UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES ~>, O S OF THOMAS D'ARCY M C GEE WITH COPIOUS NOTES. atx |ntrobnttion snir Biographical BY MKS. J. SADLIER. I'd rather tnrn one simple verse True to the Gaelic ear, Than classic odes I might rehearse With Senates list'ning near. Ate Gee. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gush from the heart As rain from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Longfellow. LONDON: NEW YORK : MONTREAL: D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET BOSTON : P. H. BRADY, 149 TREMONT STREET. MONTREAL : COR. NOTRE DAME AND ST. FRANCIS XAVJER STREET. 1870. Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1869, By D. & J. SADLIER & CO., In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. Stereotyped ky VINCBXT DILL, U A 11 New Chambcra St, N. Y -ps .35-9 1870 PREFACE. THE poems which are now for the first tune presented in a collective form to the public, were gathered together from various parts of the Old and the New World. Very many of them were written for the Dublin Nation, as well under Mr. Sullivan's as Mr. Duffy's editorial management. VI j It seemed to be one of Mr. McGee's most lingering fancies, to keep up his m ^ connection all his life long with the far-famed journal ia whose brilliant : pages he had made his name as a poet. The several volumes of the jour- nals he himself edited, namely, the New York Nation, the American Celt, OH and the New Era, Mrs. McGee supplied from his own library. Some of ^f O3 the poems appeared in Duffy's Hibernian Magazine, to which he was also " an occasional contributor, and others in the Boston Pilot. Many of the Z best of his later poems were written for the New York Tablet, the last 8 ""* journal with which he was connected ; not a pecuniary connection, but simply one of friendship, and community of thought and feeling with its inductors, one of whom has the sad privilege of editing his poems. I am indebted to the Messrs. Sullivan, of the Dublin Nation, Mr. Donahoe, , proprietor of the Boston Pilot, and several private friends of Mr. McGee's, for transcribed copies of poems ; also to Mr. Meehan, of the New York Irish American, for files of Duffy's Nation, without which I could not have completed my collection. By Major Maher, of New Haven, Ct, I was loaned the missing volume of the American Celt for 1852. Those written for the Boston Pilot were, of course, juvenile productions, lacking the grace and finish we find in those of his later years. These I have placed as a sort of appendix at the end of the volume. Unfortunately, some of the j v PKEI'ACE. poems are still wanting, as I observed on the author's lists of his poems the names of some that I could nowhere find some, too, of the most valu ablesuch as "The Spoiling of Armorica," " St. Bridget and St. Flaine," "Earl Sigud and his Sons," "The Vale of Angels," "The Dog of Augh- rim," "The Isle of St. Iberius," and other historical poems. Should any of these be found hereafter, they will be given in another edition. In the arrangement of the poems, I have followed the actual course ot our poet's mind. I have placed the Patriotic poems first, the Legendary and Historical next, then the Poems of the Affections, the Occasional or Miscellaneous, and lastly, the Religious, which, happily for him, repre sented the last phase of his mind. The Historical Poems, it will be seen, I have arranged chronologically, following the course of the history of the Irish Celts, including their life in their new American home. The Biographical Sketch being merely intended as a key to the poems, I would respectfully request the reader to read it first, then the Introduc tion, which will prepare the way for the poems themselves. Some errors will be detected by critics in the rhyme of certain of the poems, none, however, in the rhythm, which, in all, is perfect. I have done what I legitimately could to correct errors, which the author himself would have done in a general revision, had he lived to prepare his works for publication. Some of the defects in rhyme I could not venture to correct without taking unwarrantable liberties with the author's thought. The editing of these scattered remains of a genius all too soon extin guished in death, was truly a labor of love to one who knew the lamented author long and well, and from an intimate knowledge of his many noble qualities of head and heart, set a high value on his friendship. This collection of his poems is as complete as I could make it, and such as it is, I commend it to public favor as a volume of genuine poetry, springing from a heart that was deeply imbued with a love of the beautiful, the good, the heroic. M. A. S. NEW YoRtf, November 18. 1869. CONTENTS. PAGE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR 15 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS 41 PATRIOTIC POEMS: A Fragment 160 A Harvest Hymn 99 Along the Line 161 A Malediction 69 A mere Irishman's Lament 79 Am I Remember' d 159 An Apology to the Harp 61 An International Song 164 An Invitation Westward 146 Another Year 143 A Profession 157 Arm and rise ! 163 A Salutation 138 A Salutation to the Free Flag of America 131 A Song for the Sections 71 A Vow and Prayer 123 Change 89 Death of the Homeward Bound 102 Deeds done in Days of Shame 84 Dream Journeys 140 Freedom' s Journey 160 Freedom's Land 75 Hail to the Land 67 Home Sonnets Address to Ireland 125 Hope 96 It is easy to Die 92 Lord Gl gall's Dream 154 Midsummer, 1851 151 Native Hills 141 New- Year's Thoughts 87 No Surrender 83 Ode to an Emigrant Ship 93 O'Donnell of Spain 147 y j CONTENTS. PAGE Oh ! blame me not 128 Prologue to St. Patrick at Tara H* Question and Answer 1 Rise and go I 55 Rocks and Rivers 86 Salutation to the Celts I 35 Song of the Sikhs 74 Song of the Surplus I 49 Sonnet I 30 Sonnet Return 139 The ancient Race 132 The Army of the West 73 The Celt's Consolation 82 The Dawning of the Day 90 The deserted Chapel 77 The Emigrant at Home 64 The Exile's Devotion 108 The Exile's Meditation 105 The Exile's Request 134 The Gathering of the Nations 85 The Heart's Resting-place 127 The Living and the Dead 101 The Parting from Ireland 10G The Pilgrims of Liberty 65 The Reaper's Song 98 The Recusant 81 The Saint's Farewell 110 The Search for the Gael 91 The Song of Labor 112 The Three Dreams 104 The Three Minstrels 63 Time's Teachings 142 To Duffy, Free 120 To Duffy in Prison 116 To my Wishing-cap Ill Try again 156 Union is Strength 136 When Fighting was the Fashion 95 Wishes 148 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS: A Ballad of Pxinnow 271 Address to Milesius . 171 CONTENTS. v ij PAGE After the Flight 312 A Legend of Dunltice Castle 265 A Legend of St. Patrick 192 Amcrgin's Anthem on discovering Innisfail 174 An Invocation 170 A Prayer for Feargal O'Gara 323 Brother Michael 317 Bryan, the Tanist *. . 213 Carolan the Blind 329 Cathal's Farewell to the Eye 223 Charity and Science 338 Death of Art M'Murrough 267 De Courcy's Pilgrimage 258 Epithalamium 256 Execution of Archbishop Plunkett 328 Feagh M'Hugh 297 Flan Synan's Game of Chess 209 How St. Kiernan protected Clonmacnoise 214 In-felix Felix 325 lona 219 lona to Erin ! 221 Ireland of the Druids 181 Kildare's Bard on Tournaments 283 King Brian's Ambition 246 King Brian's Answer 248 King Brian's Lament for his Brother Mahon 248 King Malachy and the Poet M'Coisi 245 Lady Gormley 211 Lament of the Irish Children imprisoned in the Tower 298 Lay of the last Monk of Mucruss 306 Lost, lost Armada 304 Margaret O'Carroll 277 Mileodh Espagne 172 Origin of the Isle of Man 179 Queen Mary's Mercy 283 Randall M'Donald 279 Rory Dall's Lamentation 314 Saint Bees . y . 860 Saint Columbanus in Italy to Saint Comgall hi Ireland 231 Shawn Na Gow's Guest 345 Sir Cahir O'Dogherty's Message 309 Song of " Moylnn's Dragoons " 336 Song of O'Donnell in Spain 303 fill CONTENTS. PAGE Sonnet to Kilbarron Castle 324 St. Brendan and the Strife-sower 199 St. Cormac, the Navigator 229 St. Patrick's Death 198 St. Patrick's Dream 187 St. Patrick's first Converts 189 St. Patrick's of the woods 351 The Abbey of Lough Key 357 The Banshee and the Bride 285 The Battle of Ayachucho 352 The Battle of Clontarf 249 The Caoine of Donnell More 228 The Captivity of St. Patrick 185 The Celts 17G The Coming of St. Patrick 184 The Coming of the Danes 235 The Connaught Chief's Farewell 326 The Croppies' Grave 334 The Death of Donnell More 225 The Death of King Magnus Barefoot 237 The Death of O'Carolan 333 The Famine in the Land 339 The flying Ships 342 The four Masters 320 The Gobhan Saers 178 The Harp of King Brian 169 The haunted Castle 355 The Irish Homes of Illinois 348 The Irish Wife 282 The Landing of the Normans 255 The Last 0' Sullivan Beare 315 The Legend of Croagh Patrick 195 The Love Charm 286 The outlawed Earl C.Q-. The Penitence of Don Diego Bias . 262 The Pilgrimage of Sir Ulgarg 280 The Poet's Prophecy g00 The Praise of Margaret O'Carroll of Offally 274 The Rapparees 01 A The Saga of King Olaf, of Norway, and his Dog 240 The Shanty ' 349 The sinful Scholar .. 05" The Summons of Ulster i CONTENTS. i PAGE The Testament of St. Arbogast 233 The Voyage of Eman Oge 201 The wild Geese 332 The ' ' Wisdom-sellers ' ' before Charlemagne 205 The woful Winter 343 Three Sonnets for St. Patrick's Day 194 To the River Boyne 330 'Tvvas something then to be a Bard 284 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY: An Eastern Legend 373 A Plea for Spain 407 Caleb and Joshua 374 Columbus 383 Diephon 365 Hannibal's Vision of the Gods of Carthage 368 Jacques Cartier 387 Jacques Cartier and the Child 389 ' ; Our Ladye of the Snow !" 393 Re-conquest of the Spanish Land 380 Sebastian Cabot to his Lady '. 385 The Answer of Simonides 370 The Death of Hudson 398 The Jews in Babylon 372 The Launch of the Griffin 404 The Maccabees 376 The Star of the Magi and of Bethlehem 378 The Virgin Mary's Knight 381 Verses in honor of Margaret Bourgeoys 391 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS: A Death-song 419 A Dream of Youth 445 A Monody on the Death of Gerald Griffin 436 An Invitation to the Country 429 Cead mille failthe, O'Meagher ! 435 Consolation 439 Edward Whelan 465 Eugene O'Curry 457 Home Thoughts 428 I love thee, Mary ! 425 In Memoriam 433 In Memoriam. . . . 441 CONTENTS. A>f) In Memoriam Lines written in a Lady's Album 424 Live for Love 42 Mary's Heart Memento Mori Memento Mori 4 Memories ' Requiem JSternam 4G ^ St. Kevin's Bed 416 Sursum Corda 455 The dead Antiquary, O'Donovan 448 The Death-bed 430 The Exile 421 The Parting " 413 The Priest of Perth 463 Thoughts of Ireland 414 To a Friend in Australia 444 To Mary in Ireland 417 To Mary's Angel 423 To Mr. Kennedy, the Scottish Minstrel 461 William Smith O'Brien 446 Wishes ,- 460 Words of Welcome 443 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS: A Contrast 495 Ad Misericordiam 505 An Epicurean Ditty 489 A Plea for the Poor 492 A small Catechism 532 Autumn and Winter 531 Contentment 501 Dark blue Eyes 478 Donna Violetta 493 False Fear of the World 488 God be praised 485 God Bless the Brave ! 514 Grandma Alice 506 Graves in the Forest 491 Hallowe'en in Canada 1863 510 Icebergs 522 Impromptu 523 Independence , 530 CONTENTS. x PAGE Irish Proverbs 480 Lines, written on the eighty-second Anniversary of the birth of Thomas Moore 500 Lines written on the Fly-leaf of a Book 493 " Lough Derg." 482 My Round Table 473 Peace hath her Victories 625 Prima Vista 533 Rich and Poor 496 Sunset on the Corso at Rome 518 Tasso's Tomb at Rome 520 The Charter Song of the Tom Moore Club 498 The farther Shore 511 The Lady Mo- Bride 529 The Lord and the Peasant 479 The Man of the North Countrie 484 The Minstrel's Curse 527 The Mountain-laurel 477 The Old Soldier and the Student 516 The Ponitent Raven 508 The Romance of a Hand 475 The Sea Captain 523 The Star Venus 512 The Students 490 The Student's luckless Love 476 The Sunless Land 526 The Trip over the Mountain " 499 Thomas Moore at St. Ann's 513 To Miss M. S 508 Woman's Praise 503 Youth and Death 487 RELIGIOUS POEMS: A Christmas Prelude 557 A Prayer for the Dead 565 Christmas Morn 560 Eternity 639 Hymn to Saint Patrick 541 I will go to the Altar of God 571 Life, a Mystery to Man 553 Shrines on the Shore 545 Soldier ! make your Sword your Cross ! 567 St. Bridget of Kildare.. . .544 Xll CONTENTS. Stella ! Stella ! 570 Sunday Hymn at Sea 570 The Saints of Erin 540 The Celt's Prayer 542 The Prayer to St. Brendan 543 The dying Celt to his American Son 547 The Cross in the West 548 The Hermit of Croagh Patrick 549 Winifred of Wales 551 The Christian Brothers 552 The Arctic Indian's Faith 556 The Midnight Mass 561 The Rosary 563 The Three Sisters 564 The first Communion 568 The Pearl of great Price 572 JUVENILE POEMS: Boyhood's Dreams 577 Canticle of the Irish Christian 579 Lines addressed to Mr. A. M'Evoy, of Boston, one of the Author's first Friends in America 585 Lines dedicated to the Memory of a beloved Mother and two dear Sisters 577 Lines sacred to the Memory of John Banim 589 Lines to the Petrel 580 Lines written on the Fly-leaf of a copy of "The Spirit of the Na tion , 590 Sea Song 581 Song of the American Repealers 586 Song supposed to be sung by one of the Seamen during a stormy Night 582 To Ireland 533 To Wexford in the Distance 578 Trees 587 NOTES , 5 91 BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. THOMAS D'AECY McGEE, whose poems are now for the first time presented in a collective form to the public, was born at Carlingford, County Louth, Ireland, on the 13th day of April, 1825. His father, Mr. James McGee, then in the Coast Guard Service, had married Miss Dorcas Catherine Morgan, the highly-educated daughter of a Dublin book seller, who had been imprisoned and financially ruined by his participation in the conspiracy of 1798.* Of this union, Thomas D'Arcy was the fifth child and second son. Born and nurtured amid the grand and lovely scenery of the Eosstrevor coast, his early childhood fleeted by in a region of wild, romantic beauty, which impressed itself for- evermore on his heart and mind, and tended not a little, as we may well suppose, to foster, if not create, that poetic fancy which made the charm of his life, and infused itself into all he wrote and all he said. He was eight years old when the family removed to the historic town of Wexford, where the elder Mr. McGee had received a more lucrative appointment. * " Both on the father and mother's side," says a biographer of Mr. McGee, " he was descended from families remarkable for their devotion to the cause of Ireland. With the exception of his father, all the men of the families on both sides were ' United Irishmen.' " See " Short Sketch of the Life of Hon T. D. McGee," by H. J. O'C. Clarke, Q. C., Montreal. IQ BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE A UTHOR. Soon after their removal to Wexford, the McGee family sustained a heavy blow in the death of the accomplished and most exemplary wife and mother. The rare worth and the varied attainments of this lady may be estimated by the profound respect, the more than filial affection, so to say, with which her eminent son cherished her memory all the days of his life. Of his father he was wont to speak as an honest, upright, religious man ; but his mother he loved to describe as a woman of extraordinary elevation of mind, an enthusiastic lover of her country, its music, its legends, its wealth of ancient lore. Herself a good musician and a fine singer, it was to the songs of her ancient race she rocked her children's cradle, and from her dear voice her favorite son, the subject of our sketch, drank in the music the sweet old Gaelic melody that rings in all his poetical compositions, as a lingering echo from the past. His pas sionate and inextinguishable love for the land of his birth, her story and her song, may be traced, and was ever traced by himself, to the same source. Even the strong and vigor ous, yet simple religious faith, which was one of the mother's characteristics, was no less discernible in her son at every stage of his life manifesting itself in profound respect for religion and its ministers, and for everything that men should hold sacred here below ; while the fervent piety of the true Irish mother is happily found reflected in the truly religious tone of all his latest poems. The loss of such a mother, it is needless to say, was keenly felt by such a son ; and through all the changeful years of his after-life, her gentle memory shone like a star through the clouds and mists that never fail to gather round the path of advancing life. But the mother slept in her quiet grave in the old Cister cian Abbey, and years rolled over the head of our young poet, each one bringing sorrow and change his mighty BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE A TJTHOR. 17 genius developing itself year by year without other aids than a day-school in Wexford afforded, the higher advantages of education being as yet beyond the reach of the middle classes in Ireland, unless a religious vocation called their sons to Maynooth. But the boyish years of the future statesman and historian were not passed in mean or frivo lous pursuits. His love for poetry and for old-world lore grew with his growth, and by the age of seventeen he had read all that had come within his reach relating to the his tory of his own and other lands. He had read of Wash ington, and of the great country beyond the Atlantic where Freedom had established her throne, and where the oppressed of all nations found a welcome, a home, and equal laws for all. He knew that many of his race had there found fame, and wealth, and honor ; and seeing little prospect of ad vancement at home, he emigrated to America, with one of his sisters. He was little over seventeen when, after a short visit to his aunt in Providence, R. I. (the only sister of his much-loved mother), he arrived in Boston, just at the time when the " Repeal movement " was in full strength amongst the Irish population of that city, warmly aided by some of the prominent public men of America of that day. It was in June, 1842, that our young Irish poet arrived in Boston. "When the 4th of July came round, the roar of artillery and the gladsome shouts of the multitude, the waving of flags, and the general jubilation of a people whr. had freed themselves, fired his youthful imagination. It seemed to him that what he saw that day was but the fore shadowing of similar scenes in his own beloved land. Thomas D'Arcy McGee addressed the people that day, and the eloquence of the boy-orator enchained the multi tudes who heard him then, as the more finished speeches of his later years were wont " The applause of list'ning senates to command." 18 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. A day or two after, our young exile was offered, and accepted, a situation in connection with the Boston Pilot, of which widely-circulated Irish-American journal he became chief editor some two years later, just when the Native- American excitement was at its height, and the American people were about to witness the disgraceful riots in Phila delphia which resulted in the sacking and burning of two Catholic churches. It was a critical period in the history of the Irish race in America ; they were proscribed and perse cuted on American soil, and were once again, as of old in their own land, obliged to defend their lives, their property, their churches. Few were then their defenders in the press of America, but of those few stood foremost in the van Thomas D'Arcy McGee, a host in himself. With all the might of his precocious genius, and all the fire of his fervid eloquence, he advocated the cause of his countrymen and co-religionists, and so scathing were his fiery denunciations of the Native Americans, as the hostile party were styled, that all New England rang with their unwelcome echo. This outburst of fanaticism at length subsided and passed away, but the popularity which the young Irish editor and orator had gained during the struggle continued to grow and flourish. The Eepeal agitation was then at its height both in Ireland and America, and again the Boston Pilot and T. D. McGee took a leading part. By his speeches at Kepeal meetings, his lectures delivered all through New England, and his already powerful pen, our young " Wex- ford boy,'' as he was often called, rendered so good service to the cause he loved, that his fame crossed the Atlantic and reached O'Connell himself, who, at some of the public meetings of the day, referred to his splendid editorials as "the inspired writings of a young exiled Irish boy in America." So mightily had his fame increased, that he was invited by the proprietor of the Dublin Freeman's Journal BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE A UTHOK. 19 then as now one of the leading Irish journals to become its editor. No offer could be more acceptable to Mr. McGee, as none could have been more nattering, or more in accord ance with his heart's dearest wish, to do something for the advancement of his native land. But what a change in his fortunes! Three years before he had left his home by the Slaney side to better his fortune in the New "World : he had left Ireland unnoticed and unknown ; he returned radiant with fame, his youthful brow already crowned with the laurels he had won in defence of his people at home and abroad, called to aid the greatest of patriots and his asso ciates in the cause of Irish freedom. So, at the age of twenty, our poet-journalist took his place in the front rank of the Irish press. But the Freeman was too moderate in its tone, too cautious, as it were, for the fervid young patriot ; and finding that he was not at liberty to change its character or its course, he gladly accepted the offer of his friend Charles Gavin Duffy to assist him in edit ing the Nation, in conjunction with Thomas Davis, John Mitchel, and Thomas Deviu Reilly. In such hands the Nation soon became the great organ of the National party, the mouth-piece of all the fervent aspira tions of what was called "Young Ireland." Perhaps no journal was ever published in any country with such a galaxy of genius shining on its pages. Like a magnet, it drew to itself men and women of all their race the most brilliantly endowed with the gifts of mind. Their names became household words words of pride and power amongst the Irish people. The poetry of the Nation, even more than its prose, was read and quoted everywhere, and its voice stirred the people like a trumpet's sound. The im mediate result was the secession of the War party, repre sented by the Nation, from the ranks of the National or Old Ireland party, so well and wisely led by the great O'Connell, 20 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. who had done much for his country, and would have done more, in all human probability, were it not for this fatal secession of the younger and more ardent spirits who had been wont to follow his banner. But the end came, and a sad end it was. The great "Liberator" died, while on foreign travel, a broken-hearted man. Famine had stricken the land of Erin, and her peo ple, made desperate by despair, were judged by the " Young Irelanders" ripe for rebellion. Mr. McGee, who was secre tary of the Committee of the Confederation, was one of those deputed by his party to rouse the people to action ; and after the delivery of a stirring address at Roundwood, in the county of Wicklow, he was arrested, but succeeded soon after in obtaining his release. Nothing daunted by this first mishap, he agreed to go to Scotland for the pur pose of enlisting the active sympathies of the Irish in the manufacturing towns, and obtaining their co-operation in the contemplated insurrection.* He was in Scotland when the news reached him that the "rising" had been attempted in Ireland, and had signally failed that some of the leaders had been arrested, and a reward offered for the apprehen- * Amongst other accusations brought against Mr. McGee by his bitter and unscrupulous enemies, is that of having betrayed his trust, or, at least, sadly mismanaged his Scotch mission " the Dumbarton aft'air," as they call it. Happily, we have on record the public testimony of Mr. Duffy, by whom, amongst others, he was sent on that mission, that he had acquitted himself with honor and fidelity of the duties it imposed upon him. These are hia words, well known indeed, but ever fresh, because so true : "To forty political prisoners in Newgate, when the world seemed shut ou< to me forever, I estimated him" (meaning Mr. McGee) " as I do to-day. I said, ' If we were about to begin our work anew, I would rather have his help than any man's of all our confederates. I said he could do more things like a master than the best amongst us since Thomas Davis; that he had been sent, at the last hour, on a perilous mission, and performed it not only with unflinching courage, but with a success which had no parallel in that era ; and, above all, that he Las been systematically blackened by the Jacobins to an extent that would have blackened a saint of God. Since he has been in America, I have watched his career, and one thing it has never wanted a fixed devotion to Irish interests.' " BJOGEAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR, 21 sion of himself, and others who had effected their escape. These were sad tidings for our ardent young patriot sadder all the more for that he had married less than a year before, and a fair young wife, to whom he was tenderly attached, anxiously awaited his return in their quiet, happy home, in a pleasant suburb of Dublin. A few short months before he had been a gay and happy bridegroom, spending the first bright days of married life with his young bride amid the romantic solitudes of Wicklow, dreaming proud dreams for Ireland, and fair ones for himself and her he loved. All that was past now. Ruin had already come on the national cause, and death or exile awaited himself. The dreams he had dreamed and the hopes he had cherished were all flown, it might be, forever. But something must be done, and that quickly. He succeeded in crossing in safety the narrow sea between Scotland and Ireland, and in the far North found a generous friend and host in the late ever- lamented Dr. Maginn, the gifted and patriotic Bishop of Derry. Protected and sheltered by that great and good prelate, Mr. McGee awaited the visit of his wife, whom he had contrived to make acquainted with his place of conceal ment. He could not and would not leave Ireland without seeing and bidding her farewell. Sad indeed was their part ing, for the young wife was soon to become a mother, and who might tell if she were ever to see her husband's face again ? Yet with the unselfishness of true affection she urged him to hasten his departure for America, and he once again sailed, in the disguise of a priest, for what he fondly and proudly called the Land of Freedom. He landed in Philadelphia on the 10th of October, in that memorable year of '48, and on the 26th day of the same month appeared the first number of his New York Nation, the advent of which was hailed with enthusiasm by the great majority of the Irish in America. The prestige of the Dublin Nation, of 22 I* W a HA PHICA L SKETCH OF THE A UTHOR. \vhich Mr. McGee was known to have been one of the editors, the idat he had before gained as editor of the Bos ton Pilot, and, lastly, the great want the American Irish had of a powerful organ, all combined to make the first issue of the New York Nation an event most anxiously looked for. As far as ability and power were concerned, the Nation fully realized the most sanguine expectations of Mr. McGee's friends, and it took, as it were by right, the place of the great Irish organ of America. But unfortunately for him self and the prospects of his paper, Mr. McGee naturally feeling sore on account of the utter and most ignoble failure of his party in Ireland, and the imprisonment of his dearest friend, Gavin Duffy, and others of the leaders in writing on the causes of the revolutionary collapse, threw the blame .on the priesthood and hierarchy of Ireland, who had, he said, used their boundless influence in dissuading the people from joining the insurrection. As might be expected, the illus trious Bishop Hughes, then happily governing the diocese of New York, took up the defence of the Irish clergy, and triumphantly proved, through the columns of the press, that in acting as they had done, they saved their people from utter ruin by rushing into a rebellion for which no adequate preparation had been made. Mr. McGee stoutly maintained his own opinion, and many took sides with him ; but all the religious sympathies of the Irish people, and their profound reverence for their clergy, were arrayed against him, and he found, when too late, that he had lost ground considerably in the favor of the best portion of his countrymen in America. To do him justice, his own truly Irish respect for the clerical order speedily regained its paramount place in his mind and heart, and he not only desisted very soon from writing against the Bishop, but ever after deplored this con troversy with him as one of the false steps of his life. What few men so greatly endowed would have done, he fre- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 23 quently expressed, both in public and in private, his un qualified regret that he had so far given way to the irrita tion consequent on the soreness of defeat, as to raise his voice 'or wield his pen against a prelate whose greatness none knew better than he, or more fully acknowledged. But the New York Nation never recovered the effect of this unwise controversy, and, yielding to the wishes of his numerous friends in Boston, Mr. McGee removed, with his wife and an infant daughter, to that city, and commenced, in the year 1850, the publication of the American Celt. During the first two years of the Celt's existence, it was characterized by the same, or nearly the same, revolutionary ardor ; but there came a time when the great strong mind and far- seeing intellect of its editor began to soar above the clouds of passion and prejudice into the regions of eternal truth. The cant of faction, the fiery denunciations that, after all, amounted to nothing, he began to see in their true colors ; and with his whole heart he then and ever after aspired to elevate the Irish people, not by impracticable Utopian schemes of revolution, but by teaching them to make the best of the hard fate that made them the subjects of a for eign power differing from them in race and in religion ; to cultivate among them the arts of peace, and to raise them selves, by the ways of peaceful industry and increasing en lightenment, to the level even of the more prosperous sister- island. Who will say that he was less a patriot, less a lover of Ireland after than before this remarkable change from out-and-out radicalism to that calm conservatism which was the result of no selfish motive, but simply of matured thought and the sage counsels of such profound Christian thinkers as the late most eminent Bishop Fitzpatrick of Boston? As this change in Mr. McGee's principles has been, and still is, grossly misrepresented by the revolution ary party, whose ranks he quitted then and forevei*. and as 24 BIO G EA PIIICA L SKETCH OF THE A UTHOE. many even of those who most admired his genius and his poetry have accepted the views of his unscrupulous enemies, I think it my duty to dwell at more length on this particular point than the limit of this introductory sketch might seem to warrant. In justice to his memory, I will leave him to explain in his own terse and vigorous style the reasons, or rather the chain of argument, by which he arrived at the new set of principles which governed his whole remaining life. It was in the Augtist of 1852 that he addressed, through the columns of the Celt, a "Letter to a Friend" on what he aptly styled "the recent Conspiracy against the Peace and Existence of Christendom." This friend, we have reason to think, was the late brilliantly-endowed Thomas F. Meagher.* The second paragraph of this remarkable letter reads as follows : "Let me beg of you, in the sacred name of God, your Author and Redeemer, and in the dear name of Ireland, that you use this interval of exemption from a decided course to review the whole field of European politics, and to bring the proposals of the most conspicuous organs of power and agi tators of change in our time to the only test of a Christian the beam and scales in which St. John saw the angels weigh ing men, actions, and motives. This standard of right and wrong, a Protestant Christian might say, does not exist in this world ; but a Catholic knows better. You are a Cath olic. For you there is an exact and infallible standard, to which nothing is too high and nothing too low which will detect a grain wanting in a pennyweight, or a stone missing from a pyramid. The field of that standard is Christendom Christ's kingdom that is, his Church, and the angels of * Few will have forgotten poor Meagher saying only a little before, that even if the altar stood in the way of Ireland's freedom, it must be overthrown. Happily even he lived to see his fatal error, and to admit, as he did in his iar Australian exile, that if ever Ireland is to be liberated, she must first be regenerated by baptism in her own holy wells. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE A UTHOS. 