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 THE 
 
 DOOM OF DERENZIE.
 
 THE 
 
 DOOM OF DERENZIE, 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 THOMAS FURLONG. 
 
 To wit, reviving from its author's dust, 
 Be kind, ye judges, or, at least, be just. 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 JOSEPH ROBINS, BKIDE COURT, 
 BRIDGE STREET. 
 
 1829.
 
 V70S' 
 
 TO 
 HIS ESTEEMED FRIEND, 
 
 JAMES HARDIMAN, Esq. 
 
 THIS POEM IS INSCRIBKD, 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS PURLONG. 
 
 Viy^_^^r~(ri
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 One sheet only of the following poem bad the 
 advantage of the author's corrections: it had 
 scarcely passed through his hands when the grave 
 prematurely closed upon him. 
 
 He died in Dublin, on the 25th of July, 1827, 
 aged 33 : his friends, and they were not a few, 
 deeply lamented his fate ; and the literati of the 
 Irish metropolis testified their regard for his genius, 
 by paying his remains, on the day of his funeral, 
 a public mark of respect. Above one hundred 
 mourning coaches followed the hearse to Drum- 
 condra, a village situate a mile or two on the north 
 of the city ; in the picturesque cemetery of which 
 the body of the poet lies. A few friends who had 
 been long acquainted with his private worth, and 
 who knew how to appreciate his talents, have
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 erected over bis grave a monument, classically 
 designed, and admirably executed: it bears this 
 inscription : 
 
 TO THF. MEMORY OF 
 
 THOMAS FURLONG, Esq. 
 
 in whom the purest principles of 
 
 Patriotism and Honor 
 
 were combined with 
 
 Superior Poetical Genius, 
 
 This Memorial of Friendship 
 
 is erected by those who valued and admired 
 
 His various Talents, Public Integrity, 
 
 and Private Worth. 
 
 He died 25th July, 1827, aged 33 years. 
 
 MAY HE REST IN PEACE. 
 
 Immediately after Mr. Furlong's decease, the 
 editor of the Literary Gazette, with that 
 amiable solicitude which he has ever shown 
 to encourage living merit, and honor departed 
 worth, inserted in his journal a brief memoir of his 
 life, which subsequently found its way into the 
 monthly magazines, and the Annual Obituary. 
 It details the short and simple story of his brief 
 existence : he was born to no hereditary honors ; 
 the advantages which are derived from family 
 influence or parental wealth, were denied him; 
 and perhaps his highest praise ought to be derived
 
 FREFACK. IX 
 
 from the mental industry by whicli he triumphed 
 over the obstacles which the penury of his early 
 circumstances, cast in his way. Amidst the bustle 
 of commercial pursuits, he contrived to acquire no 
 incompetent knowledge in the more popular sci- 
 ences, and with every thing that appertained to 
 general literature, he was intimately acquainted. 
 For many years he contributed largely to the most 
 respectable of the periodicals ; and his lyrical pro- 
 ductions have long been held in high estimation 
 by his countrymen. Some years since he published 
 a poem of a didactic nature, which was favorably 
 received ; and a short time before his death he 
 completed a translation of the Songs of Carolan — 
 the last and most celebrated of the Irish Bards. 
 These, along with other curious remains of these 
 men, who excited at once the censure and applause 
 of Spenser, are now going through the press, under 
 the superinteudance of James Hardiman, Esq., 
 whose intimate acquaintance with the Irish lan- 
 guage, and extensive literary information, so ad- 
 mirably qualify him for the task. 
 
 Mr. Furlong's friends are not unwilling to rest 
 his poetical character on these translations ; but 
 though he viewed them himself with all an
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 author's partiality, he seemed to feel that tiie poem 
 now submitted to the public, had in it more of his 
 mind and poetical feeling. Perhaps, like greater 
 men, he thought that production the most felicitous 
 which cost him most labour ; and in this opinion 
 he was undoubtedly strengthened by the commen- 
 dations which his friend, the late Mr. Maturin, who 
 had read the MS., unsparingly, and no doubt 
 honestly, bestowed upon it. Had he lived to super- 
 intend its progress through the press, it would 
 appear with fewer faults : the advantage of revising 
 the proof sheets is well known to authors; verbal 
 improvements naturally suggest themselves, and 
 the erasure or alteration of whole passages is a 
 thing of ordinary occurrences. 
 
 The " Doom of Derenzie," has not had the benefit 
 of any such critical revision. The author's copy 
 has been scrupulously followed ; and perhaps the 
 printer has not always read the MS. correctly. 
 These things, however, are not stated for the 
 purpose of disarming criticism : the author, were 
 he alive, would prefer, at the hands of his reviewers, 
 an honest to a partial verdict; and his friends 
 flatter themselves, that there is no need of appre- 
 hending any severity of censure.
 
 PREFACE. XI 
 
 The scene of the poem t)eiiig laid in u remote 
 district, one who is familiar with its localities, and 
 who was long honored with the author's friendship, 
 has ventured to add a few explanatory notes. 
 These would doubtless be more full and entertaining, 
 had the poet lived to have furnished them himself. 
 They are not altogether unnecessary, as illustrating 
 some of the allusions in the text, and as they relate 
 to a peculiar people, perhaps they may not prove un- 
 acceptable to the reader. Mr. Furlong had collected 
 ample materials for this part of the volume, but the 
 industry of his friends has been unable to discover 
 them among his papers. He had also intended to in- 
 troduce the poem by an apology for the variety of 
 metre which he has used ; but as one, at least, of the 
 popular poets of the day, set him the example, there 
 is the less regret for being unable to find this paper. 
 
 Whatever may be the literary defects of the 
 poem, the moral it is hoped, will be found unex- 
 ceptionable. The author was incapable of writing 
 any thing which could be remotely injurious to the 
 best interests of society ; and if not " one of earth's 
 great spirits" he required only a longer life to 
 mature those talents which could not fail to be be- 
 neficial to himself and others. Most assuredly he
 
 XU PREFACE. 
 
 did not live uselessly ; and his panegyric may be 
 comprised in a single sentence — The regrets of all 
 who knew him followed him to the grave. 
 
 It is only necessary to add, that the dedication 
 of the Volume is in conformity to the last request 
 of the author made to the publisher.
 
 THE 
 
 DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 Of some shadowy lliing 
 Crossing tlie traveller on bis path of fear.
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 Night slowly clos'd around, and all was still 
 O'er the broad vale, the forest, and the hill ; 
 The cowherd's long, slow, song was heard the last, 
 As onward gladly from his task he past; 
 To deeper shades the feather'd tribes withdrew, 
 And the parch'd herbage drank the falling dew ; 
 The heath-clad cliff, that proudly rear'd its head, 
 The rich green slope, with foliage overspread. 
 The struggling streamlet, whose meanderiugs lent 
 A beauty to the vale through which it went — 
 All these, that lately woo'd or won the sight. 
 As each bask'd gaily in the sun's broad light. 
 Lay, in this loneliest hour of gather'd gloom, 
 Dim, even as figures on a time-worn tomb. 
 
 O'er the wide heath the footpath faintly shone, 
 
 And, on that bank where clustering flow'rets grew, 
 
 li 2
 
 4 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 The eye, in cold and careless mood, was thrown ; 
 
 For now — so dull and indistinct the view — 
 
 'Midst those who went the way, perchance but few 
 Could think that there around their walk had blown 
 
 One early primrose, or one daisy bright: 
 Darkness did hold the region as its own ; 
 
 Even the full river, rolling on in might. 
 But for its deep and ever-murmuring tone, 
 Should o'er the fields have swept unnotic'd and un- 
 known. 
 
 The scene was tranquil — toil itself had ceas'd ; 
 
 Home, to his little hut, the labourer sped ; 
 And, from his task of irksomeness releas'd. 
 
 In calm and quiet thankfulness, had spread 
 
 His wearied limbs upon the lowly bed. 
 Torn from their toys, the children sat them down. 
 
 Heard the harsh call that bade them be undrest; 
 And yieldino: up each garment, with a frown, 
 
 Wept, and then went unwillingly to rest. — 
 The matron's prayer at length had reach'd its close. 
 And her last wish was safety and repose.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 5 
 
 Near her the maiden, from whose faltering tongue. 
 The long-sought promise was but lately wrung — 
 She, who had wrought with many a lingering art, 
 And bade her lips too oft belie her heart — 
 She, that with blushes fixt the chosen day, 
 And, while 'twas coming, thought it far away, 
 Now on the pillow buried every care. 
 She slept — and dreams of wedlock blest her there. 
 
 Yet was there one, from whose uneasy head. 
 All dreams, but those of pain or terror, fled — 
 One, from whose throbbing, agonizing brow, 
 That rest which thousands shar'd, departed now — 
 Aye ! one there was, who at this dreary hour. 
 Went wandering on by Ferns's * tottering tower: 
 So slow he past, one scarce could think he stirred, 
 So light he trod, that not a step was heard ; 
 Yet in his air, his motion, and his plight. 
 Something there dwelt which caught and fixt the sight. 
 
 Around his shoulders, with a tighten'd fold, 
 Stretch'd a long mantle, dark, and worn and old ;
 
 (5 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Nor fur, nor binding mark'd its edge within, 
 Save where some velvet sniooth'd it for the chin: 
 This, at the borders, had been plac'd vpith care. 
 And two light polish'd clasps were added there. 
 
 Loose and ungarter'd o'er his ancles lay, 
 
 His well-wrought hose, that look'd of dusky grey; 
 
 Firm in his grasp a hazel staff he bore. 
 
 With many a mystic carving cover'd o'er. — 
 
 He paus'd, and high from o'er his brow he drew 
 
 His hat, of form antique and faded hue; 
 
 And slowly, solemnly, he made that sign 
 
 By some despis'd — by many deem'd divine. 
 
 And, as his hand descended, 
 He turn'd and look'd to Heav'n — the moon's pale light 
 Broke slowly o'er him, and, beneath that light, 
 His features brighten'd ; yet they wore an air 
 Of most unearthly wildness : — the mere loiterer. 
 Whose eye might mark him lingering there in loneliness, 
 Would not have past in calmness on his path. 
 As he would pass by others : — ^thro' that night
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 7 
 
 Ilis pillow would have lost its wonted softness — 
 llest would not come, tho' sought for — the dark aspect 
 Of that mysterious wanderer would have broken 
 His dreams, or mingled with them. 
 
 The aspect of that stranger was not one 
 That, when once seen, was seen to be forgotten ; 
 His lean cheek bore, or had perchance assum'd, 
 A sallow tinge ; tlie beard that hid his chin 
 Was matted ; and, down o'er his wither'd ears, 
 The black hair curl'd in many a grisly ringlet : 
 Scorn marked his rising lip ; his wrinkled forehead 
 Was bare and lockless ; the deep gathering brows 
 Mingled in one dark line ; and close beneath them 
 RoU'd a quick eye whose glance did seem to penetrate 
 The soul of him it dropt on. 
 
 Such the being 
 Who wander'd forth in gloominess — he was 
 One upon whom the credulous race around 
 Look'd with strange veneration, not withal 
 Affectionate ; but of that servile sort 
 In lowliest fear engender'd.
 
 8 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Few there were, 
 'Midst the young group frequenting rural wake 
 Or village fair, that, in their mood of mirth, 
 By word or wandering gesture, wouhl have ventur'd 
 To trifle with Old Wrue ! his air and tone 
 Dropt as a spell on all, and wither'd up 
 The wonted springs of gaiety ; the smile 
 Past in his presence from the liveliest cheek, 
 And the young jest died struggling : — every circle, 
 O'er which his dark unholy shadow moved. 
 Felt, in that joyless hour, a creeping gloom 
 Whose influence awed the giddiest : — he was held 
 As one of those on whom the hand of fate, 
 In some portentous moment, had imprest 
 A mystic mark — one singled from his kind. 
 In favour or in hatred, and invested 
 With powers that haply none may shun or seek. 
 
 They deem'd him a dark wizard, and the name 
 
 Was not an idle one, nor did it fall 
 
 In jesting mood upon him; for the aged, 
 
 Who trac'd him thro' his childhood and his youth—
 
 THK DOOM OF DERENZIE. 9 
 
 Who mark'd his steps in darkness and in light. 
 At home, and far beyond it, had avow'd 
 The strange unnatural truth, that sounds arose 
 Around him on his pathway — voices came — 
 Forms from invisible worlds were his companions; 
 And shapes, not knovvn on earth, kept ever near him — 
 And, in the wonders which his craft atchiev'd. 
 Did act but as his instruments. 
 
 Whether with him such powers were real or feign 'd. 
 He held with care the credit thus attain'd ; 
 Nor trust he plac'd, nor confidence in any, 
 Tho' follow'd, courted, and caress'd by many. 
 Nay ! he v»^as cautious — cautious to a fault — 
 No ear e'er heard one half of what he thought. 
 Seldom he spoke, and when he did 'twas then 
 Not in the common phrase of common men : 
 He bore to all he met and all he saw, 
 A chill reserve which held them still in awe. 
 With him no neighbour shar'd the friendly board, 
 Look'd on one smile, or caught one merry word ; 
 To him no friend expos'd the aching heart, 
 Keveal'd its pangs, or bade htm bear a part —
 
 10 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 On the wide world he mov'd almost alone, 
 Peace might be his — but joy remain'd unknown. 
 
 It was said, 
 That in one instance only, this dull mood 
 Of apathy seem'd broken — none could tell. 
 If in reflection or caprice, that change 
 Had its unseen creation. In the village, 
 Where he had worn his boyish days away, 
 A female child resided, who, in helplessness, 
 Seem'd doom'd to drag her way thro' this cold world. 
 Wanting a parent or a guide to whom 
 She might, in winning innocence, look up 
 For shelter or for succour. On the wizard 
 A claim she had — a claim that might have serv'd 
 Where natural ties have influence — but he 
 By such seem'd rarely mov'd — she was the daughter 
 Of a lost brother, whom, in early youth. 
 Even as his life, he lov'd, and tho' estrang'd 
 In after-times, still was his name most dear 
 From far-traced recollections. It so chanc'd 
 The old man's eye one evening mark'd the orphan. 
 While prattling 'midst her playmates, and, as touch'd
 
 THE nOOM OF DERENZIE. 11 
 
 With a wild feeling of instinctive tenderness, 
 He gaz'd upon her there, and vow'd in fervency, 
 ** That it would be a crime, of crimes the worst, 
 To let that blossom perish." — To his home 
 He carried her, and from the sun of summer, 
 The piercing winds of winter, the sad pangs 
 Of chill neglect, and the unreckon'd ills 
 That haunt the drooping steps of houseless poverty. 
 Through thrice five years he shelter'd her. 
 
 The girl grew up — and with a father's fondness 
 The old bewilder'd wizard seem'd to cherish her. 
 No object was there in this world around us. 
 Thro' craft, or skill, or wealth, to be acquired — 
 No chosen thing, which his scant means could compass. 
 That he would have denied her. Each frail ornament 
 That giddiness might prompt the maid to wish for ; 
 Each toy that fancy might create the want of; 
 Each bauble by mere vanity made needful ; 
 Seem'd her's — even undemanded. 
 
 As he gave. 
 Even did his mind grow gentler. Not to many
 
 12 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Would he, when lingering in his mood of gloominess. 
 Vouchsafe a winning word ; but if his Margaret, 
 In that dark hour approach'd him, a strange hue 
 Of brightness touch'd his features — if she paus'd, 
 Lean'd with an easy air across his knee. 
 Threw her light locks aside, gaz'd on his face. 
 And smil'd, and strok'dhis cheek, and gaily urg'd him 
 Even then, to utter things that none might talk of — 
 His look was half compliance. So she grew. 
 Bright, beautiful, and innocent before him; 
 Even as an angel stealing on his path, 
 And guiding him to comfort — she did seem 
 Form'd to revive within him each fond feeling — 
 To root the fiend of sadness from his bosom — 
 To soothe his wayward spirit — and to make him 
 Look with a milder and more kindly eye 
 Upon his weak and wandering fellow creatures. 
 
 The years wore fast away, and still she rose 
 In stature and in beauty ; the soft winds 
 Of twenty springs had wanton'd o'er her cheek. 
 And left its hue more lovely : in her shape
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 13 
 
 Was all the lightness of the fair young ozier, 
 With all its grace, and ease, and flexibility. 
 Her eye, when resting, had a cast of gentleness, 
 But, when in mirth it raov''d, in its gay glance. 
 Centred a liveliness thro' which the spirit 
 Beam'd in bewildering brightness. In one season 
 She bloom'd, but, ere another clos'd its course, 
 A chilling change came on, and fast she faded. 
 
 Oft did the old man mark her, and he thought 
 
 That her young eyelids shone as tlio' the tears 
 
 Hung heavily around them : — she, at times. 
 
 Did talk of sleepless nights and days of drowsiness ; 
 
 Of headaches, spasms, and other slight infirmities, 
 
 Or real or imagined — such as haunt 
 
 The waking dreams of maidens. Her attire 
 
 Spoke carelessness, her voice was low and broken, 
 
 And in her motion and her mien there dwelt 
 
 Dejection ; — soon a plainer symptom came, 
 
 Her shape seem'd alter'd, and at length in bitterness 
 
 She broke the fearful secret : — In an hour 
 
 Of fond and credulous softness she had hearken'd
 
 14 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 To a deceiver whom she would not name ; 
 Believ'd his promise, yielded to his wishes, 
 Resign'd her virgin innocence, and dropp'd, 
 From her bright state of loveliness and puritjs 
 Amid the most abandon'd. 
 
 Who shall tell 
 Or think what Wrue experienc'd as he learn'd 
 The story of her ruin ? — Through his frame 
 There ran a sudden chillness — his aged head 
 Grew giddy — in their sockets his dim eyes 
 Turn'd wildly — and upon his lips appear'd 
 A strange foul tinge of blackness. On that evening 
 A burning fever seiz'd him, and he lay 
 In wild and lonely misery ; — so went by 
 With him ten long sad days, and on the last, 
 When reason came again, and he could bear 
 The light that shone around, he turn'd and call'd 
 Upon his Margaret - thrice he call'd — she came not — 
 Nor from that gloomy morn did his sad eye 
 Ever behold the maiden. 
 
 His strength return'd — he breatli'd the air once more,
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 15 
 
 And saw the sun, and moon, and view'd the stars — 
 He gaz'd upon the wide inanimate world, 
 And bless'd the maker of it — but he mingled 
 Not with the sons of men, save in the moment 
 Of grief, to mock their mourning, or anon 
 With dexterous imposition to delude them. 
 
 And still, to dupe the undiscerning crowd. 
 
 That round his path in trembling reverence bow'd 
 
 To catch conceit, or lull credulity. 
 
 Full many a smooth and specious turn had he — 
 
 In truth, he knew, or seem'd to know, a part 
 
 Of every strange and every occult art — 
 
 He fixt the garter, framed its folds with skill. 
 
 Or taught the sieve to vary at his will ; 
 
 He form'd the rings from the witch-hazel spray. 
 
 To guard the churns upon the morn of May ; 
 
 Orclos'd the key within the blessed book. 
 
 And from its motion there his omen took : 2 
 
 Palsy's he ventur'd with a prayer to quell. 
 
 And Agues vanish'd as his accents fell : 
 
 Sores that he touch'd, all cleans'd and hale became. 
 
 For this proud gift the seventh son can claim. ■5
 
 16 THE DOOM OF DERENZIK. 
 
 He knew by name each herb and plant and flower. 
 And told, with ease, their good or evil power, 
 From the tall hemlock, rising in its pride, 
 To the green sorrell on the streamlets side ; 
 From the rough foxglove on the rocky height, 
 (Beneath whose leaves the fairies rest at night)* 
 To the dread nightshade, that before the vicAv 
 Spreads out its stalks of deep and deadly hue. 
 For these, at midnight, he was known to roam 
 O'er the bleak cliffs that rose about his home. 
 Culling with care each branch that lay around. 
 And muttering words that awed even by the sound. 
 
 Wheree'er the doctors' long prescriptions fail'd 
 
 He tried his power, and oft by chance prevailed ; 
 
 Not that new skill he to the case could bring, 
 
 But lucky turns are sometimes half the thing. 
 
 By prayers or simples still he worked each cure — 
 
 Such are the favorite nostrums of the poor — 
 
 But if, yet baffling all the modes he tried, 
 
 In evil hour his wearied patient died, 
 
 Altho' on him the blame perchance might fall, 
 
 Remorse or grief he rarely own'd at all;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 17 
 
 Upon some other soon he fixt the fault, 
 Some blunder crost the charms by which he wrought : 
 Facts might seem odd, suspicions might be strong ; 
 But Wrue, the seer, was never in the wrong. 
 
 Such was his way, and yet, in sooth, 
 
 Of his strange gifts much more was told ; 
 Not in the cold and careless tone, 
 Of unbelieving ones alone ; 
 Not with the air of those who doubt 
 The wonder which they speak about ; 
 Not by the gay and giddy youth. 
 
 But, by grey dames and grandsires old. 
 'Twas said, that on his mental sight 
 
 There broke, at times, a fitful gleam, 
 A wild rich ray of mystic light. 
 
 Coming in reverie, or in dream ; 
 And he, so favor'd, then could see 
 Whate'er had been, or was to be ; — 
 The good far off, the trouble near. 
 With all that move, or hope, or fear ; 
 
 c
 
 18 THE DOOM OF. DERENZlE. 
 
 The work of guilt not yet begun, 
 Or the fair deed not wholly done ; 
 The whisper'd circumstance that lay 
 
 In darkness with some long-lov'd name ; 
 The tale of times past far away, 
 
 Whose memory brought but grief or shame. 
 Yea ! even the treasur'd thoughts that twin'd 
 
 In chosen stillness round the heart ; 
 AVhat pride propos'd, or craft design'd. 
 His penetrating glance divia'd — 
 
 So wondrous was the wizard's art. 
 
 Whether these mystic powers were given. 
 By unseen aid, from Hell or Heaven ; 
 Whether this knowledge chanc'd to flow 
 From the forms above, or the fiends below, 
 Pew dar'd to ask, or sought to know; 
 It was enough that the story found 
 Full credence from the crowd around ; 
 And, where most startling seem'd the tale, 
 Most willingly did belief prevail ;
 
 THE DOOM OF UERENZIE. 19 
 
 And, where one word of doubt might fall. 
 Those who knew nothing could vouch for all. 
 So Wrue, as a prophet, and seer of skill, 
 Past forth on his way unquestion'd still. 
 
 He had been us'd, even when a child, 
 
 To range the fens and the forests wide ; 
 To search the cliffs and the caverns wild. 
 
 As freak or as fancy chanc'd to guide. 
 Even at this early age, alone. 
 He had clirab'd o'er the woody heights of Clone ; 
 Or walk'd, at the twilight hour, unseen 
 Through Crory's copses, all close and green. 
 
 He had lov'd, in loitering mood, to tread 
 O'er Curragmah's front of pride ; 
 
 Or on rugged Tara's rocky head. 
 Or Tubberneering's side.^ 
 
 The boy grew up, and he ceas'd to roam, 
 Or he learn'd to linger nearer home : 
 Not that he mov'd amid the throng 
 That gather'd at dance, or wake, or fair ; 
 c 2
 
 20 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 None heard his step, or prais'd his song. 
 
 Or listen'd to his story there — 
 Link'd to dull loneUness was he ; 
 
 And oft a sickly smile appear'd 
 On his wan cheek, as up Slieii Buoy ^ 
 
 At morning's dawn he steer'd ; 
 For, amidst that loneliest scenerj', 
 It was his task, for years, to keep 
 His father's scanty flock of sheep. 
 
 And it so chanc'd on one fair even — 
 
 It was about the autumn's close. 
 To all the air around seem'd given 
 A stillness, like the calm of Heaven, 
 
 A softness, leading to repose — 
 Beneath the brown heaths flowerless shade, 
 His languid limbs the tenant laid. 
 And slept— and, dreaming as he slept. 
 
