy traces of our former learning. When our cities and our seminaries re-echoed with the dismal war-hoop of persecution^ affrighted literature fled for NOTES ON THE POEM. 199 refuge to the rocks and recesses of the country, where, mid the sanctuary of solitude and secrecy of caverns, she nursed her offspring in the hope, and solaced them with the history of better times. Even there still the spirit of her elder day is not forgotten. " Amid the " mountains of Kerry," says Mr. Smith in his history, " it is well known that classical learning extends, even " to a fault, among the poorer classes ; " and O'Hal- loran observes, ^* that it is worthy of remark, this pro- '' pensity is most prevalent where the people have " least communication with the adjacent plains and " speak pure Irish ! " Let us hope that the day is not far distant when this spark, which still lingers, shall be suffered to extend itself; and perhaps, should bar- barism again overcloud our hemisphere, Ireland may shine in future times, as formerly, " a light to the " NATIONS." The ruins frown in proud disdain. — Page 87. ^^ Some of the ruined castles and abbeys in Ireland ap- pear to have been of the noblest order of architecture, and to mark an aera in the annals of that ill-fated N 4 200 NOTES ON THE POEM. country, in which the arts must have flourished in the highest degree of cultivation ; but now, alas ! '"^ Hic^ inter fluminanota ^^ Et fontes sacros^ frigus captabis opacum/* Virgil, Ecloga I. — o— And the spears of the brave. — Page 102. The organization of the volunteers in Ireland forms an epoch which no Irishman should forget, because it shews him of what his country, when united, is capa- ble. The story of that period is simply this. It had ever been the plan of England to garrison Ireland, in time of peace, with a standing army double the amount of her own, taking into consideration their comparative population and extent. The fatal policy of the Ame- rican war, however, rendered it necessary to draft away a large portion of this establishment, so that, in 1778, l||B number was reduced to five thousand ; and this diminished force was daily threatened with an hostile invasion. The eye of Europe was turned upon our country, and she soon exhibited an object worthy its attention. Suddenly the united population rose in NOTES ON THE POEM. 201 arms, and mankind saw, with astonishment, an infant military nation ranged under the banner of the law, beaming death and defiance on their enemies ! The effect was electric — our continental enemies knew too well the invincible valour of the Irish to execute their menaces; and thus, in the hour of need, this dislo7/al people saved England from the eff^ects of her folly, though it seems they could not shame her out of the injustice of her suspicions. Having thus rescued the island from foreign incur- sion, the attention of the volunteers was turned to a fertile source of oontemplation, its internal grievances. They demanded a free trade and an unfettered par- liament. So novel and bold a proposition was natur- ally, at first, received with some hesitation ; but the irresistible eloquence of our native Demosthenes, wielding our former glory against our present apathy, raised the national pride, and as we then thought, {eheu fugaces !) laid the foundations of the national prosperity. " There was a time," said Mr. Grattan, " when the vault of liberty could hardly contain the " flight of your pinion. Some of you went forth like ^' a giant, rejoicing in his strength, but now you stand 202 NOTES ON THE POEM. " like elves at the door of your own Pandemonium. " The armed youth of the country, like a thousand '' streams, thundered from a thousand hills, and " filled the plain with the congregated waters, in '' whose mirror was seen, for a moment, the watery " image of the British constitution ! The waters " subside, the torrents cease, the rill ripples^ within ^' its own bed, and the boys and children of the " village paddle in the brook." — -o — Her banner of green and her helm of gold. — Page 102. This country formerly abounded with the precious metals, and with gold in particular. Scarcely a year passes without discovering some gorget, shield or helmet, wrought in the purest gold, and of the choicest workmanship. Such relics are generally found in the bogs, amongst which that of Cullen, in the county of Tipperary, has acquired the name of " golden " from the number it contained. In Vol. VII. of the Archffiologia there is a letter from the late Countess of Moira, a name embalmed in the heart of her coun- try, describing a curiosity found in this bog. NOTES ON THE POEM. 203 ^' In the year 1692," says the illustrious writer, " some workmen cutting turf for firing in a