25 the standard are the bishops and doctors of the Church. Sir, you have been born in the kingdom, and enlisted as a soldier under the standard, and you are bound to bring all that concerns the one to be weighed and measured by the other." After speaking then at some length of the investigation of the principles on which that choice ought to be made, the writer goes on to say : " Permit me, as one who has been over the ground of this inquiry, to tell you what discoveries I made upon it. This I will do as candidly and plainly as if I were dictating a last will and testament, for in this case all plainness is demanded. " I discovered, at the very outset of the inquiry, my own ignorance. This I discovered in a way which, I trust in God, you will never have to travel by controversy and bit terness, and sorrow for lost time and wasted opportunities. Had we studied principles in Ireland as devoutly as we did an ideal nationality, I might not now be laboring double tides to recover a confidence which my own fault forfeited. But I will say it, for it is necessary to be said, that in Ire land the study of principles is at the lowest ebb. Our liter ature has been English that is, Protestant ; our politics have been French, or implicit following of O'Connell ; and under all this rubbish, the half-forgotten Catechism was the only Christian element in our mental Constitution. Since Burke died, politics ceased to be a science in our island and in England. The cruel political economy of Adam Smith never had disciples among us ; the eloquence of Shiel is not bottomed upon any principle ; the ipse dixit of O'Con nell could be no substitute to ardent and awakened intellect, for the satisfying fullness of a Balmes or a Brownson "Having discovered, by close self-examination, that the reading chiefly of modern books, English and French, gave 26 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. very superficial and false views of political science, I cheer fully said to myself, ' My friend, you are on the wrong track. You think you know something of human affairs, but you do not. You are ignorant, very ignorant of the primary principles that govern, and must govern, the world. You can put sentences together, but what does that avail you, when perhaps those sentences are but the husks and pods of poisonous seeds ? Beware ! look to it ! You have a soul ! What will all the fame of talents avail you, if you lose that T Thus I reasoned with myself, and then, setting my cherished opinions before me, one by one, I tried, judged, and capitally executed every one, save and except those which I found to be compatible with the following doctrines : "I. That there is a Christendom. " II. That this Christendom exists by and for the Cath olic Church. " III. That there is, in our own age, one of the most dan gerous and general conspiracies against Christendom that the world has yet seen. " IV. That this conspiracy is aided, abetted, and tolerated by many because of its stolen watchword ' Liberty.' " V. That it is the highest duty of ' a Catholic man ' to go over cheerfully, heartily, and at once, to the side of Chris tendom to the Catholic side, and to resist, with all his might, the conspirators who, under the stolen name of ' Liberty,'- make war upon all Christian institutions." Such, then, were the motives which induced the subject of this memoir to go over, as it were, from one camp to the other from the ranks of irreligion and universal revolution to those whose standard was the Cross whose motto was and is, " Peace and good will amongst men" whose end and aim is the freedom wherewith G-od maketh free not the lawless liberty of doing evil. To this set of principles Mr. McGee faithfully adhered to the hour of his death, and they BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOE. 27 governed his whole public life, and made him the conserva tive statesman he was in his more mature years. After publishing the American Celt for some years in Bos ton, where he obtained a high place amongst the eminent literary men of the day, Mr. McGee transferred his publica tion office to Buffixlo, at the urgent request of the late Bishop Timon, but was ultimately persuaded by his many friends in New York to remove thither, and here for some five years he held the first position in the Irish -American press. During the years from 1852 to 1857, the American Celt was regarded by friend and foe as the great champion and advo cate of the Irish race in America, and was considered the best authority on all matters affecting Irish interests. But while editing the Gelt with unequalled power and matchless skill, Mr. McGee continued to instruct and delight crowded audiences in the various cities and towns with his lectures on all manner of subjects very many of them delivered for charitable and religious objects. His lectures on " The Catholic History of America," " The Reformation in Ire land," " The Jesuits," etc., can never be forgotten by those who heard them. Yet amid all his arduous and toilsome avocations, he found time to institute and inaugurate various associations and movements having the social and moral elevation of the Irish race for their object ; and it may truly be said, that to his undying love of his own race, and his yearning aspirations for their well-being, they owed some of the most valuable suggestions for their guidance as a people that have yet been made. It was his special object to keep them bound together by the memories of their common past, and to teach them that manly self-respect that would elevate them before their fellow-citizens, and keep them from political degradation. To make them good citizens of this their adopted country, lovers of the old "cradle-land" of their race, and devoted adherents of the sacred cause of 28 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE A TJTHOR. Catholicity these were the ends and aims visible on every page of the American Celt. But unfortunately for the pecu niary prospects of its editor, the Celt took sides with no political party here, and warned the Irish population not to trust implicitly in any. The consequence was, that it lost ground with " the politicians ;" and the very reason that should have made it a power in the land its steadfast ad herence to principle, its lofty disregard of party interests or party intrigues made it languish for want of support, and become a heavy burden on the over- taxed mind of its editor and proprietor. Yet who will say that the American Gelt was not more honored in its high, unselfish mission than it would have been in the more remunerative sphere of party- politics ? Who will say that its teachings died with it, or that the self-devoting labors of its editor have left no fruit behind them? The best and most intelligent of the Irish race even to-day in these countries are proud to acknowl edge their debt of gratitude to the American Celt and "D'Arcy McGee." Amongst other projects for the advancement of his own race, Mr. McGee had early conceived, and consistently ad vocated in the Celt, that of colonizing spreading abroad and taking possession of the land making homes on the broad prairies of the all-welcoming "West, instead of herding to gether in the demoralizing " tenement-houses" of our great cities. To promote this most laudable end, Mr. McGee inaugurated what was called "the Buffalo Convention" namely, a meeting or senate of one hundred Irish-American gentlemen, both lay and clerical, held in the border city above named, as being easy of access to delegates from both sides of the frontier line. In this Convention, composed of the most intelligent and distinguished amongst the men of their race in the several localities which they represented, Mr. McGee was confessedly the ruling spirit, the chief or- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 29 ganizer ; yet his characteristic modesty made him keep rather in the background, while others were placed in the van, and made the apparent leaders of the movement. This might be called his debut in that senatorial career in which he subsequently attained so great distinction. Well had it been for the Irish in America had the views and suggestions of the Buffalo Convention been more generally adopted. That Convention was, however, an epoch in Mr. McGee's life. His eminent talents, his untiring assiduity, his in domitable perseverance, were so strikingly manifested then, that some of the Canadian delegates became impressed with the idea of inducing him to take up his abode in the Provinces, where his name and fame were already known as one of the great Irishmen of the day. He had lectured in the Canadian cities during the preceding years, and the spell of his genius and the might of his wondrous eloquence had, as usual, enchained those who heard him. He had made warm friends in Montreal and other cities, and they all united in urging him to take up his abode in Montreal, where the want of a ruling mind such as his was sensibly felt by the rapidly-increasing Irish population. It was rep resented to him that he had not met in the United States with that encouragement or that degree of appreciation which his great abilities and devotion to principle deserved ; whereas in Canada his countrymen stood in need of his services, and had the power and the will to advance his interests. .After some negotiation on the subject, Mr. McGee at length consented to make Canada his home, sold his interest in the American Celt, and removed with his family to Montreal, where he at once commenced' the publication of a journal called The New Era. This paper was not very successful, owing to the fact that its editor was as yet but little acqiiainted with Canadian affairs, and was obliged, as 30 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. it were, to feel his way before he ventured to take his stand amongst the publicists of the Province. But the success or failure of the New Era was of small account, as it soon ap peared. Before the end of his first year in Montreal, Mr. McGee's friends and countrymen, against all odds, returned him to the Canadian Parliament, as one of the three mem bers for Montreal. This was undoubtedly a great triumph, for his election had been warmly contested, and it was only the united action and the honest enthusiasm of his own countrymen and co-religionists that carried the day. The modesty which, as we have said, was one of Mr. McGee's characteristics as a public man, made him keep rather in the background for some time after he had en tered on his senatorial duties. His position in the House of Assembly, too, was not what he could have wished, and was, in fact, somewhat anomalous, as he found himself, for the time being, identified with what was called the Rouge party, the Radicals of Canada, with whom he had little or nothing in common. But even though laboring under this disadvantage, and that other of being still comparatively a stranger, Mr. McGee failed not to make his mark in the legislative halls of his new country, and before the close of his first session, the Irish member for Montreal was recog nized as one of the most popular men in Canada. Many of those who had been his enemies, and the enemies of his race, were already disarmed of their prejudices, and began to perceive that an Irish Catholic could rise to any level ; that, after all, something good could come out of the heart of Celtic Ireland. Considering the fierce opposition which Mr. McGee's first nomination and subsequent election met from the English and Scotch and Protestant Irish electors of Montreal, and the cold, indifferent, and merely accidental support of his fellow-Catholics, the French Canadians, to whom his name was entirely unknown, no greater triumph BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 3J of genius and of a noble nature has been seen in our times than his second, and third, and fourth elections for Mon treal by acclamation, and without opposition. This "Irish adventurer," this " stranger from abroad," while elevating his own people, and defending his own faith, its laws and its institutions, as it never had been defended in a Canadian Parliament, while proving himself the great Catholic Irish man of Canada, made friends for himself and his co-religion ists even amongst those who had been most prejudiced against everything Catholic and Irish, and stood forth, not by any assumption of his own, but by general consent, the rising star of British America, the life and light of the Canadian Legislature, already distinguished for eminent men and able statesmen. Yet, at times, his early connection with the revolutionary party was made the subject of biting sarcasm and ungenerous reproach by some political oppo nent. On one of these occasions, when twitted with having been a " rebel " in former years, he replied with that candor and that calm sense of rectitude that distinguished him in his parliamentary career : "It is true, I was a rebel in Ireland in '48. I rebelled against the misgovernment of my country by Russell and his school. I rebelled because I saw my countrymen starv ing before my eyes, while my country had her trade and commerce stolen from her. I rebelled against the Church Establishment in Ireland; and there is not a Liberal man in this community who would not have done as I did, if he were placed in my position, and followed the dictates of humanity." About the year 1865, Mr. McGee's countrymen in Mon treal and other cities presented him with a substantial mark of their esteem and admiration viz., a handsome resi dence, suitably furnished, in one of the best localities in the city he so ably represented. 32 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. In 1862 he accepted the office of President of the Execu tive Council (whence his title of Honorable}, and while discharging the duties of that onerous position, he likewise acted for a time as Provincial Secretary, Hon. Mr. Dorion, who had held that office, having resigned. "Who could be lieve that it was at this particular time, and amid all the multifarious avocations of his double office, that he com pleted his "History of Ireland," in two 12mo. volumes, confessedly one of the best, if not the very best, digest of Irish history yet written ? Yet such was the fact. In 1865, Mr. McGee visited his native land, in company \rith some friends, and, while staying with his father in Wexford, delivered in that city a speech on the condition of the Irish in America, which gave offence to his countrymen in the United States, inasmuch as he took pains to show that a larger proportion of them became demoralized and degraded in that country than in Canada. It was either during this visit, or a previous one in 1855, just ten years before, that he caused a tomb to be erected over the grave of the mother he had loved so well.* In 1867, Mr. McGee was sent to Paris by the Canadian Government as one of the Commissioners from Canada to * Speaking of this touching act of filial affection, the Wexford Independent of that date remarked : " Some years ago a little poem was copied into the Nation and several of our contemporaries from an American paper ; it was addressed ' To my Wish ing- sap,' and bore the well-known poetical title of our townsman, Mr. Thomas D'.A rcy McGee. Among the other wishes expressed was the following : ' Wishing-cap, Wishing-cap, let us away To walk in the cloisters, at close of day, Once trod by friars of orders gray, In Norman Selskar's renown'd abbaye, And Carmen's ancient town ; For I would kneel at my mother's grave, Where the plumy churchyard elms wave, And the old war-walls look down.' The poet lived to see his wish fulfilled, and, on his late visit to Wexford, caused a neat tomb to be placed over that beloved grave." BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 33 the great Exposition held during that year in the French metropolis. From Paris he went to Rome as one of a deputation from the Irish inhabitants of Montreal on a question concerning the affairs of St. Patrick's congregation in that city. During his visit to Paris, Rome, and other cities of the European continent, he wrote for the New York Tablet a series of very interesting letters, entitled "Irish Episodes of Foreign Travel." In London he met, by pre vious appointment, some of his colleagues in the Canadian Cabinet, who had gone to England to lay before the Imperial Government the plan of the proposed union of the British Provinces. In the important deliberations which followed, Mr. McGee took a leading part, as he had a right to do, for this grand project, so much in accordance with his lofty genius, was, in fact, his own, and had been for years the object of his earnest endeavors. He was then Minister of Agriculture and Emigration, which office he continued to hold up to the time when, in the summer of 18G7, the con federation was at last effected, and the three great maritime Provinces were politically united with the Canadas, under the general title of the " Dominion of Canada." Mr. McGee was offered a place in the new Cabinet, but with a disin terested patriotism and a high sense of honor, which the country failed not to appreciate, he declined accepting office, in order to make way in the Cabinet for Hon. Mr. Kenny, of Nova Scotia like himself, an Irishman and a Catholic. But with all his great and well-deserved popularity, and the high position he had attained amongst the statesmen of the Dominion, Mr. McGee had made for himself bitter ene mies by his open and consistent opposition to the Fenian movement, in which his clear head and far-seeing mind saw no prospect of permanent good for Ireland, and much that was likely to demoralize and de-catholicize the people of that island. He regarded it from the first as an off-shoot 34 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. of the great universal scheme of revolution which, like a net-work, overspreads, or rather underlies, every state and kingdom of the Old World that very " conspiracy " against religion, law, and order, in relation to which he had warned, as already seen, one of his early associates in the " Young Ireland " movement on his landing in America, after escap ing from penal servitude in Australia. But it was in regard to Canada, and their avowed intention of invading that country, his home and the home of his family, where he had been kindly welcomed and raised by his own countrymen and others, to honor and eminence, that Mr. McGee most severely denounced the Fenians. He rightly considered that it was a grievous wrong to invade a peaceful country like Canada, only nominally dependent on Great Britain, and where so many thousands of Irishmen were living happily and contentedly under just and equitable laws of the people's own making. And it is quite certain that the great body of the Irish in every part of Canada reprobated these projects of " Fenian " invasion as strongly as did Mr. McGee. But the whole vial of Fenian wrath was poured on his devoted head, and no means was left untried to damage his character, public and private. The vilest calumnies were set afloat concerning him, and the honest sympathies of the Irish people of Montreal and Canada for their native land were worked upon by artful and unprincipled, persons, who represented him as a traitor to Ireland and her cause, and even to the Catholic faith, which is Ireland's best inherit ance. Influenced more than they ought to have been by these mean and dastardly underhand proceedings of his enemies, a portion of his countrymen in Montreal, chiefly, if not all, of the lowest classes, were induced to accept another Irish Catholic, a prominent member of the Cana dian bar, as their candidate, in opposition to Mr. McGee, and a stormy contest followed, in which the latter was sue- BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 35 cessful, and on the 6th day of November, 1867, took his seat as member for Montreal West in the first Parliament of the Dominion. The victory, however, cost him dear, for the vile means that' had been used to turn the Irish of Montreal against him for electioneering purposes were the immediate causes of his assassination a few months later. The evil passions of the basest and most degraded of his country men had been excited against him, and he was thenceforth a doomed man, although he probably knew it not. At the time of that ill-starred election, Mr. McGee was but recovering from illness, and the stormy scenes inciden tal to so fierce a struggle, with the grief and mortification of seeing some of his own countrymen his bitterest oppo nents, all combined to produce a reaction, which threw him again on a bed of sickness. During many tedious weeks of suffering, and the necessary seclusion from the world conse quent thereon, he thought much on subjects affecting his soul's welfare ; he reflected on the ingratitude of men, the emptiness of fame, the nothingness of earthly things, the grandeur and solidity of the imperishable goods of eternity. In the deep silence of his soul, shut in from the great tu mult of the outer world, he pondered on the eternal truths and on the religious traditions of his race, and the strong faith that his Christian mother had implanted in his heart grew and flourished until it brought forth flowers of piety that would have shed a glory and a beauty on the altar of religion, had he been permitted to live to carry out his ex alted and purified ideas. Strange to say, with all his brill* iant success as a public man, neither politics nor public life had ever been his choice ; by the force of circumstances he was drifted on to those troubled waters, where rest and peace are things unknown. The calm pursuits of literature, the study of that old-time lore which, even in boyhood, he had loved so well, and the cultivation of that poetic genius. 36 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. which had so early developed itself in his wonderfully-gifted mind these were his favorite occupations, and for himself he would have desired none other. How often, when writ ing to bis best-loved friends, has he spoken of some bright season of calm rest, when, far from the bustle of public affairs, he should be at liberty to devote himself to literary pursuits. What plans he had projected! what dreams dreamed of what he was then to do for the advancement of Irish and Catholic literature ! Yet who that heard him in debate, even in the last months of his life, during that last session of Parliament, could have guessed that his hopes and wishes were far in the dim re treats of quiet life, with his books and his pen, and that harp whose chords were his own heart-strings ! On the very night preceding his cruel murder he delivered one of the noblest speeches ever heard within the walls of a Cana dian Parliament, and fully equal to the best of his own. The subject was the cementing of the lately-formed Union of the Provinces by bonds of mutual kindness and good-will. It was a glorious spee.ch, they said who heard it ; but, alas ! alas ! the echoes of that all-potent voice had scarcely died on the air, when the great orator, the preacher of peace, the sagacious statesman, the gifted son of song, the loved of many hearts, had ceased to live ! He had reached the door of his temporary home, the fair moon of April shining down from the cold, clear depths of heaven, silence reigned around, broke.* only by the distant roar of the cataract,* coming softened and subdued on the still air of night, his poet-soul drinking in the ethereal beauty of the hour, when a lurking assassin stole from his place of concealment, and, coming close behind, shot him through the head, causing instantaneous death. A few minutes later and all Ottawa was in commotion over " the * The Chaudi&re Falls, near Ottawa City. SIOGEAPH1CAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 37 murder of Hon. T. D. McG-ee," and the sad news was flying on the telegraph's wings to the quiet home in Montreal where the wife of his youth and their two fair daughters were wrapped in sleep, dreaming, it might be, of the calm delights of the coming days which the husband and father was to spend with his family ; for it was the Tuesday morn ing in Holy Week, and the next evening he was to have reached home for the Easter recess. Over the sorrow of that household we cast a veil ; it was too sacred for the pub lic eye. Secret and unseen by mortal eye was the death of the great Irish -Canadian ; grand and imposing, and of regal pomp, were his funeral rites, and lofty the honors that greeted his cold remains. His obsequies were solemnized first in the Cathedral of Ottawa; then in St. Patrick's Church and in the Church of Notre Dame, in Montreal ; and again in the beautiful Cathedral of Halifax, N. S., on which latter occasion a noble funeral oration was delivered by his true and most appreciative friend, Archbishop Connolly. And the people of Canada mourned him many days, and still do mourn the great loss they sustained in his premature death. In their social reunions, in their national festivals, they speak of him, whose voice was wont to delight all hearts, whose subtle and bright, yet gentle humor shed light on all around, whose genial nature diffused a spirit of brotherly love and the best of good-fellowship wherever its influence reached.* * In proof of this, I may mention that at the annual celebration of " Hallow e'en " by the St. Andrew's Society of Montreal, at which Mr. McGee was wont to speak, and where it is customary to read prize poems on that old Scotch and Irish festival, of forty-six poems sent in competition on the Hallowe'en following his death, thirty-seven contained some touching allusion to that sad event. From one of the poems to which prizes were awarded, we quote the folio King stanzas, in the ancient dialect to Scotia dear: " Ai ! wad that he were here the nicht, Whase tongue was like a faerie lute ! But vain the wish : McGee ! thy might Lies low in death thy voice is mute. 38 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. His assassination took place on the morning of April 7th, and on the St. Patrick's Day previous, just three weeks before, he had been entertained at a public banquet in Ottawa City. His speech on that occasion was one of the noblest efforts of his marvellous eloquence. It was on the general interests of the Irish race, with the present condi tion and future prospects of Irish literature shadowing forth, in no indistinct lines, his own abiding and all-endur ing love of his race and country, and the work he had marked out for himself in the after years for the service of one and the other. He alluded to certain representations he had made while in London, during the previous year, to Lord Derby, then Premier of England, with regard to the misgovernment of Ireland, and the necessity of satisfying the just demands of the Irish people, remarking, at the same time, in his humorous way, that "even a silent Irishman might do something to serve his country." Following up the same train of thought, he wrote, only a few days before his death, that memorable letter to the Earl of Mayo, Chief Secretary of Ireland, earnestly recommending that some permanent measures should be taken to improve the condi tion of Ireland, and remove the disaffection of her people by a more just and equitable course of legislation than that hitherto pursued. The funeral vault had closed on the writer of that remarkable document since quoted by Mr. He's gane, the noblest o' us a' Aboon a' care o' warldly fame ; An' wha sae proud as he to ca' Our Canada his hame? " The gentle maple weeps an' waves Aboon our patriot-statesman's heed ; But if we prize the licht he gave, We'll bury feuds of race and creed. For this he wrocht, for this lie died ; An' for the luve we bear his name, Let's live as brithers, side by side, In Canada, our hame." BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 39 Gladstone in support of his just and statesman-like views in regard to the government of Ireland before it reached America, after publication in England. " A prophetic voice from the dead coming from beyond the Atlantic," the English statesman aptly styled that letter of earnest plead ing for Ireland. At the very time of his death, too, Mr. McGee was engaged writing, for the Catholic World of New York, an essay on " Oliver Plunket, Archbishop and Martyr." Thus, it may truly be said that he died, as he had lived, " loving and serving his mistress, IKELAND, as a true knight." His last writings were for Ireland his last words for the peace and unity of his adopted country, the New Dominion of Canada. The following touching tribute to his memory, from the pen of one of our very few remaining Irishmen of genius, will be read with interest : " D'Arcy McGee !" wrote Henry Giles to the present writer, soon after the sad death of their common friend " D'Arcy McGee ! I knew him well, and loved him greatly. He was but a boy when I first made his acquaintance, and even then he was engaged in writing brilliant articles in Mr. Donahoe's Pilot. He had, besides, published some of his literary efforts. As he advanced in years, so he did in power Great in his eloquence, his reputation grew with the growth of that country" (meaning Canada) " which his energies helped to increasing force. All this had as yet but served to indicate his power, to put forth the branches of his deep-lying energy, when the assassin drew near, and, with his stealthy step, in darkness, crushed the growing and advancing sti'ength." But he is dead, " the noblest Roman of us all ;" lost to friends and country lost to literature lost to song. " Far away," says one of his biographers, " from that glo rious but unhappy isle where he dreamt away the bright 40 BIO G RA PHICA L SKETCH OF THE A UTHOR. fleeting hours of his childhood far away from the home of his dearest hopes, of his highest aspirations far away from the green churchyard where the ashes of his parents rest in the friendly embrace of the land of their birth in the New World, far over the sea, in the land of his adoption, high up on the sunny side of beautiful ' Mount Royal/ which, slop ing towards the far-famed St. Lawrence, laves its foot in the limpid waters of the majestic river, overlooking the fair city of Montreal, where for years his voice was the most potent, his smile the most friendly, his influence in all that was most noble, patriotic, and good, was most felt, sleeps the greatest poet, orator, statesman, historian, the best, the truest friend^ counsellor, and guide of the Irish race in America. His grave is bedewed by a young nation's tears ; his memory lives, and shall live, in that young nation's heart ; his name and fame shall cast lustre on the pages of her history, and his life-labors stand forth as an example worthy of emula tion to future millions." * * " Short Sketch of the Life of the Hon. Thomas D'Arey McGee," by Henry J. O'C. Clarke, Q. C., Montreal INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. OF all the poets of our time, Thomas D'Arcy McGee was, in many ways, the most remarkable. Unaided by collegiate education, thrown entirely on his own resources even in boyhood an emigrant to the New "World, where his supreme genius made him a brilliant editor and an effective orator long before the age when other men enter on the stage oi ordinary life a popular lecturer a writer of acknowledged power, equal to the best of our time a careful and reliable historian an essayist of grace and skill a legislator a ruler a projector of mighty plans for the government of nations yet a singer of sweet songs, interweaving the wear ing, wasting cares of daily life, and the lofty conceptions of the statesman's- mind, with the glittering thread of poesy, the golden fringe of life's dull garment, giving brightness and beauty to the meanest things, the dryest pursuits, "the weariest hours, Poetry was his solace in the manifold troubles of his life. It cheered him in poverty ; it enlivened his dreariest hours ; it breathed a charm over the dry details and joyless struggles of political life ; it illumined the edito rial pages ; it refreshed his overtaxed mind when Nature called for repose ; it made love fonder and friendship dearer ; and softened grief, and brightened joy, and made Thomas D'Arcy McGee the best-loved friend, the most genial com- 42 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS, patrion, the most hospitable and cordial host, the best enter tainer our modern society has seen in America, while lend ing to his speeches, to his public writings, as well as to his private correspondence, the ineffable charm that poetry, the offspring of mind and heart, alone can give.