 He thought, that thro' that calm clear air, 
 A cloud of fearful darkness crept. 
 
 And dropt, and broke about him there :
 
 THE DOOM OF/ DERENZIE. 21 
 
 And from that cloud, within his sight, 
 Forth came a ram ^ of snowy white ; 
 Forth did he move, and he seem'd to be 
 
 Unlike each creature of common kind, 
 Who range o'er heath, or hill, or lea, 
 
 Expos'd to sun, and rain, and wind : 
 His horns were glittering, green his eyes. 
 And all downy look'd his legs and thighs ; 
 His head was tapering, long, and small, 
 And his motion and air unearthly all: — 
 Forth went this wonder upon the height. 
 And he touch'd the ground with a foot so light, 
 That along his range he hardly threw. 
 From the grass, one drop of the evening dew : 
 Onward he went, and where he came. 
 
 Far from his path each straggler sprung ; 
 As tho' some plague of a deadly name. 
 
 Around him — o'er him^^on him hung ; 
 Far from his course, in fear they fled. 
 
 All, save one drooping little ewe. 
 
 That twice or thrice, when weak and young, 
 Had in some idle hour been fed. 
 
 And cherish'd by the hand of Wrue.
 
 22 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 She, as the other wanderers past, 
 Linger'd the longest and the last; 
 She, when the rest forsook the spot, 
 Ueraain'd, as if she mark'd them not ; 
 There did that lonely one remain. 
 
 And turn'd, and nearer yet she drew 
 To her strange guest, as tho' to gain. 
 
 Of one so sent, a stolen view. 
 Near him she came in fear, in play, 
 
 In trembling, or in sportive mood ; 
 Now back she shrunk, now crost his way. 
 
 As even half willing to be wooed. 
 
 Anon, more bold in blandishment. 
 Around him loiteringly she went ; 
 From path to path, from side to side. 
 Before or after him she hied ; 
 With him she trac'd the mountain's head. 
 Then down the steep the way she led ; 
 With him she sought the darken'd shade. 
 By the green fern's broad branches made ; 
 But be it past — that shade beneath. 
 On the bleak hill, or o'er the plain,
 
 THE DOOM OR DERENZIE. 23 
 
 Amid the rocks, or thro' the heath, 
 
 Alone, or with the bleating train — 
 With hira, that evening's calm decline. 
 She spent in amorous sport supine. 
 
 Up rose the dreaming one at last. 
 And darkness gather'd o'er him fast — 
 Up rose the dreamer, and far around 
 
 He look'd with eye intensely strain'd — 
 He look'd — but no shadow, or sign, or sound 
 
 Of his vision there reraain'd. 
 The flock lay quiet upon the hill, 
 
 Stretch'd, as of old, beneath his view; 
 And amid the others, unheeded still. 
 
 Rested the drooping little ewe. 
 And on that ewe he gaz'd in care, 
 Rut there was no change to strike him there — 
 He gaz'd on her by the glimmering light. 
 And her fleece as ever seem'd smooth and white ; 
 Her light limbs look'd as untir'd now 
 
 As ihey had been, at the dawn of day,
 
 24 THE DOOM OF BERF.NZIE, 
 
 When, free upon that heathy brow. 
 He had turn'd her forth to plaj'. 
 
 She did not stop, or seek to roam. 
 
 Beyond the wonted way of home ; 
 
 She started not, nor stray'd aside, 
 As slowly down the pathless steep. 
 
 Before her dull and drowsy guide. 
 She wander'd with the other sheep. 
 
 That evening past — the next was gone. 
 And such had Wrue ne'er look'd upon ; 
 They past away, a week, nay more. 
 But all unlike the week before — 
 At least, to the youth's eye, they wore 
 An air of gloom — a sort of hue, 
 That he, in other days, ne'er knew. 
 He had not now that tone of thought. 
 
 If thought it might be caii'd, which still 
 Partook of ail that fortune brought. 
 
 Alike unmov'd, in good or ill ; 
 That waveless, stirless state of mind, 
 Unraark'd, unbroken^ and undefin'd ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 20 
 
 That trance of apathy so chill ; 
 
 That lengthen'd day-dream in glooui had past, 
 For the dreary vision of the hill, 
 
 Hung heavy on him to the last. 
 Heavy it hung his heart about, 
 
 Even as some dark and secret sin. 
 Shedding a gloom upon all without, 
 
 And fixing guilt on all within. 
 And still he droop'd from day to day, 
 And he could not shake the fiend away ; 
 Still did he droop, tho' not an ear 
 Had chanc'd his mystic dream to hear, 
 Until, at length, a pilgrim old. 
 One of whom pious tales were told, 
 One evening, wearied on his way, 
 
 Turn'd for freeboard, and bed to call. 
 And, happening near the youth to stay, 
 
 He mark'd some word that chanc'd to fall. 
 Light was the word, but as it past. 
 
 It caught the old man's ear withal ; 
 Upon the boy a glance he cast, 
 And tried, and trac'd him to the last;
 
 26 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 And ere that lingering eve was o'er, 
 He heard — what none had heard before. 
 
 He paus'd — that pilgrim grey and old. 
 
 At this dark tale of doubt profound — 
 He paus'd — and bade the stripling hold 
 The secret, close as gather'd gold. 
 
 From father, friends, and all around. 
 Brief were his words — he bade him view. 
 At morning's dawn, that little ewe; 
 And thro' the coming days to keep 
 The favorite from the other sheep ; 
 And in the fold to form a spot 
 For her, where restless ones were not ; 
 And when the yeaning season came, 
 
 Then — then, to watch with added care, 
 And shield her slight and sickly frame. 
 
 From the damp dew and chilly air. 
 And, when her hour at last came round, 
 Evfin, as her young first touch'd the ground, 
 Ere the rich milk, that birth supplied. 
 Had reach'd one earthly lip beside,
 
 THE DOOM OE DERENZIE. 27 
 
 To fill a goblet to the brim, 
 
 And bring the earliest dranght to him. 
 
 That pilgrim past — yet wander'd there 
 
 As the mild season wore away : 
 He past — he came — and watch'd with care 
 
 The lingering long-expected day ; 
 And as the day did come around, 
 He was not on the chosen ground ; 
 He did not seek that shelter'd spot — 
 Or, if he sought it, seem'd forgot. 
 The hour had past, and that fair ewe 
 
 Had left the goblet flowing o'er ; 
 It flow'd — it reach'd the lips of Wrue ; 
 
 He drank, and peace was his no more ; 
 For, from that hour, strange visions came, 
 And shapes that had no earthly name ; 
 And starts of glimmering light were given, 
 Too dim — too wild to be of Heaven — 
 And, from that day, 'twas seen by all, 
 He slumn'd the church's annual call ;
 
 28 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 He shunn'd her rites, and rarely M'ent 
 To solemn mass, or sacrament. 
 
 And such was he, who, at this dim hour, 
 Went forth by Ferns's tottering tower; 
 Such was the strange one, who stalk'd on 
 
 Beneath its black and broken wall. 
 Like some grim guest of the times long gone. 
 
 Who came to wait, and weep its fall ; 
 Or, as one of the old baronial train. 
 
 Whom the yawning earth had upwards cast;, 
 As if to yield to the world again, 
 
 One gloomy image of the past.
 
 THE 
 
 DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 Where pleasure flies the grasping hand, 
 And hope builds palaces on shifting sand. 
 
 BiDLAKE.
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 And, tho' the holy stillness of that spot 
 Might suit his musings, there he loiter'd not ; 
 Down from the place, with sluggish pace, he stroll'd. 
 To where the Bann's ^ slow winding waters roll'd; 
 Onward he went — he heeded not the roar 
 Of the white wave, that burst upon the shore ; 
 Onward he stray'd^he notic'd not the cry 
 Of the dark screech owl, as it pass'd him by. 
 The distant watch-dog, startled by some sound, 
 Howl'd, and his howl rang hollowly around ; 
 And the wily fox was hurrying home to rest, 
 And the lean weasel crept from out his nest ; 
 From his dim hole the marten vcntur'd near. 
 And the broad bat went whizzing by his ear ; 
 Of these, quite heedless, he remark'd them not, 
 All, save one object, then did seem forgot.
 
 32 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 The stream he left — he paus'd upon his way, 
 Then turn'd, and crost a marsh that near him lay ; 
 O'er field and fence, half listlessly he trod, 
 And now he stands on Crory's ^ sainted sod. 
 Full in his view the sacred spring appear'd. 
 That spring, for years frequented, and rever'd, 
 Whose waters once, as some will tell the tale, 
 O'er blindness, lameness, deafnfess, could prevail. 
 Till impious hands, in dark and evil day, 
 Profan'd the place, and drove the charm away. 
 
 Farther he rang'd, and on a mossy spot 
 Of ground, where fell the moonbeams gayest glare, 
 Stood a dark heap of walls, all burn'd and bare, 
 
 A mournful wreck — the remnant of a cot 
 That once look'd beautiful in rural pride. 
 Smiling upon the hillocks rich green side. 
 Ere the wild tribe of Whiteboys wander'd there. — 
 , But what avail'd it that it was so fair ? 
 
 Or what its owner's virtues to unfold ? 
 Even Wrue himself could Wilson's worth declare, 
 
 Tho' on the Sassenach the seer look'd cold.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 33 
 
 But worth was useless — Wilson did not hold 
 Full fellowship with those who lov'd the gloom ; 
 He took no oaths, no grievances he told, 
 He spoke his mind, he check'd the bad and bold — 
 And this, in evil hour, confinn'd his doom. 
 
 Fearful and gloonny was the night when near 
 
 That quiet cottage came the heartless crew; 
 When their wild cry burst on the victim's ear. 
 
 That cry which many a startled sufterer knew ; 
 When the thick death-shot swept the dwelling through. 
 
 And, o'er the roof, sprung wide the wasting flame ; 
 And foes, all arm'd, to close each passage, flew. 
 
 Who, in that hour, would wish for Wilson's name 
 Of husband, or of father ? — the mere thought 
 Of torture, such as his, thus overwrought, 
 Might move even friends to pity, or to spare — 
 But pity was not known amid the murderers there. 
 
 Dark looks the ruin, and that dull wall 
 Gloomily echoes the idler's tread ; 
 
 D
 
 ii4 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 It is seen in grief, but can grief recal 
 
 The soul that eiiliven'd the dead ? 
 Or, the pitying glance that around is cast, 
 Revive the joyous spirit that's past? 
 
 Old Wrue stood still, and he saw at a view 
 
 What the poison'd spirit of strife can do ; 
 
 He look'd to the hearth, where the blaze once shown, 
 
 'Twas trac'd by the tinge of the smoke alone : 
 
 And the chasm in the wall, where each window stood. 
 
 Had no mark of glass, and no relic of wood ; 
 
 And the spot where the picture hung in the frame. 
 
 Had no sign, but the sign of the scorching flame. 
 
 There the hemlock stood, in unholy pride, 
 And scatter'd its ominous roots around ; 
 
 And the nettle grew wide, from side to side, 
 And the nightshade tainted the ground ; 
 And, near them, the goosegrass strove to crawl 
 About the dark and deserted wall. 
 Beneath, in a narrow and noisome nest. 
 Had the wild cat gone to her broken rest ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 35 
 
 And above, in a briar entangled seat, 
 
 The grey owl sought for a safe retreat : 
 
 And, the seer still gaz'd, and he knew the scene, 
 
 Where youth, and beauty, and mirtli, had been : 
 
 The place, in another, might prompt a sigh ; 
 
 But he coldly turn'd and past it by. 
 
 Slowly he past, and on a gentle height, 
 That rose at hand, a farm house stood in sight: 
 He reach'd the place, close silence spread around. 
 Sleep reign'd within, and chain'd each wandering sound . 
 No smoky wreath about the housetop spread. 
 The hearth was clear'd, and all its guests had fled ; 
 No glimmering light from slit, or window, shone, 
 Even the last straggler to her rest had gone — 
 And all without was soft, and still, and fair, 
 And the moon's light repos'd in beauty there : 
 Wide o'er the spot she shed her silv'ry beam. 
 And all look'd gay and glorious as a dream. 
 
 Neat seem'd the dwelling, simple was its form. 
 And slight, tho' braving many a wintry storm ; 
 
 D 2
 
 30 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Two tall old chininies, seen far off the road, 
 Rose from the centre of the plain abode ; 
 Houseleeks and moss the roof extended o'er. 
 And three thick layers of well-work'd thatch it bore. 
 Beneath the eave the sparrows haunts were found, 
 Whence one long twitter mark'd the night around ; 
 The whitewashed walls scarce even a speck besmear'd, 
 And clear, and dry, the ample bawn appear'd. 
 
 A range of bushes clos'd the space behind, 
 And broke the force of the chill northern wind : 
 Before the door a row of elms were seen. 
 And the broad fir wav'd solemnly between ; 
 While the green sycamore, erect and tall. 
 Spread its wide leaves in pride high o'er them all. 
 
 About that house, all seem'd so well applied. 
 Such marks of neatness rose on every side. 
 That he who past might, at a glance, declare, 
 The man not needy who resided there. 
 
 And the wizard the yielding gate unbarr'd. 
 And he slowly stalk'd thro' the open yard;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 37> 
 
 And tho' the house-dog, from his seat, 
 Sprung with wild yell across his feet — 
 He started not — no fear was shewn — 
 
 He trod, even as he had trod before ; 
 And his foot was upon a heavy stone. 
 
 That stretch'd beneath the door. 
 And o'er that stone the old man went. 
 And he lifted the staff on which he leant; 
 And hard against the door he drove 
 
 That hazel staff with might and main. 
 He struck it thrice — and, as he struck. 
 The threshold, far beneath him, shook ; 
 And the old moss-covered roof above. 
 
 Did echo back the sound again; 
 And, thrice in a voice, full, deep, and clear, 
 A slow and solemn call he gave ; 
 
 And, at that hour so late, so lone. 
 
 That warning voice, with its hollow tone. 
 Might seem, to a superstitious ear, 
 To come even from the grave : 
 
 " Arise, Derenzie ! 
 Arise ! for slowly to thy gate the wandering one
 
 38 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Hath turn'd his steps — he comes, and few shall be 
 His days of joy before thee." 
 
 One within 
 Startled, perchance 'midst some gay dream of gladness, 
 Mutter'd a deep curse on him — but this curse 
 The Wizard heard not ; from the door he turn'd, 
 Clos'd the gate after him, and down the road 
 He went, and none knew whither. 
 
 Bright came the ensuing morn ; the balmy air 
 Glow'd with the sun's first warmth ; the gay green 
 
 fields 
 Had lost their dewy splendour, and the streams. 
 Winding thro' woody vale, or glen remote, 
 Sent up their gather'd incense to the skies 
 In gentlest exhalations. From his roof. 
 As he was wont, Dercnzie mov'd to trace 
 His farm's wide boundaries, and to breathe the gale 
 That on its azure path, invisible, 
 Scatter'd health, life, and cheerfulness. 
 At this still hour, towards his gate, he saw 
 A traveller bending — one, whose faltering step
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 99 
 
 Did indicate fatigue. The dress he wore 
 
 Was smooth; and yet, amid the dust which shaded it, 
 
 It did seem hard, in certainty, to fix 
 
 Its colour, or its texture. Nearer still 
 
 He came, and on his features, with a stare 
 
 Of silent and bewilder'd stupefaction, 
 
 The old man gaz'd. " This is no dream !'' said he ; 
 
 ** Mine eyes deceive me not — it is himself I 
 
 Now, may my end be peaceful — I have seen 
 
 My child ! my long lost one." 
 
 " Aye !" said the traveller, 
 " After my years of wandering, I have turn'd 
 To seek this roof again ; and, father, say, 
 If welcome waits me ?" — " Welcome!" answered he. 
 Raising his hands, and throwing them in transport 
 Around the other's neck, while down his cheek 
 The joy-born tear descended ; " Welcome, surely ! 
 Oh ! yes, believe me, while this dwelling here 
 Is mine, of all within it and about it, 
 Thou sbalt partake most freely — who, indeed. 
 Should share that favour sooner ?"
 
 40 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Thus he spake, 
 Then turn'd, and, at his own warm hearth, again 
 He left the wayworn wanderer. There, anon. 
 Upon the wide spread board, before him lay 
 The cheering- rural viands, and the garb 
 Needed for change, or coohiess. 
 
 And now three days and nights were o'er, 
 Since under that warm roof he lay. 
 
 And thrice three days their light had lent, 
 
 And each that pass'd so calmly went, 
 
 That, in some brighter moments, he 
 
 Felt all his by-gone gaiety ; 
 And seem'd to loose each darkenning thought 
 
 Of the sad troubles that he bore ; 
 
 When from a stranger soil he sought, 
 Thro' scenes of danger and dismay. 
 To take for home his weary way. 
 
 Sweet now seem'd home, and to his hearth 
 Did many a loitering one repair ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 41 
 
 Strange seeni'd the things then told and heard, 
 And many a. jest, or careless word, 
 Rous'd the free laugh of easy mirth 
 
 In liveliness around him there. 
 At dusk, still near him, came the throng, 
 And gaily went the hours along, 
 Lighten'd by story, or by song ; 
 And all who came were sure to trace 
 Strange changes in his form and face : 
 
 For still, in simplest mood, they thought 
 That he, who far away did roam, 
 
 la his long wanderings must have caught 
 
 An alter'd hue — a foreign air, 
 
 A cast of features, not the share 
 Of the dull crowd who toil'd at home. 
 
 Still, to the friends he lov'd of old, 
 The youth a ready smile had shewn ; 
 
 But he did seem restrain'd and cold 
 With idly-curious ones alone. 
 
 On such, whatever rose or past, 
 
 A quiet careless glance he cast;
 
 42 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 And, tho' they sat, with anxious ear, 
 The tales of other realms to hear, 
 Vainly they linger'd on the spot, 
 Their wish the wanderer heeded not : 
 Wildly they long'd to hear him tell 
 Of things that in strange lands befel ; 
 For they, by chance, or craft, had found 
 That he had trac'd a wearying round 
 O'er climes that lie beyond the sea. 
 Fair France, and Flanders, and Germany. 
 
 And it was most perilous to steer 
 
 Far thro' them, in these troubled times, 
 For there had a wild and wanton race 
 Past on, like a plague, from place to place, 
 I Leaving behind them, far and near. 
 
 The damning record of their crimes. 
 And strange would seem the chance which led, 
 
 A traveller to their borders then ; 
 For they, who home in safety sped, 
 Talk'd of the roads, as overspread. 
 
 With the forms of dying and lifeless men.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 43 
 
 Sad were the tales such stragglers brought, 
 
 And many a bitter tear they drew ; 
 For many a pitying hearer thought. 
 
 Each saddening narrative too true. 
 Too true they were, for France, thy pride. 
 To many a spot, such tales supplied. 
 
 'Twas said the old might talk in dread 
 
 Of things that past where Cromwell led ; 
 
 Or, with a thrill of horror run, 
 
 O'er the wild wreck of forty-one ; 
 
 Or, sadly trace each ruin'd scene. 
 
 Where William's heartless horde had been ; i ° 
 
 But were they on the banks of Po, 
 
 Or, by the Rhine's far-stretching shore, 
 
 There might they learn such tales of woe, 
 As had not reach'd their ears before : 
 There might they gaze on such sights of pain, 
 As never on earth should be seen again. 
 
 There, in one wasted tract, was shewn 
 Deep death-like solitude, alone.
 
 44 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 From the fields the scatter'd flocks were led ; 
 From their huts, far, far, the owners fled ; 
 The sheltering fence away was torn, 
 And free to the spoiler stood the corn ; 
 The plough was deep in the furrow laid. 
 And fast in the ridge remain'd the spade. 
 The weeds, wild, profitless, and rank, 
 
 Far over the garden walks were growing ; 
 And, wide in waste, thro' its sedgy bank, 
 The mill's neglected stream was flowing. 
 The well-plied oar was in use no more. 
 The boat was a wreck on the stilly shore : 
 Dreary and sad seem'd the village green — 
 
 There rang'd, as of old, no gay ones there— 
 And no living form, or face was seen 
 In the holy house of prayer ; — 
 O'er all, and each, seem'd darkly spread. 
 The withering stillness of the dead. 
 
 To those perchance, who had rang'd the road. 
 Dull look'd this scene of deep repose;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 45 
 
 But, oh ! such scenes with beauty glow'd, 
 When the thought did come of each fearful sight, 
 That thro' the lengthen'd day and night, 
 
 In the far off vales arose. 
 There was a time when these vales were bright. 
 When they softly smil'd in the morning's light, 
 When the trees grew green, and the summer's sun 
 Did beautify what he beam'd u[ion. 
 Oh ! who, that saw them in that fair hour. 
 When no cloud of sorrow was known to lower; 
 
 When joy kept there her long, long noon — 
 Oh ! who, that had chanc'd to see them then, 
 Could deem that men — as the foes of men, 
 In the wild wantonness of power. 
 
 Could change the scene so soon ? — 
 Sad was the change ! — the spoiler came. 
 And the slaughtering sword, and the scorching 
 
 flame, 
 Gleam'd far around him ; and deep dismay. 
 And death, clos'd fast on his ominous way ! 
 
 In evil hour he came — he past ; 
 And, far behind, his mark was seen,
 
 46 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 The huts burn'd down — the gardens bare. 
 The dead expos'd in the open ah-, 
 And tainting even the blast — 
 And wretched suft'erers, rais'd at last, 
 Who sought in phrenzied tone to tell. 
 How friend, or father, near them fell. 
 
 And what their own vile lot had been. 
 So fearful seem'd each story of wrong, 
 That many, in doubt, still went along ; 
 Or look'd to the skies, and the bright orbs there. 
 And ask'd if with men, or with fiends, they were. 
 
 War was the game, and wide and far 
 'Twas war, and nothing but wasting war ; 
 And seasons came and went, and still 
 Brought but new scenes of deadlier ill — 
 These, in their course, might come and go, 
 But tears must fall, and blood must flow, 
 Man went, unchang'd, thro' his work of woe. 
 
 And much the wanderer might have said 
 Of all that past in these lands afar ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 47 
 
 For still his way thro' danger led. 
 
 And often did his eye behold 
 
 Such dark deeds wrought as, if plainly told. 
 Would strike the shuddering heart with dread, 
 
 Bid the indignant blood run cold, 
 
 And make one loathe the thought of war. 
 Thro' choice, or chance, he had often trod 
 Where red and slippery seem'd the sod ; 
 Where, yet half-warm, around him spread 
 The reeking remnants of the dead. 
 At the dusk of eve, when the strife was done. 
 
 When the slayers task was o'er ; 
 
 When the bayonets jar, and the clash of sword, 
 A nd the stunning sound of the gloomy gun, 
 
 That thro' the far-spread battle roar'd, 
 
 Came on the ear no more ; 
 When the musquets scattering fire had past. 
 And the bugle blew its latest blast; 
 When the drum sent forth its parting peal, 
 And gone was the rush of the heavy wheel ; 
 He had walk'd such scenes, at twilight dim, 
 Thro' thousands — and none breath'd l)ut him —
 
 48 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 He had stood all lonely upon the plain 
 
 Where, beneath his foot, unburied lay. 
 Lost to that cause each lov'd in vain, 
 
 The mangled victims of the day. 
 And he often thought, as in grief he stood. 
 Amidst that dark wild waste of blood. 
 How little did it boot the train. 
 
 Whom death and night thus fell upon. 
 That there one tyrant clos'd his reign, 
 Or, that some other's was begun ? 
 What then to them who lost or won, 
 Who shrunk in shame, or went on in pride ?- 
 Their little all of life they gave ; 
 They claim'd — but got not yet a grave : 
 In the damp dews of even they slept 
 Unnam'd — unheeded — and unwept — 
 Even by that weak and worthless one 
 For whom they battled, and bled, and died. 
 Their worth was o'er, their hour gone by, 
 Their place— fresh ideots would supply. 
 