bog in " Tipperary, found a cap or crown of gold weighing " five ounces, supposed to have belonged to one of the " provincial kings in the reign of Brien Borhoime." To this crown Harris also alludes, giving it however a date of much higher antiquity. He supposes it to have been made before the Christian aera, because it has not the cross, " which," says he, " no crown '' belonging to a Christian prince since that period " ever was without." It is at present preserved at Auglune in Champagne, the residence of the Cumer- ford family. Mr. O'Halloran speaks of another crown weighing six ounces, found in the same bog, which, upon a test, was affirmed by a jeweller to have the least alloy of any gold he ever met. So abundantly indeed was this metal derived from native mines, that we find, long after the Norman invasion, an act of the little parliament of the Pale, prohibiting the use of gold in horse furniture except to persons of a certain rank. Lord Stafford, during his administration, sent to Charles the First, the bit of a bridle made of solid 204 NOTES ON THE POEM, gold, weighing ten ounces, found in a bog, and an ingot of silver of three hundred ounces from the royal mines. These mines, he tells the Secretary of State in one of his letters, were so rich, that every fodder of lead yielded thirty pounds of fine silver. There are at present some gold mines in the County of Wicklow, which however are not worked. The art of mining seems to have been very anciently known in Ireland, as those who obstinately persist in denying Ireland any knowledge whatever beyond that of sava- ges, may see by the following extract from Mr. Hamil- ton's very able work on Antrim. ^^ About twelve years ago," says he, speaking of a coal mine in Kilkenny, " the workmen, in pushing *^ forward a new adit toward the coal, unexpectedly '' broke through the rock into a cavern. The hole " which they opened was not very large, and two ^^ young boys were made to creep in with candles, " to explore this new region. They accordingly went " forward and entered an extensive labyrinth, branch- ^^ ing off* into numerous apartments, in the mazes '' and windings of which they were at last completely " lost. After various vain attempts to return, their NOTES ON THE POEM. ^ 205 '' their lights were extinguished, and they sat down " together in utter despair of an escape from this " dreary dungeon. In the mean time the people " without were alarmed for their safety, fresh hands " were employed, a passage was at last made for the " workmen, and the two unfortunate adventurers '' extricated, after a whole night's imprisonment. On " examining this subterranean wonder it was found " to be a complete gallery, which had been driven " forward many hundred yards to the bed of coal; '' that it branched off into various chambers, where " the miners had pushed on their different works; " that pillars were left at different intervals to ^' support the roof; in ^hort, it was found to be " an extensive mine, wrought by a set of people at " least as expert in the business as the present genera- " tion. Some remains of the tools, and even the '' baskets used in the works, were discovered, but " in such a state that on being touched they im- " mediately fell to powder. The antiquity of this i' work is pretty evident from this, that there does not " remain the most remote tradition of it in the coun- ^' try. But it is stiU more strongly demonstrable S06 NOTES ON THE POEM. ^' from a natural process which has taken place since ^^ its formation ; for stalactite pillars had been gene- ^' rated, reaching from the roof of the pit to the floor, " and the sides and supports were found covered '' with sparry incrustations, which the present work- ^^ men do not observe to be deposited in any definite " space of time." Leinster ! if birth alone had made thee great. — Page 104. The only Duke in Ireland, the descendant of a noble line of ancestry, and the source, in himself, of that purest of all titles, a genuine nobility of heart. The name of James, Duke of Leinster, can never be for- gotten by the Irish people while gratitude lingers amongst them. He was unanimously chosen com- mander of the volunteers of the metropolis at that trying sera. " A man," says the venerable Grattan, /^ whose accomplishments gave a grace to our cause, ^^ and whose patriotism gave a credit to our nobles ; *^ whom the rabble itself could not see without venera- ^' tion, as if they beheld not only something good but: " sacred: a man who, drooping and faint when we NOTES ON THE POEM. 207 ^^ began our struggles, forgot his infirmity, and found " in the recovery of our constitution a vital principle " added to his own." Such is the panegyric with which eloquence has