* That this poetry of his nature was expressed in noble and most melodious verse, we have very high literary authority. Many years have passed away since Charles Gavin Duffy, himself a poet of no mean order, said of McG-ee's poetry, and of his devotion to " Irish interests :" "Who has served them with such fascinating genius? * Amongst other remarkable proofs of the charm that pervaded even the public discourses of Mr. McGee, I will cite the following : In 1862, he was in vited to assist at the great " Popham Celebration" at Portland, Me. On that occasion he spoke on " Samuel de Champlain," and a few days after he re ceived from Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney the following graceful tribute, she afterwards sent him a copy of her poems : " HARTFOKD, CONN., TJ. S. A., October 1st, 1862. " Mrs. Sigourney was delighted with the perusal of the address of Mr. McGee at the celebration of the 155th anniversary of the settlement of Maine, as reported in our public prints, and regretted not having had the privilege of listening when it was delivered. " She has long cherished an interest in the character and exploits of Sieur de Champlain, and felt that they had scarcely won due appreciation. Of the accompanying brief poem, which owes its existence to the eloquence of Mr. McGee, she requests his acceptance as a slight acknowledgement of the pleasure for which she is indebted. "LE S1EUK DE CHAMPLAIN. " Onward o'er waters which no keel had trod, No plummet sounded in their depths below, No heaving anchor grappled to the sod Where flowers of Ocean in seclusion glow. From isle to isle, from coast to coast he press'd With patient zeal, and chivalry sublime, Folding o'er Terra Incognita's breast The lillied vassalage of Gallia's clime ; Though Henry of Navarre's profound mistake Montcalm must expiate and France regret, Yet yonder tranquil and heaven-mjrror'd Lake, Like diamond in a marge of emerald set, Bears on its freshening wave from shore to shore The baptism of his name forevermore." INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 43 His poetry and his essay's touch are like the breath of spring, and revive the buoyancy and chivalry of youth. I plunge into them like a refreshing stream of 'Irish undefiled.' What other man has the subtle charm to invoke our past history and make it live before us? If he has not loved his mis tress, 'Ireland,' with the fidelity of a true knight, I cannot name any one who has." The Dublin Nation, of May 20th, 1857, speaking of "True Poetry, and how it has been appreciated," speaks as follows of Mr. McG-ee's poetry : " Perhaps, however, the poetic re creations of T. D. McGee, taking them as a whole, are the most intensely Irish verses which have, as yet, been contri buted to our literature. No one, not even Davis, seems to have infused the spirit of Irish history so thoroughly into his mind and heart as McGee ; nor can any more melancholy proof of the decay of national spirit be given than the fact that these poems, the composition of which has been a labor of love to him exile as he is from the Old Green Land remain uncollected. We might search in vain, even through the numberless volumes of English poems and lyrics, for any that equal in their passion, fire, and beauty his verses en titled 'The War,' 'Sebastian Cabot to his Lady,' 'The Celt's Salutation,' and many others.'' Since his lamented death, Henry Giles wrote, " All this" (meaning his outward life, his visible strength and power) " has beneath it an ever-abiding, underlying principle, a well-spring ever fresh and ever sweet of glorious poetry, with its softest melody, or, in passion, indignant and strong, with its wild and varied vehemence. How varied the poems were which he breathed forth upon the woes and wrongs of Ireland ! How noble the strains in which he celebrates that beautiful land of much calamity and countless wrongs !" And the London Athenceum, speaking of Canadian poetry, said, years ago, while Mr. McGee was still amongst the 44 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMP. living 1 : " They have one true poet within their borders that is, Thomas D'Arcy McGee. In his younger days the principle of rebellion inspired him with stately verse ; let us hope that the conservative principles of his more mature years will yield many a noble song in his new country." It has also been said, and I think with truth, that McGee was, even more than Moore, entitled to be called " the Bard of Erin," for that his genius was more distinctively Irish, and his inspiration more directly and more exclusively from Ireland and her ancient race. His poetry bears all the char acteristics of genuine Irish minstrelsy ; it is redolent with the purest Irish feeling ; the passionate love of country and of kin, the reverence for what is old and venerable, the strong religious faith, the high appreciation of the beautiful and the good these underlie all his poems ; while over all are diffused the choicest graces of fancy, the most subtle humor, the most delicate beauty of thought and expression. Like some strain from the bardic ages of old, comes to the ear and to the heart one of McGee's ballads. Whether he sings of love or friendship, of faith or charity, of war or peace, or chants some old-time legend, or a grand historic tale of other days, the under-tones are still the same, and the chords are swept with a master's hand. When he sings of " The green grave of my mother 'Neath Selskar's ruin'd wall," or of the young wife of his love, whom he was forced to leave in the first year of their marriage, now sighing "Sad the parting scene was, Mary, By the yellow-flowing Foyle," now reminding her of the calm joys of their bridal days in lovely Wicklow " Dost thou remember the dark lake, dearest, Where the sun never shines at noon?" INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 45 and passionately cries "My darling, in the land of dreams, of wonder, and delight, I see you, and sit by you, and woo you all the night; Under trees that glow like diamonds upon my aching sight, . You are walking by my side in your wedding garments white" we hear liis voice like the sighing of the breeze in summer boughs, and we think of the forgotten bards of the long- past ages, who left us "The Last Eose of Summer" and " Savourneen Dheelish." Anon, he sings of battle, as was his wont in the fiery days of youth, and his voice is a trum pet-call " Gather together the nations! arouse and arm the men!" How the martial spirit of the Celts of old rings in Cathal's " Farewell to the Eye :" " Farewell sickle ! welcome sword !" in the "Harvest Hymn,'' and "The Eeaper's Song," and " The Summons of Ulster," and the "Song of the Sheiks !" We read these warlike lays, and the "Pilgrims of Liberty," and many another patriot strain, and we feel our souls stirred within us, and we marvel that the calm, meditative mind of the statesman we knew in later days could ever have con ceived such burning thoughts. Again, and how often our poet sings of his native land, her woes, her beauties, the passionate love wherewith she in spired him from youth up, a love that no time or space could ever cool, ever diminish ! As a boy leaving Ireland, he sang to home and country to " Carmen's ancient town," " to Wexford in the distance ;" in exile, he chanted sweetly and mournfully the memories of his own land and his yearnings to behold it again. His " Parting from Ireland" is an agon izing wail of sorrow : " Oh, dread Lord of heaven and earth ! hard and sad it is to go From the land I loved and cherish'd into outward gloom and woe ; Was it for this, Guardian Angel ! when to manly years I came, Homeward, as a light, you led me light that now is turn'd to flame ?" 46 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. And whoever sang with fonder pride, or in more melodious verse, the romantic beauty of Ireland, her household virtues, her ever-abiding faith in things divine? How fondly ho apostrophizes his " Ireland of the Holy Islands, Belted round with misty highlands!" In " The Deserted Chapel" we have a most touching and graphic description of the desolating effects of emigration in the old land ; in " The Woful Winter," a mournful lament for the myriad victims of famine and pestilence in the dreary year of '47 : " They are flying, flying, like northern birds, over the sea for fear ; They cannot abide in their own green land, they seek a resting here Oh ! wherefore are they flying is it from the front of war, Or have they smelt the Asian plague the winds waft from afar?" And again, in the noble poem entitled "Famine in the Land," " Death reapeth in the field of life, and we cannot count the corpses !" the same subject is pursued with sorrowful interest. It was indeed one that addressed itself to the tenderest sympathies of the poet's heart, and we find it touchingly prominent in several of the poems ; and this is natural, for " the Ancient Race," the " Celtic Race," was one of his favorite themes ; he loved more than all to sing its praise ; he loved it, he was proud of it ; then how could he fail to feel its woes, and the dark doom that made it subject to periodical famine and pestilence? Even in the land of his exile, we find his " Meditations" interwoven with sad reflections on the hard lot that makes so many of his countrymen wanderers on the face of the earth : " Alone in this mighty city, queen of the continent ! I ponder on my people's fate in grief and discontent; Alas ! that I have lived to see them wiled and cast away, And driven like soulless cattle from their native land a prey!" Indeed, love for his own " island race" was one of our poet's INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 47 strongest and most abiding instinct's. How grandly he sings of " Ossian's Celts," of the warlike Milesians ! how fra ternal and how noble his " Salutation to the Celts !" " Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be, In the far woods of Oregon, or by the Atlantic sea !" His love for Ireland inspired Mr. McGee beyond all doubt with some of the very best and sweetest of his poems. It was so a part of his nature that, like the theme of some noble piece of music, it runs through all his poetry, yielding ever the sweetest notes, charming us, while we read, like the matins of the lark, or the vesper-hymn of the bird of eve. His songs of Ireland come gushing from the inner most depths of his heart, warm, and fresh, and glowing, " Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, Let it be some token still of the Green Old Land once mine ; A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me Than all the wines of the Rhine-land, or the art of Italic." His " Wishes," his " Memories," his " Heart's Eesting-place," all echo the same strain "Where'er I turn'd, some emblem still Roused consciousness upon my track ; Some hill was like an Irish hill, Some wild-bird's whistle call'd me back." And how touching is the apology we find in more than one of the poems for his passionate devotion to Ireland and her literature ! In one he sings " Oh ! blame me not if I love to dwell On Erin's early glory ; Oh ! blame me not, if too oft I tell The same inspiring story!" In another we find the singularly characteristic lines " I'd rather turn one simple verse True to the Gaelic ear, Than classic odes I might rehearse With senates list'ning near." 48 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. Now this is precisely what he did, and it makes the chief charm of his poetry. It was because he, more than any poet of our time z " turn'd " his verses " true to the Gaelic ear," that, whether grave or gay, tender or pathetic, or martial, or religious', they ever reach the Gaelic heart, and mirror all its many-hued aspects. The noblest of his poems are undoubtedly the historical. Indeed, it was one of the dreams of his life to complete, in some season of rest (which never came!) a ballad-history of Ireland : some broken links of that golden chain will delight many a reader of this volume, as they have delighted thou sands in days gone by. " Amergin's Hymn on Seeing Innis- fail," " Milesius, the Spaniard," " Ossian's Celts," " Ireland of the Druids," " The Coming of St. Patrick," and other poems on the life and death of that apostle ; " The Voyage of Em an Oge," " The Gobhan Saer," " St. Cormac, the Navi gator," " St. Brendan and the Strife-Sower," " St. Columba to his Irish Dove," " St. Columbanus to St. Coingall," " The Testament of St. Arbogast," " The Pilgrimage of Sir Ulgarg," the two noble poems on "Margaret O'Carroll, of Offaly;" " Lady Gormley," " Elan Synan's Game of Chess," " Sir John De Courcy's Pilgi'image," " Good Friday, 1014," " Shawn na Gow's Guest," and other poems on King Brian Boromhe ; the fine, but unfinished poem on " The Death of Donnell More," "Cathal's Farewell to the Rye," "The Wisdom-Sel lers before Charlemagne," " The Lament of the Irish Children in the Tower," "Earl Desmond's Apology," "Rory Dall's Lamentation," " Feagh McHugh," " Sir Cahir O'Dogherty's Message," " The Rapparees," " The Midnight Mass," " The Death of Art McMurrogh," "The River Boyne," "The Execution of Archbishop Plunket," " The Death of O'Caro- lan," the poems on the famine and pestilence in Ireland, and on the emigration and the Irish in America, are his torical poems of the highest order. So, too, are " The Bat- INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 49 tie of Ayachucho," " Moylan's Dragoons," " The Sage of King Olaf Tregvysson," " The Death of King Magnus," " The Death of Hudson," the two musical ballads on " Jac ques Cartier," "The Launch of the Griffin," "Sebastian Cabot to his Lady," "Hannibal's Vision of the Gods of Carthage," " Diephon," and various other poems on general historical subjects. With these may be classed "lona," the wonderfully fine poems on " The Four Masters " and their chief, " Brother Michael," the " Prayer for Farrell O'Gara," their benefactor and employer, and " Sursum Corda " addressed to his friend, the venerable and most estimable Eugene O'Curry. Another remarkable class of these poems is the obituary or commemorative. Of these, the loftiest and grandest are "The Dead Antiquary" (John O'Donovan), "Eugene O'Curry," and " Eichard Dalton Williams ; very fine too, and very solemn, is the " Monody on the Death of Gerald Griffin ;" whilst "William Smith O'Brien," "John Banim," and other eminent Irishmen, are duly commemorated. The lament for Banim is not equal to any of the others, being a mere juvenile composition, written while Mr. McGee was editing the Boston Pilot. Some of the most graceful and effective, however, of his poetical efforts were his tributes to the memory of private friends long known and well esteemed, but of no historical importance. Chief amongst these are " The Prayer for the Soul of the Priest of Perth," and " Ee- quiem -ZEternam," which last, written but one short month before his own sad death, applied so entirely to himself, that it almost seemed like the voice of presentiment, and as though he, like Mozart, were inspired to chant his own requiem. It was in these heart-piercing strains of sorrowing affection, as well as in the numerous poems addressed to his wife, and some few to his chosen friends, that the win ning tenderness of our poet's nature made itself manifest. 50 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. In tiiis connection may be mentioned the exquisite little poems " Consolation," " Mary's Heart," " God be Praised," and " To my Wishing-Cap." Amongst the poems expressive of friendship, one of the most beautiful is that " To a Friend in Australia," in which are found these exquisite lines : " Old friend ! the years wear on, and many cares And many sorrows both of us have known ; Time for us both a quiet couch prepares A couch like Jacob's, pillow'd with a stone." To the manifold trials, troiibles, and heart-wearing strug gles of his life, Mr. McGee gives unwonted expression in the musical and sorrowful little poem entitled " Ad Miseri- cordiam," written during his darkest days, when publishing the American Celt in New York. No one, we would hope, can read without emotion the concluding lines : " Welcome, thrice welcome, to overtax'd nature, The darkness, the silence, the rest of the grave ; Oh ! dig it down deeply, kind fellow-creature, I am weary of living the life of a slave !" It is quite remarkable, however, that, amongst the poetical remains of Thomas D'Arcy McGee, the religious element, the strong, lively, simple faith of his Celtic fathers is supremely evident. In every stage of his life, the most stirring, the most unfavorable to religious thought or feeling, we find his muse devoted to the Saints of God, especially those of his own race ; how he sang of " St. Patrick," " St. Brendan of the West," " St. Arbogast," " St. Kieran," " St. Columbanus," " St. Comgall," " St. Cormac, the Navigator," " St. Bride, of Kildare," and " St. Columba, of the Churches," this volume will bear witness. His poem on " Eternity" contains, within a short space, much sublime thought and the fulness of faith ; yet it was written many years ago, when life was young and warm, and its cares were many and heavy on the poet's heart. Even " The Rosary " received its tribute from his pious muse in those busy by-gone years ; indeed, all his INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 51 life long Mr. McGee cherished the special veneration which his mother taught him in early infancy for the blessed Mother of our Lord. In his latest years, when the legislative halls of his adopted country were wont to echo with his matchless eloquence, and the multitudinous cares of statecraft weighed upon his mind, and the tumult of party strife jarred harshly on his finely-tuned ear and heart, we find his poetry chiefly of a religious character. It was then that he sang of " Humility," of " First Communion,'' of " Sister Margaret Bourgeois/' of Montreal, and her wonderful life of sancti fied labor ; it was then he penned these deathless lines " Mighty our Holy Church's will To guard her parting souls from ill, Jealous of death, she guards them still Miserere, Domine ! " The dearest Mend will turn away, And leave the clay to keep the clay, Ever and ever she will stay Miserere, Domine .'" Had he lived longer, this religious aspect of his mind, this fervent, ever-living faith would have been still more strikingly manifested. Amongst his papers was found a list of " Topics" for poems, evidently written quite recently, all of them of a most solemnly religious character. These were the " Topics" written in pencil in his own fair hand : " He came unto His own, and His own received Him not," " The night cometh in which no man can work," " I believe in the Communion of Saints," " Ergo expecto resurrectionem mortuorum" " It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead." The solemn significance of these scriptural texts, selected as the subject of poems probably but a few weeks or a few days before his untimely and most melancholy death, will be noted with interest. Indeed, we find in several of the poems expressions that read like the voice of impending doom ; thus in the Monody on the Death of Gerald Griffin : 52 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. " So have bright spirits been eclipsed and lost, Forever dark, if by Death's shadow cross'd ;" and again still more like presentiment : " Oh, even thus Death strikes the gifted, then Come the worms inquests and the award of men!" The beautiful little poems, " Stella ! Stella !" " I will go to the Altar of God," and the " Sunday Hymn at Sea," were written during Mr. McGee's last voyage from Europe, in 1867. They breathe the very spirit of faith, called into poetical expression by the abiding presence of the great waters, the boundless mirror of Creative Power. "The Christmas Prelude," "A Prayer for the Dead," "The Star of the Magi," " An Irish Christmas," " The First Commu nion," "Eternity," "The Pearl of Great Pi-ice," and others, are eminently religious. Of the pathetic ballads, "The Death of the Homeward Bound," one of the best known of all Mr. McGee's ballads, will be read with most pleasure. It is wonderfully beautiful. " The Trip over the Mountain " is a capital specimen of the Irish popular ballad, showing with graphic fidelity the process of love-making amongst the peasantry, not only of "Wexford, but of all the Irish counties. The " dramatic sketch," as he called it, " King Dermid ; or, The Normans in Ireland," although not so finished as it would have been had he written it some years later, still gives evidence of considerable power, and shows that the author might have shone as a dramatist had he followed up this first attempt. Take the poems for all in all, they are, to my thinking, the most truly Irish collection in our day given to the public. They are intensely, thoroughly Irish, in the sense of genius, of national idiosyncrasy Irish in thought, in feeling, in expression. They are Irish in rever ential love for what is old and venerable witness the exquisite poem on the Premonstratensian Abbey of Lough INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 53 Key : they are Irish in the depth and simplicity of religious faith ; they are Irish in passionate devotion to native land ; they are Irish in the warmth and sincerity of affection they breathe, whether in love or friendship ; Irish in the peculiar forms of expression, rich and racy of Irish idiom hence most "true to the Gaelic ear;" and Irish, too, in the elo quent flow of words, adapting itself with ease to the musical intonation of the sweetest and most perfect melody. Even those written for and of the Irish in America are as true to Irish thought and expression as any written in and for Ire land. Of this class, the singularly graceful poem, " An Invitation Westward," is a fine example ; so, too, is " The Cross in the West," " St. Patrick's in the Woods," " The Irish Homes of Illinois," " Graves in the Forest," and various others. "The Army of the West," "The Free Flag of America," " Hail to the Land," and some others, bear grace ful homage to the country where he had, for the time, sought a home, the greatness of which none better than he appre ciated. The noble verses on "Prima Vista" (Newfoundland) and " Peace hath her Victories" the latter written in Paris apropos to the great Exposition in that city "St. Patrick's Dream," and " lona to Erin," are amongst the last of his published poems. It will be seen that some of the poems are unfinished, such as "The Death of Donnell More" (one of the best of his historical poems), "The Banshee and the Bride," " The Four Students," and "The Sinful Scholar." The latter, a truly charming production even in its fragmentary state, he seems to have intended for larger proportions ; its great intrinsic beauty induced the editress to collect and arrange all she could find of it with special care.* * " Another poem, called "The Emigrants," on which he was engaged, I found in so fragmentary a state, that I have not attempted to connect the scattered links. The author appears to have intended it for a poem of some length, to form a volume in itself; the dedication which he had written for it will be found in this collection. Many years ago, Mr. McGee had, I see, 54 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. One couplet of this poem is strikingly characteristic of the author's peculiar delicacy of thought and expression : " The lone lake, like a lady, grieves, Saddest in the long autumn eees." To ordinary readers nothing can be more simple than these two lines, but to the cultivated poetical taste they will pre sent a graceful thought, most happily rendered in musical words. Some other such exquisite snatches of song the editress found here and there on scraps of paper, without any apparent connection broken links of thought, or rather gushes of song welling forth from the fount of genius. Here is one of these : " Spell-bound or asleep, I was wand'ring all alone Where, beneath monastic rocks old and gray, The deep sea beats its breast with many a sigh and moan For its stormy frantic passions, or the ships it cast away." Another was as follows : " A moon that sheds a needless light On soulless streets in the far-gone night." On another scrap was found this stanza, which the author evidently meant for the beginning of a poem to be named " The War of the Holy Cross :" " Art thou brave, and lovest glory, then rise and follow me, And thou shalt have for captain the Lord of land and sea ; Where the mighty men of ages left foot-prints stamp'd in gore, We will bear the sacred banner that our fathers bore of yore." This poem, to judge from its opening lines, would have been one of great vigor and of stately measure, conceived in that religious spirit which marked exclusively the closing period of our poet's life. The following stanza is of strange, sweet mapped out the plan of a grand epic on the Jewish exodus, which was to have extended over twelve books. How thoroughly he mastered every sub ject on which he wrote may be judged from the following note appended to the plan of this poem : " Read for Exodus, ' St. Jerome and the Fathers,' ' Divine Legation,' His tories of Egypt, Arabia, the Jews, etc., Natural History, Josephus, and the Talmud." INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 55 melody ; would that the poem so commenced had been ended ! " Oft through the gloaming, Like shadows coming, Around me roaming, In scenes afar Than the present nearer Come the old days dearer, Beaming brighter, clearer Than the evening star." The first lines of a historical poem called " King Nial's Expe dition to Armoria" will give an idea of what it would have been if completed, as it may have been, since a poem of that name was found on one of Mr. McGree's lists of his poems : " King Nial hath gone with his chieftains all For a royal raid into Armoric Gaul ; Eight well do the island-warriors know That the Roman now is a yielding foe Though, truth to tell, in its days of pride, They smote it often, south of Clyde ; Yet much it rejoices the heart of the "West To see the brave bird flying back to its nest." Other broken snatches of glorious song I have embodied in the poems, where there were even two consecutive verses. One of these commences thus " I would not die with my work undone ;" another, "A happy bird that hung on high." These detached verses I commend to the reader's special at tention, for they are indeed of touching significance, when viewed in connection with the author's chequered life and sad, sad death. " I dream'd a dream wkn the woods were green, And my April heart made an April scene, In the far, far distant land, That even I might something do That would keep my memory for the true, And my name from the spoilers hand !" That even he might something do ! he who devoted all the years of life, from boyhood to the grave, to the hardest brain-toil for country, for literature, for religion ! he who 56 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. delivered over eleven hundred lectures on every subject that could elevate and instruct the people ! he who wrote many books of rare value, and edited some fifteen volumes of news papers! he whose poetry, like his eloquence, has thrilled the hearts of tens of thousands ! Ah ! if he did not do work enough " to keep his name from the spoiler's hand," then no man or woman of our generation has a claim to lasting re membrance. As one of those who knew him best, and all he had done and meant to do for the real interests of society, especially those of his own race, which is also hers, and as one of his humble fellow-laborers in the field of Irish and Catholic lit erature, the editress has done what in her power lay to "keep his memory for the true" and his "name from the spoiler's hand." The following beautiful poem from the pen of " Thomasine," one of the sweetest singers of the Dublin Nation in its palmiest days, appeared so late as 1860 in the columns of that paper. It is a response to Mr. McGee's heart- warm stanzas, " Am I remember'd in Erin ?" THE EXILE'S QUESTION, "AM I REMEMBER'D ?" i. Well have the poets imaged forth The fear-cross'd hope of lovers true A needle turning towards the north, Constant, yet ever trembling too ; And love the purest soonest feels This thrilling doubt arise, As homeward memory sadly steals From exile's distant skies. Thou art remember'd ! IT. But doubt like this doth grievous wrong To Her round whom thy heart-strings twine T And, Brother of the sweet-voiced Song ! Never such fervent love as thine Did Erie's grateful nature leave Unnoticed or forgot ; Still for thy absence doth she grieve, Still mourn thy exiled lot. Thou art remember'd ! INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 57 in. Nay, and though long the glorious roll Of gifted sons who loved her well. Much were that tender mother's dole. If one forgotten fell. E'en as the Church holds record proud Of every sainted name, She counts for each in that bright crowd A son's especial claim Thou art remember'd ! She sends this greeting fond by me, To bid thy heart rejoice ; Eager from lands beyond the sea, She listens for thy voice. By many a hearth her daughters sing Thy strains of Celtic lore, While round their knees the children cling To learn the deeds of yore And thou'rt remember'd ! Oft, too, when themes of import grave Call men to council high, Some voice recalls thy lessons brave, Faithful to live or die ; And constant still believe it, friend ! Before God's holy shrine, Few names with her petitions blend More warmly loved than thine Thou'rt well remember'd ! To this we append, selected from scores of poems written in America on Mr. McGee's death, the following musical and eloquent tribute to his memory from the pen of an accom plished Catholic priest of Pennsylvania : " Dark is the house of our fathers, brother, Fast fall the tears of its inmates for thee Grief-stricken man his emotions may smother, But loud is the wail of the wife and the mother, Loved D'Arcy MeGee ! " Sweetly the Muses thy loss are bewailing, Sighing in chorus the sad dirge ah me ! Life's golden sunset in darkness is paling Death thy bright name with his shadows is veiling, Lost D'Arcy McGee ! 58 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. "Lo ! the great dead of the long-buried ages, Thronging innumerous, moan over thee Spirits of heroes, of saints, and of sages, Glowing with life in thy bright-pictured pages, gifted McGee ! "Thousands, the wide world o'er, who with gladness, Spell-bound, enraptured, erst listen'd to thee, Silver-tongued Orator! now, in deep sadness, Horror-struck, gaze on the dark deed of madness, O martyr'd McGee ! " Poet, Historian, the Forum's bright glory Light lie the sod, noble D'Arcy ! on thee ; Blest be thy name till the ages are hoary Honor'd, oft utter'd in pray'r, song, and story. deathless McGee !" With these echoes of his fame from either side the Atlan tic, we close our introduction to the poems of Thomas D'Arcy McGee poems which will, we think, justify me in saying that he himself, more than any of his race, struck " the harp of King Brian," and breathed over its strings the Celtic spirit of Ossian, whom he once addressed in this pro phetic strain : " Oh, inspired giant ! shall we e'er behold In our own time One fit to speak your spirit on the wold, Or seize your rhyme ? One pupil of the past, as mighty soul'd As in the prime Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold They, of your song sublime!" If Thomas D'Arcy McGee was not the one " fit to speak that spirit on the wold" if he was not the "pupil of the past," the " mighty-soul'd," representing in our new age the great father of Celtic song then is there none such among living men. PATKIOTIC POEMS. AN APOLOGY TO THE HARP. HARP of the land I love ! forgive this hand That reverently lifts thce from the dust, And scans thy strings with filial awe and love, Lest by neglect the chords of song should rust. ii. Deep buried in tall grave-yard grass thou wert The shadows of the dead thy sole defence The wild flowers twining round thee meekly fond, Fearing their very love might be offence. in. Seeing thee thus, I knew the bards were gone Who thrilled thee and themselves thrilled to thy touch Mangan and Moore, I knew, were vanished ; I knelt and raised thee : did I dare too much ? rv. If Griffin, or if Davis lived, a night Had never fallen upon thee, lying there ; Or if our living poets, loyal held To native themes so much, I dare not dare. 62 PATRIOTIC POEMS. V. But could I see thee, glorious instrument ! The first time in long ages silence-bound ? Thou ! who wert nursed on ancient Ossian's knee Thence sacredly through ages handed down. VI. I ! who have heard thy echoes from my soul, A sickly boy, couched at my mother's knee : I ! who have heard thy dirges, wild as winds, And thy deep tidal turns of prophecy ! VII. I ! whom you tuned in sorrow day by day, For friend, adviser, solace, companie, Could I pass by thee, prostrate, nor essay To bear thee on a stage harp of my loved Erie ? VIII. Forgive me ! oh, forgive me, if too bold ! I twine thy chords about my very heart, And make with every pulse of life a vow, Swearing nor years, nor death, shall us two part. IX. I have no hope to gather bays, on high Beneath the snows of ages, where they bloom, As many votaries of thine desired, And the great favor'd few have haply done ; x. But if emblem o'er my dust should rise, Let it be this : Our Harp within a wreath Of shamrocks twining round it lovingly, That so, O Harp ! our love shall know no death ! PATRIOTIC POEMS. 63 THE THESE MINSTRELS. THREE Minstrels play within the Tower of Time, A weird and wondrous edifice it is : One sings of war, the martial strain sublime, And strikes his lyre as 'twere a foe of his. The sword upon his thigh is dripping red From a foe's heart in the mid-battle slain; His plumed casque is doff'd from his proud head, His flashing eye preludes the thundrous strain. Apart, sequester'd in an alcove deep, Through which the pale moon looks propitious in, Accompanied by sighs that seem to weep, The second minstrel sadly doth begin To indite his mistress fair, but cruel, who Had trampled on the heart that was her own ; Or prays his harp to help him how to woo, And thrills with joy at each responsive tone. Bight in the porch, before which, fair and far, Plain, lake, and hamlet fill the musing eye, Gazing toward the thoughtful evening star That seems transfixed upon the mountain high, The third of Country and of Duty sings: Slow and triumphal is the solemn strain; Like Death, he takes no heed of chiefs or kings, But over all he maketh Country reign. Sad Dante . he, love-led from life, who found His way to Eden, and unhappy stood Amid the angels he, the cypress- crown'd, Knew not the utmost gift of public good. 64 P A TRIO TIC POEMS. Thoughts deeper and more solemn it inspires Than even his lofty spirit dare essay; How then shall we, poor Emberers of old fires, Kindle the beacons of our country's way ? "We all are audience in the Tower of Time; For us alone at this hour play the three, Choose which ye will the martial song sublime, Or lover fond; but thou my Master be, O Bard of Duty and of Country's cause ! Thee will I choose and follow for my lord ! Thy theme my study and thy words my laws Muse of the patriot lyre and guardian sword ! THE EMIGRANT AT HOME. " I had a dream which was not all a dream. ! ' Byron. I. A YOUTH return'd from the far, far West Lay slumber-bound in his early home, When a fairy vision beguiled his rest, And a voice of music fill'd the room. n. " What saw you in the Western land Beyond the sea, my Irish boy ?" " Oh ! forests vast, and rivers grand, And a sun that shone, as if for joy." m. " What saw you else in the Western land That lures so many across the sea ?" "Oh ! I saw men toiling on every hand, And right merry men they seem'd to be." PA TRIO TIC POEMS. 