 Such things the wanderer might have told, 
 At his own gay heartli, to young and old ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 49 
 
 Such sights he met — for we well may deem 
 
 That such were open there to all — 
 A fearful treat — but, it would seem, 
 
 That yet he lov'd not to recall 
 Their memory ; for, when talk arose 
 Of war with all its train of woes — 
 When aged ones spoke, or hoarsely sung 
 Of heroes — famed, when they were yo\mg — 
 Who led the soldiers of their time 
 Thro' scenes where courage blends with crime — 
 The wanderer turn'd his head away, 
 Nor car'd what such might sing or say ; 
 Their tales but serv'd to rouse a train 
 Of thoughts that seem'd to bring him pain. 
 He had been seen, as some could tell. 
 In hard-fought fields, where thousands fell ; 
 But none from him had learn'd or heard 
 Of such, one short descriptive word : 
 All topics came — he seem'd to shun 
 This only as the dreaded one, 
 He would not, must not, dwell upon ; 
 
 E
 
 50 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 \ 
 
 Or teaz'd, or question'd, still did he 
 Answer to each evasively. 
 
 Yet, was there one, amidst the neighbouring train. 
 With whom evasion, even if sought, were vain ; 
 One, before whom the workings of his heart 
 Lay open, even to the tenderest part ; 
 One, in whose presence, gloominess, and pride, 
 And care, and cold reserve, were thrown aside ; 
 One, from whose mild, but penetrating eye. 
 He could hide nothing, tho' he scarce knew why. 
 
 Who was this wizard that, with keen control. 
 Thus search'd thro' all the secrets of his soul ? 
 Was it some monitor, who, from his youth, 
 Had form'd his mind to firmness and to truth ? 
 Was it a confessor, whose word was law. 
 Whose very voice instill'd religious awe ? 
 Or, a dark-gifted one, who, like old Wrue, 
 Dealt deep in spells known only to a few ? 
 No ! 'twas a maid, by Slaney's winding water. 
 The lovely Agnes Vere, a curate's orphan daughter.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 51 
 
 The wanderer lov'd her — nor in vain — 
 
 He droop'd nol — pin'd not unrequited; 
 For his vows were echo'd back again, 
 
 With a faith as pure as the faith he plighted. 
 They lov'd — and theirs was not that love 
 
 Which changeth as the springs wild weather ; 
 The tie which grew between the two, 
 Was one that might seem seal'd above, 
 
 For time had link'd their hearts together. 
 'Twas not the spark all lightly known. 
 By fancy nurs'd, or random blown ; 
 Not the slight touch of transient dye. 
 Resting on nothing past the eye ; 
 'Twas not the flame of faltering power, 
 Hais'd, and extinguish'd, in the hour — 
 It seem'd the choice, in childhood form'd, 
 
 The light of youth's fond fickle season ; 
 The wish, by tenderest friendship warni'd, 
 
 The passion, purified by reason. 
 
 'Tis deem'd by some, who closely scan 
 The secret springs of life below ; 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Who trace what's thought, or told of man, 
 
 In all his turns of joy or woe ; 
 That, from the hour which sees his birth. 
 
 That partner, doom'd his lot to share, 
 Moves, tho' unborn, about our earth. 
 
 And mingles with his spirit there. 
 Or, if embodied — though away. 
 
 Far even as sea from sky can be, 
 Feels all his passions as they play 
 
 With quick uuchang'd intensity ; 
 Finds, by some link which eludes the sight. 
 His starts of darkness, or of light ; 
 Or learns, by some connecting chain. 
 All that hath given him joy or pain. 
 To bards, in high and hallow'd dream, 
 Bright shall this blest communion seem ; 
 
 And beautiful, when fancy's ray 
 Hath sanctified it— altho' few. 
 
 Of those who toil tliro' life's low way. 
 Will feel with bards, or even deem 
 
 Their tales of mystic union true. 
 If false — why be such tfiles again 
 Sent to their framer's feverish brain ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 53 
 
 Or left to find, 'twixt earth and Heaven, 
 That space to unborn systems given ! — 
 But, true or false, as such may be, 
 
 These lovers to the thought gave way ; 
 They hail'd the spirit's sympathy; 
 And, erringly, perchance, did own, 
 
 That even from childhod's earliest day. 
 
 One for tha other liv'd alone. 
 
 ******* 
 
 In sooth, as rustic stories ran. 
 Their love almost with life began. 
 'Twas said, that as their lispings came, 
 The ears of some around could frame, 
 From the rude sounds, the chosen name. 
 That when alone they dar'd to tread, 
 One went wheree'er the other led ; 
 In spring, when every bank was gay. 
 
 With the primrose buds, and the blue-bells fair, 
 Amid the clustering flowers they lay. 
 Thro' the surmy hours of many a day. 
 
 Gathering their little nosegays there.
 
 54 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 lu summer in the dark green wood ; 
 
 In autumn deep in the ripening corn : 
 
 At dusk, or at dawn — at eve, or at morn — ■ 
 Still fondly, side Ky side, they stood. 
 And even when winter's withering breath 
 Pour'd o'er the naked hill or heath ; 
 When the slow penetrating blast 
 Far thro' the leafless brambles past ; 
 When the chill sleet, or the heavy rain, 
 
 Fell thick upon the moisten'd ground, 
 Struck the thin herbage on the plain. 
 
 And scatter'd. dreariness around — 
 Even then, tho' bounded in their range. 
 They found, or felt scarce aught of change ; 
 The joys, young hearts like theirs might frame, 
 As time wore on, still seem'd the same. 
 
 And thus, thro' life's gay dawn they went 
 Lovely, and lov'd, and innocent. 
 And still each morri, that came and pass'd. 
 To them seem'd fairer than the last ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 55 
 
 For they were happy, and they felt 
 
 Pleas'd with the world in which they dwelt. 
 
 Still, with his blooming one, the boy 
 
 Play'd round her mother's plain abode; 
 Or, took his sunny walks of joy. 
 
 Thro' the wild wood, or o'er the road. 
 And many an aged man, that pass'd, 
 
 Gaz'd on the little truants there ; 
 
 And, as he went, pour'd forth a prayer, 
 Wishing, that favouring Heaven, at last. 
 
 Would join the beauteous pair. 
 Oh ! love, so simple and so bright. 
 Hath such a charm to cheer the sight. 
 That even a cherub, thron'd in light. 
 Might let one glance of meekness fall — 
 
 One calm kind glance from censure free — 
 
 And say, as such he chanc'd to see, 
 That the earth's weak ones had not all 
 
 Lost their primeval purity. 
 
 Years wore away — together yet they spent 
 Their leisure time, as in the days that went.
 
 66 THE DOOM OF DERENZIK. 
 
 Still, as the lingering holiday came round, 
 
 Beside his Agnes was the stripling found; 
 
 Whate'er the change, from morning until night. 
 
 He kept the cherish'd object in his sight. 
 
 If thro' the fields this hour she chose to steer, 
 
 Even, as her shadow, was he lingering near; 
 
 If o'er her work within she wish'd to stay. 
 
 Some book he brought, that there beguil'd the day ; 
 
 If in the grove, or thro' the wood, she stray'd 
 
 He found, or feigii'd, strange freshness in the shade : 
 
 The hills, the glens, the very rocks were fair. 
 
 Each spot was bright if — Agnes wander'd there. 
 
 He deem'd — but so, perchance, all lovers err — 
 That earth's wide bosom bore nought like to her ; 
 That each slight trait, that mark'd her air and mien, 
 Possest some charm in others rarely seen : 
 Her calmest movement had some nameless grace, 
 And a plain blush was witchcraft on her face ; 
 The gentlest motion of her lips beguil'd, 
 But, it was Heaven ! to see her as she smil'd.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 5? 
 
 So fancied he — nor did the maiden's eye 
 View him less fondly than in years gone by ; 
 Grown up her lips renew'd each earlier vow, 
 And what was passion once seem'd prudence now : 
 His form, his taste, his temper, she survey'd, 
 And bless'd the choice her infancy had made. — 
 So felt the pair, so seem'd they form'd by fate 
 To cheer each other thro' the wedded state ; 
 But, far before, their path thro' darkness lay. 
 And clouds, and cares, grew heavy on their way. 
 
 From old Derenzie's lips the word first fell, 
 Which, like a perishing breeze from the cold north 
 Breath'd on the spring's first flowret's, wither'd up 
 Each goodly bud of promise. He had long 
 Conniv'd at their fond intercourse, and deemed 
 That theirs was like those lightly-form'd attachments, 
 In youth so often witness'd, that expire 
 With time or circumstances. — He did hope 
 That, even as his son arose to manhood. 
 His ear would bend to prudence ; and his eye. 
 Thus briefly led astray, be taught to look
 
 58 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 tJpon an object of more lasting use 
 
 Than perishable beauty ; for, of dower, 
 
 — Save this, and a high miud, and gentle heart — 
 
 Small share had Agnes. 
 
 Hence the old man let 
 The soft insidious passion take root, 
 And, in its votaries bosoms, gather strength, 
 Even from a long continuance. But, anon. 
 The lingering moment of reflection came; 
 He turn'd and paus'd, and look'd upon the years, 
 So long departed, and he saw the lover. 
 As with the fervour of a new-born feeling, 
 Still cherishing his day-dream. In that hour 
 His mood was deeply alter'd, and his tone, 
 That erst was calm, and cheerful, and endearing, 
 Savour'd of fearful harshness : he enjoin'd him 
 To woo a different maiden, or to turn 
 And seek some other home. Upon the last 
 The tortur'd stripling fixt, even in the moment 
 That gave the dark alternative. He wept 
 As, with an overburthen'd heart, he left 
 The scenery of his childhood, and the roof
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. &9 
 
 Beneath whose warm and friendly shade he grew 
 From infancy to manhood. It was pass'd — 
 His journey lay far from them, and his steps 
 Were bent in sadness to the land of strangers. 
 
 He had return'd — and now, for many days, 
 Beneath that old wide hospitable roof. 
 He rested in mere listlessness, — partaking, 
 In turns, the kind solicitude of all. 
 
 All met him there in kindness — the dim eye 
 Of each grey inmate turn'd its welcoming glance 
 Upon his features, and the joy-born moisture 
 Spread o'er the cheek all wrinkled ; — the full heart 
 Struggled in secret, for of words they lack'd. 
 To picture forth their feelings — this their love 
 Had grown with him from childhood, nor appeai'd, 
 Thro' his long absence from his native fields, 
 In aught dirainish'd. So they sought to render 
 His home most pleasing — it, in sooth, did seem 
 A strife of fondness with them — a sweet rivalry
 
 60 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 In good and gentle offices. For him 
 The neighbouring village furnished many a dainty; 
 For him the bending fruit tree, overstock'd 
 With spring's unfailing favours, yielded up 
 Its luscious burthen ; — or the flower bed gave 
 Its hoard of sweetness, — not the less esteem'd 
 Because aged hands did gather it, or that there. 
 In the one fair and fragrant bunch, shone forth 
 A wild and strange diversity of hues. 
 
 In these calm hours of ease he read ; — and varied 
 
 And broken was his reading — the scant gathering 
 
 Of home was soon worn out, and then, in friendliness. 
 
 Each neighbouring dame did proft'er some old volume 
 
 Sure to be most amusing. From the shelves, 
 
 The rarely dusted shelves of every dwelling, 
 
 That rose in peace around him, came in a hoard 
 
 Of songs, romances, poems, or holy legends. 
 
 Strange in their names, and in their character 
 
 Still stranger ! Such, at times, might serve to raise 
 
 A quiet smile for serious silliness ; 
 
 For some hath strong attraction.
 
 THE DOOM OF DRRENZIE. 61 
 
 Wild were the tales before him, but even these 
 
 In time grew tiresome, and with careless hand 
 
 Were thrown aside ; — and then his kinsfolk came 
 
 As short and casual visitants; or friends 
 
 Throng'd in with easy converse to beguile 
 
 The long and lonely evenings ;* * — but of all, 
 
 Who sought that place, there were but few who found 
 
 So fond and warm a welcome as the relatives 
 
 Of his beloved Agnes. There, at length, 
 
 Invited, came the maiden. And it chanc'd, 
 
 That ifl an hour of mirth and friendly openness, 
 
 When all felt free and happy, and indulged 
 
 The unbroken flow of gaiety, beside 
 
 The blushing damsel old Derenzie sate ; 
 
 And as he sate, he turn'd in joyous mood, 
 
 Utter'd some words of long-delayed repentance, 
 
 Then seiz'd her by the hand, and gently laid it 
 
 Even in his son's, — and wish'd the arm might wither 
 
 That should be stretch'd hereafter to divide them.
 
 THE 
 
 DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 This world is all a glittering show, 
 For man's illusion given. 
 
 Moore.
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 There are a few who, down the troubled current 
 
 Of life, glide on in calmness, scarce susceptible 
 
 Of passion, or emotion — heedless all 
 
 Of circumstance, or change ; even as that sea 
 
 Whose darkly slumbering water, thro' the reach 
 
 Of long unreckon'd ages, hath not known 
 
 The curl of ebb or tide. There are a race 
 
 Who act, on this wide theatre, a part, 
 
 A busy part, perchance — and as they share 
 
 In the dread drama their allotted turn. 
 
 Wrap up the heart in apathy, nor own 
 
 A tie of lingering interest, or communion, 
 
 With those who live, and move, and sink around them. 
 
 There are some lonely ones who go on in gloominess. 
 From childhood's gay and wildly joyous years, 
 
 F
 
 66 THE DOOM OF UERENZIE. 
 
 Even to the line, beyond whose shadowy range, 
 
 Starts forth a second infancy — the term 
 
 Of trembling dotage. Many who sojourn 
 
 Upon the destin'd way, that as they touch 
 
 The limits of their pilgrimage, can pause 
 
 And look upon the world, which sinks beneath them. 
 
 And, in their mood of heartless resignation. 
 
 Say that they quit it freely— that no object 
 
 Remaining there hath power to make them feel 
 
 One little pang at parting. To a tribe 
 
 So dead to all that makes this earth endearing. 
 
 Or winning, or delightful, it were vain 
 
 To pour one strain of softness. To such spirits 
 
 It were but wearying idleness to picture 
 
 What the warm youth experienc'd as the day 
 
 Drew near, that, by his own dear girl's appointment. 
 
 Stood mark'd for their espousals. 
 
 Who, that breathes. 
 Shall, in mere words, embody that sensation 
 With which he started from his sleep, and gaz'd 
 Upon the dark grey sky that faintly gave. 
 To his fixt glance, the first dim quivering promise
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 67 
 
 Of that expected morning?— Tlie touch'd bosom 
 Which, in the days whose memory is still soothing, 
 Hath known what love may be, or haply felt, 
 In all their witching power, the pangs, the rapture, 
 The frenzy, or the listlessness, that constitute 
 That first of master passions, such may frame 
 A thought of all that mov'd the wanderer's soul 
 In this his hour of hope. 
 
 Day dawn'd, and, o'er Clenhasten's wooded height. 
 Flutter'd the first half-broken streak of light : 
 High in her cloud, tho' toiling, yet in vain, 
 The little skylark sung her joyous strain : 
 Round hut and shed the house-cock's cheering call, 
 Proclaim'd the coming of the morn to all. 
 Slowly it came, for o'er the wide vales lay 
 The damp dark mists, still tardy to give way ; 
 Strong in their gloom, to many a point they clung, 
 Till warm o'er earth the sun his splendor flung. 
 Then smil'd the fields, then cloud and fog withdrew. 
 And clear the far surrounding prospect grew : 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE DOOM OF DEEENZIE. 
 
 The grove and wood look'd fresh beneath the light, 
 And the trim cottage rose to cheer the sight ; 
 The hedge-rows bloom'd in their full garb of green, 
 And peace, and beauty, mingled in the scene. 
 
 Through such a range, close by the Slanej-'s side, 
 A form, a female form, was seen to glide : 
 So quick she pass'd before the startled sight. 
 And trod the dewy path with step so light. 
 That they, who chanc'd to meet her on her way. 
 Might think her some lone spirit gone astray ; 
 Or, one far read in ancient tales, might deem 
 That shape, perchance, the genius of the stream ; 
 Or, some strange fay whose loveliness had drawn,. 
 From Heaven, free leave to loiter after dawn. 
 
 Wide o'er her shoulders a light mantle spread, 
 And a thin hood did gather o'er her head: 
 These, on her shape, seem'd carelessly to fall, 
 A nd left her other robes unniark'd by all. 
 Still, tho' this dress might shelter, or might hide 
 Her inner garb, of costliness and pride :
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 69 
 
 Tlio' this, in jealous zeal, might shade some part 
 Of beauty, that might move a stoic's heart. 
 He, who had then but stood and mark'd her there, 
 Or, trac'd her step, her motion, and her air, 
 Would, in that hour of fond conviction, own 
 That there's a charm not given by dress alone; 
 A loveliness that spurns the toilet's care ; 
 And this bright gift was thine, young Agnes Vere. 
 
 Aye ! it was she, who, in this silent hour. 
 
 Ere yet the dews were dash'd from off the flower — 
 
 Ere the rous'd labourer to his toil had flown, 
 
 'Twas she who thus had wander'd forth alone. 
 
 Some turn, perchance, of restlessness had led 
 
 The young, the blooming truant, from her bed : 
 
 Some weak whim urg'd the fairest maid of Toome, 
 
 To quit her sheltering roof and quiet room, 
 
 Thro' this wide scene of solitude to steer, 
 
 For none, of human form, seem'd lingerino; near. 
 
 Oh ! no, she ventur'd thus abroad, to try 
 
 The open fields, green hills, and clear blue sky,.
 
 70 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE, 
 
 To learn, if aught amidst them, could convey 
 A charm, to chace despondency away; 
 For dreams of ill had crost her night's repose, 
 And gloomily her bridal morn arose. 
 
 The dews of morning pass'd away. 
 
 And the sun was gay on hill and plain — 
 And slowly up the shelter'd road. 
 Where stood the aged priest's abode. 
 In their trim holiday array, 
 
 Walk'd on the bridal train. 
 And in the merry circle there. 
 Oh ! who so blithe as the chosen pair ? 
 Yet a timid tear did for once impcarl. 
 The changing cheek of the gentle girl; 
 But her lover's voice, and her lover's sraile, 
 Cheer'd up her anxious heart the while. 
 
 Onward they walk — and now they draw 
 Beneath the chapel's broad old door ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 71 
 
 And now, in trembling doubt and awe, 
 
 They tread the consecrated floor. 
 They pause — then silently and slow, 
 Up to the altar's verge they go — 
 And on the broadest footstep there. 
 
 Clad in his robe of holiest white, 
 In the bent attitude of prayer. 
 
 The priest stood forth in sight. 
 He pray'd — and, lowly at his side, 
 Bow'd the young bridegroom and the bride ; 
 And they look'd, as tho' even now they knew,- 
 What trials the wedded must wander thro': 
 They bow'd, as tho' all arm'd they stood, 
 
 To meet, with a spirit unmurmuring, 
 Each varying scene, be it evil or good. 
 
 Which the coming years might chance to bring. 
 They bow'd — and in the subdued air 
 Of the young, thus timidly trembling there. 
 Was something that well might check the sneer 
 
 Of him who derideth this holy rite ; 
 Something, that well might teach his eye, 
 To look, with reverence, on the tie, 
 
 So pure, so solemn, and so bright,.
 
 72 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Which link'd, for life's prolong'd career. 
 Two souls, as fond, and firm, and true. 
 As ever fate together drew. 
 
 That solemn right was o'er, and, from the |)lace. 
 In merriest mood, the white-rob'd train retir'd — 
 Derenzie's roof received them, where, assembled 
 From many a distant track, their kindred sat. 
 Eager to greet the wedded, nor less eager 
 To greet, in its good hour, the wedding feast. 
 
 And this they shar'd — and slowly, from the view, 
 
 The viands vanish'd ; and the grace began, 
 
 A long, long, lingering prayer, and slowly utter'd. 
 
 While, from the lips of all thus haply gather'd. 
 
 Upon the paii united, a brief blessing 
 
 Descended. As that benediction clos'd. 
 
 The friendly bowl appear'd, and near it brightly 
 
 Gleam'd the large glasses, and, as round they bore 
 
 The sparkling beverage, many a tale was heard. 
 
 And many a good old jest, indicative 
 
 Of merriment. But of this heartfelt merriment. 
 
 Their host partook not — he did linger there.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 73 
 
 Even as some stranger might, -whose ear or eye 
 Could catch no sound, or drop upon no object 
 To solace or enliven. 
 
 Some of the few who ponder o'er this tale, 
 
 In the green days of infancy, have heard 
 
 Strange stories told, by credulous old age, 
 
 Touching the wayward victims of illusion. 
 
 Oft have they heard the hoary dreamer talk 
 
 Of him whose troubled brain, at times, would lead him 
 
 To deem his path, at dawn, or twilight, haunted 
 
 By fay or grisly goblin — or of one 
 
 Who, i;i his lonely walks, thro' glen or grove. 
 
 Still paus'd, and gaz'd all-fearfully aiouud him. — 
 
 Made nothingness substantial — lent to shadows 
 
 A form of gloomy grossness — or, with vacancy, 
 
 Mainiain'd a strange intelligence — or talk'd 
 
 With visitants whose voice no vulgar ear 
 
 Distinguish'd, and whose shape no common eye 
 
 Did ever rest upon. In such strange mood. 
 
 As seems a weak one, labouring with these daydreams. 
 
 Sat old Deienzie, — Far aloft, his eye
 
 74 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Seem'd wandering —wide his wrinkled hands were 
 
 spread — 
 His breath was still — his wither'd lips lay open. 
 And every vein, that rang'd his aged forehead, 
 Stood crowded and collected. So he sat 
 Mute, motionless, and wild, as tho' high Heaveu 
 Had, in that moment, from his sight withdrawn 
 Some earthborn him, and to his glance disclos'd 
 All the dread secrets of the unseen world. 
 
 Some passing sound rous'd him, and he turn'd. 
 And gaz'd in grief upon the blooming bride, 
 And on her youthful partner, and the train 
 Of friends who sat in cheerful mood around them. 
 " This day hath been to all a day of gaiety ; 
 The dawn look'd fair — the morn came forth in bright- 
 ness — 
 And the broad beam of noon was not uncheering : 
 The friends and playmates of our youth were near us ; 
 The bridal train hath wander'd out in finery ; 
 And the gay pair, upon whose path they glitter'd, 
 Went on in soul-felt gladness. — This hath pass'd,
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 75 
 
 And Heaven may grant that this alone shall be 
 
 The tale of the day's doings." As he spoke 
 
 His words came falteringly, and every eye 
 
 Bent its full glance upon him, for surprize 
 
 And trouble touch'd them. " Think not," he resumed, 
 
 " That he, whose voice thus falls upon each ear, 
 
 As some grief-stirring knell, is one, o'er-prompt 
 
 By comfortless forebodings, to shed gloominess 
 
 Upon the hour of pleasure. Few, and frail. 
 
 And short, and unsubstantial, are the joys. 
 
 The little joys, that brighten human life ; 
 
 And foul, and fiend-like, is the heart of him, 
 
 Whose murmurings would abridge them. Such T leave 
 
 In darkness, all unenvied, to enjoy 
 
 Their own sad retribution. But, in truth. 
 
 Thro' the last eve and night, I have had signs 
 
 And dreams, of such a cast, as now have mov'd 
 
 My mind most strangely. 
 
 On the morn of yesterday 
 I rose in wonted health, and walk'd abroad. 
 I rose and bless'd the giver oi that light 
 VVhich beam'd upon the world, and scatter'd gladness
 
 7G THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Alike, amid the lowly and the proud; 
 
 Equally o'er the hamlet's raud-rais'd walls. 
 