adorned him. But beauteous as it is, he is embellished with one more lovely ; the lamentation of the rich — the blessings of the poor — the sincere, silent, heart- rending sorrow of the country. thy holy name Stilly from our hillsy a beacon light shall fiame ! — Page 106. The Duke of Leinster has left a son, whom feme has adorned with all his father's patriotism and virtue. If so, there is yet an hope for Ireland. The people want, and have long wanted, some patriotic, resident noble- man, through whom their grievances may be honestly stated, and redress demanded. If, indeed, the young Duke be like his father who is in heaven^ — viewing his ancestry but as so many warnings not to sully their name, — holding his wealth but for the relief of the poor and his talents for the good of the nat|oi3,— there is 208 NOTES ON THE POEM. yet an hope for Ireland. Happy shall it be for his country, — happier for himself! *^ Ille Deum vitam accipiet, divisque videbit ^^ Permixtos heroas, et ipse videbitur illis." — o — On the sweet tone of Flood's harmonious tongue,-^ Page 107. Henry Flood, an orator, a patriot, and a states- man, long graced by his eloquence the Irish House of Commons. " He made," says Mr. Hardy in his able Life of the virtuous Lord Charlemont, " a conspicuous '' figure in the annals of his country, and he is entitled " to the thanks of every public spirited man in it ; for " unquestionably he was the senator who, by his re- " peated discussion of questions, seldom, if ever, ap- ^ proached before, first taught Ireland that she had a « Parliament." Mr. Flood's life had been devoted to the welfare of his country, and his dying act corresponded with the sentiment. He had long seen with sorrow, the neglect of our native language and the dispersion of our ancient manuscripts over the libraries of the Continent and the Vatican, and in his will left (according to the calcula- NOTES OJSr THE, POEM. 209 tion of Lord Rosse) five thousand pounds per annum, for the revival of the one and the recovery of the other, to Trinity College, Dublin. This noble bequest was however afterwards frustrated by a decision in a court of law. He was a general of the volunteers : and the circumstance reminds me of an anecdote full of the simplicity which so often accompanies genius. Having come to my native town, Sligo, in his military capacity, the boys of the Rev. Mr. Arm- strong's school appeared before him in martial uniform at a review ; for at that time the spirit of arms alike animated the crutch and the nursery. Flood imme- diately addressed the schoolboy regiment in the follow- ing terms : " It is related to the honour of a Spartan '' chief, that he was fond of superintending the sports ^' of children : your sports are superior to those of the " Spartan boys. But shall I call them sports ? No, *^ they are exertions which make youths men, and '^ without which men are but children ! Milton, in his " treatise on Education, has set apart precepts for " military exercises, which your worthy teacher has " brought into example, and I behold your early, but " auspicious exertions, with the same pleasure the o 210 NOTES ON THE POEM. '' husbandman contemplates the pleasing promise of a ^^ benignant harvest. Go on — and supply the succession '^ of those fruitful labourers for the public good whom " time may take away." Such was the impression of this beautiful address upon the youthful mind^ that I had it verbatim from my father {who happened to be a member of the corps)^ after a recollection of thirty years! Where silver Burgh 'poured on the nation's ear. — Page 108. Of the celebrated Hussey Burgh, long the orna- ment of the Irish House of Commons, I have extract- ed the following character from the pen of Mr. Hardy, who was long acquainted with him, so that the fidelity of the picture my be relied upon. " Walter Hussey, who afterwards took the name of " Burgh, and was advanced to the station of Lord " Chief Baron of the Exchequer, came into parliament " under the auspices of James Duke of Leinster. " His speeches, when he first entered the House of " Commons, were very brilliant, very figurative, and NOTES ON THE POEM. 211 '' far more remarkable for that elegant poetic taste, " which had highly distinguished him when a member " of the University, than any logical illustration or " depth of argument. BCit as he was blessed with ^^ great endowments, every session took away some- " what from the unnecessary splendour and redundancy " of his harangues. To make use of a phrase of Ci- ^' cero, in speaking of his own improvement in elo- ^' quence, his orations were gradually deprived of all ^' fever. Clearness of intellect, a subtle, refined, and '^ polished wit, a gay, fertile, uncommonly fine ima- ^^ gination, very classical taste, superior harmony and " elegance of diction, peculiarly characterised this just- " ly celebrated man. To those who never heard him, ^' as the fashion of this world in eloquence, as in all " things else, soon passes away, it may be no easy " matter to convey a just idea of his style of speaking. " It differed totally from the models which have beeii '' presented to us by some of the great masters of rhe- " toric in latter days. His eloquence was by no means '' gaudy, tumid, or approaching to that species of rhe- " toric, which the Roman critics denominated Asiatic^ " but it was always decorated as the occasion required ; o 2 212 NOTES ON THE POEM. ^' it was often compressed and pointed^ though that " could not be said to have been its general feature. '' It was sustained by great ingenuity, great rapidity of " intellect, luminous and piercing satire. The classical " allusions of this orator, for he was truly one, were " so appropriate, they followed each other in such " bright and varied succession, and at times spread " such an unexpected and triumphant blaze around his ^' subject, that all persons who were in the least tinged " with literature could never be tired of listening to *^ him. The Irish are a people of quick sensibility, '' and perfectly alive to every display of ingenuity or '' illustrative wit. Never did the spirit of the nation '' soar higher than during the splendid days of the '^ volunteer institution ; and when Hussey Burgh, al- " luding to some coercive laws, and to that association ^^ then in its proudest array, said in the House of Com- <^ mons, ' that such laws were sown like dragons' teeth " > and sprung up armed men,' the applause which ^' followed, and the glow of enthusiasm which he kin- '' died in every mind, far exceed my powers of descrip- ^' tion. ' He did not,' said Mr. Flood, ^ live to be ^' ' ennobled, but he was ennobled by nature.' I value NOTES ON THE POEM, 213 " the just prerogatives of ancient nobility, but to the " tears and regrets of a nation bending over the urn '' of public and private excellence, as Ireland did over '' his, what has heraldry to add, or at such moments " what can it bestow? " Now heartless traders heap their sordid hoard. — Page 108. This is well delineated, both by the pen and the pen- cil, in the elegant poem entitled '^ Petticoat Leose, a Fragmentary Tale of the Castle." The Irish House of Commons is now the mart of the money-changers ! a most characteristic transition. Of the Irish Union (that infamous consummation of our calamities, begot in bribery and baptised in blood, which robbed the Irishman of the impulse of a name, degraded his coun- try into a province, gave him an itinerant legislature and an absentee aristocracy, left him at the mercy of every prentice statesman, and carried away his wealth to bribe his foreign masters into contemptuous civility) I shall not speak, because I trust it is but a fleeting speck, and that Irishmen will never desist, until the o 3 214 NOTES ON THE POEM. very memory of that penal statute on our national pride is obliterated and erased. — o — My earliest friend, — Page 115. The Reverend James Armstrong, for many and many a year curate of St. John's, Sligo ; a man of most extensive acquirements, great piety, and a cheerfulness of manner which made every circle in which he associa- ted happy. *^ His saltern accumulem donis et fungar ^^ Inani munere." To where Kinkora's palace shed Its splendours, Page 118. Kinkora, the palace of Brien. Or Clonmacnoise upreared its head, — Page 1 18. The celebrated Abbey of Clonmacnoise, long the retreat of piety and learning, was destroyed in 1584, NOTES ON THE POEM. 215 by the garrison of Athlone, who barbarously plunder- ed it of every ornament and devastated the sacred shrine of the great St. Kieran. The English seem to have enjoyed a peculiar pleasure in the annihilation of our religious edifices and every antiquity which they possessed. Thus we find Lord Grey, a sacrilegious in- cendiary in the reign of Henry VIII., destroying the venerable cathedral of Down^ which the following verse described as possessing the remains of three renowned ecclesiastics : '* Hi tres in Duno tumulo, tumulantuo in uno_, '^ Brigida, Patricius, atque Columba plus.