65 IV. " "When you were abroad in the Western land, Saw you any who ask'd for rne?" " Oh ! I met marching many a band, And the air they play'd was Grammachree. v. " And their order'd ranks you should have seen, In guarded camp, or festive hall, "When their manly limbs were clad in green, And a flag of green flew over all." The spirit clapp'd her pearl-pale hands, Proudly her silvery wings she shook, And the sleeping youth from the far-off lands Bless'd, as she pass'd, with a loving look. THE PILGRIMS OF LIBERTY. I. BESIDE a river that I know, shrined in a laurel grove, I see my idol Liberty, that wears the smile of Love ; Her face is toward the city, four paths are at her feet, They bear her hymns from the four winds as rays converging meet. n. By the four paths I see approach my idol's votaries : Those from the highlands of the "West, from Northern valleys these ; 66 PATRIOTIC POEMS. From Shannon shore and Slaney's side, yon other pilgrims throng: Oh ! wild around my idol's shrine will surge their mingled song. in. And thither wends that wounded man, who bears the muf fled sword Once borne by the comrade true his kindred heart adored; The sacred stains upon the blade are drops of tyrant blood: He brings it now to Freedom's shrine, as loyal comrade should. IV. And thither wends the widow, with her fair son at her side, The banneret, whose eye is wet, beneath his brow of pride ; The sable crape around the staff his father bore is roll'd The shining Sun across the Green flings many a ray of gold. v. The maiden with the funeral urn close gathered to her breast Goes thither to give up the heart she loved on earth the best ; She girt his sword and gave him for Ireland's holy fight And once again to Liberty, Love yields her equal right. VI. The Artist, with his battle piece the Poet, with his song The Student, with his glowing heart, pour to the shrine along, Where Liberty, my idol, sits on a shrine like snow, By a gliding river that I love, near a city that I know. VII. Oh ! long around my idol's throne may bloom the laurel trees, The ever green and ever glad, they laugh at blight and breeze PATRIOTIC POEMS. 67 True children of our hardy clime, long may they there be seen Like our nation's banners folded, as deathless and as green. VIII. Oh! long may the four pathways join beneath my idol's feet, And long may Ireland's mingled men before her altar meet ; Oh ! long may man and maid and youth go votaries to the grove Where reigns my idol, Liberty, that wears the smile of Love. HAIL TO THE LAND. I. HAIL to the land where Freedom first Through all the feudal fetters burst, And, planting men upon their feet, Cried, Onward! never more retreat! Be it yours to plant your starry flag On royal roof and castle crag ; Be it yours to climb Earth's eastern slope In championship of human hope, Your war-cry, Truth ! immortal word ; Your weapon, Justice ! glorious sword ; Your fame far-traveled, as the levin, 1 And lasting as the arch of heaven. Hail to the Happy Land ! n. Hail to the land where Franklin lies At peace beneath disarmed skies, PA TRIO TIC POEMS. Where Jefferson and Jackson rest, Like valiant men, on Victory's breast, Where, his benignant day-task done, The clouds have closed round Washington The star amid the luminous host Which guides mankind to Freedom's coast. I feel my heart beat fast and high, As to the coast our ship draws nigh ; I burn the fresh foot-prints to see Of the heroes of Humanity. Hail to the Happy Land 1 in. Hail to the land whose broad domain Rejoices under Freedom's reign Where neither right nor race is bann'd, Where more is done e'en than is plann'd Where a lie liveth not in stone, Nor truth in Bible-leaves alone Where filial lives are monuments To noble names and high intents Oh ! where the living still can tread, Unblushingly, amid the dead ! Hail to that Happy Land ! IV. What can I lay on Freedom's shrine Meet-offering to the power divine ? I have nor coronet nor crown, Nor wealth nor fame can I lay down ; But I have hated tyrants still, And struggled with their wrathful will ; And when through Europe's length they lied, For thee I feebly testified ; PATRIOTIC POEMS. And oft, in better champion's stead, In thy behoof I've striven and said, " Ah, be the offering meet to thee, My life, my all, dread Liberty ! Hail to thy Happy Land ! v. " The land is worthy of its place, The vanguard of the human race ; Its rivers still refresh the sea, As Truth does Time, unceasingly ; Its prairie plains as open lie As a saint's soul before God's eye ; Its broad-based mountains firmly stand Like Faith and Hope in their own land. Heaven keep this soil, and may it bear New worth and wealth to every year ; And may men never here bend knee To any lord, O Lord, bat Thee. Hail to the Happy Land 1" A MALEDICTION. i. " MY native land ! how does it fare Since last I saw its shore?" "Alas! alas! my exiled frei'e, It aileth more and more. God curse the knaves who yearly steal The produce of its plains; Who for the poor man never feel, Yet gorge on labor's gains 1 70 PATRIOTIC POEMS. II. " We both can well recall the time When Ireland yet was gay; It needed then no wayside sign To show us where to stay. A stranger sat by ev'ry hearth, At ev'ry board he fed; It was a work of maiden mirth To make the wanderer's bed. in. " 'Tis altered times : at every turn A shiftless gang you meet; The hutless peasants starve and mourn, Camp'd starkly in the street. The warm old homes that we have known Went down like ships at sea; The gateless pier, the cold hearth-stone, Their sole memorials be. IV. " We two are old in years and woes, And Age has powers to dread ; And now, before our eyes we close, Our malison be said: The curse of two gray-headed men Be on the cruel crew* Who've made our land a wild-beast's den- And God's curse on them too." * Meaning the " exterminating " landlords. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 71 A SONQ FOE THE SECTIONS. I. YE, who still love our native land, Who doubt not, nor despair, Come, let us make another stand, And never droop for care. If she is poor, she needs the more The service of the true, And laurels will be plenty yet, Though heroes may be few. ii. What though we failed in 'Forty-eight To form th' embattled line, The more our need to compensate Our friends in 'Forty-nine ; What though ships bear to isles afar The foremost of our race For them and Ireland both we'll war, And their slavish bonds efface. in. All Europe shakes from shore to shore ; The Jews bid for her crowns ; Democracy, with sullen roar, Affrights her feudal towns : The kings are struggling for their lives Amid the angry waves, And every land but Ireland strives To liberate its slaves. 72 PATRIOTIC POEMS IV. Up ! up ! ye banish'd Irishmen, The soldier's art to learn ; A time will come Will ye be then Fit for the struggle stern ? A time will come when Britain's flag From London Tower shall fall Will ye be ready then to strike For Ireland, once for all ? v. Oh ! by the memories of your youth, I conjure you prepare ; By all your vows and words of truth, I ask you to prepare. Oh, by the holy Christian Creed, Which makes us brothers, rise ! And staunch the kindred wounds that bleed, Ere yet our nation dies ! VI. Ye who still hope in Fatherland, Your trial-time shall come, When many a gallant exile band Can strike a blow for home ! For Ireland and for vengeance, then, Arise and be prepared, And strike the tyrant to the heart The while his breast is bared. VII. No more of mercy not a word Of scorning 'vantage ground No more of measuring sword and sword, Of being content to wound ; PATRIOTIC POEMS. 73 But when the battle is begun, Cleave open crown and crest ; Then only will your work be done, Then only can you rest. "THE ARMY OF THE WEST.' WE fight upon a new-found plan, our Army of the West Our brave brigades, along the line, will leave the foe no rest Our battle-axes, bright and keen, with every day's swift sands, Lay low the foes of Liberty, and then annex their lands; On, onward through the Western woods our standard saileth ever And shadows many a nameless peak and unbaptized river The Army of the Future we, the champions of the Unborn We pluck the primal forests up, and sow their sites with corn. ii. That rugged standard beareth the royal arms of toil The axe, and pike, and ponderous sledge, and plough that frees the soil The field is made of stripes, and the stars the crest supplies, And the living eagles hover round the flag-staffs where it flies. And thus beneath our standard, right merrily we go, The Future for our heritage, the tangled Waste our foe : The Army of the Future we, the champions of the Unborn We pluck the primal forests up, and sow their sites with corn. 74 PATRIOTIC POEMS. in. Down in yon glade the anvil rings beneath the arching oaks, Behind yon hills our neighbors drive young oxen in the yokes, Yon laughing boys now boating down the rapid river's tide, Go to the learned man who keeps the log-house on its side Like suckers of the pine they grow, elastic, rugged, tall, They will hit a swallow on the wing with a single rifle ball The cadets of our army they, from " the West-Point" of the unborn, They too will pluck the forests up, and sow their sites with corn. iv, Oh ye who dwell in cities, in the self-conceited East, Do you ever think how by our toils your comforts are increased ? When you walk upon your carpets, and sit on your easy chairs, And read self-applauding stories, and give yourselves such airs Do you ever think upon us, Backwoodsmen of the West, Who, from the Lakes to Texas, have given the foe no rest? On the Army of the Future, and the champions of the Unborn, Who pluck the primal forests up, and sow their sites with corn? SONG OF THE SIKHS. i. Allah ! il allah ! the rivers are red With the blood and the plumes of the Infidel dead; Allah ! ti allah ! their far isle grows pale At the sound of our song on the western gale. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 75 n. This morning, how proud was their muster and show, As their squadrons swift wheel'd, and their columns came slow ! Wheel'd swift to their death by the spears of Lahore Came slow to feed Jhailum full with their gore. in. Allah ! il allah ! the Dost and his son 2 Shall hear of the deeds on this bloody day done, And a stream from the hills to our camp we shall see, Like the Ganges, refreshing the shores of the sea! IV. Let your hearts shout aloud to the arch of the sky, For thither the souls of our dead brothers fly ; Oh ! sweet from the Houris their welcome will be, As they tell how they fell 'neath the cool Tamboo tree. v. Allah ! il allah ! trust cannon and sabre ! Rest not ! Paradise is the payment of labor ! Allah ! il allah ! another such day, And, like spirits cast ont, they will flee and away ! FREEDOM'S LAND. i. WHERE is Freedom's glorious land ? Is it where a lawless race Scorn all just control, and stand Each one 'gainst his brother's face ? 76 PATRIOTIC POEMS. No ! for man's wild passions still Heavier chains their tyrants forge, And his own unbridled will Is itself the fiercest scourge, And a land of anarchy Never can be truly free. n. When her fetters Gallia broke And indignant cast away, With the old and galling yoke, Every salutary sway, Were not the destroyers then Tyrants worse to meaner slaves ? Freedom is miscall'd of men When her footsteps tread on graves Where unpunish'd crime goes free Is no land of liberty. in. But where men like brethren stand, Each one his own spirit rules, Serving best his own dear land, Turning from the anarch's schools, Reverencing all lawful sway Patient if it be unjust ; If the fabric should decay, Build, improve not raze to dust ; Liberty and justice fair Find their holiest altars there ! IV. Such be thou oh land of mine ! Still'd be every discord rude ! Erin, let thy sons combine In one holv brotherhood ! PATRIOTIC POEMS. 77 Prudent, temperate, firm, and strong Loyalty our watchword be ! Truth our shield 'gainst taunt and wrong, And warm hearts our chivalry ! Loyal soul and stainless hand, Make our country Freedom's land ! THE DESEETED CHAPEL. I. SUNDAY morning, calm and fair ! Ah, how beautiful the scene is ! The blue hills shade the amber air, The Slaney flows, my home, between us 1 Do you note the Sabbath sun, Burnish'd for the day's devotion ? Do you note the white ships on The distant, silent, silver ocean ? n. " God be praised for Ireland's beauty ! Such a mother as He gave us ? Did we only do our duty, Could the powers of hell enslave us ? E'en this river, did we heed it, Safety's lesson yet might teach us. Far and weak the founts that feed it, But to what great end it reaches !" in. So I thought, my way across To that wayside chapel lowly, Whose rude eves, festooned with moss, Often moved me with thoughts holy 78 PATRIOTIC POEMS. (Thoughts that do not love the city 1) Now, alas ! all here was altered Even the Mass-boy's accent falter'd ; The congregation, few and sad, Such a look of ruin had, That I could not pray for pity ! IV. Signs of grief on every face, In the consecrated place ; At the altar I heard weeping, Tears the aged priest's face steeping ; And a moan might rend a stone, Round the silent walls was creeping. The very carved Saint in his nook Had compassion in his look Chimed the sad winds through the steeple " Save, O Jesus ! save thy People !" v. " "Where," thought I, " is now the maiden Who once knelt here, blossom-laden ? Where the farmer, whose broad breast Here its simple sins confess'd? Some, perchance, beyond Lake Erie, Toil as slaves in forests weary ; Some are nearer home beside us, In their cold graves, whence they chide us, That Ave still let feuds divide us !" VI. Whoso has a human heart, Let him our old chapel see, Note all round it, nor depart, Till to God, on bended knee, P^l TRIO TIG P OEMS. He has vowed his part to take With us aye, for Ireland's sake, And her feudal bonds to break. A MERE IRISHMAN'S LAMENT. I. OH, ancient land ! where are those lords "Whose palace-gates to me Seem'd rusted as their father's swords, Which won their share in thee ! Their avenues are all grass-grown, Their courts with ruoss are green, Cold looks each tree, and tow'r, and stone, Where no master's face is seen. ii. Yon swan that sails across the lake, How sad its state appears ! The raven's hoarse, dull echoes wake Among the oaks of years. Neglected feeds the fav'rite steed Up to the very door ; It whines : poor beast ! thy lord, I rede, Will ne'er caress thee more. in. Far, far beyond the crumbling wall Which marks that wide domain, Silence and sorrow over all Hath hung the cloud and chain. 80 PA TRIO TIC POEMS. The stout yeoman bath lost his pride, The toilsman's strength hath past, And lifeless homes, from every side, Stare us, like skulls, aghast. IV. Ah, ancient land ! what tree could keep Its bearing- high, or strength, If the roots that in the soil were deep Fail'd, as its stay, at length ? And art thou not a rootless tree, Dear land! fair land? ah ! how Should sap or firmness be in thee "What stay of strength hast thou ? v. In foreign halls thy lords laugh loud, Are gayest 'mid the gay Their day of life has not a cloud, In the strange climes far away. Free flows their wealth, and shines their worth, In France, Spain, Italy; They've smiles and wealth for all the earth, And cold neglect for thee. Not such our lords of ancient time, Whose ample roofs rose o'er Aileach, Carmen, Tara sublime They loved their natal shore ; Theirs were the homes that fill'd the land With light like lofty lamps Unlike this errant, night-born band, Chiefs of death- dews and damps! PATRIOTIC POEMS. 81 m But weak as froth such plaintive strain Let us no more repine ; Let them still from our soil remain, Still laugh at wrath divine. The sterner and the louder call, Shall drag them o'er the sea " The lord that dwells not in his hall, No lord o'er us shall be !" THE RECUSANT.* i. You swore me an oath when the grass was green, To win me a royal dower, To take me hence to the altar, I ween, And thence beyond their power. ii. By St. Berach's staff, and St. Ruadan's bell, And by all the oaths in heaven, You swore to love me, when spring was green, While breath to your body was given. in. And your faith has flown ere the corn was ripe, And your love ere the leaves do fall I am not treated as queen or as wife, Or houor'd or dower'd at all. * This little poem would seem to be allegorical, representing Ireland reproach ing England for breach of faith. ED. 82 PA TKIO II G P OEMS. IV. Ob ! false and fair and fickle of faith, Nor lover nor name need I, I have had young lovers true to the death, And others who shall not die. v. I shall be woo'd when the spring is green, I shall win me a royal dower, And my true lovers all, ere long, I ween, Shall save me from your power ! THE CELTS CONSOLATION. IF our island lies prostrate, why should Ave despair ? What race, for resistance, with ours can compare ? Some wiser, some richer, are found in the world, But their souls are as red as the flags they unfurl'd ! n. "With swords by their sides some are harness'd to shame, But the bronze of success cannot hide the black name ; Nor the diamonded brow shield the guilty abhorr'd, When their pride topples down in the breath of the Lord. in. O'er the waters of Time, in the chronicler's bark, As we sail by the Ages, some brilliant, some dark, We behold how the empire of blood is o'erthrown, And we see its black bastions all round us bestrewn. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 83 IY. If we may not be free, let us try to be frank, Let us fight life's long battle with well-order'd rank If we may not be great, let us try to be good, And long for no laurels besprinkled with blood ! NO SURRENDER. i. HEARD amid the landlord's wassail, In his tear-bemoated castle Heard by peer and heard by peasant, As the prophet of the present Heard in Dublin's dimest alleys, Heard in Connaught's saddest valleys In our night-time, from the North, Came a voice to stir the earth, With its watchword, " No surrender !" n. "No surrender!" It is spoken Be the people's vow unbroken ! "No surrender !" Sons of toil, Lineal heirs of Irish soil ! Holy lips have blessed the bans, Wedding of the hostile clans " No surrender !" Men of God Ye shall break the tyrant's rod With your Gospel, " No surrender !" in. "No surrender!" Man of might, Who woke the voice that broke the night, 84 PATRIOTIC POEMS. Whose heart is fire, whose brain is light You shall lead and win the fight ! On Stieve Donard plant your banner, Let the mountain breezes fan her. Ireland feels its dawning splendor, Hoping, chiding, guiding, tender, Shining on us, " No surrender !" DEEDS DONE IN DAYS OF SHAME. A DEED ! a deed ! O God, vouchsafe, Which shall not die with me, But which may bear my memory safe O'er time's wreck-spotted sea, A deed, upon whose brow shall stand Traced, large in lines of flame " This hath been done for Ireland, Done in the days of shame !" n. An age will come, when Fortune's sun Will beam in Ireland's sky, And mobs of flatterers then will run To hail her majesty. Amid that crowd I shall not be To join in the acclaim ; But deeds will have their memory, Though done in davs of shame. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 85 ra. "When six feet of a stranger soil Shall press upon my heart, And envy's self will pause awhile To praise the manly part Oh ye who rise in Ireland, then, To fight your way to fame, Think of the deeds by mouldering men Done in the days of shame ! THE GATHERING OF THE NATIONS. I. GATHER together the nations ! proclaim the war to all : Armor and sword are girding in palace, tower, and hall ; The kings of the earth are donning their feudal mail again Gather together the nations ! arouse and arm the men. ii. Who cometh out of the North ? 'Tis Russia's mighty Czar ; With giant hand he pointeth to a never-setting star ; The Cossack springs from his couch the Tartar leaves his den ! Ho ! herald souls of Europe, arouse and arm the men. in. What does the Frank at Eome, with the Russian at the Rhine? And Albion, paDid as her cliffs, shows neither soul nor sign ; Pope Pius sickeneth daily, in the foul Sicilian fen Ho ! wardens of the world's strongholds, arouse and arm the men. 80 PATE 10 TIC POEMS. IV. The future circleth nearer on its grey portentious wings, Pale are the cheeks of princes, and sore afraid are kings ! Once faced by the furious nations, they'll flee in fear, and then, By the right divine of the fittest, we shall have the reign of men! ROCKS AND RIVERS. AN IRISH FABLE. I. WHEN the Rivers first were born, From the hill tops each surveyed, Through the lifting haze of morn, Where his path through life was laid. ii. Down they pour'd through heath and wood, Ploughing up each passing field ; All gave way before the flood, The Rocks alone refused to yield. in. " Your pardon !" said the Waters bland, " Permit us to pass on our way ; We're sent to fertilize the land And will be chid for this delay." IV. "You sent!" the Rocks replied with scorn, "You muddy, ill-conditioned streams ; Return and live, where ye were born, Nor cheat yourselves with such wild dreams." PATRIOTIC POEMS. 87 V. " You will not ?" " No !" The Waters mild Called loudly on their kindred stock, Wave upon wave their strength they piled ; And cleft in twain rock after rock. VI. They nurtured towns, they fed the land, They brought new life to fruits and flocks : The Kivers are the People, and Our Irish Landlords are the Rocks. NEW-YEAE'S THOUGHTS. I. A SPIRIT from the skies Came into our trodden land ; It glow'd in roseate dyes, And around its brow a band Was bound like a sun-stream in the west ; And as its accents broke O'er the land, our men awoke, And each felt the stranger's yoke On his breast ! ii. And first a flush of shame Spread along their manly brows, And next, in God's dread name, They swore, and sealed their vows, That Ireland a free state should be ; 88 PATRIOTIC POEMS. And from the mountains then, And from each glade and glen, Gray spirits taught the men To be free. in. There was candor in the land, And loud voices in the air, And the poet waved his wand, And the peasant's arm was bare, And Religion smiled on Valor as her child ; But, alas ! alas ! a blight Came o'er us in a night, And now our stricken plight Drives me wild ! rv. But wherefore should I weep, When work is to be done ? Wherefore dreaming lie asleep In the quick'ning morning sun ? Since yesterday is gone and pass'd away I will seek the holy road That our martyr saints have trod, And along it bear my load As I may ! v. I will bear me as a man As an Irish man, in sooth No barrier, wile, or ban, Shall stay me from the truth, I will have it, or perish in the chace PATRIOTIC POEMS. 89 That I loved my own isle well My bones at least shall tell, And on what quest I fell In that place. VI. But if God grant me life To see this struggle out, The end of inward strife And the fall of foes without, I will die without a murmur or a tear ; For in that holy hour, You'd not miss me from your dower Of love, and hope, and power, Erin, dear! CHANGE, i. How fair is the sun on Lough Gara ! How bright on the land of the Gael ! For Summer has come with her verdure, To gladden the drooping and pale ; And morn o'er the landscape is stealing, The meadows are joyous with May ; All lightsome and brightsome the hours Poor Erin was never so gay ! n. How loud is the storm on Lough Gara ! How dark on the land of the Gael ! The clouds they are split with red lightning, The blasts how they mutter and rail ! 90 PATRIOTIC POEMS. Oh, black is the evening around us, And gone are the smiles of the morn, All gloomsorne and dreary the hours Poor Erin was never so lorn ! in. Sweet mother ! how like to our story ! How like our own mournfullest doom Now bright with the prestige of glory Now dashed into gloomiest gloom ! How late since our dear flag flew o'er us ! How soon did our poor struggles fail ! And frail as the gladness of G-ara Were the hopes in the heart of the Gael ! THE DAWNING OF THE DAT. I. IN our darkness we find comfort, In our loneliness some joy, When Hope, like the moon arises, Night's phantoms to destroy ; The spectral fires that haunt us Before its light give way, And the Unseen cannot daunt us At the dawning of the day. n. There are empty homes in Ireland, There are full ships on the sea ; Sons and brothers are awaiting Their people patiently ; PA TRIO TIC P OEMS. 91 Their eyes are on the ocean, And they cannot turn away, How sweet will be their meeting At the dawning of the day. in. I, too, am like a merchant Whose wealth is on the deep ; The blast that blows unkindly Could almost make me weep ; I think of the friend-freighted ship, That leaves my native bay May the saints be its protection Till the dawning of the day ! THE SEARCH FOE THE GAEL. I. I LEFT the highway I left the street In Albyn I sought them long ; I follow'd the track of Kenneth's feet, And the sound of Ossian's song ; By the Kymric Clyde, and in Galloway wild, I sought for the wreck of my race ; But the clouds that the hills of Albyn hide Have pitied their forfeit place. n. I look'd for the Gael in the Cambrian glen, From the Cambrian mountains 'mid, And I saw only mute, coal-mining men The face of my race was hid. 92 PA TRIO TIC P OEMS. At Merlin's work in Caernarvon waste They knew not Merlin's name And the lines the hand of the master traced As the Devil's craft they claim. in. I look'd for the Gael in green Innisfail, And they showed me cowering there Misshapen forms, cast down and pale, Thy disciplined host, despair ! But I noticed yet in their stony eyes A flash they could not veil, And I said, " Will no brave man arise To strike on this flint with steel ?" IV. I have found my race I have fcmnd my race, But oh ! so fallen and low, That their very sires, if they look'd in their face, Their own sons would not know. Still I've found my race I've found my race, And to me this race is dear, And I pray that Heaven may grant me grace To toil for them many a year. IT IS EAST TO DIE. I. IT is easy to die When one's work is done To pass from the earth Like a harvest day's sun, After opening the flowers and ripening the grain Bound the homes and the scenes where our friends remain. PATRIOTIC POEM3. 93 II. It is easy to die When one's work is done Like Simeon, the priest, Who saw God's Son ; In the fulness of years, and the fulness of faith, It is easy to sleep on the clay couch of death. in. But 'tis hard to die While one's native land Has scarce strength to cry 'Neath the spoiler's hand ; O merciful God ! vouchsafe that I May see Ireland free, then let me die. ODE TO AN EMIGRANT SHIP. 3 I. LET us speak the ship that stands Boldly out from sheltering lands : Like a proud steed for the goal Like a space-defying soul ; Comet bright, and swift that hath Enter'd on her chosen path ! n. By the color that thou wearest, By the precious freight thou bearest, By the forests where you grew, In the land you steer unto Ship be ready, and be true ! 94 PATRIOTIC POEMS. in. Tremble not beneath the weight Of your anxious human freight ; Freight beyond all cost or price, Of gold, or pearls, or Indian spice ; Steadily, oh steadily, Through fickle winds and troubled sea Bear the fallen to the free, Tenderly, oh tenderly ! IV. Munster's headlands fade away ; Old Kinsale dons its baraid grey ; 4 No Channel light here shows the way It is no landlock'd boating bay Their vessel heads for now From the east unto the setting sun, A watery field their eyes rest on, Green is the soil they plough. Here wave vaults wave in sportive speed, Like schoolboys in a summer mead ; While the brave ship with lofty port, Ambitious, spurns their idle sport, And holds upon her way afar, For higher prize and sterner war. v. Upon her deck a child I see, A young adventurer on the sea ; And ever hath its mother press'd Her infant to her gentle breast ; Now looking westward hopefully, Now turning eastward mournfully The Past and Future light and shade Upon her brow a truce have made. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 95 VI. By the ocean fame thou'st won, Gallant ship, sail fleetly on ! Proudly, safely, sail once more To thine own paternal shore ; Stars upon thy standard shine Never shame that flag of thine ! VII. Pleasant harborage waiteth thee, Off beyond this surging sea : Where thy mighty anchors shall, In the ooze, sleep where they fall ; And thy brave, unbending masts Creak no more to northern blasts ; Quiet tides and welcoming cheer Waiteth, good ship, for you here ! VIII. Steadfast to one purpose still, Hold on with unwavering will ; Thus the hero wins renown Thus the martyr wins his crown : Thus the poet thus the sage Find their port in history's page ; Stars upon thy standard shine Never shame that flaer of thine ! " WHEN FIGHTING WA S THE FASHION." I. WE'VE ships of steam, and we have wires, Thought travels like a flash on But much we've lost that was our sires', When fighting was the fashion. 96 PATRIOTIC POEMS. n. Oh gay and gentle was their blood Who Danes and Dutch did dash on, "Who to the last all odds withstood, When fighting was the fashion. in. The grain that grew in Ireland then, Their own floors they did thrash on They lived and died like Christian men, When fighting was the fashion. rv. Then Milan mail, in many a field, Mountmellick swords did clash on, And generals to our chiefs did yield, When fighting was the fashion. v. But now, oh shame ! we lick the hand That daily lays the lash on Luck never can befall our land, Till fighting comes in fashion. HOPE. HIBEKNIA. I. TELL me truly, pensive sage, Seest thou signs on any page, Know'st a volume yet to ope, Where I may read of hope of hope ? PATRIOTIC POEMS. 97 II. Dare I seek it where the wave Grieves above Leander's grave ? Must I follow forth my quest In the wider, freer West ? in. Shall I seek its sources still, Delving under Aileach hill ? Must I wait for Cashel's fall To build anew Temora's hall ? THE SAGE. IV. Genius, no ! the destined morn In the East shall ne'er be born ; Genius, no ! thy ancient quest May not be answer'd in the "West. v. Not where the war-laden tide Continents and camps divide, Not where Russ and Moslem cope, Shall break the morn of Erin's hope. VI. On Antrim's cliffs, on Cleena's strands, Thou shalt marshal filial bands ; And deep Dunmore and dark Dunloe Shall kindle in the sunburst's glow. VII. On native fields, by native strength, Thy fetters shall be burst at length, Then will and skill, not note and trope, Shall stand the sponsors of thy hope. 98 PATRIOTIC POEMS. THE REAPER'S SONG. AIR 77(e Jolly Shearers. I. THE August sun is setting Like a fire behind the hills 'Twill rise again to see us free Of life or of its ills ; For what is life, but deadly strife That knows no truce or pause, And what is death, but want of breath To curse their alien laws? Chorus Then a-shearing let us go, my boys, A-shearing let us go, On our own soil 'twill be no toil To lay the corn low. n. The harvest that is growing "Was given us by God Praise be to Him, the sun and shower Work'd for us at his nod. The lords of earth, in gold and mirth, Ride on their ancient way, But could their smile have clothed the isle In such delight to-day ? Chorus. in. " How will you go a-shearing, Dear friends and neighbors all ?" " Oh, we will go with pike and gun, To have our own or fall ; PATH 10 TIC POEMS. 99 "VVe'l] stack our arms and stack our corn Upon the same wide plain ; We'll plant a guard in barn and yard, And give them grape for grain." Chorus. IV. God speed ye, gallant shearers, May your courage never fail, May you thrash your foes, and send the chaff To England on the gale ! May you have a glorious harvest-home, Whether I'm alive or no ; Your corn grows here, the foe comes there Or it or he must go. Chorus Then a-shearing let us go, my boys, A-shearing we will go, On our own soil 'twill be no toil To cut the corn low. A HARVEST HYMN. i. GOD has been bountiful ! garlands of gladness Grow by the waysides exorcising sadness, Shedding their bloom on the pale cheek of slavery, Holding out plumes for the helmets of bravery, Birds in them singing this sanctified stave " God has been bountiful Man must be brave !" n. Look on this harvest of plenty and promise Shall we sleep while the enemy snatches it from us ? 