 And thro' the glittering dome — albeit, to me 
 
 It brought no brightness, for I felt upon me, 
 
 Even in that hour, a deep bewildering gloom — 
 
 A strange unnatural heaviness, that touch'd 
 
 My spirit, as the promise of calamity. 
 
 I know not how it was, but every voice 
 
 That met my ear came with a tone that seem'd 
 
 Wild, hollow, and sepulchral — every object 
 
 On which I gaz'd shew'd something that then gave me 
 
 A feeling — a sensation deeply ominous. 
 
 The day wore on, the hour of twilight came, 
 
 And at that hour, when others to repose 
 
 Betook them, I, all sleepless and unwearied, 
 
 Did loiter near the gate. I saw the striplings, 
 
 And the gay maidens, as with laughing eyes, 
 
 — Which spoke the joy imparted and partaken — 
 
 They bore their gathering onward to the bank 
 
 Where rose the pile devoted — a rude heap. 
 
 And strange itseem'd, of bones and wither'd brambles.'^
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 77 
 
 But pious was the use to which they destln'd 
 
 This their strange gathering — tliey had blithely joined 
 
 In the full gladness of their innocent hearts, 
 
 By song, and dance, and bonfire, to commemorate 
 
 The eve of the Apostles. Soon as night 
 
 Aided the glittering spectacle, each slope. 
 
 And hill, and ridge, and distant mountain top, 
 
 Sent round the rural challenge. Broad Slieu Buoy * ^ 
 
 Was bright, and far o'er rugged Curragnah 
 
 There wav'd a sheet of fire : thy pile, ohl Terns, 
 
 For once did lose its gloom ; and Clone, tho' tardy, 
 
 Rais'd not the lowliest beacon : here, at home. 
 
 We caught the feeling, and did try to emulate 
 
 Our mountain brethren — splendid was our fire. 
 
 And gay the young assembly — 
 
 But their gaiety 
 To me was almost madness — I went forth. 
 And saw them in their mirth upon the slope, 
 And bless'd them as 1 saw them. — 
 
 Then, even then. 
 As I did gaze upon them, in the group 
 Of faces, glittering in that lurid light,
 
 78 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 One struck rae, for it bore the beautiful air, 
 And well-remember'd features of a maiden, 
 Whom, years ago, we counted of the lifeless — 
 She seem'd retiring, and her hollow eye, 
 — For hollow now it look'd — was bent on me, 
 And, as she look'd, her countenance assum'd 
 A cast of horrible pity, and she shook 
 Her head as threatening evil. 
 
 1 turn'd me from the place — 1 mark'd the watch-dog, < " 
 And he forsook his food, nor did he tarry 
 Within his wonted lair — he sought the bank, 
 That smooth green bank, that rises o'er the well — 
 He turn'd him round — he snufl'd the evening air — 
 He look'd to east, and west, and north, and south — 
 He saw the pale moon rising, and he stretch'd 
 His aged form all lowly on the ground. 
 And raoan'd as piteously as tho' the spirits 
 Of those whom, long, long since, we gave to earth, 
 Pass'd slow and sad in the dim air before him. 
 
 This mov'd me much — I left him moaning there.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 79 
 
 And near the door I saw the house-cock lingernig,* ^ 
 
 And deem'd it strange to find him from his roost 
 
 Thus at an hour unwonted ; but I waited, 
 
 In stillness and suspense, when I beheld him 
 
 Lifting his crested head, as tho' some sight 
 
 Of wonder rose around him — thrice he stretch'd 
 
 His wings in act to move, and thrice he screara'd, 
 
 And the old walls, beneath whose shade he stood, 
 
 Seem'd to re-echo him — he stagger'd wildly, 
 
 — Like those poor birds, struck down in sport at 
 
 shrovetide — 
 He shook, with faltering force, his glossy plumage, 
 Struggled, went round and round, and dropt, at length. 
 All lifeless, on the threshold. These are signs 
 That promise not enjoyment — but the dreams. 
 That hover'd o'er my pillow thro' the night. 
 Were dark and fearful." " Let them pass" rejoined 
 The careless bridegroom ; and he turn'd his head 
 And smil'd, as tho' in scorn. The eye of Agnes 
 Was fixt upon him, and she leant her forward, 
 As pleading a calm hearing.
 
 80 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 " Nay ! look not thus — last night, methought 
 
 We rang'd Clenhasten's wooded height; 
 And, loitering, hand in hand, we sought 
 
 That sunny bank, so green, so bright, 
 Where the young woodbines sweetly spread. 
 In blossomy freshness overhead ; 
 
 Where, in the days that long have flown, 
 
 W^e sat, unseen, unheard — alone; 
 And told, with one fond feeling fraught. 
 
 Our tales of love, from noon to night. 
 We sought that bank, and it did seem 
 
 As tho' an alter'd face it wore ; 
 It caught the colouring of my dream. 
 Or chance, or fancy, gave the hue : 
 But then, at least, beneath my view. 
 
 That spot look'd lovelier than before. 
 There was a wild unearthly grace. 
 Breathing all o'er, and on the place ; 
 There was a softness in the breeze 
 
 That sooth'd, one scarce knew how or why, 
 A depth of greenness in the trees.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 81 
 
 That even refresh'd the gazing eye ; 
 A brightness in the fair blue sky, 
 That stretch'd its ample arch above; 
 
 A freshness in the grass below, 
 And in the flowers that sprouted nigh; 
 
 O'er all there seem'd to live and glow, 
 That air, voluptuous and intense. 
 Which steals upon each subdued sense. 
 Leading to languor and to love — 
 And every echo lingering near, 
 
 And every sound which rose or fell, 
 Came, in that hour, on the lull'd ear, 
 
 With sweetness indescribable. 
 
 1 look'd still onward, and the view 
 
 That lay before me, far and fair, 
 Seem'd bright as ever pencil drew. 
 Or poet pictur'd as he flew, 
 
 In his wild mood, thro' the fields of air; 
 For many a slope of deep green hue. 
 And many a clift' and mountain blue, 
 
 Rose in commingling beauty there. 
 
 G
 
 ^2 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Far o'er this scene so far, so wide. 
 
 Thy ridge, old Leinster, seem'd to grow. 
 Dark and abrupt, as tho' in pride. 
 
 It scowl'd upon the space below : 
 And that broad sunny space was one. 
 As gay as the eye ever dropt upon. 
 There stood Cranruah's summit brown,' ^ 
 And the deep wild woods of Marshalstown ; 
 And Ballyorl's extended height. 
 Still basking in the sun's last light ; 
 And Tomahurra's uplands wide ; 
 And Coolnahorna's corn-clad hill, 
 And, nearer, in calm beauty still, 
 Old Ballinhallin's rocky side. 
 Where the young oak lifts his leaf of pride. 
 Around Raheen a glance was cast. 
 
 And there spread deep each grove or glen, 
 Trac'd by our steps, in the days long past- ■ 
 
 Oh ! might such days be ours again. 
 But thro' the scenes before me there. 
 
 One long-lov'd object proudly shone ; 
 One t^iat, tho' all the vales were bare, 
 Would hold a beauty of its oAvn.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 8S 
 
 Thro' fields, whose length did tire the sight, 
 Of the strain'd eye that o'er him bent, 
 
 Like a broad glittering path of light, 
 Blessing the earth on which it went. 
 
 Deep, rapid, unrestrain'd, and strong. 
 
 The Slaney pour'd its waves along ; 
 
 And, o'er the strand, still foaming free, 
 
 Bore its wide gathering to the sea. 
 
 I turn'd, and bade thee mark with me, 
 
 Those scenes to each past joy allied : 
 I tnrn'd, but paus'd all tremblingly ; 
 When, in that hour, mine eyes survey'd 
 Old Wrue the wizard's orphan maid — 
 She, the betray'd, the ruin'd one, 
 Whom none for years hath look'd upon. 
 There crouching closely at thy side. 
 
 I gaz'd upon her— but the bloom 
 
 Had left the cheek once fresh and red — 
 
 There was no sign, no tinge, no trace 
 Of her living beauty in that face ; 
 G 2
 
 84 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Nor blush, nor smile, but in their room, 
 O'er every alter'd feature spread. 
 
 The cold wan colouring of the tomb, 
 The earthy paleness of the dead. 
 
 To thee I kept, to thee I clung, 
 We rose, we left that haunted hill ; 
 
 Along the smooth unbeaten sod. 
 All slow and timidly we trod; 
 
 But gloomily the spectre hung 
 
 Upon thy arm, and held thee still; 
 
 Fear touch'd my heart, and tied my tongue- 
 
 The blood in all my veins ran chill. 
 
 And my sunk spirit augur'd ill. 
 
 At once the fire rose in her eye. 
 
 The hue of life pass'd o'er her face ; 
 
 She utter'd thrice a short shrill cry. 
 
 It had a wild and fearful sound. 
 
 And then her cold arms clasp'd thee round. 
 And deadly seem'd that dark embrace.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 85 
 
 She wrung, she forc'd, nay, tore away 
 
 This hand that would have held thee fast ; 
 
 1 struggled, sunk, and there I lay, 
 Quite reckless of what pass'd. 
 
 And yet, methought, I saw thee led, 
 
 O'er the black cliffs uneven head ; 
 
 Methought, she hurried thee along. 
 
 With death-like grasp, confirm'd and strong; 
 
 And wanting time for penance given. 
 
 And wanting thought to look on Heaven ; 
 
 Down from the dark and rugged height, 
 
 Swift as the swiftest flash of light. 
 
 She bore thee, screaming, from my sight — 
 
 This was my dream of yesternight. 
 
 Here ceas'd the lovely murmurer, and she turn'd 
 Upon her spouse, incredulous, a look 
 Of mild expostulation. He, meanwhile. 
 Sat, 'midst the group, as one in mood disturb'd, 
 As one most anxious for the hour to drop 
 All talk of dreams and signs, and yet solicitous. 
 Thro' their involving gloominess, to trace
 
 g& THE DOOM OF DERENZIE, 
 
 Their fearful purport. Nearer bira the bride 
 Approach'd, and, from her snowy wrist, drew back 
 The thin light robe, with which the arm beneath 
 Vied in seducing whiteness. " Nay," said she. 
 In hesitating tone, " 'tis past away. 
 And yet, raethought, that as the sun went down 
 I trac'd it here — the spectre's mark. 
 Here, where her grasp was fixt, four streaks appear'd 
 Of deep, deep blue ;* ^ but this, perchance, might be 
 Some strange and idle fancy." " Such it was," 
 Exclaim'd the thoughtful bridegroom, and he paus'd 
 And gaz'd in fondness on her; " Yea, beloved, 
 All which thou fearest shall calmly wear away. 
 Even as the marks thus dreamt of: 
 All the strange forms that mov'd thee in thy sleep. 
 And all the fearful thoughts that touch'd thee, waking- 
 All shall be banish'd, or, at worst, be deem'd 
 As weal^and childish omens." 
 
 " They are not 
 Mere childish omens," said a hollow voice. 
 Which startled all who heard it — every guest 
 Gaz'd fearfully, as in the doorway stood
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 87 
 
 A gaunt and gloomy form — anon it mov'd. 
 
 And thro' the shrinking- crowd, that from his glance 
 
 Drew back in tremulous horror, slowly walk'd 
 
 Old Wrue, the wizard. Xear the wedded youth 
 
 He paus'd, and on him bent a bitter smile 
 
 Of mingled scorn and hatred. " They are not 
 
 Mere childish omens, wanderer. Lo ! she comes, 
 
 The squalid spectre of the ruin'd one. 
 
 Even from her gory grave, and woe to him 
 
 To whom she comes in anger." 
 
 As he spake 
 He turn'd around, nor waiting a reply. 
 Forth from that chamber went in sullen stillness.- 
 
 Forth from that place he w^ent, and there as yet 
 Did reign a chilling silence — each look'd round 
 In fear upon his neighbour ; but, anon. 
 The clash of arms arose, and, as it ceas'd, 
 Amidst them, at their banquet, stood a train 
 Of weapon'd strangers. One, of shape and mien 
 More gentle than the rest, advanc'd and bow'd 
 Beside the startled bridegroom. On his arm
 
 88 THE DOOM OF DEKENZIE. 
 
 He fixt a steady grasp — 'twas not the grasp 
 Taken in familiar friendliness, his brow 
 Bespoke a different feeling — briefly then 
 He told his painful errand— slow he spoke. 
 And in a subdued tone ; but thrice the name 
 Of Wilson struck the hearers, and they deemed 
 That, on their gay young friend, some wretch had laid 
 The guilt of that sad sacrifice, though he 
 Was travelling when the night marauders fir'd 
 That peaceful peasant's dwelling. 
 
 They did judge 
 Aright as to the charge. The youth arose 
 Calmly — he rose, as tho' in conscious innocence, 
 And, on his Agnes, turn'd one parting look. 
 That breath'd a thousand blended thoughts of ten- 
 derness — • 
 Thoughts unimagin'd, undescrib'd, unutterable. 
 He knew not that the look, thus fondly given. 
 Should be the last — he dreamt not that they parted 
 Then, and for ever — once his colour chang'd, 
 He felt a pang, he check'd it, and pass'd forth. 
 And grief, and loneliness, remain'd behind him.
 
 THE 
 
 DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 PART FOURTH. 
 
 Life is thorny, — Coleridge.
 
 PART FOURTH. 
 
 Oh ! night, tho' gloomy are thy clouds, 
 
 Tho' thick thy mists appear ; 
 Tho' dreary seems that veil which shrouds 
 
 The world, when thou art near — 
 Tho' some there be who turn aside. 
 And mourn that aught should ever hide. 
 
 The sun in his Career — 
 Still, dost thou seem to rae more fair 
 Than day, even in his noontide glare. 
 
 'Tis sweet, when thy long shadows fail, 
 
 Around the ocean, air, and earth, 
 To find the village truants all, 
 
 Join'd at the quiet hearth : 
 In such a group to seize a chair, 
 And sit without one doubting stare. 
 To hear the things narrated there.
 
 92 THE DOOM Ot DERENZIE. 
 
 Oh ! it is soothing to behold. 
 
 Age sharing in the young one's glee ; 
 When the grey wanderer, weak and old. 
 
 Lifts the quick listener on his knee, 
 And lets his untir'd tongue run on, 
 With stories of the days long gone ; 
 With talk of those whose names are known, 
 Wherever schoolboy's book is shewn ; 
 Of the Seven Master's, ^^ fam'd of old, 
 And, the nine worthies, brave and bold ; 
 Of Orson, and of Valentine, 
 And others of an humbler line ; 
 Of Warwick's Earl, and Joan of France, 
 Who grac'd the times of grim romance ; 
 Of wandering Crusoe's lonely Isle, 
 And how he bore him there the while. 
 Nor may such sport all joyless seem, 
 When others come to change the theme; 
 When there, the grandame turns to tell 
 
 Of wizard's skill, and witches power; 
 Of binding charm, and blasting spell. 
 
 All changing with the changing hour ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 93 
 
 Of wandering lights, in dead hands seen; 
 
 Of treasures deep, in darkness found ; 
 Of shapes, that haunt the road or green, 
 
 Or trail in chains their nightly round ; 
 Of startled ones, who chanc'd to spy, 
 
 The walks of the wild Leprechaun ;* ^ 
 Or, trac'd with close and curious eye. 
 
 The toy that he had toil'd upon. 
 So the dark evening lingers by, 
 Till languor steals on each dull eye ; 
 And from the scene of pleasure past, 
 All turn in drowsiness at last. 
 
 And when these goblin stories close. 
 
 Is it not sweet to drop the head, 
 In the still luxury of repose, 
 
 Upon the easy bed ? 
 And then in dreams, if dreams arise, 
 To range with fancy where she hies ; 
 To trace her o'er the circling air, 
 
 Thro' other worlds of peace and bliss ; 
 Free from the pain, and toil, and care, 
 
 That hang upon our steps in this.
 
 94 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE, 
 
 'Tis well when night no dreams can bring, 
 To lie even darkly slumbering, 
 A helpless, but a griefless thing; 
 To let earth's cares all lightly go, 
 And find one hour all free from woe ; 
 From thought, from consciousness to part, 
 And spurn remembrance for a start ; 
 To know the quiet of the grave, 
 
 Void of its gloominess and pain ; 
 To form, while privileged with breath, 
 A short, sweet fellowship with death ; 
 To plunge beneath oblivion's wave. 
 
 And then come forth refresh'd again. 
 
 It was not thus young Agnes felt. 
 When near her coucli in grief she knelt; 
 When her moist glance was turn'd to Heaven ; 
 
 And the short prayer came sad and slow, 
 For strength and patience to be given, 
 
 In this her weary hour of woe. 
 Not with a calm or quiet eye 
 Gaz'd she upon the glowing sky;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 95 
 
 Not with such feelings, as of old, 
 
 She saw those clouds of snowy white, 
 That there in forms fantastic roU'd, 
 Spread up the firmament afar; 
 And high, o'er every glimmering star, 
 Seem'd, to the stretch'd and dazzled sight. 
 To glitter in unborrow'd light. 
 
 But little reck'd she in her woe, 
 Of sights above, or of scenes below. 
 Even the lone earth, in that still hour, 
 
 In loveliness about her spread ; 
 
 Even then the pale moon softly shed 
 
 Her shadowy light of yellow hue. 
 
 On all that stood, and breath'd, and grew. 
 Even then, o'er bush, and brake, and bower, 
 
 On hillock's side, and mountain's head; 
 On glen, and grove, and vale, and stream, 
 Dropt her calm vivifying beam. 
 
 Like Heaven's owu bright and blessed dew. 
 Still the mix'd hues of earth and Heaven, 
 
 Came vainly on that sad one's eye —
 
 VG THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 They came, they shone, they past, and she 
 Scarce mark'd the gorgeous scenery. 
 Where our low world did seem to vie 
 With the broad overshadowing sky. 
 Oh ! then, her wandering thoughts were given, 
 
 To one, w^io was no longer nigh ; 
 To him, the favour'd youth alone. 
 Who made her, on that morn, his own. • 
 
 Six lingering days went by, and damp and chill, 
 On the broad front of rugged Curragnah, 
 The seventh dull morn arose ; yea, dull it was. 
 And to the eye unpromising. Behind 
 A cloudy mass, that over half the sky 
 Protruded its dark shadow, the broad sun 
 Glimmer'd, and down the mountain's pathless side 
 Scatter'd a Avatery brilliancy, which made 
 Its varied hues more various — in the light, 
 Thus dimly shed, the blacken'd rock shew'd forth 
 Its front, or, far around it, the green patch 
 Spread in soft contrast — there the brown heath rose
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 97 
 
 Near the young birch in rivalry. So shone 
 The mountain in the sunbeams ; while, beneath, 
 Seen dimly, Ferns's slowly-wearing woods. 
 Clone's flowery slopes, and Efternogue's brown vales. 
 Rested in gloom and coldness: — but, if gloom, 
 And coldness dwelt upon them, there was not 
 Aught there that told of loneliness. 
 
 The eye went round in wonder — every path 
 That wound its way o'er hill, or vale, or glen. 
 By hut obscure, or lonely mountain stream, 
 Was crowded ; every little lane gave forth 
 Its train of wayward gazers ; every road, 
 Shaded with hawthorn green, or dark-leav'd elm. 
 Was living with the deep commingling hum, 
 The far re-echoing step of multitudes. 
 
 Yet not in joy they mov'd ; for he, whose fate 
 They came that day from many a tract to witness — 
 He, whose devoted form, not even the marks 
 Of unsuspecting innocence, could snatch 
 From infamy and ruin — he, of old, 
 
 H
 
 98 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Reckless alike of envy and reproach, 
 
 Had dwelt in home-born confidence among thera. 
 
 They came, but not in gladness — not a sound. 
 
 Amid that gather d multitude, arose. 
 
 Save, at short intervals, a lingering sigh, 
 
 Or a deep broken murmur :~there was seen 
 
 No greeting of fond friendship, no kind clasp. 
 
 Nor look of cheering welcome ; every eye 
 
 Was fixt, or, if a glance did seem to wander, 
 
 'Twas but to mark, in stillness and in dread. 
 
 The dark and ominous gibbet that display'd, 
 
 From the adjoining slope, its lofty form. 
 
 Portentous. Strange it was that they should love 
 
 To look upon it; but the whim or weakness 
 
 Is human ; for, on all that breathe beneath, 
 
 The vrayward impulse operates, the strange blending 
 
 Of opposite extremes, the eager instinct 
 
 Of shunning aught that pains, and the wild wish, 
 
 Springing from something, not perchance definable, 
 
 Which leads the tender and the timid onward 
 
 To gaze upon each foul, or fearful object.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 99 
 
 A deeper sound arose; the thickening crowd 
 Fell back in hurried motion, and, anon. 
 Up the long way, a train of strangers rode, 
 Of wild and warlike aspect; wide they wav'd 
 Their broad bar'd weapons, and, amid the throng, 
 Spread soon their open path. 
 
 Behind thera came, 
 With slow and mournful motion, the sad car — 
 The car of death and ignominy. Aloft 
 Sat the grim guide, all careless, as he drove 
 His fated burden onward. At his back, 
 Stretch'd on a plain broad coflSn, lay a pair. 
 On whom the eyes of all who throng'd the way, 
 ^Vere bent in death-like silence. On the first, 
 — A man of gloomy look and heavy form, 
 And known to few who saw him — a brief glance 
 Was cast, as tho' they mourn'd him not; bul he 
 Who lay all lonely by him, and conceal'd. 
 From the far-gather'd throng, his moisten'd cheek, 
 Was one beheld in sorrow. Every youth, 
 And every maiden lingering there, remember'd 
 Him whom they once had look'd on as the life 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE DOOM OF DEREKZIE. 
 
 Of their gay circle, as the moving spirit 
 
 Of all their sports — the wanderer, Derenzie ! 
 
 In gri(>f they stood, nor yet forsook the spot 
 Until another hour had join'd the past; 
 And then the youthful one that they had gaz'd on. 
 As he went by breathing in life and beauty. 
 Came back a spiritless burden. Such the change, 
 The withering change, even of one little hour. 
 
 They bore him home, and, upon the bed, 
 His cold, cold limbs, were gently spread ; 
 And over his lifeless form they threw. 
 The sheets, still moist with the morning dew. 
 His beard was clear'd, his hair was shorn, 
 
 The death sweat wip'd from ofi" his brow ; 
 And the waking cap, but in sorrow worn, 
 
 Is on his temples now. 
 The flowers far round his head were plac'd. 
 
 In their mingled hues of white and green ; 
 And the;e, in dark ribbons, distinctly trac'd 
 
 O'er all, the cross was seen.
 
 THE DOOM Oi" DERENZIE, 
 
 101 
 
 It rose that symbol holy and high, 
 
 Before each bound believer's eye. 
 
 In its pride-repressing potency. 
 
 Plain as the plainest badge could be. 
 
 And it was a sight all good and fair, 
 
 To find how it woik'd its v.onders there ; 
 
 Shedding o'er all its soften'd sway. 
 
 And urging the wildest to pause and pray; 
 
 And books by the broad bed's head arose, 
 
 AVhich none but the pious might open or close ; 
 
 And there were beads for those restless fingers, 
 
 Upon whose tips religion lingers ; 
 
 Still prompting words, as tho' prayer should be 
 
 Priz'd not by the kind, but the quantity. 
 
 And goodly fare on each table lay. 
 
 And pipes were scatter'd in fair array, 
 
 But the group of smokers kept far away. 
 
 Such was the scene — a solemn scene. 
 Such should it be where death hath been ; 
 Still here did seriousness assume, 
 A look of more than wonted gloom.
 
 102 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 All, all was sad — for dull despair 
 Cast o'er the place its withering hue ; 
 
 And as the day did wear away, 
 And the dusk of twilight deeper grew, 
 
 More dreary seem'd each object there. 
 It was a mournful thing to see, 
 
 How sorrow shed a damp on all ; 
 How even the young, and wild, and free. 
 