*' It was in these holy sanctuaries that what remained of art or antiquity, after the ravages of the Danes, were preserved. They abounded in fine paintings and beauteous relics. Cambrensis makes mention of a concordance of the four Gospels, found in the church of Kildare, so divinely painted, that he declares, " neither the pencil of an Apelles, nor the chisel of a " Lysippus, ever formed the like ; in a word, it seems " to have been executed by something more than a ^^ mortal hand." It was carefully de&troyed ! ! ! Let no man hereafter profane the ancient name of Ireland, o 4 216 NOTES ON THE POEM. because her monuments have perished ! But though the transient brass and mouldering column bear not down to future ages the records of her old magnifi- cence, there is a living and far nobler herald to confirm its existence to the traveller ; the native grandeur of soul ; the cherished spirit of ancient hospitality ; the pure, inherent, unpurchasable nobility of heart, still glow throughout the island, the embers of its ruined greatness, the traditional relics of its hereditary pride and defrauded inheritance. Proud Tara*s temple stood. — Page 119. Tara, the grand seat of Ireland's triennial parlia- ment, was originally founded by the great Irish legislator, OUam, as an old poem preserved by Keating tells us. '' The learned 011am Fodhla first ordained '' The great assembly where the nobles met, *^ And priests and poets and philosophers, *' To make new laws and to amend the old, " And to advance the honour of their country.'* NOTES ON THE POEM. §17 At this assembly all the kings, priests, poets and philosophers of the kingdom, attended, and our old histories dwell with peculiar delight on the details of its magnificence. The room where the parliament sat was three hundred feet in length, forty cubits in height, and had fourteen doors. They met three days before the 1st of November, and having spent the two first in friendly intercourse, on the third the grand feast of Samhuin, or the moon, commenced. This was a custom derived from Phenicia. The feast opened with sacred odes set to a 'grand variety of national instruments, and after the Druids had finished their rites the fire of Sam- huin was lighted and the deities solemnly invoked to consecrate the national councils. The order of business was first the police, then the foreign alliance, next peace and war, and though last nojt least in importance, the formal registry of the records in the Psalter of Tara. The merchants and artizans had also their meeting, in order to deliver into the grand assembly the state of trade and manufactures. During the festivals, the provincial Queens gave grand assemblies to the ladies of the nobility ; and so !518 NOTES ON THE POEM. chivalrous were our ancient institutions with respect to the fdir sex, that the slightest insult offered to one of them was death without appeal or power of pardon. The attention to heraldry was surprising for such a distant age. The first notice of the assembly was a sound of trumpet, then the esquires of the nobility presented themselves at the door of the grand hall, and gave in the shields and ensigns of their masters to the deputy grand marshal, which were ranged under the direction of the king at arms. At sound of the second trumpet the target-bearers of the general officers gave in their insignia ; and at the third sound, the kings, princes, nobility, and all other constituent parts of this great assembly, took their seats with the utmost regularity under their respective banners. Such is the account of our oldest writers. The holy seers ^ the minstrel band. — Page 120. With a true minstrel pride, the poet of Ireland dwells on the high respect paid to the bards of old. They had privileges denied to any other order in state. Their persons wqre sacred^ their property secure, NOTES ON THE POEM. 219 the hall of hospitality was ever open to them, and the name of bard was a passport even among enemies. These privileges were amply repaid by the children of song : they raised the spirit of the nation, ia war inspired the hero, in peace civilized the passions ; they were the soul of the festival and the herald of the legislator. Like the fiery pillar which preceded Moses in the wilderness, he was guided by the " light '' of the song," and Ireland became, as it were, har- monized into order ! Mr. Smith, in his Fall of Zura, gives a beautiful instance of the superstitious respect in which they were held. " The bard with his harp goes trembling to ^' the door : his steps are like the warrior of many ^' years, when he bears mournful to the tomb the son. " of his son. The threshold is slippery with Crigal's '^ wandering blood ; across it the aged falls : the spear '' of Duarna is lifted over him, but the dj/ing Crigal " tells it is the bard ! '' The bard always attended his patron to battle and remained on the edge of the field, gleaning from his exploits the subjects of his future panegyric. If, how- evefj he perceived him likely to be overpowered, he 220 NOTES ON THE POEM. rushed forward arrayed in his flowing robes of white, and to the music of his glittering- harp sung the " eye " of the battle." f' He is entranced \ —the fillet burst that bound ^^ His liberal locks,— -his snowy vestments fall ^^ In ample folds, and all his floating form ^^ Doth seem to glisten with divinity." Mason. This war song, called the " eye of the battle," was generally an enumeration of the patron's virtues, and abounds chiefly in epithets, as may be seen by the fol- lowing specimen, addressed, in the hour of danger, by the celebrated Fergus, Finn's poet, to Gaul Mac Mor- ni. " Gaul, vigorous and warlike ; chief of the in- ^^ trepid, unboundedly generous, the delight of ma- ^' jesty, a wall of unextinguishable fire, rage unre- " mitting, champion replete with battles, guide to ^' the rage of heroes, son of the great Morna, " generous to poets, respite to warriors, tribute on " nations, downfall of foreigners." Even into the midst of hostile tribes the minstrels used to rush to animate their patrons ; and strange as it may appear, yet such was the reverence in which they were held, even by enemies, that we have but NOTES ON THE POEM. 221 one instance in our whole history of violence being offered to their person; and the monarch who thus transgressed has descended to us with the opprobrious epithet of Kin-salach or the '^ accursed.''^ The trans- action is related with much minuteness in the ^^ Book " of Sligo." This extreme encouragement naturally excited emulation in the composition of our music^ and to it we owe our confessed superiority in this de- lightful science. I have often thought our ancient per- fection in this respect no trifling proof of our national antiquity. Of every barbarous nation of which we read, their few instruments were uncouth and their strains un- melodious ; but even so far back as the English in- vasion, we find ours preferred to that of every country in the world, even by our avowed vilifyer^ Cambrensis himself, who strains all the powers of antithesis in giving its eulogium '' tam suavi velocitate, tam dispari ^^ paritate, tam discordi concordia, consona redditur '^ et completur melodia." The learned Selden, in his notes on Drayton, confesses that the Welsh music, for the most part, came out of Ireland, with Gruffydth ap Conon, Prince of North Wales, about King Ste- 222 NOTES ON THE POEM. phen's time ; and the illustrious Bacon declares, in his Sylva, that '' no harp has the sound so melting and so '' prolonged as the Irish harp." Such was its fame indeed on the Continent, that we are told by various historians, when the Abbey of Niville, in France, was founded, the wife of Pepin sent to Ireland for musicians and choristers for the church music. The melancholy airs are uncommonly pathetic ; so much so, that I have heard of a celebrated Italian, who after listening to some of them suddenly exclaim- ed, ^^ that must be the music of a people who have lost '' their freedom ! '* One of our wandering harpers, in allusion to this pathos, placed this inscription lately on his harp— ' ^^ Cur lyra funestas edit percussa sonores ? '^ Sicut amissum fors dsadema gemit." And violate our paradise. — Page 127. " Sure," says Spenser, '' it is a most beautiful and '^ sweet country as any under heaven, being stored ^' with many goodly rivers, replenished with all sorts NOTES ON THE POEM. 223 ^' of fishj most abundantly sprinkled with many sweet '' islands and goodly lakes, like little inland seas, that " will carry even ships upon their waters; adorned " with goodly woods, even fit for building of houses " and ships, so commodiously, that if some princes of " the world had them, they would soon hope to be '^ lords of all seas, and ere long of the world." Such is the description of the country: as a companion to it, I transcribe another, of its inhabitants, by the learned Camden, a writer so little partial to us, that he has been thus quaintly characterised, '^ Perlustras Anglos^ ocules, Camdene, daobis, ^^ Uno oculo^ Scotos^ coecus, Hybernigenas," He says, " In universum, gens haec corpora valida '^ et imprimis agilis, animo forti et elato, ingehio acri^ ^' bellicosa, vitae prodiga, laboris, frigoris et inedise *^ patiens, veneri indulgens, hospitibus perbenigna, '' amore constans, inimicitiis implacabilis, credulitate " levis, gloriae avida, contumeliae et injuriae impatiens " et in omnes actus vehementissima.'