100 PATRIOTIC POEMS. See where the sun on the golden grain sparkles ! Lo ! where behind it the reaper's home darkles ! Hark ! the cry ringing out, " Save us oh, save ! God has been bountiful Man must be brave !" m. From the shores of the ocean, the farther and hither, Where the victims of famine and pestilence wither, Lustreless eyes stare the pitying heaven, Arms, black, unburied, appeal to the levin Voices unceasing shout over each wave, " God has been bountiful Man must be brave !" IV. "Would ye live happily, fear not nor falter Peace sits on the summit of Liberty's altar ! "Would ye have honor honor was ever The prize of the hero-like, death-scornin g liver ! Would ye have glory she crowns not the slave God has been bountiful, you must be brave ! v. Swear by the bright streams abundantly flowing, Swear by the hearths where wet weeds are growing By the stars and the earth, and the four winds of heaven, That the land shall be saved, and its tyrants outdriven, Do it ! and blessings will shelter your grave God has been bountiful will ye be brave ? PATRIOTIC 1'OEMS. THE LIVING AND THE DEAD. I. BRIGHT is the Spring-time, Erin, green and gay to see ; But my heart is heavy, Erin, with thoughts of thy sons and thee ; Thinking of your dead men lying as thick as grass new mown Thinking of your myriads dying, unnoted and unknown Thinking of your myriads flying beyond the abysmal waves Thinking of your magnates sighing, and stifling their thoughts like slaves ! ii. Oh ! for the time, dear Erin, the fierce time long ago, When your men felt, dear Erin, and their hands could strike a blow ! When your Gaelic chiefs were ready to stand in the bloody breach Danger but made them steady; they struck and saved their speech ! But where are the men to head ye, and lead ye face to face, To trample the powers that tread ye, men of the fallen race ? ni. The yellow corn, dear Erin, waves plenteous o'er the plain ; But where are the hands, dear Erin, to gather in the grain ? The sinewy man is sleeping in the crowded churchyard near, And his young wife is keeping him lonesome company there ; His brother, shoreward creeping, has begged his way abroad, Arid his sister though, for weeping, she scarce could see the road. 102 PATH 10 TIC POEMS. IV. No other nation, Erin, but only you would bear A yoke like yours, O Erin ! a month, not to say a year ; ' And will you bear it forever, writhing and sighing sore, Nor learn learn now or never to dare, not to deplore Learn to join in one endeavor your creeds and people all "lis only thus can you sever your tyrant's iron thrall. v. Then call your people, Erin ! call with a prophet's cry- Bid them link in union, Erin ! and do like men or die Bid the hind from the loamy valley, the miller from the fall Bid the craftsman from his alley, the lord from his lordly hall- Bid the old and the young man rally, and trust to work, not words, And thenceforth ever shall ye be free as the forest birds. DEATH OF TEE HOMEWARD BOUND. I. PALER and thinner the morning moon grew, Colder and sterner the rising wind blew The pole star had set in a forest of cloud, And the icicles crackled on spar and on shroud, When a voice from below we feebly heard cry, " Let me see, let me see my own land ere I die. n. " Ah ! dear sailor, say ! have we sighted Cape Clear ? Can you see any sign ? Is the morning light near ? You are young, my brave boy ! thanks, thanks for your hand, Help me up till I get a last glimpse of the land. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 103 Thank God, 'tis the sun that now reddens the sky, I shall see, I shall see my own laud ere I die. 1IL " Let me lean on your strength, I am feeble and old, And one half of my heart is already stone-cold : Forty years work a change ! when I first cross'd this sea, There were few on the deck that could grapple with me ; But my youth and my prime in Ohio went by, And I'm come back to see the old spot ere I die." IV. 'Twas a feeble old man, and he stood on the deck, His arm round a kindly young mariner's neck His ghastly gaze fix'd on the tints of the east As a starveling might stare at the sound of a feast ; The morn quickly rose and reveal'd to his eye The land he had pray'd to behold, and then die ! v. Green, green was the shore, though the year was near done- High and haughty the capes the white surf dash'd upon A gray ruin'd convent was down by the strand, And the sheep fed afar, on the hills of the land ! " God be with you, dear Ireland !" he gasp'd with a sigh ; " I have lived to behold you I'm ready to die." He sunk by the hour, and his pulse 'gan to fail, As we swept by the headland of storied Kinsale ; Off Ardigna Bay it came slower and slower, And his corpse was clay-cold as we sighted Tramore ; At Passage we waked him, and now he doth lie In the lap of the land he beheld but to die. 104 PATRIOTIC POEMS. THE THREE DREAMS. I. BORNE on the wheel of night, I lay And dream'd as it softly sped Toward the shadowy hour that spans the way Whence spirits come, 'tis said : And my dreams were three; The first and worst "Was of a land alive, yet 'cursed, That burn'd in bonds it couldn't burst And thou wert the land, Erie ! ii. A starless landscape came 'Twixt that scene and my aching sight, And anon two spires of flame Arose on my left and right ; And a warrior throng "Were marching along, Timing their tramp to a battle song, And I felt my heart from their zeal take fire, But, ah ! my dream fled as that host drew nigher 1 in. Next, methought I woke, and walk'd alone On a causeway all with grass o'ergrown, That led to ranks of ruins wan, "Where echo'd no voice or step of man ; Deadly still was the heavy air, Horrible silence was everywhere No human thing, no beast, no bird In the dread Death-land sung or stirr'd ; PA TRIO TIC P OEMS. 105 Saint Patrick's image up in a nook Held in its hand a Prophecy Book, And its mystic lines were made plain to me, And they spoke thy destiny, loved Erie ! rv. " The skene and the sparthe, The lament for the dearth, The voice of all mirth Shall be hush'd on thy hearth, O Erie ! And your children want earth "When they bury ! Till Tanist and" Kerne Their past evils unlearn, And in penitence turn To their Father in heaven ; Then shall wisdom and light, Then manhood and might, And their land and their right To the sons of Milesius be given. But never till then 'Till they make themselves men Can the chains of their bondage be riven !" THE EXILE'S MEDITATION. i. ALONE in this mighty city, queen of the continent ! I ponder on my people's fate in grief and discontent Alas ! that I have lived to see them wiled and cast awaj', And driven like soulless cattle from their native land a prey. 106 PATRIOTIC POEMS. II. These men, are they not our brethren, grown at our mother's breast ? Are they not come of the Celtic blood, in Europe held the best? Are they not heirs of Brian, and children of Eoghan's race, Who rose up like baited tigers and sprung in the foeman's face? in. And why should they seek another shore, to live in another land? Had they not plenty at their feet, and sickles in their hand ? Did an earthquake march upon them, did Nature make them flee, Or do they fly for fear, and to seek some ready-made Liberty ? IV. I have read in ancient annals of a race of gallant men Who fear'd neither Dane nor devil ; but it is long since then And " cowardice is virtue,'' so runs the modern creed The starving suicide is praised and sainted for the deed ! THE PARTING FROM IRELAND. I. OH ! dread Lord of heaven and earth ! hard and sad it is to go From the land I loved and cherish'd into outward gloom and woe ; Was it for this, Guardian Angel ! w^hen to manly years I came, Homeward^ as a light, you led me light that now is turn'd to flame? PATRIOTIC POEMS. 107 IL I am as a shipwreck'd sailor, by one wave flung on the shore, By the next torn struggling seaward, without hope for- evermore ; I am as a sinner toiling onward to the Eedemption Hill ' By the rising sands environ'd, by siroccos baffled still. in. How I loved this nation ye know, gentle friends, who share my fate And you too, heroic comrades, loaded with the fetter's weight How I coveted all knowledge that might raise her name with men How I sought her secret beauties with an all-insatiate ken. IV. God! it is a maddening prospect thus to see this stoned land Like some wretched culprit writhing in a strong avenger's hand Kneeling, foaming, weeping, shrieking, woman-weak and woman-loud Better, better, Mother Ireland! we had laid you in your shroud ! v. If an end were made, and nobly of this old centennial feud If, in arms outnumbered, beaten, less, O Ireland! had I rued ; For the scatter'd sparks of valor might relight thy dark ness yet, And thy long chain of Resistance to the Future had been knit. 108 PATE 10 TIG POEMS. VI. Now their castle sits securely on its old accursed hill, And their motley pirate-standard taints the air in Ireland still; And their titled paupers clothe them with the labor of our hands, And their Saxon greed is glutted from our plunder'd fathers' lands. VII. But our faith is all unsh^en, though our present hope is gone ; England's lease is not forever Ireland's warfare is not done. God in heaven, He is immortal Justice is His sword and sign If Earth will not be our ally, we have One, who is Divine. VIII. Though my eyes no more may see thee, island of my early love ! Other eyes shall see thy Green Flag flying the tall hills above ; Though my ears no more may listen to the rivers as they flow, Other ears shall hear a Pseaii closing thy long caoine of woe ! THE EXILE'S PEVOTION. i. IF I forswear the art divine Which deifies the dead What comfort then can I call mine, WVinf, so]aoe geek instead ? PATRIOTIC POEMS. 1Q9 For, from my birth, our country's fame Was life to me and love, And for each loyal Irish name Some garland still I wove. n. I'd rather be the bird that sings Above the martyr's grave, Than fold in fortune's cage my wings And feel my soul a slave ; I'd rather turn one simple verse True to the Gaelic ear, Than classic odes I might rehearse With senates list'ning near. in. Oh, native land ! dost ever mark When the world's din is drown'd, Betwixt the daylight and the dark A wondering, solemn sound That on the western wind is borne Across thy dewy breast ? It is the voice of those who mourn For thee, far in the West ? IV. For them and theirs I oft essay Your ancient art of song, And often sadly turn away Deeming my rashness wrong ; For well I ween, a loving will Is all the art I own ; Ah me ! could love suffice for skill, What triumphs I had known J HO PATRIOTIC POEMS. V. My native land ! my native land ! Live in my memory still ; Break on my brain, ye surges grand ! Stand up ! mist-cover'd hill. Still in the mirror of the mind The scenes I love I see ; Would I could fly on the western wind, My native land ! to thee. THE SAINT'S FAREWELL. i. OH, Aran blest ! oh, Aran blest ! Bright beacon of the wavy West ! Henceforth through life long seas must roll Between thy cloisters and my soul. n. Farewell, farewell, thou holy shore, Where angels walk with men, once more ! In Hy, my lonely hut shall ne'er Receive such guests of earth or air. in. Thou Modan, Mersenge's pious son, Sad is my heart, and slow my tongue To say farewell to friend like thee ! May Christ, our Lord, your keeper be ! Far eastward, far too far, lies Hy, Darkness is o'er its morning sky ; PATRIOTIC POEMS. HI The sun loves not his ancient East, But hastens to the holier West. v. Aran ! thou sun of realms terrene, Would that, lull'd by thy airs serene, I slept the sleep that lasts till day, Wrapp'd in thy consecrated clay. vr. Aran, thou sun ! no tongue may tell How, haunted by each holy bell, My love, call'd backward to your breast, Longs for its evening in the West. TO MY WISHINO-CAP. I. W T isniNG-cap, Wishing-cap, I would be Far away, far away o'er the sea, Where the red birch roots Down the ribbed rock shoots, In Donegal the brave, And white-sail'd skiffs Speckle the cliffs, And the gannet drinks the wave. n. X Wishing-cap, Wishing-cap, I would He On a Wicklow hill, and stare the sky, Or count the human atoms that pass The thread-like road through Glenmacnass, PATRIOTIC POEMS. "Where once the clans of O'Byrne were ; Or talk to the breeze tinder sycamore trees, In Glenart's forests fair. m. Wishing-cap, "Wishing-cap, let us away To walk in the cloisters, at close of day, Once trod by friars of orders gray, In Norman Selskar's renown'd abbaye, And Carmen's ancient town ; For I would kneel at my mother's grave, Where the plumy churchyard elms wave, And the old war-walls look down. TEE SONG OF LABOR. i. To the tired toilers' ring, Brother, bring yoiir song and tabor ; Poets of all nations, sing To-day a hymn of praise to Labor. Chorus " Viva Labor! long live Labor ! Strongest sceptre! keenest sabre! Chant the hymn ! strike on the tabor! Liegemen ! sing the Song of Labor." ii. GERMAN. On the German Khine-banks I Have beheld his banners fly, While the order'd ranks beneath Struck a stroke with every breath PATRIOTIC POEMS. 113 Sledges on the anvils ringing, Poets in their gardens singing " Viva Labor ! long live Labor !" etc. in. ITALIAN. "Where the Arno winding comes, Under shade of Florence domes Where Genoa rises steep, Crowning high the subject deep "Where live Rome and dead Rome dwell, Lite corpse in crypt near sexton's cell Through Italia's storied length, Skill and art, surpassing strength, Daily toil and chant at even The great human song to Heaven "Viva Labor ! long live Labor!" etc. rv. FRENCHMAN. Ah ! my France, thy dauntless spirit Love of toil doth still inherit, And no power but armed wrong Ever yet hath hush'd thy song ! In the province, in the street, Troops of toilers you may meet Men who make as light of labor As our minstrel of his tabor. "Viva Labor ! long live Labor!" etc. v. IRISHMAN. Ask not me for merry song, Music flies the land of wrong ! 114 PATRIOTIC POEMS. By the noble Shannon river, Wretched land-serfs moan and shiver "Whining all day in the city Are the partners Woe and Pity : Lordlings think toil don't beseem them, Though their own sweat might redeem them. "Viva Labor ! long live Labor !" etc. VI. AMERICAN. In the land where man is youngest, On the soil where nature's strongest, Come and see a greater glory Than the old vine-bender's story ! Come and see the city's arms Filling forests with alarms See before the breath of steam Space and waste fly like a dream. " Viva Labor ! long live Labor !" etc. [Written for the Annual Festival of the St. Patrick's Literary Association of Montreal, of which the author was the founder and first president.] PEOLOOUE TO ST. PATRICK AT TARA* I. THE stranger entering at yonder door, Who never saw our amateurs before, May ask, What have we here ? an Irish play ? In Lenten times, and on St. Patrick's day ? ii. Our answer is, The very day inspires With memories of the green land of our sires ; * The drama of the evening, so called. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 115 The very day unfolds, from age to age, The Christian drama of that island-stage The martyr, hero, scholar, warrior, bard, The plot, the stake virtue and its reward ; The good man's grief, the heartless villain's gain, The strong-arm'd tyrant righteously slain ; The thousand memorable deeds which give Zest to the Past, and make its actors live ! m. This day, in every Irish heart and brain, Calls up that Past, nor does it call in vain ; Surrounds the mental theatre with all The fond embellishments of Tara's hall ; Seats on that Meathian mound the kings of old, In flowing vest and twisted tongues of gold A warlike race, to whom repose was rust, Mingled of good and ill, just and unjust : Men much the same ruled all the pagan West Some gentler, wiser, greater than the rest ; War was their game, and, eagle-like, they bore Back to their cliffs the spoils of many a shore. IV. To Tara in its most auspicious day We would transport you in the coming play ; While yet " the Road of Chariots " round its slope, To eyes far off, shone as the path of Hope ; Ere yet its hospitable hearths were cold, Or Ruin reign'd where mirth abode of old To Tara, as it rose upon the way Of the apostle, on that eve of May When first he kindled the forbidden fire Of Faith, that never, never can expire ! PATRIOTIC POEMS. V. Remote the time, and difficult the task For which your kind indulgence here we ask ; Yet what more meet for this our Irish play Saint Patrick's life upon Saint Patrick's Day ? TO DUFFY IN PRISON. I. THROUGH the long- hours of the garish day I toil with brain and hand, In the silent watches of the night I walk the spirit-land ; Our souls in their far journeyings want neither lamp nor guide, They need no passports, wait no winds upon the ocean wide, And, dreadful power of human will ! they grub out of the earth The crumbled bones of mighty men, and give them second birth ; They travel with them on the paths which through the world they took, And converse with them in the tongues which, when alive, they spoke. n. One night I stood with Sarsfield where his heart's blood was outpour'd, On Landen's plain, in Limerick's name, he show'd it with his sword ; Ere morn, upon the Pincian Hill, I heard Tir-Owen's tale Of the combats, and the virtues, and the sorrows of the Gael. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 117 Since then I've walk'd with Grattan's shade amid the gothic gloom Of Westminster's monkless abbey, forecasting England's doom, And in green Glassnevin I have been beside the tombs where rest There, Curran, here, O'Connell, on our mother-land's warm breast. in. 'Twas but last night I traversed the Atlantic's furrow'd face The stars but thinly colonized the wilderness of space A white sail glinted here and there, and sometimes o'er the swell Rung the seaman's song of labor, or the silvery night-watch bell; I dreamt I reach'd the Irish shore, and felt my heart re bound From wall to wall within my breast, as I trod that holy ground ; I sat down by my own hearth-stone, beside my love again I met my friends and Him, the first of friends, and first of Irish men. IV. I saw once more the dome-like brow, the large and lustrous eyes I mark'd upon the sphinx-like face the clouds of thought arise I heard again that clear quick voice that, as a trumpet, thrill'd The souls of men, and wielded them even as the speaker will'd-- I felt the cordial-clasping hand that never feign'd regard, Nor ever dealt a muffled blow, nor nicely weigh'd reward. 118 PATRIOTIC POEMS. My friend ! my friend ! oh ! would to God that you were here with me, A-watching in the starry West for Ireland's liberty ! v. Oh, brothers ! I can well declare, who read it like a scroll, What Roman characters were stamp'd upon that Roman soul The courage, constancy, and love, the old-time faith and truth, The wisdom of the sages, the sincerity of youth Like an oak upon our native hills, a host might camp there under, Yet it bare the song-birds in its core, above the storm and thunder ; It was the gentlest, firmest soul that ever, lamp-Like, show'd A young race seeking Freedom up her misty mountain road. VI. You grew too great, dear friend ! to stand under a tyrant's arm, His tall tow'rs trembling o'er your mines had fill'd him with alarm ; He was the lord of hired hosts, of ill-got wealth well kept, You led a generation, and inspired them while he slept : He woke ye met and once again, O Earth and Heaven ! ye see Might's dagger at Right's throat, Right's heart beneath his knee ; Yea, once again in Ireland, as of old in Calvarie, The truth is fear'd and crucified high on a felon tree. VII. Like a convoy from the flag-ship, our fleet is scatter'd far, And you, the valiant admiral, chain'd and imprison'd are ; PATRIOTIC POEMS. 1]9 Like a royal galley's precious freight flung on sea-sunder'd strands, The diamond wit and golden worth are far-cast "on the lands And I, whom most you loved, am here, and I can but indite My yearnings, and my heart hopes, and curse them while I write : Alas ! alas ! ah ! what are prayers, and what are moans or sighs, When the heroes of the land are lost of the land that will not RISE ? vm. But I swear to you, dear Charles, by my honor and my faith, As I hope for stainless name and salvation after death, By the green grave of my mother 'neath Selskar's ruin'd wall, By the birth-land of my mind and love, of you, of M , , all, That my days are dedicated to the ruin of the power That holds you fast and libels you in your defenceless hour ; Like an Indian of the wild woods, I'll dog their track of slime, And I'll shake the Gaza-pillars yet of their godless mammon shrine. IX. They will bring you in their manacles beneath their bloody rag They will chain you like the Conqueror to some sea-moated crag To their fiends it will be given your great spirit to annoy To fling falsehood in your cup, and to break your martyr- 12: PATRIOTIC POEMS. But you will bear it nobly, like Regulus of eld The oak will be the oak, and honor'd e'en when fell'd : Change is brooding over earth, it will find you 'mid the main, And, throned beneath its wings, you'll reach your native land again. TO DUFFY, FREE. i. THROUGH long sorrows and fears, And past perilous years, And darkness and distance, And seas, where the mists dance, I see a new star ! Not a comet, or wild star, But a radiant and mild star, Still shining as Venus, Still bright'ning like Sirius, On a night in July, Is the star I descry ! And though myriads of miles and of waves intervene, Admonish'd, I worship the star I have seen. n. It beams from the far cloud, whose wild stormy heaving Has fill'd all our souls with a fearful misgiving, On the storm-waters dark, Where, half-savage and stark, Men, with sinew and shout, Are seeking about For lost stanchion and spar ; And that calm, shining sUr, PATRIOTIC POEMS. 121 With its light and its smile, Guides their task and their toil ; And the seekers, anon, Look that it shines on ; And they bless still the good star, evening and morning, For their guide and their comfort, their hope and their warning. m. 'Tis thy star, oh, my friend, That doth shine and ascend On the night of our race ; Thou art the appointed, By affliction anointed, As through grief cometh grace ; Born heir of the planet, See now that you man it With the heroes whose worth Hath made this round earth A circular shrine ; For the sun hath not shone On such work as, when done, Will be thine. IV. 'Tis given to you That work to renew Which the blood of past builders hath hallow'd in vain, When their helpers bore sceptres in France and in Spain, To try the sphinx-task of our kindred again ; Death waits in the way For defeat or a prey, And horrors hedge round The combatting ground 122 PATRIOTIC POEMS. Where Ireland, dishonor'd, awaiteth the knight Who shall conquer for her both renown and her right. And should none such appear In a day and a year, Her 'scutcheon, disgraced, Is forever displaced From the midst of the ancient and noble, Who, through time and through trouble, In the cavalcade's rush, in the locking of shields, Have still seen her banner abroad in their fields. v. The fate of our land God hath placed in your hand ; He hath made you to know The heart of your foe, And the schemes he hath plann'd ; Think well what you are, Know your soul and your star ; Persevere dare Be wise and beware Seek not praise from to-day ; Be not wiled from your way By visions distracting ; Heed not the detracting Of souls imbecile Who your mastership feel, Yet hate you, as pride hates the sky-piercing spire, Because than its own gaudy dome it springs higher. VI. Go forth, knight, to the altar With bold heart and holy, And fear not, nor falter, But ask, and ask solely PATRIOTIC POEMS. 123 The might and the grace To redeem ourfall'n nation From its deep desolation, And lift up our race ; Let your vigil be long, For prayer maketh strong The arm of the weakest, And the will of the meekest, To wrestle with wrong ; Born heir of the planet, See now that you man it With the heroes whose worth Hath made this round earth A circular shrine ; For the sun hath not shone On such work as, when done, Will be thine ! A VOW AND PRAYER.* i. IKEIAND of the Holy Islands, Circled round by misty highlands Highlands of the valleys verdant, Valleys of the torrents argent, If I ever cease to love thee, If I ever fail to serve thee, May I fall, and foulness cover All my hopes and homestead over ; Die a dog's death, outcast, hurried ! Into earth as dogs are buried. * Written on losing sight of the Irish shores, 1848. 124 PATRIOTIC POEMS. n. Though in thee each day of sorrow, Led unto more sad to-morrow Though each night fell darker, bleaker, Round my couch, a careworn waker If I ever cease to love thee, If I ever fail to serve thee, May my children rise around me, Like Acteon's brood, to hound me, Over all life's future landscape With a hate that nothing can 'scape. in. Since the trance of childhood bound me, I have felt thy arms around me ; More to me than any other Hast thou been a nurse and mother ; Could I ever cease to love thee ? Could I ever fail to serve thee ? Thou whose honied words forever Flow before me like a river, Vocal ever, ever telling Of the source from whence they're welling ? IV. God look on thee, ancient nation ! G-od avert thy desolation ! Oh ! hold fast his dread evangels, And he'll set his shining angels As a guard of glory keeping Watch about thee, waking, sleeping. Tempt Him not, and all thy evils, And the ulcer-giving devils Who possess thee, shall be pow'rless, And thy joys to come be hourless. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 125 HOME SONNETS ADDRESS TO IRELAND. 12 MOTHER of soldiers ! once there was a time When your sons' swords won fame in many a clime ; When Europe press'd on France, they fought alone For her, and served her better than their own ! Those were the days your exiles made their fame By gallant deeds which put our age to shame Those were the days Cremona city, saved, Stood to attest what Irish valor braved ! When England's chivalry, sore wounded, fled Before the stormy charge O'Brien led 5 When travellers saw in Ypres' choir display'd The trophies of your song-renown'd brigade ! Mother of soldiers ! France was proud to see Your shamrock then twined with tkefleur de lis /' II. Mother of soldiers ! in the cause of Spain The Moors in Oran's trench by them were slain ; 7 For full an hundred years their fatal steel Has charged beside the lances of Castile. Carb'ry's, Tyrconnell's, Breffny's exiled lords To Spain and glory gave their gallant swords ; 8 And Spain, of honor jealous, gave them place Before her native sons in glory's race ; Her noblest laurels graced your soldiers' head, Her dearest daughters shared your soldiers' bed ; In danger's hour she call'd them to the front, And gave to them the praise who bore the brunt : Mother of soldiers ! Spain to-day will be A willing witness for thy sons and thee ! 126 PATRIOTIC POEMS. III. Mother of soldiers ! on the Volga's banks Your practised leaders form'd the Russian ranks ; And fallen Limerick gave the chiefs to lead The hosts who triumph'd o'er the famous Swede. 9 That time even Austria gave them host on host, The ruling baton, and the perilous post Buda, Belgrade, Prague, Deva every trust That man could earn, and found them bold as just. Velettri, Zorndorff, Dantzic, still can tell How Austria's Irish soldiers fought and fell, And how the ruling skill that led them on To conquer was supplied by your own son ! I0 Mother of soldiers ! while these trophies last, You're safe against the sland'rers of the past ! IV. Mother of exiles ! from your soil to-day New myriads are destroy 'd or swept away ; The crowded graveyards grow no longer green, The daily dead have scanty space, I ween ; The groaning ships, freighted with want and grief, Entomb in every wave a fugitive ; The sword no more an Irish weapon is The spirit of the land no longer lives ; Mother ! 'twas kill'd before the famine came The stubble was prepared to meet the flame ; All manly souls were from their bodies torn, And what avails it if the bodies bui-n ? Mother of soldiers ! may we hope to be Yet fit to strike for vengeance and for thee ! PATRIOTIC POEMS. 127 THE HEART'S RESTING-PLACE. I. TWICE have I sail'd the Atlantic o'er, Twice dwelt an exile in the West ; Twice did kind nature's skill restore The quiet of my troubled breast As moss upon a rifted tree, So time its gentle cloaking did, But though the wound no eye could see, Deep in my heart the barb was hid. ii. I felt a weight where'er I went I felt a void within my brain ; My day-hopes and my dreams were blent "With sable threads of mental pain ; My eye delighted not to look On forest old or rapids grand ; The stranger's joy I scarce could brook My heart was in my own dear land. in. "Where'er I turn'd, some emblem still Roused consciousness upon my track ; Some hill was like an Irish hill, Some wild bird's whistle call'd me back ; A sea-bound ship bore off my peace Between its white, cold wings of woe ; Oh ! if I had but wings like these, "Where my peace went I too would go. 128 PATRIOTIC POEMS. Oil! SLA ME ME NOT. I. OH ! blame me not if I love to dwell On Erin's early glory ; Oh ! blame me not if too oft I tell The same inspiring story ; For sure 'tis much to know and feel That the Race now rated lowly Once ruled as lords, with sceptre of steel, While our Island was yet the Holy. ii. 'Tis much to know that our sainted, then, To their cloisters the stranger drew, And taught the Goth and Saxon men All of heaven the old earth knew When Alfred and Dagobert students were In the sacred "Angel's Yale," And harp heard harp through the midnight air Pealing forth the hymns of the Gael. in. 'Tis much to know that in the West The Sun of our wisdom rose, And the barbarous clouds that scarr'd its breast Were scatter'd like baffled foes To know that in our hearts there dwell Some seeds of the men of story : Oh ! blame me not if I love to tell Of Erin's ancient glory. PATRIOTIC POEMS. l 129 QUESTION AND ANSWER. I. " YOUNG Thinker of the pallid brow, What care weighs on your brain ? What tangled problems solve you now Of glory or of gain ? Is that you seek of heaven or hell ? Work you with charm or fire ? What is your quest ? what is your spell ? And what your hope or hire ?" n. " Oh, brilliant is my quest," he said, " And eminent my hope, As any star that yet hath shed Its light through heaven's cope ; I seek to save mine ancient race 'Tis knowledge is my spell Their lines of life and fate I trace, To know and serve them well.'' in. " Their mission say, what may it be That thus inspires your toil, And holds you back to native earth Like saplings to the soil? Their mission is't to rob and reign O'er half the sons of earth ? Or is it not to hug the chain, And die of doubt and dearth?" 130 PATRIOTIC POEMS. IV. " Oh, no ! oh, no !" the Thinker said, " Their future far I see Their path through pleasantness is led, Their arms and minds are free ; They walk the world like gods of old, Incensed, enshrined, ohey'd ; 'Tis this I seek, for this I strive - My answer now is made !" SONNET.* NOT of the mighty ! not of the world's friends Have I aspired to speak within these leaves ; These best befit their joyful kindred pens My path lies where a broken people grieves ; By the Ohio, on the Yuba's banks, As night displa)'s her standard to their eyes, Alone, in tears, or gather'd in sad ranks, Stirring the brooding air with woful sighs, I see them sit : I hear their mingled speech, Gaelic or Saxon, but all from the heart ; "Home !" is the word that sways the soul of each A word beyond the embellishments of art : Yet of this theme I feebly seek to sing, And to mv banish'd kin a book of " Home " I bring. * This appears to have been intended by the author for the dedication of au epic he was writing, called " The Emigrants." ED. PATRIOTIC POEMS: 131 A SALUTATION TO THE FREE FLAG OF AMERICA. I. FLAG of the Free ! I remember me well When your stars in our dark sky were shining 'Twas the season when men like the cold rain fell, And pour'd into graves unrepining 'Twas the season when darkness and death rode about In the eye of the day dim with sorrow, And the mourner's son had scarce strength to moan out Ere he follow'd his sire on the morrow. ii. Flag of the Free ! I beheld you again, And I bless'd God who guarded me over And I found in your shade that the children of men Half the glory of Adam recover. And they tell me, the knaves ! thou dost typify sin, That thy folds fling infection around them, That thy stars are but spots of the plague that's within, And which shortly will raging surround them. in. Not so ! oh, not so ! thou bright pioneer banner ! Thou art not what factions miscall thee ; Where Humanity is there must ever be Honor Shame cannot stain let what else may befall thee : Over Washington's march, o'er the Maoedon's freight When flying, the angels ordain'd thee " The Flag of the Free, the beloved of Fate, And the hope of Mankind/' have they named thee! 132 PATRIOTIC POEMR. THE ANCIENT RACE. I. WHAT shall become of the ancient race The noble Celtic island race ? Like cloud on cloud o'er the azure sky, "When winter storms are loud and high, Their dark ships shadow the ocean's face What shall become of the Celtic race ? n. What shall befall the ancient race The poor, unfriended, faithful race ? Where ploughman's song made the hamlet ring, The village vulture flaps his wing ; The village homes, oh, who can trace, God of our persecuted race ? in. What shall befall the ancient race ? Is treason's stigma on their face ? Be they cowards or traitors ? Go Ask the shade of England's foe ; See the gems her crown that grace ; They tell a tale of the ancient race. IV. They tell a tale of the ancient race Of matchless deeds in danger's face ; They speak of Britain's glory fed On blood of Celt right bravely shed ; Of India's spoil and Frank's disgrace They tell a tale of the ancient race. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 133 V. Then why cast out the ancient race ? Grim want dwelt with the ancient race, And hell-born laws, with prison jaws, And greedy lords with tiger maws Have swallow'd swallow still apace The limbs and the blood of the ancient race. VI. "Will no one shield the ancient race ? They fly their fathers' burial-place ; The proud lords with the heavy purse Their fathers' shame their people's curse Demons in heart, nobles in face They dig a grave for the ancient race ! VII. They dig a grave for the ancient race And grudge that grave to the ancient race On highway side full oft were seen The wild dogs and the vultures keen Tug for the limbs and gnaw the face Of some starved child of the ancient race I vni. What shall befall the ancient race ? Shall all forsake their dear birth-place, Without one struggle strong to keep The old soil where their fathers sleep V The dearest land on earth's wide space Why leave it so, O ancient race ? IX. What shall befall the ancient race ? Light up one hope for the ancient race ? 