 As if at some mysterious call, 
 Lost, in that spirit-sinking hour. 
 
 Their mirth, and gaiety, and glee ; 
 As tho' to that fear-worshipp'd power. 
 Whose hand in visible night was spread. 
 O'er the pale form upon the bed. 
 
 Each had in reverence bow'd the knee. 
 The light was not on beauty's cheek, 
 
 The smile was lost on humour's face ; 
 The spark had past from youth's gay eye. 
 And love laid all his dimples by ; 
 Nor dar'd to sigh, nor sought to speak, 
 'Mid the sad stillness of that place.
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 103 
 
 'Twas dark — and darker did it grow, 
 As each dropt in with his locdc of woe ; 
 And to the spot, from every side. 
 
 The mourning friends, or kinsfolk came : 
 Nor these alone — for thither hied 
 
 The wanderers, only known by name ; 
 And, as each his timid entrance made. 
 For one short moment he delay'd, 
 A prayer on bended knee to say, 
 For the soul of him who before them lay. 
 
 And where was the gentle Agnes now. 
 With her early love, and her marriage vow ? 
 Where was the fond, the faithful bride? 
 None saw her where her lover died. 
 Her cry was heard not amid the crowd 
 Of the friends, that there had wept aloud. 
 Was this the maid so lov'd, so woo'd, 
 Worshipp'd in every changing mood? 
 The same — but seek her — see her now 
 With her wild, wild eye, and her pallid brow,
 
 104 THE DOOM OF DERENZiE. 
 
 And her hurried words, and her crazy cry, 
 
 And her laugh that comes, and she knows not why. 
 
 Oh ! seek her, see her once— and then 
 
 Speak Hghtly of her love again. 
 
 But there was one who was lingering near 
 That form, which seem'd now in death more dear: 
 There was one who mourn'd, although his eye, 
 And his wither'd cheek, as yet were dry : 
 There was one who long'd to be near that bed. 
 Where the wreck of his fondest hope was spread. 
 Yea! close by that bed the father drew. 
 
 And the sight might touch the hardest hearted ; 
 Around his temples the white hair flew, 
 And his brow did seem of as earthly a hue. 
 
 As the brow of one but just departed. 
 He came, he stood, in that crowded place. 
 And he gaz'd around for a little space ; 
 He stood for a moment upon that spot. 
 And it seem'd as tho' he knew it not; 
 He did not kneel beside the bed. 
 With those who paus'd to pray for the dead ;
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIK. lOJ 
 
 He did not heed, or hear, or see 
 
 The train, who recited the Litany. 
 
 " My child ! my murder'd one !" he cried, 
 
 As round the corse his arms he cast ; 
 " My child ! my hope ! my life ! my pride ! 
 
 And is it thus we meet at last?" 
 They spoke, they rais'd him, but in vain. 
 He dropt upon the corse again ; 
 He heard no voice, no word, no call. 
 The dead, the dead, engross'd him all. 
 His friends were near, but what were they 
 To the lov'd one that had died to-day ? 
 His friends ! they wept, they wept for him ; 
 
 But what when lost will tears restore ? 
 His legs were weak, his eyes were dim. 
 
 And he who cheer'd them was no more— - 
 And yet this word a meaning bore. 
 
 Which the dull glaz'd eye, and the stifFen'd limb, 
 So chang'd from what they were before, 
 
 Could scarce make credible. Again 
 
 He turn'd him to that sight of pain,
 
 106 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 And felt and saw that all was o'er, 
 And yet he could not say aught more. 
 
 Oh ! yes, that form was stiff and chill, 
 
 But he did fancy in his pain — 
 He fondly, weakly deem'd, that still 
 
 Some chance, not hop'd for, might remain. 
 The thought was strange, but such as he 
 Will doubt, despite of certainty. 
 
 And wish, altho' they know 'tis vain. 
 He stretch'd his hand, and slowly spread 
 His fingers round the lost one's head ; 
 He touch'd the temples, wan and bare. 
 But not a throb did linger there; 
 He mark'd the lips of blacken'd hue. 
 And gaz'd, and shudder'd at the view ; 
 
 He fixt his palm upon the heart, 
 That heart, where each fond feeling grew. 
 
 His brow was dark, a transient start 
 Of wildness in his air was shewn ; 
 For, as that hand did drop, he knew
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 107 
 
 That o'er that warmest, tenderest part, 
 Dull cheerless coldness dwelt alone. 
 
 " He is dead !" the old man cried, " and Heaven 
 
 hath done 
 Even now its worst to sink me. I have felt 
 The scourge, nor can I, as the supple hypocrite, 
 Bow down and bless, in gentleness, the hand 
 Thus stretch'd to humble nie. 
 Justice and innocence are soothing sounds, 
 And what are they but sounds ? What are their claims 
 To admiration ? What their proud prerogative 
 And consecrated titles? — They who doubt 
 The cant of the believer, and aver 
 That chance hath of this lower world the guidance, 
 Have wisdom in their wandering. 
 
 Say, why else 
 Gaze we on this black picture ? Why should falsehood 
 Here boast of such a triumph ? Why should perjury, 
 Vile palpable pejjury, in its ficndlike range, 
 From mine select its prey ? Or wanton power. 
 Careless of wrong, and reckless of restraint,
 
 108 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 Drag from his aged father's feeble arms, 
 
 From the embraces of his blooming bride, 
 
 And all the fond endearments of his home. 
 
 The guiltless one, and coldly yield him up 
 
 To death and unearn'd ignomy ? My friends 
 
 Say, is it just that I, who grew among you 
 
 From boyhood even to age, in honest fellowship. 
 
 Should, as I walk the road, hereafter see 
 
 The children stand to point at me, and add, 
 
 There goes the father of that guilty man, 
 
 Whose end was sport for thousands ? If I am 
 
 Destin'd for this, I ask the wise to shew 
 
 Where is the hand of heaven ? I ask the holy ones, 
 
 Whose task it is to guide us, should the world 
 
 Be dup'd with tales of Providence ?" 
 
 He spoke. 
 And pausing, look'd upon the gather'd throng 
 With a wild haggard smile. From 'midst the train 
 Who knelt at the bedside, an old man rose. 
 Whose hair was long and silvery, and whose eye 
 Beam'd with a saint-like mildness — in his hand 
 He held a book half clos'd, and as he turn'd
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. lOD 
 
 And look'd on the pale mourner, every ear 
 Was bent to hear him. 
 
 " I have wander'd forth," 
 Said he, *' even at the twilight's closing hour, 
 From the calm stillness of my lonely home, 
 Tho'aged and infirm, to join my flock 
 In praying round the lifeless. I have mark'd 
 Thy grief, and pitied thee — but cannot deem 
 Even this, tho' trying, an absolving cause 
 For the wild words just utter'd. Wretched one, 
 Let not thy tongue, in undiscerning v/antonness. 
 Censure the ways of Providence. That God 
 Who fram'd this world, in goodness and in love. 
 Still governs it in justice. 
 
 This sad hour 
 Is dark to thee — be patient, and confide 
 In Him who looks on all." 
 
 He slowly turn'd, 
 And cast a glance upon the lifeless form 
 Beside him, and proceeded : " Thou hast lost 
 A son, whom thou didst look upon in pride, 
 As one even sent to bless thee in thine age.
 
 110 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 And shew lo other men, of other <lays. 
 
 What thou hadst been in youth. This pride was 
 
 harmless. 
 Yea, blameless in the aged. Heaven, however, 
 Hath, in its overruling wisdom, will'd for thee 
 A. sad and searching trial. This fair dream 
 Of joy, and hope, and blessedness, hath pass'd — 
 And thou art left in loneliness. The youth — 
 He, in whose bloom thy being seem'd renew'd — 
 He, in whose strength thy manhood seem'd regiven, 
 Hath, from thy sight, been torn, and made the prey — 
 The prey of death and infamy ! — a doom, 
 Still deem'd by thee, unmerited. Old man. 
 This pang, indeed, is trying, but withal 
 Not unsustainable; for thou, tho' wretched. 
 Art still but one in many : earth is throng'd 
 With scenes of mourning: Heaven hath not beheld 
 
 thee 
 Companionless in suffering." 
 
 " Thou hast spoken 
 Even as a man of holiness !" exclaim'd 
 The wizard as he enter'd, and stretch'd forth
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. Ill 
 
 His lean and withei'd hand to fling aside 
 
 The cloak that spread around him ; " thou hast Sjioken 
 
 As doth beseem thy calling ; but even 1, 
 
 Albeit, to such serious task unus'd, 
 
 Might school this childish murmurer. 
 
 I have borne 
 My share of suffering, but what human eye 
 Hath look'd upon my tears ? What mortal ear 
 Hath heard my words of sorrow ? I had once. 
 As all may well remember, a fair girl. 
 Young, beautiful, and artless — mild in words. 
 Winning in mood, and, in her cherish'd thoughts. 
 All purity and innocence. She turn'd 
 To me as to a father, and I gaz'd 
 Upon the maiden, as she grew before me, 
 With feelings that a parent might be proud of. 
 
 She rose to womanhood ; and the soft charm 
 That struck the stranger, in her greener years. 
 Now bloom'd in bright maturity. I cherish'd, 
 — And who that hears me shall chide me for the 
 feeling —
 
 112 
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 A growing fondness for the girl, and still 
 Trembled lest aught should part us. 
 
 In that hour 
 Some fiend did guide the spoiler to my roof. 
 He came, he pour'd his poison in her ear. 
 He robb'd her of her peace and of her innocence, 
 ^nd — in some heil-mark'd moment, when no eye, 
 Save that which looks from Heaven, beheld the deed — 
 When no strong hand in charity was near 
 To shelter, or to save her — to the first, 
 He added the one sin more dark and damnable — 
 The sin of murder." At this word the voice 
 Of the dark wizard falter'd, and the throng 
 Who heard that sound, shrunk from him. Down he 
 
 stoop'd, 
 Seiz'd hastily the lifeless man's chill hand, 
 Which seem'd to turn and quiver at his touch. 
 And he look'd wildly on it. 
 
 *' This hath wrought 
 The deed that cried for vengeance : this hath drawn, 
 Even from the weak one's bosom, the red blade 
 That left me lone and friendless. Here Kies stretch'd
 
 THE D()OM OF DERENZIE. 
 
 H3 
 
 The murderer of the orphan." A deep groan 
 
 Slowly arose around, but not a voice, 
 
 Even for friendship, or for fond kindred's sake, 
 
 Did vindicate the lifeless, while the wizard 
 
 Sofdy resunj'd ; — •' By signs, whose fearful potency 
 
 No ear shall hear of, and, by dreams, I knew 
 
 The murderer as he wander'd, and my curse 
 
 Of bitterness pursued him, and did blast 
 
 His pastime thro' the day, and made the night 
 
 Sleepless, or worse than waking. 
 
 Home, at length, 
 He turn'd, and, with an eye of fiery eagerness, 
 I raark'd him. Tell me not of heirs who wait 
 The day that's mark'd for manhood — tf 11 me not 
 Of bridegrooms looking to the promis'd knot 
 In trembling expectat'on. None have felt. 
 And none can ever feel, the wild anxiety 
 With which my glance was bent upon the future. 
 Blaming the while, the regular pace of time. 
 That held me yet from vengeance — for my spirit 
 Did still anticipate it, and I feasted 
 In seqret on the thought. The hours went by, 
 
 I
 
 114 THE DOOM OF DF.RENZIK. 
 
 Darkness and light still came, the sun and moon 
 Blest all in bright succession, while I watch'd 
 The long sought omen — that deep omen came, 
 And strange things mov'd me. 
 
 1 1 were vain to ask 
 By what mysterious noiseless warning urg'd, 
 Rang'd my free footsteps on the eve. 
 That gay and gladsome eve, of festive merriment, 
 Which witness'd the late nuptials — it were idle « 
 To seek whence sprung the superhuman impulse 
 That, in my walk that evening, bade me linger 
 Near a neglected and weed-cover'd spot 
 Below the aHjoining garden ; there I linger'd, 
 And I did fancy, that upon the spot 
 Thus lonely and weed-cover'd, some strange hand 
 Of mystic might detain'd me ; and it seem'd 
 As tho' that earth, o'er which I went in stillness, 
 Was fram'd of fairy echoes, for it rung 
 All hollowly beneath me. 
 
 Low I knelt 
 Upon the spell-mark'd place, and tore away, 
 Half-heedlessly, the black and noxious growth
 
 THE DOOM OF DERENZIE, dfliS 
 
 That spread tliere in luxuriance. A grey flag, 
 
 Thro' the deep grass, extended — this I mov'd. 
 
 And then the rich raidc mould that lay beiteath 
 
 Was loos'd with little labor ; as it rose 
 
 In the dull gliuimer of the lingering light 
 
 It bore a hue all gloomy, and I deem'd 
 
 The hue as caught, perchance, from that it shelter'd ; 
 
 As tho' the cold imconscious clay had shar'd 
 
 Of spirit or sensation. Still I toil'd, 
 
 And as the earth came up, amidst it there 
 
 I mark'd some scatter'd particles — ^some bones, 
 
 That to my startled sight, did wear the shape 
 
 Of that which had been human. 
 
 is * •* « * * 
 
 A skull arose — and with a glance of eagerness 
 I trac'd it, but no visible mark reniain'd 
 Of what it once had been ; no trait by which 
 The oazer could have shewn that such in hfe 
 Look'd chilling or delightful — tir'd, I flung 
 That loathsome thing aside, and turn'd again 
 And search'd the spot in sorrow ; a small bone. 
 Amid the dark and shapeless heap arose, 
 
 I 2
 
 116 THE DOOM OF DERF.NZIR. 
 
 It seera'd the poor worn remnant of an arm, 
 
 — In truth, it was a slender one — and there 
 
 Stooping, beneath it, in the clay, I touch'd 
 
 A trinket, one that would, to vulgar eyes, 
 
 Seem but of little moment ; but, to me. 
 
 It wore, even in its rust, an air of loveliness : 
 
 For, even thus tarnish'd, and thus chang'd, I knew 
 
 The toy, the simple toy, that in an hour 
 
 Of happiness, my hand had given to Margaret. 
 
 There did I grasp the toy — nor was it all ; 
 
 For, as I rose to leave the place, my foot 
 
 Fell on another relic — one it was. 
 
 From which, even years could not efface the mark 
 
 Of an unholy deed — the clotted blood 
 
 Remain'd in darkness on it, as tho' meant 
 
 To rise in damning evidence against 
 
 The gloomy midnight murderer," 
 
 While he spoke 
 He drew a small blade forth — he stretch'd his hand. 
 And dropt the ominous weapon— his dark eye 
 Turn'd on the childless mourner, and it sparkled
 
 THE DOOM OF DEREN7.1E. 117 
 
 \Vith a wild scornful joy. " I take it not — 
 To thee and thine, old man, I do bequeath 
 The blood-mark'd legacy — that blade shall be 
 Unto thy kindred, thro' the years to come, 
 As a recover'd trophy. Hence I go 
 Exultingly, and sleep again shall bless 
 The brow that hath been restless, for the arm 
 Of vengeance hath descended on the guilty." 
 
 Forth walk'd the wizard, and his parting words 
 
 Rang on the old man's ear — he gently stoop'd, 
 
 Took from the earth that fatal blade, and gaz'd. 
 
 Tremblingly, on it — from his hand it fell. 
 
 " Awful and wondrous are thy ways, O Lord," 
 
 Exclaim'd the mourner, '* thy all-righteous hand 
 
 Hath struck me in its justice — it is his." 
 
 He sunk even as he spoke, and from the place 
 
 O'ercrowded, his kind kinsmen slowly bore him.
 
 NOTES.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1, p. ."). 
 
 " One there tvas, ivho, at tfiis dreary hour, 
 
 Went wandering forth bj Ferns' tottering tower.'" 
 
 Ferns is now an inconsiderable village, situated 
 about five miles north of Ennescorthy, in the county 
 of Wexford : it consists of a single street, and is 
 remarkable only for its venerable ruins and the as- 
 sociation of its name with the most interesting part of 
 Irish History. Previous to the twelfth century it was 
 honored by the residence of the Leinster monarchs, 
 and was then called Fernegenainhuil, or The Stately 
 Ferns; and a diligent antiquary might even now 
 trace the remains of an extensive, if not an opulent 
 city. Jt was once encompassed by a stone wall, 
 fragments of which are to be found at a considerable 
 distance from the village ; and while this fact indicates 
 the former consequence of the place, it proves, con- 
 trary to the opinion of most historians, that the Irish, 
 previous to the introduction of the Anglo-Norman 
 power, were in the habit of erecting stone edifices : 
 their pillar towers and their oratories, however, put 
 this beyond dispute. The waters of the Slaney, distant 
 about three miles, were brought hither by an artificial
 
 122 NOTES. 
 
 canal, and the remains of a paved causeway, show 
 that the Leinster raonarchs were not inattentive to the 
 comforts of the citizens. In the confusion of Irish 
 history, we are, however, unable to arrive at a satis- 
 factory conclusion respecting its extent or splendor ; 
 we only know that it was plundered and burnt by the 
 Danes, and that Derniod McMurrough was its ample 
 benefactor, before his expulsion by the confederated 
 princes of the country. The " royal ruffian," ac- 
 cording to Hume, erected several monasteries ; and it 
 would appear, that the man whose name " stinks in 
 the nostrils of posterity,'' was once deservedly po- 
 pular. On his return from negociating with Henry 
 the Second, he found refuge in his native city, and on 
 the arrival of succours, his subjects, and not his mer- 
 cenary allies, placed him upon the throne from which 
 he had been most unjustly expelled. Cambrensis has 
 most foully libelled him, and the story about the rape 
 of Dervorgal, O'Rourke's wife, was a pure fabrica- 
 tion of a rude rhymester, who wrote a poem on the 
 conquest of Ireland : his vague notion of the Iliad 
 prompted him to introduce a Helen. Strange to say, 
 Irish and English historians have admitted this trash 
 as authentic history.* Such, however, was the bad 
 
 * It was traiKsI.ited tVoni tlie Firiich in Ihf rcigii of Eliza- 
 beth ; and may be set-n in Hairis,
 
 NOTES. 123 
 
 utlour in which the memory of McMiinough was 
 held, that tlie authors of the " Annals of Innisfalleu" 
 assure us he died of a horrible distemper, which they 
 insinuate was a judgment upon him for having intro- 
 duced the Anglo-Normans into Ireland. He is 
 buried at Ferns. 
 
 On his death, the Earl of Strongbow, who married 
 his daughter, succeeded him according to compact : 
 from that period Ferns gradually declined. The 
 " tottering tower " was subsequently erected, to repel 
 the approach of the " Irish enemy ;" and the history 
 of the place henceforth merges into that of the church. 
 Ferns is still an episcopal see. The Bishop's Palace 
 stands at a short distance from the village ; it is a 
 modern structure, but not remarkably elegant. The 
 ancient church is partly in ruins : the church-yard, 
 in which " the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,'' 
 is one of the largest cemeteries in Ireland. 
 
 The ecclesiastical history of Ferns is not devoid of 
 interest. Being within " the pale," Englishmen were 
 usually appointed, and it is recorded, that in most 
 instances they preferred the interest of their family to 
 that of the church. Several of the landed proprietors 
 of the county of Wexford are their descendents. At 
 the time of the Reformation one of the Devereux 
 held this see ; and suspecting that a great change was 
 about to take place, he disposed of the chuich lands
 
 124 NOTES. 
 
 to his friends. In 1.3HS Bishop Allen leased two 
 thousand acres to Sir Hugh Wallop: these are now 
 in the possession of the trustees of the Earl of 
 Portsmouth. The Rams, of Gorey, are well known 
 in Ireland, since the days of Swift : the family was 
 first introduced by a bishop of that name, a native of 
 Berkshire. In Trotter's "Walks" will be found 
 many curious particulars respecting the history of 
 Ferns. 
 
 Note 2, p. 15, 
 
 " He form d the rings Jrom the witch-hazel spray, 
 To guard the churns upon the morn of May ; 
 Or clos'd the key zcithin the blessed book, 
 And from its motion there, his omen took" Sfc. 
 
 Some of the superstitious practices noticed here, 
 are not peculiar to Ireland. ' Witch-hazel is a potent 
 wand, even in England, but I believe it encircles the 
 churns on May morn only in Ireland. Irish witches 
 are very partial to fresh butter, they leave no arts 
 untried to obtain it; sometimes they milk the cows, 
 and at other limes they let the farmer obtain the milk, 
 but refuse him the pro/it, alias the butter. A
 
 NOTF.S. 125 
 
 tlairyman who had twenty cows, lost, in the language 
 of the peasantry, " the profit of them all ; " their 
 udders were always dry, and suspecting that some one 
 was in the habit of anticipating him, he resolved to 
 watch : being unable to obtain the possession of 
 a four-leaved shamrock, (the possession of which 
 would have at once obviated the arts of witches or 
 fairies) he armed himself with a long barrelled gun, 
 that had seen service among the Bucaniers of South 
 America. He had not been long concealed behind 
 the ditch— Anglice, the hedge — when he saw a milk 
 white hare trip over the grass towards a muil cojo 
 (a cow without horns) which it immediately began to 
 suck with an industrious eagerness. Assured that the 
 thief was within his reach, the indignant farmer fired : 
 next morning he tracked the delinquent to a neigh- 
 bouring house : the inhabitants were never suspected 
 of such practices, but the marks of blood pointed to 
 the window through which the white hare must have 
 passed ; and in the chamber within, the mistress of 
 the mansion was found in bed. The dialogue which 
 ensued, was managed with consideral)le skill on both 
 sides. The apologies of the lady for declining to rise, 
 appeared quite natural ; but the suspicion of the farmer 
 was strong, and, accordingly, he very ungallantly turned 
 down the clothes, when lo ! the limbs of the recumbent 
 fair exhibited marks of recent gun-shot wounds ! '.
 
 I2G MOTES. 
 
 On anotlier occasion an old woman, who lived in 
 a rude and solitary abode, (witclies are always 
 misanthropes) was observed to frequent the market 
 with fresh butter, although it was notorious she had 
 neither new milch cow nor stripper. Her neighbours 
 however, had cov.s, but about this time began to lose 
 the profits of their dairies ; luckily one of them 
 possessed a four-leaved shamrock,, and having visited 
 the dreaded abode of " decrepit age," he found the 
 " ancient lady" milking;, behind the door, a sturdy 
 brier, singing gaily all the time — 
 
 " C!iew deary, cliew, &c. 
 
 In the absence of long barrelled guns and four- 
 leaved shamrocks there is another method of reco- 
 vering the " profit of the churn." Having excluded 
 all external light, and stopped every aperture through 
 which a hand could be conveyed, place the churn, 
 encircled with a hoop of witch-hazel, in the midst of 
 the floor, and commence churning, having first placed 
 the plough-colter in a good •' roaring turf fire/' As the 
 steel and iron begin to heat, the person who stole the 
 butter will be heard outside earnestly soliciting a 
 drink of water " for the love of God and your neigh- 
 bour." If false humanity induces you to open door 
 or window, the process fails ; but if you remain
 
 NOTES. 127 
 
 heedless of the cries of distress, you infallibly recover 
 the profits of your dairy. 
 
 All these however, being liable to failure, the best 
 way decidedly is, to apply at once to a "fairy-man." 
 This race of professional gentlemen are not yet extinct 
 in remote parts of the country : we know, from 
 Assize Reports, that they flourish in a " green old 
 age," in England and Wales. Far be it from me to 
 undervalue their labors. — A royal author has ex- 
 pended much erudition on the subject, but I believe 
 the present is the first time that a fairy-man has been 
 " married to immortal verse." Among Mr. Furlong's 
 papers, were found a brief memoir of " Old Wrue ; " 
 from which it appears the character delineated in the 
 text, was sketched. " I remember," he says, " having, 
 when very young, been sent many miles to bring the 
 wizard to a relative, who was supposed to have been 
 fairy-struck." 
 