^ Those who know the Irish character will easily see the fidelity of the picture. In Spenser's description he has omitted, however, a blessing almost peculiar to Ireland — ^its 224 NOTES ON THE POEM. freedom from venemous animals. The natives ascribe this to a miracle wrought by their tutelar saint, St. Patrick^ as the natives of Malta ascribe the same happy exemption to the influence of St. Paul. Ireland has enjoyed the blessing certainly for a long series of years, as in the beginning of the eighth century we find the venerable Bede saying, " NuUus ibi serpens " vivere valeat ;" and after him Camden, "Nullushic ^^ serpens nee venenatum quicquam." There is as- cribed even to the native oak the surprising property of destroying spiders; of which the beautiful roof of Westminister Hall is an example. The oak of this roof wa« sent to Rufus, at his own request, by Tur- lough, king of Ireland, in the year 197. What a pity it is that we do not follow the kindly example of nature, and banish also from our island the religious and po-* litical poison which infects it ! Erin has sent her warriors bright To win the laurels of thejight. — Page 128. This is no idle boast : it is a truth written in blood on every shore in Europe. We need not refer to Spen- NOTES ON THE POEM. §25 ser for his testimony, that " there is no man who " coraeth on more boldly to the charge than an Irish- " man," while Blenheim, Ramillies, Cremona, Det- . tingen, Fontenoy, and innumerable similar monuments to our national bravery exist ; a bravery so indisputable, that it even extorted from King William, at the siege of Limerick, the unwilling declaration, that '^ with <^ the handful of brave Irishmen enclosed in the city, " he would take it in despite of his whole English '' army I" The Abbe Geoghagan, quoting the Camp do Vendome, says, " Monsieur de Vendome, qui avoit " une estime particuliere pour cette belliqueuse nation, " a la tete de laquelle il avoit livre tant de combats, et '' remporte tant de victoires, avoua qu'il etoit surpris ^^ des terribles expeditions que ces bouchels de I'armee <' (c'est ainsi qu'il les appelloit) faisoient en sa pre- *^ sence." All France, says he, applauded, and the greatest and most powerful monarch crowned the eulogies of this brave and gallant nation, by styling them "Les braves Irlandois !" 22Q NOTES ON THE POEM. — O — He who on Barossa*s height. — Page 128. It was Serjeant Masterson, a native of Roscommon in Ireland, who took the famous Imperial Eagle at the battle of Barossa. This ensign was encircled with a golden wreath, as a particular mark of the Emperor's favour. The Prince Regent, ever anxious to reward merit, has since promoted its brave captor. — o — Not Detiingen*s undying name. — Page 130. LoBD Ligonier's regiment of cavalrj, to a man Irish, saved the King's person and gained the battle of Dextingen. Not Fontenot/^s eternal fame. — Page 130. Such was the bravery of our Catholic countrymen at the battle of Fontenoy, that George the Second ex- claimed in an agony, '^ Cursed be the laws which de- " prive me of such subjects !" What a comment on that nefarious penal code, which Mr. Burke so justly NOTES ON THE POEM. 227 describes to be " a machine of wise and elaborate con- " trivance, and as well fitted for the oppression, im- ^' poverishment, and degradation of a people, and the '' debasement in them of human nature itself, as ever " proceeded from the perverted ingenuity of man !" — o — Not e^en Cremond*s dassicjlame, — Page ISO. At Cremona the regiments of Dillon and Buhke saved the whole French army. Such was their havoc, that it was said in the English House of Commons, the Irish had done more mischief to the Allies abroad, than they could have done at home by the possession of their forfeited estates. Guards of their prince and glories of their land,-Psige 133. The brave 87th, commanded by Sir John Doyle, and entirely composed of Irishmen, so distinguished them- selves in the present campaign, that the Prince Regent styled them " His own Irish ;" an epithet full of affec- tion in him who gave it, and of glory to those who received it. Let the illustrious benefactor but extend T 2 > 228 NOTES ON THE POEM. his justice, and in the hour of need (which God avert !), he will have an island for his throne, and its united people for his body guard. It is worthy of remark, that there is scarcely a single name of any note, at present, on the Peninsula, which is not Irish. Wellington, Pack, Blake, Carrol, O'Donnel, Trant, Beresford, and countless others, form a bright and dazzling constellation in the night of Ireland's sorrow ! Unhappy countrymen ! In America you lead the bar, in Spain you guide the army, in Eng- land you adorn the senate— at home you are disqualified ! Whatever may he his humhk lot.— Vage 137. '^ Dives, inops, Romae, seu, si fors ita jusserit, exul." THE END. Cox and Bay lis, Prinieis, Great Queen Street, Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, ) ' THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL PINE OP 25 CENTS OVERDUE. ^'^ ^"^ SEVENTH DAY Phillips^ C ; Sm< The Emerfi-ld Isle 804105 > EP 27 19 4 ; ; ^ '^'^^^^A^ / 804105 UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA UBRARY X >l • I m