134 PATRIOTIC POEMS. O Priest of God Soggarth aroon ! Lead but the way we'll go full soon ; Is there a danger we will not face To keep old homes for the Irish race ? x. They will not go, the ancient race ! They must not go, the ancient race ! Come, gallant Celts, and take your stand The League the League will save the land- The land of faith, the land of grace, The land of Erin's ancient race ! XI. They will not go, the ancient race ! They shall not go, the ancient race ! The cry swells loud from shore to shore, From em'rald vale to mountain hoar From altar high to market-place They shall not go, the ancient race ! THE EXILE'S REQ UEST. L OH, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, Let it be some token still of the green old land once mine ; A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me Than all the wines of the Khine land, or the art of Italic. ii. For I was born in Ireland I glory in the name I weep for all her sorrows, I remember well her fame ! And still my heart must hope that I may yet repose at rest On the Holy Zion of my youth, in the Israel of the West. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 135 in. Her beauteous face is furrow'd with sorrow's streaming rains, Her lovely limbs are mangled with slavery's ancient chains, Yet, Pilgrim, pass not over with heedless heart or eye The island of the gifted, and of men who knew to die. IV. Like the crater of a fire-mount, all without is bleak and bare, But the rigor of its lips still show what fire and force were there ; Even now in the heaving craters, far from the gazer's ken, The fiery steel is forging that will crush her foes again. v. Then, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, Let it be some token still of the green old land once mine ; A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the art of Italie. SALUTATION TO THE CELTS. I. HAIL to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be, In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea Whether they guard the banner of St. George in Indian vales, Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails One in name and in fame Are the sea-divided Gaels. n. Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Lewel- lyn's band 136 PATRIOTIC Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies degenerate to tales, And the cloisters of lona are bemoan'd by northern gales- One in name and in fame Are the sea-divided Gaels. in. In Northern Spain and Brittany our brethren also dwell ; Oh ! brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell ;- The eagle and the crescent in the dawn of history pales Before their fire, that seldom flags, and never wholly fails : One in name and in fame Are the sea-divided Gaels. IV. A greeting and a promise unto them all we send ; Their character our charter is, their glory is our end ; Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er assails The past or future honors of the far-dispersed Gaels : One in name and in fame Are the sea-divided Gaels.* BOSTON, August 30, 1850. UNION IS STRENGTH. I. A MAN whose corn was carried away Before his eyes, and whose oats and hay "Were piled up into the landlord's cart, Look'd toward his castle with sorrowful heart. * This poem was published in the first number of the American Celt. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 137 i II. " You seem," said he, " so strong and grand, Like a giant you overlook the land ; And a giant in stomach you sure must be, That of all my crop can leave none to me." in. Quoth another " Of such weak words what end ? Have you any hope that the devil will mend, Or the wolf let the kid escape his inaw, Or a landlord yield his rights at law ? IV. " Let us go over to Rackrent Hall By twos and threes it may befall, As wisdom is found in the multitude, Enough of us might do the cause some good." v. At first they went by twos and threes, But Rackrent's lord they could not please ; And next they went in number a score, But the case was even the same as before. VI. By fifties and hundreds they gathered then, Resolute, patient, dogged men, And the landlord own'd that he thought there was Some slight defects in the present laws. VII. A barony spoke a country woke A nation struck at their feudal yoke 'Twas found the Right could not be withstood, And wisdom was found in the multitude ! 138 PATRIOTIC POEMS. A SALUTATION. DAUNTLESS voyagers who venture out upon the wreck-paved deep, Who can sail with hearts unfailing o'er the age.s sunk in sleep ; There is outlet ye shall know it by the tide's deep conscious flow; There is offing may ye show it to the convoy following slow ! Gallant champions, whose long labors file away in vista'd space, Lost the fitful hour of sabres not the Archimedean place ; In the future realm before ye down the vale of labor looms Your new Athens, oh ! pine benders, rear'd above the rob bers' tombs. Be ye therefore calm in council, Patience is the heart of Hope Never wrangle with the brambles when with old oaks ye must cope ; William, Walpole, Pitt, and Canning, ye shall smite and overthrow, Not by practising with pygmies can ye giant warfare know. Whoso ye find fittest, wisest, he your suzerain shall be, Yield him following and affection, stand like sons around his knee ; Make his name a word of honor, make him feel you as a fence, Trust not even him too blindly, build your faith on evidence. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 139 Brothers, ye have drain'd the chalice late replenish'd by defeat ; Unto brethren bear no malice, put the past beneath your feet ; For the love of God, whose creatures ye see daily crucified, For your martyrs, for your teachers, shun the selfish paths of pride. Then, by all our pure immortals, ye, true champions, shall be blest, By St. Patrick and St Columb, by St. Brendan of the West, By St. Moiling and St. Bridget, and our myriad martyr bands, And your land shall be delivered, yea! delivered by your hands. SONNET RETURN. I HAVE a sea-going spirit haunts my sleep, Not a sad spirit wearisome to follow, Less like a tenant of the mystic deep Than the good fairy of the hazel hollow ; Full often at the midwatch of the night I see departing in his silver bark This spirit, steering toward an Eastern light, Calling me to him from the Western dark. " Spirit !" I ask, " say, whither bound away ?' " Unto the old Hesperides !" he cries. " Oh, Spirit, take me in thy bark, I pray." " For thee I came," he joyfully replies ; " Exile ! no longer shalt thou absent mourn, For I the Spirit am men call RETURN." 140 PATRIOTIC POEMS. DREAM JOURNEYS. I. SIONALL'D by something in our dreams, The ship of night, swift-sided sleep, Glides out from all these alien streams To waft us homeward o'er the deep. ii. "We lead two lives, estranged, apart, By day a life of toil and care, Till darkness comes with magic art, And bears us through the enchanted air. in. How oft have I not heard the swell Of Ocean on the farther shore ! Heard Skellig-Michael's holy bell, Or Cleena's warning off Glandore ! IV. Rising afar from Arva's lake Have I not heard the wild swan's call ? Or paused, a wayside vow to make, By Saint Dachonna's waterfall ? v. Before the dawn, when no star sinned, Have I not knelt on Tara hill, And felt my bosom glad to find The Stone of Empire " standing still ? PATRIOTIC POEMS. VI. The sacred strand our fathers' feet Have often trod, I nightly view, The island of the Saint's retreat, Amid the mountains of Tirhugh. VII. The field of fame, the minstrel's grave, Though sad, rejoicingly I trace ; From Ara to the Iccian 12 wave, I gather relics of the race. VIH. Thus borne on wings of woven dreams, The ship of night, swift-sided sleep, Finds us along those alien streams, And wafts us homeward o'er the deep. NATIVE HILLS. I KNOW, I know each storied steep Throughout the land Where winds enchanted, love-lock'd sleep, Where teem the torrents grand For them I pine, for them I weep, An outcast man, and bann'd. I see th' assembled bards of old On those grand hills Their music o'er the upland fold Like dew distills, Or flashes downward bright and bold, As cave-born rills. 142 PATRIOTIC POEMS!. Content, my soul! in vain you long To breathe that air Sweet with the loving breath of song, Felt everywhere, For man is weak, and Fate is strong, Not there ! not there ! TIME'S TEACHINGS. I. TIME bears a scythe around the earth, An hour-glass noting death and birth, A pouch for proverbs by his side, And scatters broadcast, far and wide, Truths that in manly breasts should 'bide, To light and lead them Truths to the shepherd-kings once told Truths flowing from the hills of old, And good for men to feel, though cold And much we need them ! n. Time singeth gayly night and morn, " The longest lane must have a turn :" And who knows lanes like Father Time A travelling man since Adam's prime, In every age, through every clime, By moon and sun ? My brothers, lay this " must " to heart The goal, though distant from the start, To struggle for is true man's part, Till all is won. FA TRIO TIG POEMS. 143 III. Time chanteth gravely night and day, "God never shuts, but He makes a way ;" And Time is God's own messenger, His herald and avenger here He files the chain and dries the tear Rears tomb and shrine. And, brethren, shall we doubt it we ! That no road leads to Liberty Save by dungeon vault, and gory tree, And battle line ? IT. Time hath sung now, even as he pass'd, " Reckoning delay'd will come at last ;" And, as he sung this holy strain, I saw the island once again Expanded under seas of grain, And saw it fall as thick as rain 'Fore yeomen bold ; And cities, girding round the land, And merchants crowding all the strand, And Peace at Plenty's full right hand Upon her throne. ANOTHER YEAR. I. ANOTHER year for young and old, For East and West, i flown forever ! The tatter'd miner counts his gold Beside the yellow Yuba river ; 144 PATRIOTIC POEMS. The senate of our nation bows Before a Tartar idol brazen ; And lovers in their Christmas vows Declare contempt of time and season. ii. Europe looms darkly into day, Save where one sudden gleam enlightens And rolls from France the fogs away, And Order's horizon now brightens. The Sultan in his sage divan Smiles at our clam'rous Western frenzy That styles Kossuth " the coming man," And glorifies the new Eienzi ! in. The Vaderland is all a dream, And to our New Year nothing germane ; The Scandinavian Bund a scheme To stir the bile of Baltic mermen ; The Danube rolls in headlong haste From Austria's arm'd, troubled border, And moans along the Hungarian waste A desert through the wreck of Order. IV. The Cossack trains his horse and lance, Smiled on by the approving Kussian, And, longing, asks the road to France, And counts the spoil of Pole and Russian ; The Tuscan, proud of Dante's tongue, Yet thinks the Savoyard his foeman, "While mines by secret murder sprung, Explode the heroic name of Roman ! PATUIOTIC POEMS. 145 V. Our race the Celtic race remains Limbs of a life once so gigantic ! Proscribed upon their native plains, Far-parted by the deep Atlantic ! But heaven for us has stars and saints, And earth a creed, a need, a mission ; Then let us hush our weak complaints, And mend, like men, our own condition. VI. By Emmet's death, O'Connell's life, And Smith O'Brien's pure endeavor, Let's quench the kindling stuff of strife, And stifle Faction's voice forever. Sons of the brave ! shall we descend To spend our souls in parish quarrels ; Have we no altars to defend, No breach to breast in search of laurels ? VII. God in His goodness gives us strength, And time, and courage to recover ; Let us look forward now at length, And cease to live the poor past over. Let us from shadowy griefs arise, Admit the sun employ the season Now and forever let's be wise, And leal to God, and led by Reason. NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1851. 146 PATRIOTIC POEMS. \ AN INVITATION WESTWARD. I. YE are weary, O my people, of your warfare and your woes, In the island of your birthright every seed of sorrow grows ; Hearken to me, come unto me, where your wearied souls may rest And plume their wings in peace, in the forests of the West. n. This life ah ! what avails it by which shore we may be led To the mounds where lie entrench'd all the army of the dead? In the Valley of All Souls, when the Lord of judgment comes, The Cross shall be our banner, our country all the tombs. in. Is it wise to waste the present in a future of the brain ? Is it wise to cling and wither under Mammon's deadly reign ? If the spirit of the toiler is by daily hate oppress'd, How shall he pray to Heaven, as we do in the "West ? IV. It grieves my soul to say it to say to you, Arise ! To follow where the evening star sings vespers down the skies ; It grieves rny soul to call you from the land you love the best But I love Freedom better, and her home is now the West. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 147 V. Then, children of Milesius, from your house of death arise, And follow where the evening star sings vespers to the skies ; Though it grieve your souls to part from the land you love the best, Fair Freedom will console you in the forests of the West. ON LAKE ERIE, September, 1852. O'DONNELL OF SPAIN. I. LET it be told in Donegal, Above the waves on Swilly's shore, To Assaroe's hush'd waterfall, To wreck'd Kilbarron's ruin hoar, That in the Fatherland, Old Spain, The race of Conal rules again. ii. Bid those who doubt the force of blood, The mean philosophers of pride, Account for how this hidden flood Kises their dictum to deride ! Show them where, spurning every chain, The race of Conal rules again. in. Ten ages of the life of man Have pass'd o'er earth since that dark day When, under James Fitz-James's ban, Tyrconnel's chieftains sail'd away. That galley might, in after years, Have sail'd in widow'd Erin's tears. PATRIOTIC POEMS. IV. Ten ages ! but the heap'd up woes Of confiscation, exile all Could never quench the blood of those Whose sires were chiefs in Donegal. Thy hatred, Albion, raged in vain The slain of Erin rise in Spain ! v. Let it be told from Malin's waves To Lough Derg's penitential strand, Whisper it o'er the ancient graves O'Donnell rules his Fatherland! Tell it till every trampled hind Can hear Hope's voice in every wind. VI. And thou, Lucena ! fortune's son, Best not too long upon thy blade, The smaller victory is won, The greater may be yet essay'd ! An hour may come, shall come, if thou Art worthy so to bind thy brow ! WISHES. i. THOUGH there the damp from ocean's moat Hangs thick and gray o'er town and hill, And sudden storms drive bark and boat Helpless before their furious will, Yet would I be To-day with thee, My own dear native land ! PATRIOTIC POEMS. II. Though here the sky of freedom pours Its golden blaze incessant down, And men wield their own sov'reign powers, Unawed by any monarch's frown, Yet would I be To-day with thee, My own dear native land ! in. For what is wealth, when hearts are sad ? And what can exile's freedom be ? The freedom of the harmless mad, A pitied, poor inanity. Ah ! I would be To-day with thee, My own dear native land 1 IV. There is no home, the wide world o'er, Like Ireland to the Irishman ; Absence, through all, we must deplore, And pine beneath the exile's ban. Ah ! I would be To-day with thee, My own dear native land ! SONG OF THE SURPLUS. I. THE oak-trees wave around the hail, The dock and thistle own the lea, The hunter has his air-tight stall, But there's no place for such as me ; 150 PATRIOTIC POEMS The rabbit burrows in the hill, The fox is scarce begrudged his den, The cattle crop the pasture still, But our masters have " no room for men." ii. Each thing that lives may live in peace The browsing beast and bird of air ; No torturers are train'd for these, While man's life is a long despair. The Lady Laura's eyes are wet If her dog dies beneath her feet ; It has its burial rites and yet Our human griefs no mercy meet. in. Well may'st thou ask, O Preacher true, Of manly sense and fearless tongue Like Israel's prophet, well may you Exclaim, " How long, O Lord ! how long ?" How long may Fraud, and Pride, and Power Conspire to slay the immortal soul ? How long shall Ireland groan and cower Beneath this thrice-accursed control ? IV. When shall we see free homes abound, And meet by street, and bridge, and stile, The freeman's lifted brow unbow'd, As free from guilt, as free from guile ? The song of peace, the hum of toil Will flow along our rivers when ? When none within our native isle Shall say, we have "no room for men." PATRIOTIC POEMS. MIDSUMMER, 1851. I. WHY standeth the laborer in the way, with sunken eyes and dim? Is there no work, is there no hope, is there no help for him ? Why rusteth the swift, bright sickle that swept down Saxon grain, Stuck in a patch of ragged thatch that keepeth not out the rain? n. Why lieth the plough on the headland, with broken stilt and tusk? Why gapeth the sun-dried furrow from gray dawn unto dusk ? Why cometh no singing sower, scattering song and seed, Where the field-mouse rangeth fat and free amid his groves of weed ? in. There was no earthquake in the land the ocean swept not here Since we beheld the grateful soil enrich the waning year ; The kind clouds in the west are throng, and hither bring their rain Now, why is the laborer lost for work, and the land disrobed of grain? IV. Ask not the peasant nor the priest ask not the papers why- Why would you shame the manly cheek, or fill the feeling eye 152 PATRIOTIC POEMS. But go to the gate of Windsor, and ask its lady gay Why her Irish farm has gone to waste, and its farmers gone to clay. v. Ah! if the sceptre had a soul, if conscience topp'd the crown, We soon would have the truth made plain in country and in town Plain as the ancient mountains plain as the girdling sea That in the laws lie all the cause of Ireland's misery. You, Irish farmers, whose thin ranks are broken and dis- may'd, You know what spoil is made of toil, how all this woe is made ; The Lady of Windsor little thinks how you have rack'd and wrought Your bones and brains to foster all that thus has gone to nought. VII. Little she knows that round her stand a gang of thievish earls, Whose founts are fed, whose wines are cool'd with tears of humble churls ; Little she knows that to their gods of Rank and Fashion rise Daily a litany of groans, and a human sacrifice ! VIII. The plough will rot, the furrow gape, the worker wait in vain, Till Law and Labor, side by side, shall grapple Pride again. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 153 Oh, Lady of Windsor, think betimes that even the strongest throne May not withstand the just demand of Labor for "his own." IX. We ask no shares of Indian wealth, no spoils of Eastern shores ; Kaffir and Dyak still, for us, may heap and hide their stores ; We ask not London's pride and pomp, nor Yorkshire's iron arms We ask the law to guard and judge the farmers on their farms. The robber knights are all around ; from every castle-top They stretch their necks, a-hungering after the poor man's crop : We ask that Justice have her seat amid the upstack'd corn, That all he sowed and nursed may not from Labor's grasp be torn. XI. Is this too much ? Is this a crime ? Let men and angels judge. Hai'k to the lords' hired advocate, but hear us for the drudge; Between our causes let the state in lawfulness preside, And we will gladly take the share awarded to our side. XII. Hear us and judge, while yet on earth our fiery race remain; "Too late" can never be unsaid, nor ever said in vain. To the far West to God's own court already hosts are fled ; Oh hear and save the living left, ere again "too late" be said! 154 PATRIOTIC POEMS. LORD GL GALL'S DREAM. " A dream which was not all a dream." I. LORD GL GALL slept in " the House " last night, When a teriible vision oppress'd his sight ; 'Tvvas not of Incuinbor'd Estates ('tis said), Nor the Durham Bull, nor the hat so red But he dreamt that a balance he saw in air, Above the broad Curragh of famed Kildare That God and the landlords both were there. ii. He heard the recording angel call The titled criminals one and all, And the witnesses to testify And he heard the four far winds reply ; And myriads heap'd on myriads throng From unnumber'd graves to denounce the wrong, And Avith their sins to confront the strong ! in. His lordship scarce could tell for fear, Of every name that met his ear ; But he saw that the archangel took Note of them all in his blackest book From Farney some, and from Skibbereen, From "West and East and the lands between, Such a skeleton tryst has never been seen. IV. He heard how Sir George gave the widow's mite As instalment to a sybarite PATRIOTIC POEMS. 155 He heard how Lord Dick his fox-hounds fed With ten starved cottiers' daily bread Anon, he trembled to hear his own Name, named in the angel's sternest tone, And thereat, upstarted he with a groan. v. Sadly he paces his silent hall, Still muttering over the name Gl Gall And penitent thoughts depress his head, But the grave will not give up its dead. Far, far away from their native Suir Are scatter'd the bones of the exiled poor, But the angel has note of them all, be sure ! LONDON. RISE AND GO. I. IN the valleys of New England, Are you happy, we would know ? Are you welcome, are you trusted ? Are you not ? Then, RISE AND GO ! ii. Ye are toiling, toiling ever, Toss'd like sea-waves to and fro ; Up at sunrise, up at sunset, Still detested RISE AND GO. in. You are merry o'er your infants, Yet you tremble as they grow ; Tis the land makes them your masters, Hapless land! ARISE AND GO. 156 PATRIOTIC POEMS. IV. As ye act, or as ye falter, We will deem ye men or no ; For the homestead, for the altar, Take advice ARISE AND GO ! TRY AGAIN. I. WHEN the equinoctial blast Tears the canvas from the mast, Does the sailor stand aghast To complain ? Nay ; rather through the storm You can mark his manly form Try again. n. When the night-clouds overtake The hunter in the brake, Where the wild wolf and snake Have domain, Does he fling him down to weep, Like a sluggard in his sleep, Or, with fearless heart and leap, Try again ? in. If friends or fate should prove An overmatch for love, And we vainly try to move Their disdain, PATRIOTIC POEMS. 157 Oh ! who would then lie down, Though friends or fate should frown Who would not, for his own, Try again ? IV. And when our land we see Still sighing to be free When we should teach her we 1 How to gain Her rights, and rise sublime From the torture-bed of time, W T hy not ring upon the chime Try again ? v. Try again, thou fallen land, With united heart and hand Try with rifle and with brand, Though blood rain ! Try for the sacred sod That valiant men once trod ; In the holy name of God, Try again ! try again ! A PROFESSION, i. I'VE thought and toil'd from boyhood's days, Not for gain, nor rank, nor glory, But to gather a few Hibernian bays, And to master our island story. PATRIOTIC POEMS. "When friends grew cold, and the very sky Seem'd darkly to deny me, I pray'd for aid, and, from on high, The patriot's star drew nigh me. u. All nought to me is pomp and wealth, And the multitude's hoarse praises Give me, O G-od ! but life and health, And the lofty thought that raises ; Give me the power to weave a wreath An evergreen rustic garland, Which, when my exile ends in death, May be kept for me in a far land. in. Or, if I ask what is denied Save to the elect immortal, If I may not merit a niche inside, Let me lodge without in the portal ; Let me be lay-brother to the bards, The Muse's life-apprentice I'll envy not their high awards While I am amanuensis. I've thought and toil'd from boyhood's days, Not for gain, nor rank, nor glory, But to gather a few Hibernian bays, And to master our island story. When friends grew cold, and the very sky Seem'd darkly to deny me, I pray'd for aid, and, from on high, The patriot star drew nigh me. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 159 AM I REMEMBER'D. I. AM I remembcr'd in Erin I charge you, speak me true Has my name a sound, a meaning In the scenes my boyhood knew ? Does the heart of the Mother ever Recall her exile's name ? For to be forgot in Erin, And on earth, is all the same. n, O Mother ! Mother Erin ! Many sons your age hath seen Many gifted, constant lovers Since your mantle first was green. Then how may I hope to cherish The dream that I could be In your crowded memory number'd With that palm-crown'd companie ? Yet faint and far, my Mother, As the hope shines on my sight, I cannot choose but watch it Till my eyes have lost their light ; For never among your brightest, And never among your best, "Was heart more true to Erin Than beats within my breast. 160 PATRIOTIC POEMS. A FRAGMENT. I. I WOULD not die with my work undone, My quest unfound, my goal unwon, Though life were a load of lead ; Ah ! rather I'd bear it, day on day, Till bone and blood were worn away, And Hope in Faith's lap lay dead. n. I dream'd a dream when the woods were green, And my April heart made an April scene, In the far, far distant land, That even I might something do That should keep my memory for the true, And my name from the spoiler's hand. FREEDOM'S JOURNEY. I. FKEEDOM ! a nursling of the North, Rock'd in the arms of stormy pines, On fond adventure wander'd forth Where south the sun superbly shines ; The prospect shone so bright and fair, She dreamt her home was there, was there. She lodged 'neath many a gilded roof, They gave her praise in many a hall, PATRIOTIC POEMS. 161 Their kindness check'd the free reproof, Her heart dictated to let fall ; She heard the Negro's helpless prayer, And felt her home could not be there. ni. She sought through rich savannas green, And in the proud palmetto grove, But where her altar should have been She found nor liberty nor love ; A cloud came o'er her forhead fair, She found no shrine to Freedom there. IV. Back to her native scenes she turn'd, Back to the hardy, kindly North, Where bright aloft the pole-star burn'd, "Where stood her shrine by every hearth ; " Back to the North I will repair," The goddess cried; "my home is there !" ALONG THE LINE. A. D. 1812. I. STEADY be your beacon's blaze Along the line ! along the line ! Freely sing dear Freedom's praise Along the line ! along the line ! Let the only sword you draw Bear the legend of the law, Wield it less to strike than awe Along the line ! along the line ! 162 PATRIOTIC POEMS. Let them rail against the North* Beyond the line ! beyond the line ! When it sends its heroes forth Along the line ! along the line ! On the field or in the camp They shall tremble at your tramp, Men of the old Norman stamp, Along the line ! along the line ! in. Wealth and pride may rear their crests, Beyond the line ! beyond the line ! They bring no terror to our breasts, Along the line ! along the line ! We have never bought or sold Afric's sons with Mexic's gold, Conscience arms the free and bold, Along the line ! along the line ! IV. Steadfast stand, and sleepless ward, Along the line ! along the line ! Great the treasures that you guard Along the line ! along the line ! By the babes whose sons shall be Crown'd in far futurity With the laurels of the free, Stand your guard along the line ! * It is unnecessary to say that these verses were written after the author's removal to Canada. ED. PATRIOTIC POEMS. 163 ARM A ND RISE! l. ARM and rise ! no more repining. See, the glorious sun is shining What a world that sun beholds White ships glancing o'er the ocean, All earth's tides, too, in swift motion, Pouring onward to their goals. ii. 'Tis no life for sighing, dreaming Read the riddle full of meaning Written on your own broad palm ; For this needs no gipsy guesses, Here the line that curses, blesses Say, I shall be say, I am ! in. You have borne the parting trial Dare the rest ; let no denial Daunt your hope at Fortune's door ; See, a new world waits your wooing, Courage is the soul of sueing All things yield the brave before. IV. One tear to the recollections Of our happy young affections, One prayer for the ancestral dead, Then right on ; the sun is shining, No more doubting or repining, Firm's the path on which we tread. 164 PATRIOTIC POEMS. V. In the forest stands the castle, Silent, gloomy, bell nor wassail Echoes through its sable halls ; Night and Chaos guard its portals, They shall bow even to us mortals Strike ! and down their standard falls. VI. On the round Canadian cedars Legends high await but readers From the oaks charm 'd shields depend ; Strike ! thou true and only champion, Lord of the first land you camp on ! Strike ! and win your crown, my friend ! VII. Crowns ay, golden, jewel'd, glorious Hang in reach before and o'er us Sovereign manhood's lawful priae ; He who bears a founder's spirit To the forest, shall inherit All its rights and royalties. AN INTERNATIONAL SONG. CHOKTJS. Comrades ! awhile suspend your glee, And fill your glasses solemnly I give the Brave Man's Memory. i. There is one Brotherhood on earth, Whereto brave men belong by birth, PATRIOTIC POEMS. And he who will not honor one, Wherever found, himself is none Comrades ! awhile, etc. ii. "Where'er they fought, howe'er they fell, The question is Was't ill or well ; Victors or vanquished, did they stand True to the flag they had in hand ? Comrades ! awhile, etc. in. What ! shall we, then, at Waterloo Deny to either honor due ? Belie the hero of the day, Or grudge the fame of gallant Ney ? Comrades! awhile, etc. IV. Who looks on Abram's storied plain May honor most one hero's name ; But we conjure to-night the three Here's Wolfe, Montcalm, Montgomery ! Comrades! awhile, etc. IRISH HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. THE HARP OF KING BRIAN. I. MUTE harp of King Brian, what bard of these days Shall give to thy cold chords the spirit of song ? Who shall win thee to gladness, or tune thee to praise, Or rouse thee to combat with faction and wrong ? Cold, cold is the hand of the master who first In the halls of Kinkora thy melody woke, When the psean of conquest triumphantly burst, As the soul of the land pass'd from under the yoke ! n. He sat by the Shannon, well worthy to hear The strains he gave forth, swift and strong as its tide ; And his hand, long familiar with falchion and spear, Clung to thee in grief, and caress'd thee with pride ! Long, long will his clansmen remember the strain Now sinking in sorrow, now madd'ning to rage He sang in the morning when Mahon was slain, And went forth the war of his vengeance to wage. Nor less dear to their hearts was the king when the cloud Of warfare had broken and melted away, When, unarm'd and retired from the worshipping crowd, He drew from the chords Love's own exquisite lay. 170 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. In battle he bore tbee aloft on his shield, In peace, too, ^he hosts of thy lovers he led ; If his glory shoue first on the war-cover'd field, Fame's mellow'd lig'ht on Kincora was shed ! Mute harp of King Brian ! Time's sceptre has pass'd O'er the high homes of Erin, and conquer'd them all; Ad are's royal oak has gone down in the blast, And the cattle are housed in Kinkora's old hall. But the muse that hangs over thy time-stricken fame May console thee that yet there are left in the land Bards as leal to thy lord, and as proud of his fame As any that ever took gifts from his hand ! v. Yes ! the hero may sleep and his grave be unknown, And Armagh, the fallen, may blush at his praise No need hath King Brian of shrine or of stone To live in the hearts of the bards of these dajs. Mute relic of ages ! if haply thy strains Still visit the master who first gave thee birth, Say his name is revered with the holiest names That ever won honor and worship on earth ! AN INVOCATION. I. SOUL of my race ! Soul eternal ! That liveth through evil and time That twineth still laurels all vernal, As if laurels could once more be thine ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Oh hear me, oh cheer me, be near me, Oh guide me or chide me alway, But do not fly from me or fear me I'm all clay when thou, Soul, art away. My mother died young ; I inherit For thee all her love and my own ; Oft I heard in thy fields her dead spirit Sing thy songs with Eternity's tone. Friends fled, years have sped, hopes are dead- Fruitless tasks, restless age leadeth on But thy smile, free of guile, hope can shed On the future, from years that are gone ! Soul of my race ! Soul eternal ! Who passeth o'er ocean and earth With thy new woven garlands so vernal, To sit at thy true lover's hearth Oh hear me, oh cheer me, be near me, Oh guide me or chide me alway, But do not fly from me or fear me I'm all clay when thou, Soul, art away. ADDRESS TO MILESIUS. I. " FATHER MILESIUS ! in the world where dwell All spirits once of earth, each one in place, If earthward gazing, can you trace or tell The future that awaits your baffled race ? 172 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS, " Are we to pass or perish in this sea Of sorrow coldly compassing us round ? Or are we still in bonds and woe to be Saddest of men on earth that may be found ? in. " Indian, Etruscan, Israelite are gone Out of the world like water down a steep ; Man might deny them, but that sculptured stone And brazen chronicle the record keep. "Lost science, unknown armor, massive piles, In which the dwarfish Present stands aghast Ruins of cities spread o'er mournful miles Tell of the heuiess races of the Past. " Lost ! lost to earth ! it is the body's lot To be secreted in its kindred clay: Father Milesius ! must we come to nought ? Must Innisfail be blotted out for aye ?" MILEADT1-ESPAGNE. I. SPOKE Milesius ere he died " Here, my children, do not 'bide ; Right fruitful is the land of Spain, But here you may no more remain. 