 Shane Wrue, aims John Roe, was a native of 
 the upper part of the county of Wexford : from his 
 youth upwards he was remarkable for his fits of abstrac- 
 tion, and gloomy habits ; he shunned society, and was 
 known to wander whole days and nights amidst the 
 hills and wilds of this part of the country. He affected 
 great external sanctity, prayed like the Pharisees, 
 loud and long, and passed amongst many for a saint, 
 while others pitied hira as a weak enthusiast.
 
 123 NOTES. 
 
 '' Tlicy smiled, and sighed, and blessed the lad. 
 Some thought him wondrous wise, and some . believ'd 
 him mad." 
 
 The absence of employment threw him upon his 
 own resources for the means of subsistence ; and his 
 first step to the profession of fairyism,.was a display 
 of his knowledge of simples. He cured man and 
 beast, by the application of remedial herbs ; and soon 
 learned to think tliat certain prayers might aid their 
 etiicacy. " His knowledge," says Mr. Furlong's MS. 
 *' was repoited universal, and his practice extensive." 
 Strange stories were related of his mysterious intro- 
 duction to the world of spirits ; and he acquired a 
 prophetic gift in the manner related in the text. He 
 looked into the future : on a Sunday morning he 
 refused to proceed to the chapel, situate in a remote 
 valley, telling the people that he should attend mass 
 where he then was, uii:!er an umbrageous white-thorn 
 tree: they smiled, but on reaching the chapel they 
 found it in ruins, and os Wrue had predicted, mass 
 was celebrated that day under the tree. The country 
 is yet filled with his predictions. 
 
 " Such the beuig. 
 Who wandered forth in gloominess — he was 
 One, upon whom the credulous race around 
 Look'd with strange veneration, not withal 
 Affectionate ; but of that servile sort 
 In lowliest fear engendered."
 
 NOTES. 1'29 
 
 The author's claim to originality in the delineation 
 of this strange character, will hardly admit of dispute. 
 In the " O'Hara Tales," and " Munster Festivals," 
 allusions are made to wizards of the kind : but a full 
 length portrait of an Irish fairyman has never before 
 been given to the public. Those who know Ireland 
 will admit, without hesitation, the accuracy of the 
 likeness. 
 
 Note 3, p. 15. 
 
 " Sores that he touched, all cleansed and hale became, 
 For fhis proud gift the seventh so7i can claim." 
 
 The seventh son is a doctor, by divine right, all 
 over the world. In Ireland his touch is an in- 
 fallible cure for various diseases, more particularly for 
 the worm ; for according to popular belief, a swelling 
 on any part of the body is a kind of fleshy molehill, 
 which some living thing throws up. The " worm 
 never dies", until the " gifted hand " is applied. This 
 prerogative is not confined to the seventh son ; for it 
 may be communicated by confining an evet in the 
 hand of a new-born infant until it dies. 
 
 There is another property of the evet which deserves 
 to be known, and was noticed some centuries since by 
 Sir John Piers, in his account of the county of Meath, 
 
 K
 
 130 NOTES. 
 
 AVhoever rubs the belly of the little reptile nine times 
 against his tongue, will be able to heal scalds and 
 burns, by the application of that elastic instrument of 
 " sweet sounds." 
 
 Note 4, p. 16. 
 
 " From the rough foxghxx on the rocky height. 
 Beneath whose leaves the fairies rest at night." 
 
 In the south of Ireland the foxglove is called lusmore. 
 
 " Lusmore, literally ihe great herb, is specifically 
 applied to that graceful and hardy plant, the " digi- 
 talis purpurea," usually called by the peasantry 
 " fairy cap," frora the supposed resemblance of its 
 bells to this part of fairy dress. To the same plant 
 many rustic superstitions are attached, particularly its 
 salutation of supernatural beings, by bending its long 
 stalks in token of recognition." Crohers Fairy 
 Legends.
 
 NOTES 131 
 
 Note 5, p. 19. 
 
 " Ha had lovd, in loitering mood, to tread 
 O'er Curragmali'a front of pride; 
 
 Or on rugged Tara's rocky head, 
 Or Tubberneering^s side." 
 
 These hills are situated between Newtown Barry 
 and Enniscorthy ; the scene possesses considerable 
 beauty, and is associated with historical recollections 
 ot a very stirring character. For several centuries 
 subsequent to the introduction of the Anglo-Norman 
 power, the " English Pale," as it was called, was 
 confined to a small district in the immediate neigh- 
 bourhood of the metropolis, and a narrow slip of 
 land, which hostilities frequently rendered impassable, 
 along the sea shore, from Dublin to Wexford. The 
 hills from VVicklow to the Bairow, were in pos- 
 session of the O'Burns, the OTooles, and the 
 O'Kavanaghs, and local records are filled with ro- 
 mantic incidents of the perpetual wars which raged 
 between the English proprietors of tlie celebrated 
 baronies of Forth and Bargie, and the sept of O'Ka- 
 vanagh which hovered over them among the eminences 
 above Enniscorthy. Norman Castles were built along 
 the line, from near New Ross to the T?lack water, to pre- 
 vent Irish incursions ; but, notwithstanding this pre- 
 
 k2
 
 132 NOTES. 
 
 caution, hlack mail was frequently exacted. There 
 is in the British Museum a curious MS. giving- an 
 account of the Earl of Essex's visit to the Devereux 
 of Ballimagier : the O'Kavanaghs harassed his 
 followers, and had nearly intercejited his progress 
 to Dublin. It appears the " Irish enemy " sometimes 
 found allies among the English settlers. The 
 Furlongs formerly proprietors of Castleboro, now in 
 the possession of Mr. Carew, M.P. for the county, 
 being placed on the borders, sadly degenerated ; they 
 became half Irish. The people of Forth and Bargie 
 had an epithet for each of the leading families : — thus 
 Devereux, of Carrigmenan, was called " Proud De- 
 vereus ; " Stafford, of Ballymakore, " Stiff Staft'orth ;'' 
 Cheevers, of Clonghest, " Laughing Cheeveres ; " 
 Brown, of Mulranken, "Gentleman Brown;" but 
 Furlong, emphatically " Valse Furlane." 
 
 In the seventeenth century " Gentleman Brown" 
 made a pilgrimage, accompanied by his wife, into 
 the " Irish country." The lady's beauty attract- 
 ed the eyes of the chief of the O'Kavanaghs, 
 who, considering an " English Churl " unwor- 
 thy the possession of so many charms, paid Mul- 
 ranken a visit a few nights afterwards ; and, in the 
 Irish fashion, carried the lady to his hills. The 
 Anglo-Normans were instantly in arms ; a battle 
 was fought at Adamstovvn, and the O'Kavanaghs
 
 NOTES. 133 
 
 were victorious. See Holimhed's Chronicles of 
 
 Ireland. 
 
 Note G, p. 20. 
 
 *' And oft a sickly smile appeared 
 On his wan cheek as up Slieu Buoy," Sfc. 
 
 Slee Buoy (pronounced Slhee-bl), or ihe Mountain 
 of the Living, lies between Ferns and the County of 
 Carlow. It serves as a barometer to ihe peasants of 
 this part of the country. Whenever the clouds rest 
 upon its top, or, as they express it, " when Slieu Buoy 
 puts on his black cap rain may be expected.'' 
 
 Note 7, p- 21. 
 
 " Forth came a Ram of snowy while." 
 
 This tradition is very common in Ireland. In the 
 tale of " Shane Neather," in the " Dublin and 
 London Magazine," the scene is laid in Connaught, 
 and the medium through which the prophetic spirit 
 was communicated, is described to be aqua Taurus.
 
 134 NOTES. 
 
 Note 8, p. 31. 
 
 " Doivnfrom the place, ivith sluggish pace, he slrolPd, 
 To where the Banri's slow ic'mdiny ivaters rolCdy 
 
 The river Bann passes by Ferns, and empties 
 itself into the Slaney, below the bridge of Scarrawalsh. 
 In the immediate neighbourhood, Mr. Furlong spent 
 " the days of his youth" innocently, and certainly 
 not idly." If he did not " lisp in numbers," he sur- 
 veyed nature with a poet's eye ; for, though he had 
 not visited the place of his birth for many years before 
 the poem was written, the descriptions of local scenery 
 are singularly accurate: they must have made no 
 feeble impression on his mind while yet an "arlljss 
 boy." His father— hoary with age, still resides in 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
 Note 9, p. 32. 
 
 " And noio he stands on Crory^s sainted sod. 
 Full in his vieiv the sacred sprimj appeared," Sj-c. 
 
 The place alluded to, derives its sanctity from 
 having been once the abode of unobtrusive piety :
 
 NOTES. 13;3 
 
 " A little lowly lienuitage it was, 
 
 Down in a dale, hard by a forest's side, 
 Far from resort of people, that did pass. 
 
 In travell to and fro ; a little wyde 
 There was a holy chapell edifyde, 
 
 Wherein the hermit dewly wont to say 
 His holy things, and morn and eventyde ; 
 
 Thereby a cbrystall streame did gently play 
 
 Which from a sacred fountain welled forth aiway." 
 
 Faerie Queen. 
 
 Most wells ill Ireland are sacred. The first 
 Christians, unable to wean the people from their su- 
 perstitious practices, endeavoured to obviate the sin, 
 by sanctifying the object. Each well is honored with 
 the title of a particular saint ; formerly, no doubt, they 
 were dedicated to some of their gods. This superstition 
 was once universal. " Where a spring rises, or river 
 flows," says Seneca, " there should we build altars 
 and ofl:'er sacrifices." Varro invokes water as a 
 deity, and a spring seems to have been essential to 
 the oracular seats of the gods. See Ionian Antiq. 
 and Pliny Nat. Hist. lib. 2.
 
 13G NOTES. 
 
 Note 10, p. 43, 
 
 " 'Twos said the old might talk in dread 
 
 Of things that past tvhere Croinwell led ; 
 
 Or, with a thrill of horror run. 
 
 O'er the wild wreck of forty-one; 
 
 Or sadly trace each ruin'd scene. 
 
 Where William's heartless horde had been ; " 
 
 The iiarae of Cromwell is never mentioned but with 
 execration, by the peasant. He views the successful 
 aspirant through an exaggerated medium ; for atrocious 
 as the proceedings of the parliamentary army were in 
 Ireland, they fall very far short of the idea which are 
 popularly formed of them. A Crorawellian is an ap- 
 pellation which none will claim; and yet, if you 
 believe the peasantry, nearly every gentleman in the 
 country, is the descendant of one of Oliver's soldiers or 
 drummers. Of the rebellion of 1641 they have very 
 faint recollections ; but king William's army, and the 
 battles of (he Boyne and Aughrim, are subjects upon 
 which they are always conversing : yet, strange as it 
 may appear, they know, actually, less of these events 
 than they do of the invasion of the Danes. Their in- 
 formation respecting the Ostman is, in general, very 
 accurate, blended now and then with some extraor- 
 dinary legends.
 
 NOTES. 137 
 
 Note 11, p. 61. 
 
 ' ' Friends, 
 
 Thronged with easy converse to hcgnile 
 The long and lonely evenings." 
 
 The habits of the Irish peasantry are extremely 
 social ; the picture drawn in the text respecting their 
 rustic meetings is singularly accurate. See Trotter's 
 Walks. 
 
 Note 12, p. 76. 
 
 " They bore their gatheHng onward to the hank 
 
 Where rose the pile devoted — a rude heap 
 
 And strange it seem'd, of bones and withered brambles." 
 
 These bonfires are not peculiar to Ireland. They 
 are stili lighted in Cornwall and Brittany, and were 
 originally, no doubt, a Celtic rite. Antiquaries, 
 however, are far from agreeing on this subject, and 
 those who wish to read all that has been written on 
 it, may consult Collectanea de Rebus Hibernicis. 
 They are lighted on the eves of St. John and St. Paul, 
 Midsummer, and have a very picturesque appearance.
 
 138 NOTES. 
 
 Note 13, p. 77. 
 " Broad Slieu Buoy," 6fc. 
 
 See Hote (J. 
 
 Note 14, p. 78. 
 
 " / turti'dmcfrom the place — I mar/id the icatch-dog .'^ 
 
 The dog, owing to the acuteness either of his sight, 
 or scent, is able to distinguish the presence of fairies 
 or ghosts much sooner than his master. A mare that 
 never had a foal, is the only beast that can remain 
 indifferent to their presence. 
 
 Note 15, p. 79. 
 
 " And near the door I saw the house-cock lingering," ^'c. 
 
 The cock, it is popularly believed, never fails to 
 mdicate, by a peculiar noise, the presence of ghosts or 
 fairies. If lie linger longer than usual of an evening, 
 about the baicn, or leave the roost after having retired
 
 NOTES. 139 
 
 to it, evil is presaged. It is also supposed unlucky 
 <"or him to crow at any hour during night, unless at 
 twelve o'clock, and three hours before daylight. 
 
 The crowing of a cock was considered ominous by 
 the ancients : Cicero quotes an instance, where a 
 soothsayer promised victory to the Thebans, in con- 
 sequence of the crowing of a cock (J)e Divinatione.) 
 The clergy were once called the cocks of the Al- 
 mighty. It was their duty, like the cock which 
 aroused Peter, to call sinners to repentance : Beck- 
 manu thinks, that cocks were first placed on vanes, 
 to indicate clerical vigilance. See Hist. Invent. 
 
 Note 16, p. 82. 
 
 " There stood Cranrnalis summit broivn,'^ ^c. 
 
 All the places mentioned in the text lie in the 
 immediate neighbourhood of Scarrawalsh.
 
 140 NOTES. 
 
 Note 17, p. 80. 
 
 " / traced it here— the spectre mark. 
 
 Here, loUere her grasp icas fix'd, four streaks appear d 
 
 Of deep, deep blue." 
 
 The peasantry call those dark spots on the body, 
 which arise from contusion, " dead men's pinches " 
 Those learned in the appearances which they exhibit 
 undertake to determine the purpose for which the noc- 
 turnal visitoi gave them. " Deep, deep blue" indi- 
 cates something fatal. 
 
 Note 18, p. 92. 
 
 " Of the Seven Masters fani'd of old.'" i<fc. 
 
 The books mentioned in the text, formed, until re- 
 cently, the Irish novelist's library. They were called 
 by the trade " Burton Books ; " a Dublin publisher 
 of that name being the most extensive dealer in them. 
 The quantity annually disposed of, appears to have 
 been incredible. See Reports of the Commissioners of 
 Irish Education Inquiry.
 
 NOTES. 141 
 
 Note 19, p. 93. 
 " The walks of the wild Luprechaun." 
 
 " The Irish fairies are a diminutive little people, 
 dressed in round caps and red jackets, much given to 
 hurling, inclined to be polite and civil, but extremely 
 irritable, and capable of effecting much mischief, when 
 disposed to be unruly. Like the Persian Peri, they 
 belong to a better world, could they gain admittance 
 in it, and are very anxious to ascertain whether the 
 golden bolts of Paradise will revolve for them at the 
 great judgment day. On this question, they have, as 
 yet, in vain interrogated many a godly priest ; but 
 from the rage for polemics in Ireland, it is to be hoped 
 the progress of theology will enable some sound divine 
 to give them an answer. Their chief places of abode 
 are raths and motes ; and some people are unkind 
 enough to accuse them of stealing children — and this, 
 in a country so prolific as Ireland, might be pardoned, 
 did they not also carry off mothers to suckle them. 
 But the charge stands in need of support — it is not a 
 fairy offence. 
 
 Although they are all known, like the Tartars, by 
 their family features, they are of different species, or 
 have at least different pursuit;*. The Banshee assumes
 
 142 NOTES. 
 
 the shape and dress of an old Milesian female, and 
 makes it the business of her life to intimate to her 
 friends the approaching termination of theirs. Fasti- 
 dious in her choice, she mourns no vulgar death ; she 
 weeps for the fate of the high-born only ; and makes 
 the most clamor for those of the ' real blood.' On 
 such occasions she is to be heard, during night, in the 
 neighbourhood of the sick, or perhaps is to be seen, in 
 the attitude of feminine distress, near some * ivy-clad 
 ruin,' which is fortunate enough to be reflected in a 
 pellucid lake beneath. Her cries are loud, and shrill, 
 and melancholy ; and the whole is rendered still more 
 imposing, by the mechanical habit she has of slapping 
 her long, skinny, withered hands. In Ireland, it was 
 once honorable to be warned of death by so piteous a 
 messenger. 
 
 The Luprechaun has nothing sepulchral about him ; 
 being a squat, merry little fellow, who delights, like 
 our modern dandies, in smoking a cigar. More 
 inilustrious, however, than they generally are, he is 
 seldom idle ; and, as a fancy shoemaker, is in great 
 repute among his friends of the fair sex. His manners 
 are of the old school ; his dress of the last century. 
 He wears buckles in his shoes, a three-cocked hat 
 upon his head, and never travels without his kit. 
 When seen, evil times, or a ' hard summer,' at least, 
 are to bo expected ; but ihe ruin of others is the com-
 
 NOTES. 143 
 
 meiicenient of the beholder's foitiino, il" he know how 
 to avail himself of the circumstance, lie has nothing 
 to do but pounce upon the little fellow, seize him by 
 the back of his neck, turn him between his eyes and 
 the sun, and demand any boon he please : it will be 
 granted, unless he avert his head ; and alas ! so 
 seductive is the Luprechaun's blarney, that few can 
 resist him. He appeals to your humanity ; assures 
 you that boundless treasures are to be found in a 
 certain place ; and when your expectations are at the 
 highest, he stops short, and coolly asks, ' Who is that 
 listening?" Thrown off your guard, you avert your 
 head; and, like the gods of Homer, he melts into 
 thin air, and you seek in vain for the marks by 
 which to ascertain the place where the treasure was to 
 be found. In 1821, a woman, according to the 
 * Carlow Morning Post,' caught one not far from that 
 town ! 
 
 The Chiricaunc is another jolly little fellow also, 
 fond of good wine and race horses ; and the better to 
 indulge in his propensities, he is to be found only 
 in the cellars of bon vivauts, or perchance upon the 
 back of a thorough bred advocate for the gold cup at 
 the Curragh. 
 
 Not so the Phooka. He is, Proteus-like, any 
 thing you please. He Knocks his head against Paddy 
 when returning from fair oxjmtlern, in the form of a
 
 144 NOTES. 
 
 l)ull or a buffalo, a dragon or an eagle. The son of 
 the sod, nothing loth, being at the moment any body's 
 customer, mounts his back, indifferent to the form he 
 may assume, and rides a race, to which John Gilpin's 
 was mere child's play. He bounces over precipices, 
 swims through rivers, and climbs up castle walls ; 
 while the alarmed equestrian, like a plethoric dreamer, 
 suffers no injury, though conscious of being in im- 
 minent peril. Sometimes he mounts upon the pinnacle 
 of a tower or steeple, and amuses himself with the 
 rider's distress, by pretending now to fall over to the 
 righf^, and then to the left, Paddy all the time ex- 
 hausting his eloquence for permission to escape ; but 
 without the least spark of anjjer. How could he be 
 displeased with one, who, like himself, is only ' harm- 
 lessly mischievous,' who does it all out of * pure fun ?' 
 
 The next, and last, is the Lenauntskee, a thing of 
 very doubtful generation, and, like the Irish wolf-dog, 
 implacable in resentment — unalterable in friendship. 
 It frequently happens that Paddy performs wonders 
 in a fair fight, against considerable odds ; the thing 
 would be an absolute miracle, were the explanation 
 not foun 1 in the invisible aid afforded by his Le- 
 namitshcc, who can deal around blows with scientific 
 skill. Many a combatant is struck to the ground by 
 other than mere mortal blows. 
 
 Such are the sub-divisions of fairy land ; for the
 
 NOTES. 
 
 135 
 
 Fetch does not belong to it ; and the interference of 
 one or all of these tiny chieftains in human concerns, 
 constitutes the fairy lore of Ireland. It might be 
 supposed that a people with active fancies would have 
 among them innumerable tales connected with these 
 genii ; but the fact is otherwise. They have modified 
 oriental traditions, without adding to them ; and the 
 different stories of the peasantry do not really exceed 
 a dozen, with all of which the public have recently 
 been made familiar. Dublin and London Magazine. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 Robins & Sons, Printers, SouUiwark.
 
 THE 
 
 a^AK^isiR^iPii^ 
 
 WITH 
 
 ^ti)^v Poew0. 
 
 BY THOMAS FURLONG. 
 
 « He who can reconcile poetry with truth and wisdom, is the only real 
 poet— in the true sense of the word, the Creator ! the Maker !" 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 
 yaiSTKO BY W. ONrERWOOD, 19, ST. ANDKIW- STREET. 
 
 1821.
 
 //?■/, 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In the Summer of 1819, a small edition of "The 
 Misanthrope," was published in London, but in 
 consequence of its being struck off without allowing 
 the AUTHOR an opportunity of seeing even one proof 
 sheet, it was, in addition to its other blemishes, dis- 
 figured with a great number of errors — errors, en- 
 tirely attributable to the printer. 
 
 The POEM, notwithstanding, was taken notice of 
 in rather a favorable way, by some of the London 
 and Dublin Magazines; and the only thing the 
 AUTHOR had to regret was, that the piece was not 
 wiitten or printed with such correctness as might 
 reasonably justify their good opinion. The dimi- 
 nutive appearance of the work was likewise against 
 it, for many readers hold, that the merit of a book 
 is proportioned to its size ! and this, though an idle 
 prejudice, is more general than may at first be 
 imagined. 
 
 Under all the circumstances, the author feels 
 himself called upon to suppress the first edition — it 
 has been suppressed — and he offers the present one 
 to the public, with a feeling of greater confidence as 
 to its correctness — although the alterations or im- 
 provements in the principal poem are not as great as 
 he had intended.
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 To " The Misanthrope" he has added several 
 pieces that have not appeared before— many of them 
 have been written to lighten the hours set apart from 
 business, and some of them were composed many 
 years ago in the country, when he had nothing else 
 to engage him. 
 
 It may not be amiss to remark here, that the per- 
 son to whom "The Misanthrope," was addressed, 
 has died but a few months ago in London ; he dwelt 
 there secluded from all society ; reviling and abusing 
 his species and shunning their company and conver- 
 sation ; he never stiired out but when he went to the 
 oflSce of a Newspaper, of which he was assistant 
 editor; he admitted neither man nor woman servant 
 into his apartments ; he would listen to no physician 
 in his illness ; nor would he allow any minister of re- 
 ligion to come near him — and to sum up his character, 
 he died as he had lived ! — ^yet, this man was once^^ 
 chearful and open-hearted, but early disappointments 
 had soured his temper, and altered his disposition. 
 The writer of this had known him for many years 
 and pitied him. The little piece which follows, was 
 written with the hope of reclaiming him ; and though, 
 as might be expected, it failed of its object, the 
 author has still the satisfaction of thinking, that the 
 attempt was, at least, commendable ; and whatever 
 may be the opinion of a few ill-natured critics, he 
 shall never feel ashamed of having added his mite to 
 the contributions of those illustrious bards who have 
 employed " the sacred gift of song" in the cause, 
 of truth and morahty.
 
 
 THE MISANTHROPE 
 
 AN EFISTLE. 
 
 Still shall these maxims ring upon the ear, 
 Till even mere patience must refuse to hear ! 
 Still on this subject shall thy skill be shewTi, 
 Till each chill'd heart seems callous as thy own ! 
 Still in thy mood of gloominess exclaim, 
 That virtue is, indeed, " an empty namer 
 Shew us that friendship is a selfish scheme, 
 And charity, a cold fanatic dream — 
 And filial love, a tie of trivial power, 
 In habit form'd — or changing with the hour. 
 
 This is thy creed, and though but lately tried, 
 To this thou clingest, in stubbornness and pride! 
 This is the good thy sleepless nights have bought, 
 And this the wisdom which thy guides have taught ! 
 This is thy system — yet, a closer view, 
 May shew, perchance, this system scarcely true. 
 