'Tis written that your home shall be An island farthest in the sea : HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 173 There sea-monsters freely feed, There the eagles mate and breed; There the sacred oak is born Thence it looketh forth with scorn On the tempest-trodden waves, Crouching in their shelter'd caves. Where the pathless forests stand Interlock'd around the land, Where the ocean vapors thicken, There your warlike seed shall quicken There shall be the abiding-place Of your broad and branching race." ii. Death has closed the Patriarch's eyes, Closed his ears to Scotia's cries ; Still the heart and cold the brain Where thoughts grew thick as summer grain ; Mute the lips whose eloquence Mingled wit, and faith, and sense ; Nerveless now the arm of might That thunder'd through the stormy fight. Well may there be bitter grief For thy loss, O matchless chief ! Well may they in silence moum The man of men beyond the bourne ; Well may flow fond woman's tears For him who loved them all his years ; Sad and dark the day they made His grave in the Gallician shade. Clanna-Mileadh may have many Arms of oak and lips of honey, But, until their last great man, His like they shall not look upon. 174 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. III. Thick and dense the April rain Falls upon the o'erclouded plain, But the sun shines out anon, And the sudden shower is gone ; Likewise passeth human grief, Though the lost one be the chief ! Pass'd the sad Milesian shower That fell around Betanzo's tower, And in its halls, and in its ships, The last words on the Patriarch's lips About a land far in the sea, Destined their fertile home to be Was all that that adventurous host Remember'd of the chief they lost. AMERGIN'S ANTHEM ON DISCOVERING INNISFAIL." I. BEHOLD ! behold the prize Which westward yonder lies ! Doth it not blind your eyes Like the sun ? By vigil through the night, By valor in the fight, By learning to unite 'T may be won ! 't may be won ! By learning to unite, 't may be won ! n. Of this, in Scythian vales, Seers told prophetic tales, Until our Father's sails Quick uprose ; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 175 But the gods did him detain In the generous land of Spain, Where in peace his bones remain With his foes, with his foes Where in peace his bones remain with his foes. Sad Scotia ! mother dear ! Cease to shed the mournful tear Behold the hour draws near He foretold ; And, ye men, with one accord, Drop the oar and draw the sword, For he only shall be lord Who is bold, who is bold- He only shall be lord who is bold ! IV. They may shroud it up in gloom Like a spirit in the tomb, But we hear the voice of doom As it cries ; Let the cerements be burst, And from thy bonds accursed, Isle of isles, the fairest, first, Arise ! arise ! Isle of isles, the fairest, first, arise ! v. Couch the oar and strike the sail, Ye warriors of the Gael ! Draw the sword for Innisfail ! Dash ashore ! 17G HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. With such a prize to gain, Who would sail the seas again ! Innisfail shall be our Spain Evermore ! evermore ! Innisfail shall be our Spain evermore ! THE GEL TS. LONG, long ago, beyond the misty space Of twice a thousand years, In 15rm old there dwelt a mighty race, Taller than Roman spears ; Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace, Were fleet as deers, With winds and wave they made their 'biding-place, These Western shepherd-seers. Their ocean-god was Man-a-nan, 15 M'Lir, Whose angry lips, In their white foam, full often would inter Whole fleets of ships ; Cromah, 1 * their day-god and their thunderer, Made morning and eclipse ; Bride 17 was their queen of song, and unto her They pruy'd with fire-touch'd lips. Great were their deeds, their passions, and their sports ; With clay and stone They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts Not yet o'erthrown ; On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council-courts ; While youths alone, With giant dogs, explored the elk resorts, And brought them down. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 17J Of these was Finn, the father of the bard Whose ancient song Over the clamor of all change is heard, Sweet-voiced and strong. Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd, The fleet and young ; From her the lovely, and from him the fear'd, The primal poet sprung. Ossian ! two thousand years of mist and change Surround thy name Thy Finian heroes now no longer range The hills of fame. The very name of Finn and Gaul sound strange Yet thine the same By miscall'd lake and desecrated grange * Remains, and shall remain ! The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed "We scarce can trace, There is not left an undisputed deed Of all your race, Save your majestic song, which hath their speed, And strength and grace ; In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed It bears them on through space. Oh, inspired giant ! shall we e'er behold In our own time One fit to speak your spirit on the wold, Or seize your rhyme ? One pupil of the past, as mighty soul'd As in the prime, "Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold They, of your song sublime ! 178 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. THE GOBHAN SAER. HE stepp'd a man out of the ways of men, And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen From some source unexplored, the master came ; Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken, Surmised that he should be a child of shame ! Others declared him of the Druids then Through Patrick's labors fall'n from power and fame. He lived apart wrapp'd up in many plans He woo'd not women, tasted not of wine He shunn'd the sports and councils of the clans Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine. His orisons were old poetic ranns, Which the new Ollaves deem'd an evil sign ; To most he seem'd one of those pagan Khans "Whose mystic vigor knows no cold decline. He was the builder of the wondrous towers, Which tall, and straight, and exquisitely round, Rise monumental round the isle once ours, Index-like, marking spots of holy ground. In gloaming glens, in leafy lowland bowers, On rivers' banks, these Gloiteachs old abound, Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours, And Science flutters like a bird spell-bound ! Lo ! wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire, Heroes and holy men repose below The bones of some glean'd from the pagan pyre, Others in armor lie. as for a foe : HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 179 It was the mighty Master's life-desire To chronicle his great ancestors so ; What holier duty, what achievement higher Remains to us than this he thus doth show ? Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death; His labor done, no man beheld him more ; 'Twas thought his body faded like a breath, Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore. Doubt overhangs his fate, and faith, and birth ; His works alone attest his life and lore ; They are the only witnesses he hath All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er. Men call'd him Gobhan Saer, and many a tale Yet lingers in the by-ways of the land Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale Led the bright river, child-like, in his hand ; Of how on giant ships he spread great -sail, And many marvels else by him first plann'd : But though these legends fade, in Innisfail His name and towers for centuries shall stand. ORIGIN OF THE ISLE OF MAN. OF all the Celtic gods, I envy most That son of Lir, "Who drove his harness'd dolphins rounc|. our coast The live-long year, Follow'd by an uproarious, spouting host. Deafening to hear. 180 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDAEY POEMS. There was no cove so land-shut or so cozy But Manan knew ; No island e'er so meadowy or rosy Escaped his view ; No river's mouth or bed but his bold nose he Would poke into. Of the Atlantic realm sole lord and master, He yet controll'd Biscayaii shores, where, charged deep with disaster, His thunders roll'd The Baltic paid him amber tribute faster Than Jews take gold. Yet not content to be the sole sea-warden Beneath the sun, His heart, like ancient Pharaoh, he did harden, (Or Hutchinson) Seizing on Mona for his " kitchen garden," 19 Some legends run. I sometimes doubt (though in some Manx-man's letters 'Tis somewhere said) That Manan, once embarrass'd, like his betters, By over-trade, A sanctuary for all future debtors This island made. It suits not with the hereditary story Of him or his To skulk the sheriff, or the deathless glory A scrimmage gives ; Of the Manx story, as I think the more, I Think less it is. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 1 The gay god's better purpose is to be seen Beneath the soil, "Where wind the corridors from caves marine For many a mile : From earliest day 'twas ordain'd we must ween A smuggling isle. And, certes, this usquebaugh is not at all bad, Excised or not Here's to thee, Mananan ! most genial old lad ; No Pict or Scot Around this board but would have sorrow'd sore had You been forgot ! IE EL AND OF THE DRUIDS. I. A THOUSAND years had seen the shore Of Erin by our race possess'd, Since the Milesian galleys bore From Spain into the unknown West. A thousand years, and every year A forest fell, a clan arose, And "Scots of Ireland" far and near 20 Had conquer'd fame, and friends, and foes. Wise laws by Olave early framed, And Ogma's letters spread as wide As Scotia's blood, earth's homage claim'd, An homage then by none denied. ii. It was an island fair and bland, Lying within its blue sea-wall, 182 HISTOEIOAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Still belted round with forests grand. Braving the stormy ocean squall. The trapper by the mountain rill Watch'd for his prey with eager eye ; 2I The elk still walk'd his native hill In free and fearless majesty ; The Asian arts as yet abode By river-ford and chief's domain ; And Druids to their thundering god Gave thanks for seas of summer grain. " The Druids !" sad, mysterious word, Whence comes that meaning unexpress'd "Which every Celtic pulse hath stirr'd, Rousing old thoughts in brain and breast ? Dear was the name to our first sires Dear every symbol of their line ; Awe-struck, they saw their altar-fires, And deem'd their mystic chants divine. O'er anger's heat the Druid's breath Pass'd like the healing southern breeze, And warriors on the field of death Chanted their odes in ecstacies. Their artful creed was woven round The changeful year for every hour A spirit and a sense they found, A cause of piety or power. On every rock that drinks the sprey, On every hill, in every 'fl'-ood, Unto great " Crom," the god of day, 2 * The Druid's mighty altar stood. The wrath of Crom spoke in the storm, The blighted harvests felt his eye ; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. The cooling show'r, the sunshine warm Answer'd the Druid's plaintive cry. The flocks, the flow'rs, the babes unborn, The warrior's courage all obey'd Those elements, whose love or scorn The Druid's prayer removed or made ! The crystal wells were spirit-springs, The mountain lakes were peopled under, And in the grass the fairy rings Excited rustic awe and wonder. Far down beneath the western sea Their Paradise of Youth was laid ; 2y In every oak and hazel tree They saw a fair, immortal maid ! Such was the chain of hopes and fears That bound our sires a thousand years. IV. 'Tvvas past : a foreign rumor ran Along the peopled eastern shore A legend of a God and Man, And of a Crown and Cross he bore. At first 'twas like a morning tale Told by a dreamer, to a few, Till, year by year, among the Gael More wide the circling story grew. A mingled web of false and true, 'Twas pass'd about on every side ; The when or where they scarcely knew, But all agreed He lived and died Far in the East, the Crucified. v. Travellers who had been long abroad, Returning, shunn'd the public sight, 184: HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. To serve ('twas said) the Unknown God, "With harp, and hymn, and harmless rite. One, bolder than the rest, essay'd To spread his creed on Leinster's shore, But, by a tumult sore dismay'd, He fled, and ventured back no more. Palladius like a courier came, And spoke and went or, like St. John, To the broad desert breath'd the name Of the Expected, and was gone Leaving to every pagan seer The future full of doubt and fear. THE COMING OF ST. PATRICK. I. IN Antrim's mountain solitude, Above the fabled northern sea, The pagan plain and Druid's wood, The Shepherd-Saint I dimly see. - 4 Young and a slave ! he tends the flocks Which spot the purpled heath around, And, 'mid the misty topmost rocks, A secret shrine for prayer hath found. n. There, next to heaven, he rears his cross, And there at morn, at noon, and eve, Kneeling upon the dripping moss, I see him pray and hear him grieve. The exile mourns his far-off home, The Christian humbly prays for grace ; And sometimes from his heart will come A sierh for Erin's darkling race. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. in. Seven years I watch'd him work and pray, Trusting that still he might be free, Until, one bright auspicious day, . I saw him seize his staff and flee. To Sligo to the Loire through Gaul I saw him pass, 'till that dread hour When " Victor " came, charged with his call, And moved him with angelic power. Along the umbrageous Appenine, To Rome, his tottering feet I trace ; Lo ! there the pontiff, Celestine, Ordains the Apostle of our race. M IV. After this pilgrim-interval, Again the Shepherd-Teacher saw His Antrim highlands soaring tall Above the flock-enanieU'd shaw. Landed on the familiar shore, He seeks to save his ancient lord, But, rudely spurn'd from Milcho's door, 26 Turneth his footsteps Tara-ward, Still scattering, as he goes, " the "Word." THE CAPTIVITY OF ST. PATRICK. I. GATHEK'D and perch'd the multitude on Howth's romantic rock, As thick as o'er the fish-strewn strand the craving sea-birds flock 186 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. On lofty peak, on jutting pier, on sea-wash'd shelving cliff, On anchor'd mast, and weedy wreck, and cautious coasting skiff. Fast beat their hearts as, from the east, advancing one by one, Each well-known prince's galley swims, gilded by the sun ; , And in their midst King Nial's prow, a head above its peers, Arises, crown'd with captives, and glittering with spears The captives of Armorica, the spears that smote the foe Where the swift Loire rolls back before the ocean's steadfast flow. ii. Cheer upon cheer, with endless peal, they send across the sea The sailor's hail, the goat-herd's horn, the voice of boyish glee; And beauty's banner, flung abroad, streams downward to the wave, To welcome home the well-beloved, the fortunate, the brave. Alas ! no shout responds that fleet, no thrilling trumpets clang The echoes only answer'd to the welcome as it rang. Slow, silent, as in sorrow, the galleys landward come, And every cheek has whiten'd, and every voice is dumb; Slow, silent, as in sorrow, the victors reach the shore, And then they raise the shriek of grief " King Nial is no more !" in. Oh ! what were all the conquests to Erie when she lost The hero of her heart beloved, her guardian and her boast. Sadly she left ungather'd spoils on Howth's forsaken strand, And, weeping, bore the body to Tara, through the land. The very captives of the sword forgot their bitter grief In this wild public sorrow for a father and a chief, And oft, with unused accents, repeated o'er and o'er The wild words heard on every side "King Nial is no more !" HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 17 IV. Nay, there was one who stood a stone amid the fall of tears Dark Milcho, lord of Dalriad, grown old in sins and years, Whose love of war was meted by the treasures of the field, Who counted that alone well won which gave a golden yield. Unmoved he stood ; then gave command unto his order'd men, And sought his hoarded treasures in Sliemish guarded glen. With him go many captives, fair daughters of the Rhine, Whose feet shall ne'er be red again with juice of Alsace vine; And one, a Christian youth, there is, the saddest of the train, Who grieves to think he ne'er shall see the shores of France again. v. The captive is a keeper of sheep on Antrim's hills ; The captive is a weeper by Antrim's icy rills ; The captive is a mourner in the midhours of the night ; The captive is a watcher for the coming of the light; A watcher for His coming who is the light of men, A mourner for the darkness that shadows Sliemish Glen A weeper for the sins of youth, aforetime unconfess'd, A keeper of the passions that rush through boyhood's breast; The captive is a Shepherd, but his future flock shall be All the countless generations of that Garden of the Sea. ST. PATRICK'S DREAM." i. POOR is the pallet he dreams upon, In the holy city, Saint Martin's of Tours ; Is it a beam of the morning sun Flushes that face so pale and pure ? 188 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Is it the ray of a cloister lamp ? Is it some chalice jewel bright ? No ! night and the cell are dim and damp Here is nor earthly nor astral light ! Oh, such a dream ! From Foclut wood, Near the sounding sea of an earlier day, Ten thousand voices, well understood, Spoke ! and the sleeper heard them say : " Hear the Unborn ! by the hand Of the angel Victor swift is he ! Oh, Patrick, far in thy Christian land, Erin's unborn we send to thee!" And then he dreamt that Saint Victor stood By his pallet in that cell at Tours And the cries were hush'd in Foclut wood ; But the heavenly messenger, swift and siire, Presents the scroll that bore their prayer, In the speech of his exile fairly writ And waking, the Saint beheld it there And these were the words he read from it : " Come ! holy one, long preordain'd, For thee the swans of Lir are singing ; Come ! from the morning, Orient-stain'd, Thy Mass-bell through our valleys ringing ! " Man of the hooded hosts, arise ! Physician, lo ! our souls lie dying Hear o'er the seas our piteous cries, On thee and on our God relying ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 189 " Come, powerful youth of Sliemish hill ! Come, in the name and might of Rome ! Come with the psalm that charms from ill Cross-bearer ! Christ-preparer ! come." The sleeper read ! still doubts arose Till to Aurora's torches red He held the scroll repeating those Wild suppliant words the Unborn said ! He look'd where late the angel pass'd, Many the big drops on his brow; His robe he girt, his staff he grasp'd, He only said, " In God's name, Now !" MONTREAL, February, 1868. ST. PATRICK'S FIEST CONVERTS* I. MORN on the hills of Innisfail ! The anchor'd mists make sudden sail, The sun has kiss'd the mountain gray, For ancient friends and fond are they ! ii. In the deep vale, where osiers verge The clear Lough Sheeling's gentle surge, Two royal sisters doff their dresses, And, binding up their night-black tresses, Fair as the spirits of the streams, Or Dian's nymphs in poets' dreams, * The legend here versified, almost literally, is one of the oldest episodes in Irish history. 190 HISTORICAL AND LKGENDA.RY POEMS. They bathe them in the limpid lake, And niock the mimic storm they make ! in. Scarce had their sandals clasp'd their feet, Scarce had they left their still retreat, Scarce had they turn'd their footsteps, when Strange psalmody pervades the glen ; And full before them in the way There stood an ancient man and gray, Chanting with fervent voice a prayer That trembled through the morning air. IV. He was no Druid of the wood, Arm'd for the sacrifice of blood ; He was no poet, vague and vain, Chanting to chiefs a fulsome strain ; His reverent years and thoughtful face Gave to his form the Patriarch's grace ; His sacred song declared that he Shared in no gross idolatry ! v. " Where dwells your God ?" the sisters said ; " Where is His couch at evening spread ? Sinks he with Crorn into the sea, And rises from his bath as we Have done ? Is it his voice we hear Thundering above the buried year ? Or doth your God in spirit dwell Deep in the crystal, living well ? Or are the winds the steeds which bear His unseen chariot everywhere ?" HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. YI. The Saint replied, " Oh, nobly born ! Haply eucounter'd here this morn ; You ask the only truth to know That Adam's children need below ; Your quest is God, like them of old Who found the gravestone backward roll'd From where they left the Saviour cold." VII. Mildly to tell, the holy man The story of our faith began Of Eve, of Christ, of Calvary, The baleful and the healing tree; Of God's omnipotence and love, Of sous of earth, now saints above ; Of Peter and the Twelve, of Paul, And of his own predestined call. VIII. " Not on the sea, not on the shore, In solemn woods or tempest roar, Dwelleth the God that we adore. No ! wheresoe'er His cross is raised, And wheresoe'er His name is praised; The pure life is His present sign, The holy heart His favorite shrine ; The old, the poor, the sorrowful, To them He is most bountiful ; Palace or hovel, land or sea, God with His servants still wih 1 be !" IX. Leogaire, the last of our pagan kings, In terror from his slumber springs, 192 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. For he had dreamt his daughters fair Pillars of fire on Tara were, And that the burning light thence streaming Melted the idols in his dreaming And the dream of Leogaire, our annals say, Was fulfill'd in the land in an after day. A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. SEVEN weary years in bondage the young Saint Patrick pass'd, Till the sudden hope came to him to break his bonds at last; On the Antrim hills reposing, with the north star overhead, As the gray dawn was disclosing, "I trust in God," he said " My sheep will find a shepherd, and my master find a slave, But my mother has no other hope but me this side the grave." Then girding close his mantle, and grasping fast his wand, He sought the open ocean through the by-ways of the land ; The berries from the hedges on his solitary way, And the cresses from the waters, were his only food by day; The cold stone was his pillow, and the hard heath was his bed, Till, looking from Benbulben, he saw the sea outspread. He saw that ancient ocean, unfathom'd and unbound, That breaks on Erin's beaches with so sorrowful a sound ; There lay a ship at Sligo bound up the Median sea " God save you, master mariner, will you give berth to me ? I have no gold to pay thee, but Christ will pay thee yet." Loud laugh'd that foolish mariner, "Nay, nay, He might forget!" HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 193 " Forget ! Oh, not a favor done to the humblest one Of all His human kindred can 'scape th' Eternal Son !" In vain the Christian pleaded, the willing sail was spread, His voice no more was heeded than the sea-birds overhead ; And as the vision faded of that ship against the sky, On the briny rocks the captive pray'd to God to let him die. But God, whose ear is open to catch the sparrow's fall, At the sobbing of His servant frown'd along the waters all ; The billows rose in wonder and smote the churlish crew, And around the ship the thunder like battle-arrows flew; The screaming sea-fowl's clangor in Ivish-corran's inner caves JVas hush'd before the anger of the tempest-trodden waves. Like an eagle-hunted gannet, the ship drove back amain To where the Christian captive sat in solitude and pain "Come in," they cried; "O Christian! we need your com pany, For it was sure your angry God that met us out at sea." Then smiled the gentle heavens, and doff' d their sable veil, Then sunk to rest the breakers and died away the gale. So, sitting by the pilot, the happy captive kept On his rosary a reck'ning, while the seamen sung or slept. Before the winds propitious past Achill, south by Ara, The good ship gliding left behind Hiar-Connaught like an arrow From the southern bow of Erin they shoot the shore of Gaul, And in holy Tours, Saint Patrick findeth freedom, friends, and all. In holy Tours he findeth home and altars, friends and all ; There matins hail the morning, sweet bells to vespers call ; 194 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. There's no lord to make him tremble, no magician to endure, Nor need he to dissemble in the pious streets of Tours ; But ever, as he rises with the morning's early light, And still erewhile he sleepeth, when the north star shines at night, When he sees the angry Ocean by the tyrant Tempest trod, He murmurs in devotion, " Fear nothing ! trust in God !"" THREE SONNETS FOR ST. PATRICK'S DAY. I. NOT yet had dawn'd the day-star of the soul On that dark isle beyond which land was not ; Far in the East it blazed, and in the South, And high above the Alpine summits stood, Shooting its rays along the vales of Gaul ; Albion's cold cliffs had felt the cheering beam, Though soon eclipsed and lost. Like sinful Eve, Hidden amid the thickest Eden grove, Our island-mother knew not of her hope ! Enfolded by the melancholy main, A sea of foliage fill'd the eagle's eye A sea within a sea one wave-wash'd wood, Save where some breezy mountain, bare and brown, Rose 'mid the verdant desert to the skies ! II. Sw.uttiiNG with life, these woods gave forth a race Of huntsmen and of warriors, whose delight Was spoil and havoc ; o'er the Roman wall They leap'd like wolves upon their British prey ; Far flash'd their oars upon the Gallic tide ; And in the Alpine valleys rose the shout Of "Farrah!" to the onset upon Rome! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 195 And still, where'er they dwelt, or sail'd, or camp'd, In native woods, in ships, or on strange shores, Moved the dread Druid, with his bloody knife, And rites obscene of Bel and of Astarte The fearful brood of that corrupted will Which brought imperial Tyre down to the dust, Which conquer'd Carthage more than Scipio's sword, And left them heirless in the world's esteem ! III. INTO that land where he, wet with his tears, Had seven years eaten of the bitter bread Of slavery and exile, came the Saint Whose day we celebrate throughout the earth ! Before his mighty words false gods fell down, And prostrate pagans, rising from the plain, Knew the true God, and, knowing, were baptized. Praise to his name, the ransom'd Slave who broke All other chains, and set the bondsman free ! Praise to his name, the Husbandman who sow'd The good seed over all that fertile isle ! Praise to the Herdsman who into the fold Of the One Shepherd led our Father's flock, Whose voice still calls us wheresoe'er we hide ! MONTREAL, March 12, 1862. THE LEGEND OF CROAGH PATRICK. ASK you why we repair Every Lent as pilgrims lowly To Croagh Patrick, and make there Yows to God, and all the Holy Now in glory ? 196 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. True and plainly I will tell What in ancient days befell, And sanctified this place To th' Apostle of our race Thus the story : i. When Patrick came to Cruachan Eigle first (Steep the side is of that mountain in Mayo), 'Twas girt about with woods where the accursed Plotting Druids still flitted to and fro With fasting and with prayer upon the summit, He sought his ardent soul to assoil, Kneeling over chasms wall'd as by a plummet, Treading stony paths with patient toil. ii. The gray mists hid the earth as day was ended, The sea as with another sea was cover'd, When, with loud shrieking cries, a host of birds descended, And over his anointed head dark hover'd ; Some breathed an obscene odor which appall'd him, Some utter'd cries that shook his soul with fear, Some with blasphemies distracted and miscall'd him, Some hiss'd like springing serpents at his ear. in. The tempted one went praying fast and faster, His knees seem'd to freeze unto the stone ; At length he cried aloud " O Lord and Master, I am wrestling with a hell-host all alone !" Seizing, then, the holy bell that lay before him ('Twas a gift from the good Pope Celestine), Thrice ringing it, he speedily, full o'er him, Saw the Lenten moon's fair face shine. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 197 IV. Then a choir of cherubs round the mountain winging, Lauds and vespers for tho holy Saint began, And he, though soul-entranced by the divinest singing, Still trembling felt the feebleness of man. And he pray'd three prayers to God that blessed even', That Slieve Eigle to no stranger might belong, That an Irish death-bed shrift might lead to heaven ; And once more he pray'd, fervently and long v. That, before the final Judgment-morn had risen, Ere the angel of the trumpet cleft the air, Ere Christ's coming should loose Death from his long prison, Ere the pale horse for his rider should prepare That, through the woful scenes Apocalyptic, Innisfail, ten thousand thousand fathoms deep, Among old Ocean's caverns labyrinthic, The destruction of the world might outsleep. Of Patrick this was the prayer For our fathers and their kindred ; Hence, as pilgrims we repair Every Lent to Cruachan Eigle. But no more as such 'tis known (Croagh Patrick is its name) Time will wear the very stone Ireland's eagles all have flown ; Of things old, her Faith alone Stands unconquer'd and the same ! 198 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. ST. PATRICK'S DEATH. [From the ancient rhyme called St. Fiech's Hymn.] I. To his own Armagh the Saint's feet turn'd, As the lamp of his life obscurely burn'd, And he bade them make his dying bed In that holy city, the Church's head ! n. Midway, an angel, at midnight deep, Came by the couch and soothed his sleep; It was Victor, the guardian of his life. Who had led him safe through storm and strife. in. To the eyes of the sleeper that angel seem'd The same as when first of his call he dream'd; By a belt of fire he was girt around, And he sang with a strangely solemn sound : IV. " Thy Armagh shall rule in Erie forever, Praise be to Christ, the primacy-giver ! Your prayer was heard, your soul I call, Prepare for the end in the cell at Saul !" v. At Saul, to the people, St. Tassach said : "We shall see him no more our Father is dead ! People of Erie, lament not nor mourn A mortal has died, but a Saint is born!" HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. VI. From fai- and near, from isle and glen, Came mourning priests and sorrowing men, And with hymns repeated, the sleepless throng Waked him with solemn psalter and song. VII. Torches like stars burn'd thick and bright Round his tomb for many a day and night ; As the Sun of Ajalon steadfast stood, So blazed the Church for the Chief of the Rood. VIII. Our Father, who lived without stain or pride, Now dwells in his mansion beatified, With Jesus and Mary in perpetual morn The mortal has died, the Saint is born. ST. BRENDAN AND THE STRIFE- SOWER.^ WHAT time Saint Brendan on the sea At night was sailing, A spirit-voice from the ship's lee Rose, wildly wailing, Crying, " Blessed Brendan ! pray for me A prayer availing ; " For I have been, O Saint, through life, A sinner ever ; With murmurings my course was rife As any river ; I never ceased from sowing strife, Good men to sever. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. " Within our convent's peaceful wall Was song and prime ; But I loved never music's call, Nor voice of chime ; The Host that holiest hearts appal Awed never mine. " In chancel, choir, in lonely cell, On the sea-shore, The love of strife, as a strong spell, Was evermore Upon me 'till sore sick I fell, And was given o'er. " Then, in the brief hours of my pain, To God I cried And mourned nor, Father, mourned in vain- My strifes and pride My soul departed rent in twain Half justified. " 'Twixt heaven and hell, in doubt I am, holy Saint ! Oh ! supplicate the bleeding Lamb To hear my 'plaint Oh ! bless me with thy words of balm 1 faint I faint Saint Brendan seized his rosary, And knelt him low And pray'd, whoso the soul might be That pass'd him fro, That God and Christ His Son would free It from its woe. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY PO-EMS. 201 And never any night at sea, In his long sailing, Heard the Saint after from the lee The Spirit's wailing He deem'd it with the Just to be, Through prayer availing. THE VOYAGE OF EM AN OGE. IN the Western Ocean's waters, where the sinking sun is lost, Rises many a holy cloiteach high o'er many an island coast, Bearing bells rung by the tempest when the spray to heaven is toss'd : Bearing bells and holy crosses, that to Arran men afar Twinkle through the dawn and twilight, like the mist- environ'd star Hung in heaven for their guidance, as, in sooth, such symbols are. 'Tis a rosary of islands in the Ocean's hollow palm Sites of faith unchanged by storms, all unchanging in the calm, There the world-betray 'd may hide them, and the weary heart find balm. Wayward as a hill-stream chafing in a sad fir-forest glen, Lived the silent student, Eman, among Arran's holy men, Sighing still for far Hy-Brasil sight of fear to human ken. Born a chieftain, and preclestin'd by his sponsors for a sage, Eman Oge 31 had track'd the sages over many an ancient page, Drain'd their old scholastic vials, nor did these his thirst assuage. * Eman Oge means Young Edward. 202 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Thinking thenceforth, and deploring, sat he nightly on the strand, Ever watching, ever sighing, for the fabled fairy land; For this earth he held it hateful, and its sons a soulless band. 