 Struck by the fond remembrance of each day, 
 Spent amidst scenes that now are past away. 
 Led by the thought of many an early friend. 
 Who shar'd our joys, nor dream't such joys could end. 
 Mov'd by a weakness which impels this heart, 
 To like and love thee, tainted as thou art. 
 For once, tho* trembling at the task, I'll try 
 To tear this veil from oflf thy mental eye ; 
 
 B
 
 
 6 THE misanthrope: 
 
 And make thee own, yea ! even against thy will. 
 That man, though faulty, may be trusted dill. 
 
 There are, perchance, who in this hour may deem 
 The task adventurous, and ill-judg'd the theme ; 
 There are, whose pall'd and pamper'd tastes may pine 
 For thoughts more wild— and words more warm than 
 
 mine! 
 Who pant for tales, where impious jests appear, 
 Where lust moves forth in undisturb'd career — 
 Where murder hails the reader as a friend ! 
 And villainy thrives and triumphs to the end. 
 To such, perhaps, my simple verse may seem 
 Dull as a psalm — and dubious as a dream. 
 To such, my quiet, unassuming song, 
 May look too faint — too frigid — and too long. 
 So let them style it — let them still condemn : 
 I care not — think not — dream not once of them. 
 He, whose free pen is drawn in virtue's cause, 
 Goes forth unmov'd by censure or applause ! 
 Reckless, if fools reprove, or wits regard, 
 He feels within, his solace and reward. 
 
 Who, but in youth's more early day hath seen. 
 Some traveller loitering on the village green ; 
 Who, if by chance, his rapture stricken ear, 
 Happens some wildly warbled air to hear — 
 He stands, as tho' half-rooted to the ground. 
 Nor stops to ask, from whence proceeds the sound? 
 Quick, through each nerve, the thrilhng magic flies — 
 Plays o'er each pulse, and brightens in his eyes ; 
 He tastes the pleasure wliich that sound bestows, 
 Nor waits to ask, from what that pleasure flows?
 
 AN EPISTLE. 7 
 
 Blind to those rules that claim the aid of art, 
 He merely marks the note which strikes the heart ! 
 He feels the spell that prompts him yet to pause— 
 And owns the effect, unconscious of the cause. 
 
 'Tis such a feehng that impels the will 
 To lean, unknowingly, to virtue still. 
 In that bright name, some holy charm is laid, 
 That strikes the soul, without reflection's aid ; 
 Some guiding power, by language undefin'd, 
 Which claims, at once, its empire o'er the mind. 
 Some spell, that e'en when far aside we stray, 
 Commands our homage, tho' the heart's away. 
 This still directs me, Hke a beacon light, 
 And bids me drop, by chance, upon the right ! 
 This still retains an influence in my breast, 
 And leads me, by instinct, unto the best. 
 
 Virtue is general — know nor place nor time 
 Can bar or bound her varying com-se sublime. 
 "Wide o'er the world, wherever hfe hath ran. 
 Or heaven or nature fix't the form of man. 
 WTierever peace, her holy balm hath pour'd, 
 Or truth appear'd (when known) to be ador'd. 
 WTierever feeling holds its softening sway. 
 Or knowledge scatter'd but one lingering ray ! 
 Mark'd by no hmit, settled by no tie, ^ 
 
 In every spot that spreads beneath the sky — > 
 
 Lo ! still she strikes upon the dazzled eye. J 
 
 Each race — each realm — her presence seems to claim, 
 ' Boasting, at least, some mark beyond her name 
 In every state, in every station known, 
 She lights the cot, or lingers near the throne !
 
 5 THE MISANTHROPE : 
 
 Adorns the rich one's elevated head, 
 Or cheers tlie labourer in his lowly shed ! 
 Moves thro' the toiling tribe — the titled train. 
 And acts on all — nor hap'ly acts in vain. 
 
 Was it not charity, as pure and bright 
 
 As ever angels look'd on with delight ; 
 
 That in the gloom of latter times could lead, 
 
 The virtuous V»^ilberforce for slaves to plead. 
 
 Is it a motive of less force that draws 
 
 A Sussex forward in a kindred cause ? 
 
 Is it a feeling, selfish, mean, or weak. 
 
 That bids a Newport, act— a Plunkett, speak? 
 
 Is it mere craft's smooth sentimental cant, 
 
 That prompts the impassion'd eloquence of Grant ? 
 
 Or points a Grattan's* realm-creating tongue, 
 
 \\'ith fire wliich still will make us think him young. 
 
 'Tis still the wish that freedom's rays should fall, 
 
 Even like the sun, with equal light on all. 
 
 Was it a mean, degenerate sort of pride, 
 That went thro* hfe with Howard as a guide ? 
 Say, was it this, which urged him to defy. 
 What others shrunk from, with averted eye ? 
 Think was it this, that led him still to roam, 
 From clime to clime, scarce conscious of a home ? 
 
 Where is that heart, alive to praise or blame, 
 That hath not warm'd or kindled at his name ? 
 
 * Mr. Grattan was alive, and in the full exercise of his ex- 
 traordinary talents, when this was written.
 
 AN EPISTLE. S 
 
 Wlio, but while hearing it hath learn'd to feel 
 Some spark, some portion of his holy zeal ! 
 WTio, but for once, hath wish'd with him to go, 
 At least, in fancy, thio' liis walks of woe. 
 
 By night, by day, his healing hand is found 
 Shedding, like heaven, the sense of bliss around. 
 See, thro' the widow's low and lonely cot 
 He turns — nor is her poverty forgot. 
 Anon he seeks tne dungeon's tainted air. 
 And light, and healtli, and life attend him there. 
 O'er the sick bed he next asserts his sway — 
 Chacing the hends of foul disease away ! 
 In such pursuits his lengthen'd life was past, 
 And in such acts, he lost that life at last. 
 
 Who, but hath turn'd, in undisguis'd distress, 
 To that dim hour of pain and loneliness — 
 When death, in mockery, round his victim play'd, 
 And he, who toil'd for thousands, wanted aid. 
 When far from all that once conspir'd to please, 
 Far from the walks of quiet or of ease ; 
 W^anting each look, each voice, that serv'd to cheer 
 The transient pangs of many a vanish'd year. 
 Stretch'd, in mute torture, on the couch he lay — 
 Life's quiv'ring light still stealing fast away. 
 That pulse beats faintly o'er, those limbs seems cast— 
 A langom- leading to the worst and last ! 
 With that long groan the links of nature part ; 
 Each worn out fibre breaks about the heart ! 
 Cold in each vein a stiffning torpor grows. 
 And dov.n he sinks in silence and repose.
 
 10 THE MISANTHROPE : 
 
 He died— his bones, as yet, were doom'd to lie 
 Bleach'd by the wind that fans a foreign sky ! 
 His form, as yet, a distant tomb confin'd. 
 But still his high example stay'd behind ! 
 Like a calm voice to kindred souls it came 
 As tho' it said, " Go thou and do the same." 
 Urg'd by its force, a Rejaiolds* stretched his hand. 
 And pour'd new blessings on a grateful land. 
 Mov'd by its power, a Pleasants* spread his store. 
 And scatter'd comfort thro' the labouring poor. 
 
 They dropt — yet dream not as they past away, 
 That charity experienced a decay. — 
 'Twere wrong to|think/that when their toils were o'er. 
 Their favorite feeling warm'd the world no more. 
 This hallowed spark to God himself allied, 
 Might sink or droop — but who shall say, it died? 
 Heaven, at the first, ne'er bade it be confin'd 
 To the small limit of one mortal mind ! 
 Ne'er taught it here, with one small group to stay, 
 To cheer one spot, or charm but for a day ! 
 Ne'er formed it thro' one fleeting life to shine — 
 To grace one name, or light one chosen shrine. 
 
 Even here,f before us, in this passing hour, 
 We stop to trace its life-inspiring power. 
 
 ♦ Mr Reynolds of Liverp;;ol, and Mr. Pleasants of Dublin, 
 are the characters alluded to. 
 
 f A religious establishment, has been formed some years ago 
 at Summer-hill, Dublin. — The ladies who are Members of it 
 style themselves " Sisters of Charity," and are bound to visit 
 the sick, relieve the poor, &c. &c.
 
 AN EPISTLE. 11 
 
 Even at this day, in holy robe array 'd, 
 We see its followers seek the cloister d shade. 
 We view the train, who promise to restore 
 Whate'er a Howard sliew'd the world before; 
 We mark the group who share his sacred flame, 
 And do his deeds tho' with another aim. 
 
 'Tis theirs, with firm unfailing step to go. 
 Wherever pity finds the child of woe ! 
 Theirs, the dark haunts of lingering grief to tread. 
 Where guilt is hovering round the weak one's bed! 
 Theirs, still to lull each earth bom care to sleep, 
 To sooth his pangs and tell him not to weep !— 
 Theirs to repress each life-regretting sigh — 
 To point to heaven, and teach him how to die ! 
 'Tis theirs, to hear the gasping sufferer own, 
 " That aid is sweet, from woman's hand alone." 
 
 Oh Charity ! thy far extending reign, 
 Marks each bleak bound of nature's wide domain ; 
 The trackless desert owns thy soft'ning sway, 
 And winds and waves thy awful voice obey ; 
 Thy march is o'er the mountains misty head, 
 And every vale re-echoes to thy thread. 
 
 On yonder wild and solitary strand,* 
 Amidst thy friends, methinks I see thee stand. 
 Cheer'd by the favoring smile, tlie chosen train, 
 Mark with calm eye, the motion of the main — 
 
 • Mr. Sou they in his " History of Brazil," has given an 
 admirable picture of the sufferings and exertions of the Jesuit 
 Missionaries there,— The perusal of his work suggested this 
 passage.
 
 12 THE MISANTHROPE : 
 
 Wide o'er the waterj' waste, they hoist tlie sail, 
 And trust their fate and fortune to the gale ! 
 Urg'd by thy spirit o'el* the waves they steer, 
 Thoughtless of dangers that are lingering near. 
 Led by thy light, around the deep they go, 
 Nor heed the rocks that rest unseen below. 
 
 Oh ! be it thine, at midnight's stillest 1 our, 
 Around their couch, thy holiest balra to pour — 
 O'er each dim eye, thy softest slumbers shed, 
 And wrap in heavenly dreams, each drooping head. 
 O'er each faint form, the watch of friendship keep. 
 And let these accents reach them as they sleep : — 
 " Herald of truth, the voyage now is o'er — 
 " Lo ! wide before us, spreads the long sought shore ; 
 " The startled natives darken all the strand, 
 " And hail the bark that hovers near the land. 
 " Soon shall they learn thy well directed aim — 
 " Soon shall thy lips, the words of life proclaim — 
 " Soon shall their leaders round thy pathway throng, 
 " To hear the wonders of a foreign tongue. 
 
 " Thine be the task before them there to draw 
 
 " Each saintly form that marks the Christian law ! 
 
 t' Let its bright record, to their glance be given, 
 
 " And it shall speak with all the tongues of heaven ! 
 
 " Let the fair pages to their eyes be shewn, 
 
 " And they shall plead with power to thee unknown ; 
 
 " Or pause, and try all simply to unfold 
 
 *' The leading features of the faith you hold ! 
 
 " Take every tint of heaven-created hue, 
 
 " And still the sketch shall have but half its due. 
 
 " Say that its power can calmly lull to rest, 
 
 ** Each torturing pang that tears the throbbing breast ;
 
 AN EPISTLE. 13 
 
 " Say, that its voice can bid suspense depart, 
 
 " And pour a solace on the troubled heart I 
 
 " Tell them to joy, new charms it can bestow, 
 
 " Or even illume the famish'd face of woe ! 
 
 " That all the passions bend to its control, 
 
 " That it refines, and warms, and lifts the soul ! 
 
 " Tell them, that language in its praise must fail — , 
 
 " That learning sinks where faith and truth prevail." - 
 
 This past — the libeller bids us pause and prove, 
 The power, the purity of filial love ! 
 For proofs we seek— the eye is bent around — 
 And lo ! at once, a myriad may be found ! 
 Range where we may, or wander where we can, 
 We find and feel this attribute of man ! 
 Turn the long annals of each altering age. 
 From Israel's Jirst to England's latest page ! 
 Search every nation since its name was known, 
 And every time, down even to our own — 
 In peace or war, prosperity or ill, 
 Amidst our species, dwelt this feeling still. 
 
 Is there a youth by chance condemn'd to roam. 
 Far from the fields that lie around his home : — 
 Whose days roll on to dull regret a prey. 
 Whose dawn of bliss is still an age away ! 
 Wlio to fond hope and fancy give the rein, 
 And mingles deep amidst their dream-struck train ; 
 Who plans within their pleasure-beaming bovver, 
 The frail endearments of the future hour ; 
 Who yields to transport his expanding heart, 
 Nor keeps, for filial tenderness, a part. 
 
 c
 
 14- THE misanthrope: 
 
 Oh ! wliile he bids imagination go 
 
 In quest of joy, he was not born to know ! 
 
 While onward far he sees the wanderer steer, 
 
 Frauglit with the good of every coming year; 
 
 While every early friend again restor'd, 
 
 Joins in mixt mirth around his rural board ; 
 
 While to his arms he sees a sister fly — 
 
 While a young brother meets his moisten'd eye ; 
 
 While rapture forms tlie visionary cot — 
 
 Ask, is a parent banish'd from the spot ? 
 
 Nay ! tho* for years the scorching sun hath shed 
 His withering beams upon that aged head ; 
 Tho' the cold snows of many a wint'ry day, 
 Have bleaclied those hairs that now are thin and grey I 
 Still he will tell thee, that some nameless charm, 
 Hath link'd him closely to that drooping form ; 
 Still will he say, that friends may grace the scene, 
 Or brothers speak, or sisters smile between ; 
 That pampering ease, its tempting power may shew, 
 Or long sought wealth in piles about him grow; 
 That health and youth their mingled good may boast, 
 Without that sire, the whole effect is lost ! 
 
 *Such v,'as the feeling, lovely, warm and kind, 
 
 Tiiat grew and glou'd in Moore's exalted mind ; 
 
 When freely turning from the flattering throng. 
 
 He sought, in joy, the land he lov'd so long ; 
 
 W"hen the gay bark the gifted truant bore. 
 
 And friendship stood to hail him on the shore ; 
 .1 
 
 • This refers to the public dinner given in Dublin to Mr. 
 
 Moore.
 
 AN EPISTLE. 
 
 15 
 
 When his free footsteps trod the chosen soil^ 
 
 Oh ! then that hour was worth an age of toil. 
 
 There, as he trac'd one wide extended dome, 
 
 And turn'd — and look'd — and found himself at-home ! 
 
 There, as he gaz'd and saw, in honest pride, 
 
 Friends or admirers rang'd on every side! 
 
 While blameless ardor shone on every face, 
 
 And mirth and music rose around the place! 
 
 While party prejudice and selfish pride, 
 
 For once, with common voice, were laid aside ! 
 
 While rank seem'd proud the poets hand to claim/ 
 
 And kindred genius dwelt upon his name! 
 
 He mark'd each motion, heard each sentence fall — 
 
 And rose, and tliank'd a father for it all. 
 
 Oh ! filial love ! when the last shock of grief. 
 Bursts on the heart, that dares not hope relief! 
 When the fell forms of wretchedness have spread 
 O'er the pale sufferer's terror stricken head ! 
 When broken hope and baffled pride combine 
 To tear the bosom— then the balm is thine. 
 Who but hath shed the sympathizing tear, 
 When doom'd old Lear's fictitious wongs to hear ! 
 Who but hath lov'd Cordelia's hallow'd name, 
 Or borne her pangs, or wish'd to bear the same ! 
 Who but hath heard of that convulsive start. 
 Which moved the Lydian's uncorrupted heart. 
 When the proud victor in his anger led, 
 Held the broad blade by which the meanest bled, 
 In threatning motion o'er the father's head. 
 Loose o'er his lips the first form'd sentence hung, 
 And the new sound came trembling from hjs tongue ; 
 
 }
 
 1 6 THE MISANTHROPE : 
 
 Burst with impassion'd air ; the quick command 
 He spoke— and harmless hung the soldier's hand- 
 
 And thus, in danger's dark and trying hour,* 
 A feeble female met the arm of power ; 
 
 Daughter of V , it was thine to prove, 
 
 The force — the constancy — of fihal love! 
 Thine, tho' all blameless, with thy sire to share. 
 Thirst— r hunger — grief — a dungeon and despair i 
 
 The m'ght went by — the dreaded mom arose, 
 And vengeance rous'd thee from a sliort repose ; 
 Close by thy couch the gory murderers stood. 
 And shew'd thy father's sentence trac'd in blood ! 
 Gaz'd on their prey M^ith keen malicious eye. 
 And bade him rise — and stand— and dress to die* 
 
 Slowly he went — he breath'd the open air, 
 
 But heard; not long he should be breathing there- 
 
 Calmly he past — he reach'd the fatal ground, 
 
 And stood, and look'd, in steadiness around ! 
 
 The marks of murder near the place were spread; 
 
 He saw — but what has innocence to dread. 
 
 The shriek of terror, echoed in his^ear, 
 
 'Twas sad — but guilt alone should yield to fear ; 
 
 Groupe follow'd groupe, and throng came after throng. 
 
 He hardly mark'd them, as they mov'd along ; 
 
 Threats — prayers — or curses — from their lips might 
 
 fall, 
 Cool and unchang'd he stood— and bora it all. 
 
 • The circumstance mentioned here, actually took place at 
 Wexford, in the rebellion of 1798.
 
 AN EPISTLE. ^'7 
 
 His voice, already, hath each wrong forgiven — 
 His eye, ah-eady, bends its sight to heaven ! 
 Already yielding to the heartless foe, 
 He bows his neck — and bids them strike the blow ! 
 The word is past — the weapon rais'd on high. 
 And stern suspense, marks every anxious eye ! 
 
 Forth from the train, the trembling daughter sprung, 
 And wildly round that outstretch'd neck she clung — > 
 Caught the red blade, its vengeance to delay. 
 And gently turn'd its dreadful edge away ; 
 Call'd on the crowd to lend an earnest ear— 
 A daughter's claim — a daughter's cry to hear ; 
 Entreating each, in pity's tenderest tone, 
 To save that parent's life — or take her own ? 
 
 Mov'd by each tear, and melted by each charm, 
 
 Relenting hatred dropt the uprais'd arm ! 
 
 For once, oh! villainy, thy glance confest 
 
 The power of beauty o'er the throbbing breast ! 
 
 For once, calm cruelty, thy voice could give 
 
 That mild command, which bade the lov'd one live ! 
 
 * ♦ * • » * ' 
 
 ♦ ^ ^ ^ ♦ #• 
 
 If these shall fail, thy slumbering soul to warm, 
 Go gaze on virtue in a different form ; 
 See, she stands forth, thy yielding hand to claim, 
 And asks thy heart — in " friendship's" holy name ! 
 Oh! let thy breast her soothing influence own — 
 Taste the calm joy which dwells with her alone ; 
 Learn from her words, that Eden-born delight — 
 That bliss which reigns where kindred souls unite ;
 
 •^ THi; MISANTHROPE : 
 
 Where blending minds, one common feeling claim — 
 Their turn— their thoughts and temper all the same ; 
 Where mingling hearts with one emotion glow, 
 Chvning one sense of rapture or of woe. 
 
 Old times have heard, at friendship's steady call. 
 How Israel's chieftain wept the son of Saul ! 
 Europe hath seen young Frederick doora'd to rave, 
 With frantic grief o'er Katt's untimely grave ! 
 Youtli urgd him onward, thro' the scenes of pride — 
 Thro' walks unsought, and pleasures still untried ; 
 Thro' joys that hover'd o'er the tent or throne, 
 But all were offer 'd for one friend alone.* 
 
 And such of oId,f the triumph she could boast, 
 When all but truth and steadiness seem'd lost ; 
 When the firm pair, the struggle dar'd to try. 
 And each stood forw ard, seeking but to die ! 
 When each, within the wondering tyrant's sight, 
 Rose to demand destruction as a right ; 
 When each with tranquil air, and temperate tone, 
 Invok'd the torture on himself alone 1 
 
 There the grim despot sat with soul-felt awe. 
 And gaz'd— and gazing, doubted what he saw ! 
 He mark'd the link, by sacred friendship tied — 
 A link, whose firmness, all his force defied 1 
 Stript of each shade, he look'd on virtue there, 
 And slov/ly— silently— confest her fair ; 
 
 * Frederick offered tj yield his claim to the thione of 
 Prussia, if Katt was spared. 
 
 t Every reader will recollect the old tale of Damon and 
 Pythias.
 
 AN EPISTLE. 19 
 
 He own'd her power — acknowledged all her charms, 
 And snatcli'd her children to his shelt'ring arms ! 
 
 ****** 
 **#*** 
 
 And let the murmurer slight the passing time, 
 Scan every fault, and open every crime : 
 Let declamation load the pompous page 
 With every stain that marks this sinking age ; 
 Let discontent, a look of languor cast 
 O'er the bright track of joys already past ; 
 Let drooping age, still doatingly deplore 
 The high form'd hopes that cheer them now no more: 
 Still there are ?pots, remote from pomp and power, 
 "Where each piu'e passion charms the hallow'd hour ; 
 Still there are patlis, beyond the pale of pride, 
 Where love may bloom — or friendship may reside ; 
 Still there are scenes, to splendid life unknown. 
 That honesty and truth can call their own ; 
 Still there are haunts in life's most lowly sphere, 
 ^^'ilere all the virtues in one link appear !
 
 Vit 
 
 THE ROMAN CHARACTER: 
 
 IK AN EPISTLE TO A FEIEND, WHO HAD LENT THE ACTHOR A FEW 
 VOLUMES or HOOKE, GiBBON AND EcHAKO. 
 
 Well, I have read, and paus'd, and blam'd the while, 
 Gibbon's bright points, and Echard's drowsy style ! 
 Thro' Hooka's long periods I have turn'd in pain, 
 Nor wish'd to turn such periods o'er again ! 
 Thro' lines and leaves, and pages I have past, 
 And found old Rome but worthless at the last ! 
 Her long drawn annals I have trac'd with care, 
 And mark'd but proofs of all her failings there. 
 Struck with dislike — for once I throw aside, 
 Those far-fetch'd stories of her guilt and pride ! 
 Plac'd in a heap with other tales they lie, 
 Perchance to glut some carnage-loving eye I 
 But yet to warn the peaceful from the place — 
 Lo ! this inscription on the spot we trace. 
 
 THE INSCRIPTION. 
 
 See, by those lights which still survive the tomb, 
 The rise, the splendor, and the wreck of Rome ! 
 Here, the stern mistress of mankind appears, 
 Mark'd by the changes of succeeding years ! 
 High o'er the realms she takes her threat'ning stand, 
 Fate in her word, and fortune in her hand ! 
 O'er every heighth her blood-mark'd banners fly, 
 On every plain her glaugliter'd victims lie!
 
 AN EPISTLE. 21 
 
 Each distant tract her restless tribes explore, 
 View every clime, and visit every shore ! 
 O'er every wave her fleets in triumph sail, 
 And her loose streamers float on every gale ; 
 Earth's oustretch'd bounds can scarce her plans cor)£ne 
 Nor time set limits to each wild design. 
 
 Anon ! behold the bloated mass decay, 
 See member after member rent away — 
 View her vain trophies torn from off the wall, 
 Her arches moulder, and her temples fall ; 
 Spurn'd by each slave, and foil'd by every foe, 
 She droops a crumbling monument of woe, 
 'Till the broad structure of her far-spread fame. 
 Sinks tQ a sound and dwindles to a name ! 
 
 And tho' her story in one sketch combin'd, 
 May strongly catch the unreflecting mind ! 
 The' her long pageants, as ihey there arise. 
 May shed a treach'rous light in vulgar eyes ! 
 Still, if around one searching glance is thrown, 
 Amidst the whole scarce one clear page is shewn. 
 One leaf, perhaps, records a deed of pride. 
 And lo ! some act of shame is at its side. 
 Here, some good trait for our applause may call, 
 And there, some blemish oveixlouds it all. 
 
 Pause — and unclose the chosen book again, 
 And see each turn distinguish 'd by a stain. 
 From age to age tliro' Rome's dark annals go, 
 And see her glory form'd from other's woe ! 
 Thro' the wide world where'er her soldiers steer, 
 Terror and death around their path appear ! 
 
 D
 
 22 THE ROMAN CHARACTER. 
 
 Amidst the nations where the wanderers roam, 
 They shew the vices only nurs'd at-home ! 
 Sullen, though giddy — she«y, yet unclean — 
 Cruel, as masters — and as vassals mean ! 
 Ready for gain, mi foes or friends to fall— 
 Still seeking more when weakness yielded all ! 
 Remembering wrongs when their effect had past, 
 Blood-thirsty — harsh, and stubborn to the last. 
 
 Once in an age perhaps a light may glare, 
 Merely remarkable, because 'tis rare ! 
 A few great names by chance relieve the sight. 
 Like glimmering stars that sparkle thro' the night ! 
 Even the first glance will teach us to admire, 
 Old Cincinatus in his plain attire ! 
 The eye may turn with complacence and pride. 
 To where grim Afiick's willing victim died! 
 Or the full bosom hail the happy hour, 
 "When good Aurelius held the reins of power ! 
 These still must claim an interest in the breast, 
 But something sheds a gloom around the rest. 
 
 Brutus may serve his country if he will, 
 Tho' nature cries, he was a father still ! 
 Cato, with firm unyielding pride may die, 
 Yet even a coward thus can break the tie! 
 Or Marcus* wish to see a tyrant bleed, 
 And still a friend need not have done the deed. 
 
 Take them at large, their character survey. 
 In fortune's gloomy or propitious day ! 
 
 * Marcus Brutus.
 
 AN EPISTLE. 23 
 
 Mark them as times eventful turns arose, 
 In peace or war, in tumult or repose ! 
 See them, when monarch's shudder'd at their frown, 
 When friendless nations at their nod went down ! 
 Wlien suffering weakness still was in the wrong, 
 And right and justice rested with the strong,! 
 Or view them stooping the subjected head. 
 When o'er their fields the Vandal victor's spread ! 
 When meanly crawling round a conqueror's throne, 
 They begg'd one boon — a worthless life alone :— 
 See this — and here, with injur'd truth exclaim — 
 *' Are these, the first, the favorite heirs of fame ! 
 " Are these the people prais'd in every tongue, 
 " By scribes remember'd, and by poets sung! 
 '• Hence with these tales — this fraud no more pursue, 
 " Rome rear'd a gloomy, grira, rapacious crew,",
 
 ISABEL. 
 
 That breeze again ! 'tis soothing— and the scene 
 O'er which warm admirations straying eye, 
 Still turns as in a wildly worshipping mood, 
 Doth' wear a f^ce so beauteous, so serene, 
 So full of all which wins in solitude, 
 That the lull'd spirit yields as to a spelf, 
 Of mildest might— but irresistible, 
 And sinks to lonehest gentleness subdued. 
 'Tis such a scene', that if dn angel view'd 
 Its beauty, from his pathway in the sky — 
 Marking where slope or valley intervene, 
 Or flowery cliif, or mossy crag protrude. 
 Or grove, or forest, rear their heads on high ; 
 Well might it to that blessed one recall. 
 The memory of that spot where e'er his fall, 
 Man, with the sons of heaven, each pledge of peace 
 renew'd. 
 
 It is a place of stillness — which to view 
 
 With the quick eye, that feeling doth bequeath^ 
 
 At life's first opening, to a privileg'd few, 
 
 (Favor'd of heaven 'midst all that move beneath,) 
 
 Tends by some strange and secret power to breath 
 
 Around the soften'd bosom, a deep glow 
 
 Of holiest melancholy — sad, but sweet — 
 
 And held, perchance, even irksome, by the train. 
 
 Who down life's common current gaily go — 
 
 But the calm minded chosen ones who know 
 
 The lone and lovely visistant, will greet
 
 ISABEL. 2i 
 
 Its soft return, even tho' allied to pain, 
 W ith looks more light — and welcome more sincere 
 Than boisterous mirth in his uncheck'd career 
 Of wantonness and wit, hatli e'er been doom d to 
 know. 
 
 Forth moves the morn in beauty — and the clouds 
 
 Of rosy brilliancy, that float upon 
 
 The far horizon, (where yon broad hill shrouds, 
 
 As yet, from the strain'd eye, the ascending sun,) 
 
 Gaily and gradually before her run i 
 
 And onward walks the bright one — while around 
 
 Her dew-bespangled footpath — the green earth 
 
 Spreads out its glens, and glades, and vales profound— 
 
 Not in the glaring noontide mood of mirth, 
 
 When the heart swells in nature's wild excess — 
 
 But in that holy quiet-breathing air, 
 
 For ever pensive — and for ever fair! 
 
 The soft soul winning one of silent loneliness. 
 
 It is calm wisdom's hour — for silence brings 
 
 The spirit to involuntary thought ! 
 
 It is devotions chosen moment too — 
 
 For now the wandering one who loves to view 
 
 Nature, in dewy freshness, walks abroad ; 
 
 And as the objects burst upon his sight 
 
 In all the softness of the morn's young light. 
 
 Wildly and warmly to each shape he clings ; 
 
 Be it far distant or near man's abode — 
 
 Still, still he clings to it — and in a tone 
 
 Of piety, that makes the spirit known, 
 
 He yields the meed of glory to tliat God, 
 
 Whose forming hand, such lovely works hatli WTOUglit, 
 
 It is the hour of fancy — for the tread
 
 26 ISABEL. 
 
 Of traveller, on his journey, lingering near. 
 Or loiterer, in his wanderings, onward led, 
 Conies not in tliis soft moment on the ear ; 
 Gaily, the wayward one may riot here 
 In waking di'eani, or stirless reverie — 
 While not one httle sound shall interfere, 
 Or one obtrusive object break by chance 
 That dt-ar delicious, rapture-giving trance, 
 Which shuts pain out — and leaves the spirit free, 
 To feast on high-born thoughts of holiest harmony <, 
 
 * * ♦ • * * 
 
 'Twas on a morn like this — I mark'd it well — 
 That down the Bann's smooth daisy-cover'd side, 
 Slowly and silently was seen to ghde 
 The lovely and beloved Isabel ! 
 She, of old Toome's old house, the brightest flower ; 
 She, of her young Compeers, the life and grace ; 
 She, the seducing one, whose richest dower 
 Dwelt in the soft'ning features of that face, 
 Brigiit with the deep expression of a mind — 
 Kindly, and yet reserved— and firm, altho' refin'd ! 
 
 Sweetly upon that maiden's eye arose 
 
 The morn in her attire of misty grey; 
 
 That morn brought in that maiden's wedding day — 
 
 And wlien the youthful heart dilates in joy, 
 
 Each hue or shape that comes upon the eye 
 
 When gaz d upon in stillness, doth disclose 
 
 An air of beauty, all unmark'd by those 
 
 Who own, of the calm pulse, a gentler play 1
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 This life is all vicissitude — the circumstance 
 O'er which we pause, in tremulous mood to day, 
 Is, on the morrow's dawn, obliterated 
 By one of stranger import. Mutability 
 Pervadeth all we gaze on — ^it doth hang 
 Like a deep spell, in gloom upon the universe 
 Marking the skies above us, and the earth 
 On wliich we move, with its portentous shadow. 
 
 Ages and times, and years have worn away— 
 
 Seasons have had their changes — and the light 
 
 Of heaven, ten thousand times hath gleam'd and faded ; 
 
 Youth, in its gay career, hath crost our path, 
 
 And we have look'd upon it, as a vision, 
 
 Too lovely to be lasting — or have sigh'd 
 
 In the corroding soreness of the thought. 
 
 That all the quickness of the light young step — 
 
 The radiance of the eye — or the bright hues 
 
 That ran, in beauteous streaks, across the cheek. 
 
 Where health appear'd, in gaiety, to riot ; 
 
 Were not the pledge of firmness — nor a boon 
 
 Of long continuing tenor. — 
 
 Time, fate and chance make merry with the turns 
 
 Of man in his small element — he moves — 
 
 And all fall fast around him — even the earth, 
 
 Goodly and fair, and fruitful as it is. 
 
 Hath not been privilcg'd
 
 28 THE WORLD. 
 
 Mountains have sunk — and wide and populous Isles 
 Have risen and disappeared — the streams have rang'd 
 Even from their wonted course, and ceas'd to flow 
 Where they had flow'd for ages— the loud roar 
 Of ocean is scarce heard upon the spot, 
 Where ouce, in mirthful mood, the mariner anchor'd. 
 
 And power and glory, and dominion too 
 Are, as the rest, all varHng — wide on earth 
 Sstretch'd the proud Persian's sceptre ; and the nations 
 ^lumber'd in gloom beneath it — when the Greek 
 From the vile trance arous'd them, and went forth 
 Moulding new realms and raising other states. 
 For Rome, in turn to conquer. On they past 
 Victors and vanquish 'd — and the eye that turn'd, 
 .Even now, to gaze, in fearful wonder on them, 
 Was sccU-ceIy~€los"d in death, when the proud pile 
 Of hlood-cemented greatness, slowly vanish 'd, 
 And gave to other hands, and other names. 
 The mastery of the world.—
 
 SONG. 
 
 A Lady rather young, and if I cannot say, beautiful, I 
 may, at least, use the novellist's favorite phrase, interesting — 
 requested me some time since, to write a Love-Song, assuring me, 
 at the same moment, that in order to excel in the composition 
 of one, it was not requisite to be touch'd with the malady — I 
 tried — and the following specimen is given, to convince the 
 lady of her mistake : — 
 
 Sweet spirit of love, some trifler's say, 
 
 That thy pleasures are mix'd with woe- 
 Sweet spirit of love, some triflers say, 
 ^ That thy pleasures are mix'd with woe— 
 That thy pleasures are niix'd with woe — • 
 That thy pleasures are mix'd with wee- 
 That thy flowers look fair 
 In the sunshiny air, 
 While the thorns beneath them grow. 
 
 Sweet spirit! 'tis thus the triflers feel, 
 
 \Vlio from beauty to beauty run — 
 Sweet spirit 'tis thus the triflers feel. 
 
 Who from beauty to beauty run — 
 
 Who from beauty to beauty run — 
 
 Who from beauty to beauty run — 
 Who sigh at the feet 
 
 Of each maid that they meet. 
 But have never been true to one. 
 
 E
 
 gQ A CHARACTER. 
 
 Sweet spirit, may false ones ever be doom'd, 
 
 Of love, but to feel the pain- 
 Sweet spirit, may false ones ever be doom'd, 
 Of love, but to feel the pain— 
 Of love, but to feel the pain— 
 Of love, but to feel the pain— 
 
 And when they grow old 
 May each nymph they behold, 
 StUi leave them to feel it in vain. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 The years wore fast away— and still she rose, 
 
 In stature and in beauty ; the soft winds 
 
 Of twenty springs had past across her cheek, g| 
 
 And made its hue more lovely.— In her shape ^ 
 
 Was all the lightness of the tenderest ozier. 
 
 And all its ease and all its flexibility ! 
 
 Her eye, when resting, bad a cast of gentleness ; 
 
 But when it mov'd in mirth, in its gay glance 
 
 Centred a liveliness, thro' which the spirit 
 
 Beam'd in bewild'ring brightness.
 
 VINDICATION OF POETRY. 
 
 An Epistle, addressed to an old gentleman, on hearing 
 bim warn a very young relative against poetical pursuits, as 
 subversive of industry, morality, and peace of mind. 
 
 Go! dotard, go ! and if it suits thy mind, 
 
 Range yonder rocks, and reason with the wind ; 
 
 Or if its motions own another's will, 
 
 Walk to the beach and bid the waves be still. 
 
 In newer orbits let the planets run, 
 
 Or throw a cloud of darkness on the sun ! 
 
 A measur'd movement bid the comets keep, 
 
 Qjr lull the music of the spheres to sleep ! 
 
 These may obey thee, but the fiery soul 
 
 Of genius, owns not, brooks not, thy control. 
 
 Turn hence and join yon dirt-engender'd train, 
 Who love, or learn, but gluttony or gain ; 
 Whose nature seems one strangely mingled whole- 
 Nine-tenths of body, and the rest not soul ! 
 Whose hopes and fears, and feelings all repose 
 In that low slime from whence they first arose. 
 Go ! and with these shine fi>rth, a wit at least, 
 Talk of the last strange failure, or new feast ; 
 Shew what fair profits usury can afford, 
 Or who pays best, the commoner or lord ? 
 Tell who may win, or lose, the latest bet — 
 Who's last on change — or first in the gazette !
 
 32 VINDICATION OF POETUY. 
 
 Stili to such objects be thy care confin'd. 
 
 But leave— oh leave! each bright'ning thought behind. 
 
 Still on such subjects let thy depth be shewn, 
 
 But let the faults of poesy alone — 
 
 It's forms and laws, and nature, are to thee 
 
 A secret— a mere riddle — a mystery ! 
 
 * . « * * * * 
 
 Nay, thou wilt talk, and raving, shall revile, 
 The race who court the muses favoring smile — 
 Proving, that those who round her haunts repair, 
 Turn, in mere idleness, to loiter there ; 
 That \vasted spendthrifts by her accents cauglit, 
 May there experience a relief from thought ; 
 That wither'd spinsters o'er her strains may pore, 
 Or children start at tales untold before ; ^^ 
 
 That giddy boyhood may from m him admire 
 Those words, or thoughts, that prompt impm-e desire ; 
 That pride, or prejudice, her power may own. 
 While reason mai-ks it with contempt alone. 
 Thus far— yet pause — nor let the soul of youth 
 Imbibe these maxims, void of force and truth ; 
 For once, e'er poesy be thrown aside, 
 Behold her claims with steady justice tried ; 
 For once, with calm reflecting temper view 
 What she hath done, and what she still can do. 
 
 Know, that her words can humble or reclaim 
 The wretch who mocks religions holy name ; 
 Learn, that fak freedom's never-baffled cause, 
 Hath shar'd her smile, and won her warm applause I 
 
 1
 
 VINDICATION OF POETRY. 3i 
 
 Think, that calm equal justice never knew 
 A friend more constant, or a guide more true ; 
 That truth, even truth itself, hath often known 
 That voice to plead with power beyond her own. 
 
 True, the fair page of fiction may reveal 
 
 Scenes that low-minded prudence might conceal : 
 
 True, the wild walks of genius may di.sclose 
 
 The weed and flower, the bramble and the rose ! 
 
 For once the bard his character may stain, 
 
 Where scandal points, or lust excites a strain ! 
 
 For once, from nature he may start aside, 
 
 While bright'ning guilt, or soothing childish p ixle 1 
 
 This we admit, but candor tells us still. 
 
 To place, with care, the good against the ill ; 
 
 To bring, at once, the varying parts to view, 
 
 To hold the briglit, but shew the gloomy too. 
 
 Perhaps a Sedley, with seducing art. 
 
 May pour his poison through the throbbing heart ! 
 
 A Prior, perchance, may bid the bosom glow 
 
 With such desires as youth should never know ! 
 
 A winning Armstrong tempt the soul to rove, 
 
 Uncheck'd thro' all the labyrinths of love; 
 
 Or Swift coi;j^firm, and sanction with his name, 
 
 Lines that will put plain decency to shame ! 
 
 From these, in scorn, in hatred, start away. 
 And pause for Milton's heaven-directed lay! 
 Hear Pope explain creation's sacred plan, 
 Clearing the ways of providence to man ; 
 Bid Young adorn the wondering vvorld once more, 
 Or crush the vices that he curb'd before ;
 
 Gi VINDICATION OF POETRY. 
 
 Tor Thomson, burst the gloomy grave's domain, 
 And let old nature bless her bard again ; 
 Let moral Blair his gloomy dirge prolong, 
 Or call for Beattie's rapture-breathing song ; 
 Or trace in Cowper's monitory strain, 
 Genius with virtue link'd, nor link'd in vain. 
 
 These names still stand, but were their influence o'er, 
 Ev'n did their memory move the world no more ; 
 Did all tlie strains which still inspire delight. 
 Sink deep in dread oblivions starless night ! 
 Did all those sounds that charm the fair or brave, 
 Rest v/ith their authors in the narrow grave ; 
 Still there are souls in kindred feeling warm, 
 Moving around us iu an earthly form ; 
 Still there are some to vulgar vision shewn, 
 Mark'd with a genius of as proud a tone ; 
 Still there are men by fame's wild meteor led, 
 Born to succeed the long-regretted dead. 
 
 Go I learn from Byron, in thy thinking hour, 
 A generous scorn of ill-exerted pow'r : — 
 Trace in the spirit-movmg strains of Moore, 
 The pangs that love, and u-orth, and beauty bore I 
 Catch that wild ardour unsubdu'd and strong, 
 That proudly glows in ]Maturin's tragic song ! 
 JIaxims of peace let Wordsworth's leaf supply, 
 Or take from' Southey, thoughts that cannot die; 
 Or turn, and in the page of Campbell find, 
 i fervour, v/orthy of a frcc-born mind. 
 
 4
 
 THE PROGRESS OF VIRTUE, 
 
 A Fragment * 
 
 * # # * * 
 
 Sophists may say, that polish'd states alone 
 Can claim the higher virtues as their own ; 
 That the bright thought which lights the warrior's eye, 
 Or warms the bard, or bids the patriot die ! 
 That love, humanity, paternal care, 
 Or filial truth, can flourish only there : — 
 That firmness, valour, patience under toil- 
 That freedom's self can own no other soil. 
 
 Spum'd be the thought !— in many a rugged clime 
 
 Are breasts, that beat with generous zeal sublime ! 
 
 There are, who breathe beneath a different sky, 
 
 WJio look on despots with disdainful eye ! 
 
 There are, who stand with firm unbending knee. 
 
 In darkness born, but v.orthy to be free. 
 
 Has not old Tauris boldly rais'd the spear, 
 
 To meet wild Timur in his mad career ? 
 
 Have not Albania's melancholy throng, 
 
 Pour'd o'er their Castriot's grave the falt'ring song ? 
 
 Have not the followers of Ragotski shewn, 
 
 A truth, a zeal, peculiarly their own ? 
 
 * This fragment was written several years ago, however, as 
 the sentiments in it are not mean or ser\'ile, the author h«s 
 thought fit to publish it with some additions.
 
 36 THE PROGRESS OF VIRTUE. 
 
 Or Inter yet, have not poor Parga's train, 
 
 Stood forth for freedom — nor stood forth in vain ? 
 
 And lo! in world's beyond the Atlantic tide, 
 Where patient heaven look'd long on Spanish pride! 
 Where slavery broke the millions to her will, 
 And bade them stoop, and suffer, and be still ! 
 W^here Avarice, o'er its tortur'd victim stood, 
 And where vile- gold was wanting, call'd for blood! 
 Where pious ignorance in saintly stole, 
 Bound in one link, the body and the soul ! 
 Where childish luxury spread her silken chain. 
 And freedom look'd, but thought she look'd in vain ; 
 There, even there, truth's never-dying ray, 
 Hath pour'd the gleam of intellectual day ! 
 Where far-stretch'd Andes lifts his brow sublime, 
 Serenely struggling with the storms of time ! 
 Loose to the winds the warning torch is spread, 
 To tell the world, that pi-ejudice is dead ; 
 There, hath the slave with v, ild indignant pride, 
 Broke from his trance, and dash'd his chains aside ! 
 Spurn'd the weak termors that he feign'd before — 
 Turn'd to the strife, and' thought of toils no more ! 
 Found his fair station in the social plan, 
 Look'd round on earth, and felt himself a man.
 
 THE BURIAL. 
 
 Written at Arcath, in the County of Meath, after witnessing 
 the interment of a very dear friend. 
 
 Tis past— that mJuld of heavy hue 
 
 That backward rolls again, 
 Hath clos'd for ever from our view, 
 
 The form we watch'd in vain ! 
 And cold and narrow is the place, 
 Where lock'd in death's abhorr'd embrace 
 
 That form must still remain ; 
 'Till nerve and artery, flesh and bone, 
 Shall be as dust and dust alone. 
 
 And is this spot, so damp and dim, 
 
 This dark and cheerless cell. 
 Now the sble resting place of him, 
 
 Belov'd so long, so well ! 
 God ! it is painful hence to steer, ■ 
 And think that one so lately dear. 
 
 In such a scene should dwell ; 
 His latest garb the sod new prest, 
 And the long worm his only guest. 
 
 And free the peasant's path is made, 
 Across this spreading stone — 
 
 As tho' the bones before him laid, 
 Were common as his own ! 
 
 Such might they be— but yet the mindf 
 
 F
 
 38 THE BURIAL. 
 
 Which the cold clay beneath enshrin'd, 
 
 Was of no vulgar tone ; 
 Nay, it was one whose light should save, 
 Its owner's raemory from the grave. 
 
 The pulse that throbb'd at pity's call. 
 
 The hand still stretch'd to woe— 
 The full free heart that felt for all, 
 
 Keep motionless below ! 
 That cheek hath lost its ruddy dye. 
 And rayless rests that beaming eye, 
 Where mirth was wont' to glo^v ! 
 All, all, that friendships soul could cheer 
 In loneliness, must moulder here. 
 
 'Tis sad to mark that skull deck'd hearse, 
 
 That solemn pall and plume — 
 The slow said prayer, the chaunted verse, 
 
 The coffin and its gloom ! 
 And still what are they — things of shew, 
 That shed a borrow'd air of woe, 
 
 About the quiet tomb ; 
 Mere shadowy emblems form'd to scare, 
 The pitying spirits lingering there. 
 
 Oh ! if the atheists words were true, 
 
 If those we seek to save, 
 Sink — and in sinldng from our view. 
 
 Are lost beyond the grave ! 
 If life thus clos'd — how dark and drear, 
 Would thus bewilder'd earth appear, 
 
 Scarce worth the dust it gave ;
 
 THE SUSPENSE. 39 
 
 A tract of black sepulchral gloom, 
 One yowning, ever opening tomb. 
 
 Blest be that strain of high belief, 
 
 More heaven-like, more sublime — 
 Which says, that souls that part in griefi 
 
 Part only for a time ! 
 That far beyond this speck of pain. 
 Far o'er the gloomy graves domain 
 
 There spreads a brigliter clime ; 
 Where care and toil and trouble o'er. 
 Friends meet, and meeting, drop no more. 
 
 THE SUSPENSE. 
 
 The heritage of each that breathes is pain, 
 
 And each hath seen it varying — but of all 
 
 The shapes in which the torturer hath arrayed hira^ 
 
 Methinks there's one most fearful ! — 
 
 Yea ! 'midst the feelings that doth tend to bless 
 
 Or curse us, in the long and wearing way 
 
 That guideth from the cradle to the grave ! 
 
 That which doth probe the bosom with a keenness 
 
 Beyond the reach of others — is suspense 
 
 Absolute joy, or misery, finds the spirit 
 Even form'd and moulded for the visitation ; 
 Gifi-ed with power proportion'd to the trial : 
 But different is it when this doubting fiend 
 Comes, like a plague upon us. When the brain 
 
 Is whirl'd from fear to hope, from hope to frenzy 
 
 Unconscious of a resting place. Far different
 
 40 THE SUSPENSE. 
 
 Seems the frail struggler, when he stands, unfixt, 
 Tottering in fearful restlessness between 
 The dark extremes of torture and of transport ! 
 Here, Hell yauns wide, and the next breeze that com€=. 
 Even bends him towards Elyziuin. 
 
 r I N 1 s.
 
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