'T\vas midsummer midnight, silence on the isles and ocean lay, Fleets of sea-birds rode at anchor on the waveless moon- bright bay, To the moon, across the waters, stretch'd a shining silver way When, Christa ! in the offing, like a ship upon the sight, Loom'd a land of dazzling verdure, cross'd with streams that flash'd like light, Under emerald groves whose lustre glorified the solemn night. A.S the hunter dashes onward when the missing prey he spies, As to a gracious mistress the forgiven lover flies, So, across the sleeping ocean Email in his currach hies. Nay, he never noted any of the holy island's signs Saint Mac Duach's tall cathedral, or Saint Brecan's ivyed shrines, Or the old Cyclopean dwellings for a rarer scene he pines. Now he nears it now he touches the gold-glittering precious sand Lir of Ocean 32 is no miser when such treasures slip his hand But whence come these antique galleys crowding the deserted strand ? HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 203 Tyrian galleys, with white benches, sails of purple, prows of gold; Triremes, such as carried Csesar to the British coast of old; Serpents that had borne Vikings southward on adventures bold; Gondolas, with glorious jewels sparkling on their necks of pride; Bucentaurs, that brought the Doges to their Adriatic bride; Frisian hulk and Spanish pinnace lay reposing side by side ; Carracks, currachs all the vessels that the ocean yet had borne, By no envious foemen captured, by no tempests toss'd or torn, Lay upon that stormless sea-beach all untarnish'd and unworn. But within them, or beside them, crew or captain saw he none " Have mankind forever languish'd for the land I now have won ?" So said Eman, as he landed, by his angel tempted on. "Where it led him what befell him what he suffer'd who shall say ? One long year was pass'd and over a midsummer's night and day; Morning found him pallid, pulseless, stretch'd upon the island bay. Dead he lay : his brow was calcined like a green leaf scorch'd in June, Hollow was his cheek and haggard, gone his beaming smile and bloom Dead he lay, as if his spirit had already faced its doom. 204 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. "Who shall wake him ? who shall care him ? wayward Eman, stark and still "Who will nerve anew his footsteps to ascend life's craggy hill? "Who will ease his anguish'd bosom ? who restore him thought and will ? Hark! how softly tolls the matin from the top of yonder tower How it moves the stark man ! Lo, you ! hath a sound such magic power ? Lo, you ! lo, you ! Up he rises, waked and saved ! Ah, blessed hour ! Now he feels his brow now gazes on that shore, and sky, and sea Now upon himself and lo, you ! now he bends to earth his knee; God and angels hear him praying on the sea-shore fervently. THE PRAYER OF EMAN OGE. God of this Irish isle ! Blessed and old, "Wrapp'd in the morning's smile In the sea's fold Here, where Thy saints have trod Here, where they pray'd Hear me, O saving God ! May I be saved ? God of the circling sea ! Far-rolling and deep Its caves are unshut to Thee, Its bounds Thou dost keep HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 205 Here, from this strand, Whence saints have gone forth Father ! I own Thy hand, Humbled to earth. God of this blessed light Over me shining ! On the wide way of right I go, unrepining. No more despising My lot or my race, But toiling, uprising, To Thee through Thy grace. THE "WISDOM-SELLERS" BEFORE CHARLEMAGNE* MONACHUS SAN-GALLENSIS loquitur : " Grandson of Charlemagne ! to tell Of exiled Learning's late return, A task more grateful never fell To one still drinking at her urn ; Of Force, O King ! Too many sing, Lauding mere sanguinary strength ; But Wisdom's praise Our favor'd days Have ask'd to hear at length. When he whose sword and name you bear Reign'd unopposed throughout the West, And none would dream, or, dreaming, dare Keject his high behest He found no peace nor near nor far, No spell to stay his swaying mind ; 206 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. For Glory, like the sailor's star, Still left her votary far behind. The wreck of Roman art remain'd, Casting dark lines of destiny ; The very roads they went proclaim'd The modern man's degeneracy ; Our Charles vept like Philip's son, For that Time's noblest wreaths were won. " One morn upon his throne of state Crown'd and sad the conqueror sate. ' What stirs without, my chiefs ?' said he, ' Do all things rest on land and sea ? Has France slept late, or has she lost The love of being tempest-toss'd ?' Spake an old soldier of his wars, One who had fought in Lombardy, "Whose breast, besides, bore Saxon scars The soldier-emperor's friend was he : ' O Carl ! strange news your steward bears, Of merchants in the mart, who tell, Standing amidst the mingled wares, That they bring Wisdom here to sell ; Tall men, though strange, they seem to be, Arid somewhere from ayont the sea.' Quoth Charles ' 'Twere rare merchandise That, purchased, could make Paris wise. Fetch me those wisdom-sellers hither We fain would know their whence and whithei'.' " Of air erect and full of grace, With bearded lip and arrowy eye, And signs no presence could efface Of Learning's meek nobility, HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 207 The men appear'd. Carl's iron front Was lifted as each bow'd his head ; "With words more gentle than his wont, To the two strangers thus he said : ' Merchants, what is the tale I hear, That in the market-place you offer Wisdom for sale ? Is wisdom dear ? Is't in the compass of our coffer ?' In accents such as seldom broke The silence there, Albums spoke : '0 Carl! illustrious emperor! We are but strangers on your shore : From Erin's isle, where every glen Is crowded with the sons of song, And every port with learned men, We, venturing without the throng (And longing, not the least, to see The person of your majesty, Whose fame has reach'd the ends of ocean), Forsook our native isle, to bear The lamps of wisdom everywhere, Our heavenly Master's work to do And first we came, O King ! to you : In His dread name, the Eternal King, Clemens and I, His errand bring Whose soldier is the sandall'd priest, Whose empire neither West nor East Whose word knows neither South nor North, Whose footstool is the subject Earth Who holds to-day as yesterday, O'er age and space, his sovereign SAvay Whose wisdom in our books enroll'd Unto your majesty we offer 208 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Neither for guerdon nor for gold Within the compass of your coffer. On Carnac's cromleach you have gazed, And seen the proud strength of the past ; You saw the piles the Csesars raised Saw Art his empire-cause outlast. All scenes of war, all pomps of peace, Armies and harvests in array Your longing soul from sights like these To Time and Art oft turns away. Great hosts are bristling over earth Like grain in harvest, till anon A wintry campaign, or a dearth Of valor, and your hosts are gone. The soldier's pride is for a season, His day leads to a silent night ; But sov'reign power, inspired by reason, Creates a world of life and light. We've rifled the departed ages, And bring their grave-gifts here to-day ; We sell the secrets of the sages The code of Calvary and Sinai. To wisdom, King ! we set no measure ; For wisdom's price, there is but one To value it above all treasure, And spend it freely when 'tis won. By every peaceful Gaelic river The Bookmen have a free abode ; They celebrate each princely giver, And teach the arts of man and God. All that we ask for all we bring Is eager pupils round our cell, And your protection, mighty King ! While in the realms of France we dwell.' HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 209 " Bow'd the great king his lofty head ' Be welcome, men of God !' he said ; ' Choose ye a home, it shall be given, And held in seignory of heaven.' " Grandson of Carl ! I need no more ; The rest throughout the earth is known How learning, lost to us before, Spread like a sun around his throne, Till now, in Saxon forests dim, New neophytes their lore-lights trim How even my own Alpine heights Are luminous through studious nights How Pavia's learned half regain The glory of the Roman name How mind with mind, and soul with soul, Press onward to the ancient goal How Faith herself smiles on the chase Of Chimera and Reason's race How ' wisdom-sellers ' one may meet In every ship and every street Of how our Irish masters rest In graves watch'd by the grateful West How more than war or sanguine strength Of Wisdom's praise Our favor'd days Have ask'd to hear at length." FLAN S TITAN'S GAME OF CHESS. I. FLAN SYNAN from the south had come, with tributes in his train From the Desmond men and Thomond men by fear or force he'd ta'en ; 210 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. A thousand barness'd horses, with bells to their harness triced, Seven chariots piled with silver cups and robes kings only priced ; And boastfully, on captured harps, bards sung the battle rann, And all agreed there ne'er had lived a conqueror like Flan. n. That was the night in Tara ! such singing and such wine ; The morning sun shone in on them, but they said, "Let it shine;" A Thomond hostage play'd at chess against the royal host, Who vauntingly to the southern chief thus foolishly made boast That he " to Thurles' Green would bring his board, and not a man In all the south, in open day, durst spoil the game of Flan." in. Bright shines the sun along the Suir, and warm on Thurles' Green ; Strange is the sight and singular that there this day is seen : A king and court, in merry sport, like boys on holiday, Have sat them down to tables laid, round which they laugh and play. " Did I not say, Dalcassian ! that here there was no man Who dare essay, in open day, to spoil the game of Flan ?" IV. Smiled gayly the Dalcassian, " Kings have been check'd ere now." " What mean you ?" quoth the monarch, with anger on his brow. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 211 * Here come some who can answer !" cried the other ; and amain A thousand arm'd Thomond-men denied into the plain. " Tis our turn now," exclaim'd the chief, as here and there they ran; "You've lost your game on Thurles' Green, O boastfu 1 monarch Flan !" LADY GORMLEY.** A GAELIC BAIJAD. I. SHE wanders wildly through the night, Unhappy Lady Gormley ! And hides her head at morning light, Unhappy Lady Gormley ! No home has she, no kindly kin, But darkness reigneth all within, For sorrow is the child of sin, "With hapless Lady Gormley ! ii. What time she sate on Tara's throne, Unhappy Lady Gormley ! Bright jewels sparkled on her zone, Unhappy Lady Gormley ! But her fair seeming could not hide The wayward will, the heart of pride, The wit still ready to deride, Of scornful Lady Gormley! 212 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. III. The daughter of a kingly race Was lovely Lady Gormley ! A monarch's bride, the first in place, Was noble Lady Gormley ! The fairest hand she had, the skill The lute to touch, the harp to thrill, Melting and moving men at will, The peerless Lady Gormley ! IV. Nor was it courtly art to call The splendid Lady Gormley ! The first of minstrels in the hall, All-gifted Lady Gormley ! Song flow'd from out her snowy throat As from the thrush, and every note Taught men to dream, and bards to dote On lovely Lady Gormley ! v. But arm'd as is the honey-bee Was fickle Lady Gormley ! And hollow as the alder-tree Was smiling Lady Gormley ! And cold and haughty as the swan That glancing sideward saileth on, That loves the moon and hates the dawn, Was heartless Lady Gormley ! VI. God's poor had never known her care The lofty Lady Gormley ! She had no smile for nun or frere, The worldly Lady Gormley ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 213 She fed her heart on human praise, Forgot her soul in prosp'rous days, "Was studious but how to amaze, The haughty Lady Gormley ! VII. At last she fell from her great height, Unhappy Lady Gormley ! Her lord had perish'd in the fight, Unhappy Lady Gormley ! And now she has nor house nor home, Destined from rath to rath to roam, Too proud to make amend or moan, Unhappy Lady Gormley ! VIII. Behold her on her lonely way, The wretched Lady Gormley, And mark the moral of my lay, The lay of Lady Gormley ! When Fortune smiles, make God your friend, On His love more than man's depend, So may you never in the end Share the woe of Lady Gormley ! BRYAN, THE TANIST. I. BRYAN, the son of the Tanist, grew Stately and strong, and brave and true, The heart of his house and the pride of his name, Till Torna, the poet, his guest became, And lit his. blood with words of flame, And soil'd his breast with schemes of shame. 214 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. II. Torna hated Sil-Murray, branch and root, And he swore to spoil the tree of its fruit; And Torna, steadfast as any hill, Had a fiend's soul with a minstrel's skill, And Bryan he used as his ladder until He reach'd his mark and wrought his will. n. Through fear, and fire, and settling gloom, I hear a fray, and I see a tomb, From a rifled bed, through a rifted wall, I see the son of the Tanist fall, And like the exulting eagle's call, The poet's voice is over all ! IV. Oh human passion ! oh human strife ! How do you taint the springs of life ! A thousand souls are black to-day From the smoke of this fratricidal fray, And peace from our sept has pass'd away, And the end of the guilty who shall say ? HOW ST. KIERAN PROTECTED CLONMAVXOISE.* I. THERE is an ancient legend, By the Donegal Masters told, How St. Kieran kept his churches, As a shepherd keeps his fold. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 215 II. Ages had lain in their ashes, Crowns had outworn their kings, Change had come over Clonmacnoise, As it comes o'er all earthly things. m. Long gone was the wooded desert, Where he broke the Druid's reign Long gone was the cruel bondage Of the proud usurping Dane. IV. And calm as a river of heaven The Shannon flow'd along, By the towers and churches seven, From morn till even' song. v. "With sounds of pious duty, By day it was all alive "With the low sweet voice of study The hum of a holy hive. VI. In the street the youth uncover'd, In the meadow the mower knelt, When the call to prayer, far or near, Was heard or only felt. The Spenser left his store-house, The Ostrarus left his load, And sage and lector silent, Bow'd to the call of God. 216 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. VIII. Now Night, the priest of labor, Had spread his cope afar, And brightly on his bosom (rlitter'd the morning star. Even as that sole star glitter'd On high in its guardian light, So the lamp alone keeps vigil At St. Kieran's shrine to-night. The lamp alone keeps vigil, "While a shape flits to the shore, And a shallop down the river Has shot with muffled oar. As at the stir of the latchet Flieth the beast of prey, So swiftly into the darkness The shallop glides away. XII. No sound broke o'er the landscape As the guilty boatman sped Through the ghastly gray of daybreak, Like the ferryman of the dead. XIII. But sounds of wail and wonder Ere noon, on every side, Were heard by that peaceful river Down which he darkly hied. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 217 XIV. For the rifled shrine of St. Kieran Had been found on the river shore, And an eager host surrounded The high- priest's open door. xv. And some were prompt to counsel, While many shook with fear For sure, they said, such sacrilege Foretold disaster near. At the door outspake the high-priest "Let every one begone To his daily task, to his chosen work, The saints will guard their own," XVII. And so the ancient legend Relates how oft in vain The bold shrine-thief took shipping To pass beyond the main. XVIII. No ship wherein he enter'd Could ever find a breeze ; Her ntasts stood fast in their tackle As in the soil the trees. XIX. While right and left all freely Swept past the outward bound ; The ship that held the shrine-thief Seem'd hard and fast aground. 218 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDAET POEMS. XX. The sailors at the rowlocks Toil'd till their hearts grew faint ; "Where they felt only the current, He felt the avenging Saint. XXI. At length remorse and anguish O'ertook the caitiff bold, And stricken with mortal terror, His fearful tale he told. XXII. And now a glad procession Of galleys, with banner fine, Has left Athlone with the gold and gems Of St. Kieran's plunder'd shrine. XXIII. A day of great rejoicing Is this for the land around ; The Saint has been exalted That which was lost is found. On the morrow spoke the high-priest- " Let every one begone To his daily task, to his chosen work, The saints will guard their own." HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 219 IONA. I. WOULD you visit the home St. Columbcille chose ? You must sail to the north when the west wind blows- To the art where grows not flowers or trees, On the soil of the sea-spent Hebrides; There, over against the steep Ross shore, In hearing of Coryvrekan's roar, You will find the dwarfish holly growing, And see the brave sea-bugles blowing Around the roots of the belladonna, On the shore of the island holy lona! n. In that lovely isle the north star shines On crownless kings and saints sans shrines; There, the small sheep crop the grass that springs Lineally up from the loins of kings; There, Jarls from Orkney and Heligoland, And Thanes from York and from Cumberland, And Maormars of Moray, and Lennox, and Levin, Cruel in life, lie hoping for heaven; There, Magnus of Norway, and stern Macbeth, Are stretch'd at the feet of the democrat, Death; And chieftains of Ulster, and lords of Lorn, .There wait for the trump of All-Soul's morn. in. " Here lived Saint Columb," the ferrymen say, " He kept his boats in this shingly bay; He fenced this glebe, he set up this stone (The kirk it belong'd to was overthrown) Upon this mound, at close of day; Facing towards Erin, he ever would pray. 220 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Thousands of blessings he gave to the Gael 'Tis pity they were not of more avail !" Saint of the seas! who first explored The haunts of the hyperborean horde "Who spread God's name, and rear'd his cross From Westra wild to the cliffs of Ross Whose sail was seen, whose voice was known By dwellers without the Vikings zone Whose days were pass'd in the teacher's toil Whose evening song still fill'd the aisle Whose poet-heart fed the wild bird's brood Wliose fervent arm upbore the rood Whose sacred song is scarce less sublime Than the visions that typified all time Still, from thy roofless rock so gray, Thou preachest to all who pass that way. I hear thy voice, O holy Saint ! Of to-da} T , and its men make dire complaint; Thou speakest to us of that spell of power, Thy rocky lona's royal dower Of the light of love and love of light Which made it shine out like a star in the night; Thou pointest my eyes to the deep, deep waves Thou callest my ken to the mute, mute graves Thou wooeth young Life, and her lover, Faith, As victors to enter the Castle of Death, And to leave their beacons of being to warn The weak and wild and the far unborn Off perilous straits and fair-false shoals, Where myriads have lost their adventured souls. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 221 VI. Saint of the seas ! when the winds are out When, like dogs at fault, they quest about When I wake on ocean's rocky brink, While the billows pause and seem to think, My soul from its earthly mooring slips And glides away through the midnight ships And all unheeding the face of Fear That darkles down on the marineer, It rushes through wind, and space, and spray, And through the birds that embank the bay, And over the holly and belladonna, To chant its lauds in thy holy lona ! IONA TO ERIN!** WHAT ST. COLUMBA SAID TO THE BIRD FLOWN OVER FROM IRELAND TO IONA. 3 ' I. CLING to my breast, my Irish bird, Poor storm-toss'd stranger, sore afraid ! How sadly is thy beauty blurr'd The wing whose hue was as the curd, Bough as the sea-gull's pinion made ! n. Lay close thy head, my Irish bird, Upon this bosom, human still ! Nor fear the heart that still has stirr'd To every tale of pity heard From every shape of earthly ill. * This beautiful poem acquires additional interest from the fact that it was one of the last the author wrote, having appeared in print only a few days before his death. 222 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Hi. For you and I are exiles both Best you, wanderer, rest you here ! Soon fair winds shall waft you forth Back to oui' own beloved North Would God I could go with you, dear ! IV. Were I as you, then would they say, Hermits and all in choir who join " Behold two doves upon their way, The pilgrims of the air are they Birds from the Liffey or the Boyne !" v. But you will see what I am bann'd No more, for my youth's sins, to see, My Derry's oaks in council stand By Roseapenna's silver strand Or by Raphoe your course may be. VI. The shrines of Meath are fair and far White-wing'd one, not too far for thee Emauia, shining like a star, (Bright brooch on Erin's breast you are !) M That I am never more to see. VII. You'll see the homes of holy men, Far west upon the shoreless main In shelter'd vale, on cloudy ben, 39 Where saints still pray, and scribes still pen The sacred page, despising gain ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 223 VIII. Above the crofts of virgin saints, There pause, my dove, and rest thy wing, But tell them not our sad complaints, For if they dreamt our spirit faints, There would be fruitless sorrowing. IX. Perch, as you pass, amid their trees, At noon or eve, my travell'd dove, And blend with voices of their bees, In croft, or school, or on their knees They'll bind you with their hymns of love ! x. Be thou to them, O dove ! where'er The men or women saints are found, My hyssop flying through the air ; My seven-fold benedictions bear To them, and all on Irish ground. XI. Thou wilt return, my Irish bird I, Columb, do foretell it thee ; "Would thou could'st speak as thou hast heard To all I love O happy bird ! At home in Erie soon to be ! CAT HAL'S FAREWELL TO TEE RYE.** I. SHINING sickle ! lie thou there ; Another harvest needs my hand, Another sickle I must bear Back to the fields of my own land. Farewell, sickle ! welcome, sword ! 224 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS II. A crop waves red on Cormaught's plain, Of bearded men and banners gay, But we will beat them down like rain, And sweep them like the storm away. Farewell, sickle ! welcome, sword ! in. Peaceful sickle ! lie thou there, Deep buried in the vanquish'd rye; May this that in thy stead I bear Above as thick a reaping lie ! Farewell, sickle ! welcome, sword ! IV. Welcome, sword ! out from your sheath, And look upon the glowing sun ; Sharp-shearer of the field of death, Your time of rust and rest is gone. "Welcome, welcome, trusty sword ! v. "Welcome, sword ! no more repose For Cathal Crov-drerg or for thee, "Until we walk o'er Erin's foes, Or they walk over you and me, My lightning, banner-cleaving sword ! VI. Welcome, sword ! thou magic wand, Which raises kings and casts them down ; Thou sceptre to the fearless hand, Thou fetter-key for limbs long bound Welcome, wonder-working sword ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 225 VII. Welcome, sword ! no more with love "Will Catlial look on land or main, Till with thine aid, my sword ! I prove What race shall reap and king shall reign. Farewell, sickle! welcome, sword! VIII. Shining sickle ! lie thou there; Another harvest needs my hand, Another sickle I must bear Back to the fields of my own land. Farewell, sickle ! welcome, sword ! THE DEATH OF DONNELL MORE." A. FRAGMENT. V. ON they came to Thurles better For their wives, if such men wed, They had never left their mud-walls On that wild adventure led By Donnell More and the Sil-Murray Seventeen hundred of them bled ! VI. On the plain of Thurles rises High a memorable pile, Rear'd to God by the great victor, Visible for many a mile: Well may his majestic spirit Walk, in pride, its lofty aisle. 226 6ISTOEICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. VII. Piety becomes the valiant, As the garland does the bride All the saints lean down with favor To the man that hath been tried; In the battle, their protection Is as armor to his side. VIII. "Who avenged the saints like Donnell, When Prince John drove down his stake On Ard-Finian, and in Tipraid, Sacred for Saint Factna's sake ? Who but he drove back the braggart, And his stone entrenchments brake ? IX. Still they came as their own armor, Brazen and unbroken back; And the clans of Munster wither'd In the havoc and the sack Came, but fled like thieving foxes, With the dun-dogs on their track ! On Kilfeakle and Knockgraffon Waves no more their lawless flag Limerick owns no Saxon warder, None tops Saint Finian's crag ; Let them tell their tales of conquest, So the baffled always brag. In his 'pride, the blue-stream'd Shannon, Roll'd between unfetter'd banks, HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 227 With meek joy, the gentle Suir, Maiden-like, but murmur'd thanks And the gray lulls smiled upon him, Biding in his conquering ranks. XII. But there came a time, and Donnell With his kingly fathers slept ; Other chieftains rose in Thomond, None that such strict guardship kept Other warriors rose, but never One like him for whom she wept. XIII. 'Twas not that his blood was Brian's, 'Twas not that his heart was great, 'Twas not that he took from no man, But gave worthy of his state He was born the land's defender, The fond foster-son of Fate ! XIV. He was served, not for his bounty, Nor his favor, nor his name Not that Fame still bore his banner, And success was page to Fame But he was through all heroic, Hence his far-spread following came ! xv. When the Saxons came like snow-flakes, Covering Banba's sacred strand, He arose the nation's chieftain, Warfare-wise, and strong of hand And his name became a spell-word O'er their God-defying band ! ***** 228 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. TUE CAOINE OF DON NELL MORE& I. HE is dead, and to the earth We bear our shield and sparthe, Thomond's prince and Ireland's promise, In God's anger taken from us ; And the bells he gave are pealing, And the hosts he led are kneeling, And the mourning priesthood falters At his marble-builded altars Chant slower, sisters, slower, 'Tis the Caoine for Donnell More ! n. Thomond's grief will not be hurried, Royal deeds cannot be buried, Men cannot cast a dungeon O'er the stars, and he's among them, He, of his the liberal spender, Of ours the stern defender The pillar of our power, Snapp'd in our trial's hour Chant slower, sisters, slower, 'Tis the Caoine of Donnell More ! in. Raise your voices, keener, shriller, Till they reach the upland tiller, And the seaward farthest man on The blue-stream'd, splendid Shannon, And the eagle, from the quarry, Shall fly back to his high eyrie, HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 229 And the deer on Slieve an Iron Flee as when the dogs environ, And the eremitic heron Shall fly o'er fen and fern Walk slower, sisters, slower, 'Tis the corpse of Donnell More ! IV. To the bards of Erin he was As to the harp the Geis y 43 As o'er yon town the spire, So he stood o'er others higher ; As the fearless ocean ranger, Laugh'd he in the hour of danger ; As the rover on the land, Was he free of mind and hand W T alk slower, sisters, slower, 'Tis the corpse of Donnell More ! v. When the Galls fell thick as hail On the roof-trees of the Grael, ST. CORMAC, THE NAVIGATOR." A LEGEND OF THE ISLAND OF LEWIS. FIEST ISLANDER. " LOOK out ! look out ! on the waves so dark, And tell me dost thou see a bark Hiding the tempest through ? It bears a cross on its slender spar, And a lamp that glances like a star, And three men make the crew 1" 230 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. SECOND ISLANDER. " I see a bark far off at sea, With cross and lamp and crew of three, But sooth it labors sore ; I see it rise, I see it fall, Now the angry ocean swallows all, And I see the bark no more. FIRST ISLAXDEK. " "Tis he ! 'tis he ! I know his sail "Tis the holy man of the distant Gael, True to his plighted word ' Be't storm or calm, or foul or fair,' He said, ' I will be surely there On the birthday of our Lord !' " He is the saint whose hymn soars loud O'er shifting sail and crackling shroud, Who resteth on his oar In the summer midnight's silent hour, May haply hear that voice of power O'er Coryvrekan's roar. " He knoweth how to steer aright, By the yard, and plough, and northern light, Through the battling Shetland Seas Knoweth of every port the sign From "Westra to Saint Columb's shrine In the southern Hebrides. " A host will throng to cape and bay To meet him each appointed day, Be it festival or fast, And if his bark comes not in sight They deem they have not reckon'd right, Or that the day is past. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 231 " His psalm hath waken'd Osmunwall, And from the cavern of Fingall Hath shaken down the spar; The fishers on the midnight waves, And the otter-hunters from their caves Salute his cross and star." SECOND ISLANDER. " I see, I see through the night-fall dark Saint Cormac sitting in his bark, And now he draweth near ! Dear Father of the island men, Welcome to Wallis' Isle again, And to our Christmas cheer !" SAINT COLUMBANUS IN ITALY TO SAINT COMOALL IN IRELAND." I. HEALTH to my friend and Father ! far beyond Sliabh Colpa's snows ! My heart impels my pen My heart, however far, of thee still fond Thou first of Ireland's wise and holy men ! ii. Know, holy Comgall, since you saw our sail Melt in the horizon of the Irish Sea, God hath vouchsafed new conquests to the Gael Through Gaul, and Allemain, and Italy Conquests, my Father, unlike those of old "Which our benighted chieftains undertook, When Dathi by the thunderbolt was fell'd, And Crimthan half the thrones Cis- Alpine shook. 232 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. III. On other fields we win far other fame, With other foes we wage our mortal fight Our watchword now is Christ, our Saviour's name, Our forays far into the realms of night ; Like exhalations from a fen, the powers Of darkness to the conflict thick ascend, But the Eternal Charter still is ours " Lo ! I am with you always, to the end !" IV. In Burgundy, a she-wolf broke our fold A wolf in wiliness and craft and wrath A queen in infamy and beauty bold, Who raised a million barriers in our path ; But God on Brunchant did judgment dread By her own pride her funeral pyre was rear'd, And on that pile I saw her haughty head Lopp'd by the axe, and by the lightning scarr'd. v. In bleak Helvetia, Gall and I essay'd, Not fruitlessly, the blessed cross to raise And, though the powers of hell were all array'd Against us, w r e had courage, God have praise ! Idols of wood and bronze we overthrew At Arbona, Tucconia, Brigantiuni Where we found false gods we've left the true ; Now, Zurich, Constance, shrine their idols dumb. VI. My brother Gall, amid the Alps abides I preach the Gospel through the Lombard plain- The harvest ripens round me on all sides, But few there are to gather in the grain. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 233 Send forth some laborers, as pure and keen As the steel'd sickle, to your scholar's aid The time is not yet come when weaklings glean Where Arius draws on Christ his rebel blade. vn. King Agilulph, the Ard-Righ of this land, God hath inspired him for my constant friend He clears my path with his strong sceptred hand, And doth himself my daily steps attend ; And it has been my lot to intercede With Peter's Coarbh 46 for him happily And now we all are one in word and deed From the far Alps to the Tyrhenian Sea. vm. Comgall, farewell ! May all the angels guard Banchor,* our mother, and her holy men, And our dear island, isle of God's regard ; Be all our blessings on you all ! Amen. THE TESTAMENT OF ST. ARBOGAST. I. ST. AKBOGAST, the bishop, lay On his bed of death in Strasburg Palace And, just at the dawn of his dying day, Into his own hands took the chalice ; And, praying devoutly, he received The blessed Host, and thus address'd His Chapter, who around him grieved, And, sobbing, heard his last request. * A famous monastery in the province of Ulster, of which St. Comgall waa Abbot. ED. 234 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. n. Quoth he " The sinful man you see "Was born beyond the Western sea, In Ireland, whence, ordain'd, he came, In Alsace, to preach, in Jesus' name. There, in my cell at Hagueneau, Many unto the One I drew ; There fared King Dagobert one day, With all his forestrie array, Chasing out wolves and beasts unclean, As I did errors from God's domain'; The king approached our cell, and he Esteem'd our assiduity ; And, when the bless'd St. Amand died, He call'd us to his seat, and sighed, And charged us watch and ward to keep In Strasburg o'er our Master's sheep. in. "Mitre of gold we never sought Cope of silver to us was nought Jewel'd crook and painted book We disregarded, but, perforce, took. Ah ! oft in Strasburg's cathedral We sighed for one rude cell so small, And often from the bishop's throne To the forest's depths we would have flown, But that one duty to Him who made us His shepherd in this see, forbade us. IV. "And now St. Ai'bogast spoke slow, But his words were firm, though his voice was low- " God doth require His servant hence, And our hope is His omnipotence. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 235 But bury me not, dear brethren, with The pomp of torches or music, sith Such idle and unholy state Should ne'er on a Christian bishop wait ; Leave cope of silver and painted book, Mitre of gold, and jewel'd crook, Apart in the vestry's darkest nook ; But in Mount Michael bury me, Beneath the felon's penal tree So Christ our Lord lay at Calvary. This do, as y.e my blessing prize, And God keep you pure and wise !" These were the words they were the last Of the blessed Bishop Arbogast." THE CO MI NO OF THE DANES.** I.- THE nighV is holy 'tis blessed Saint Bride's " 9 The hour may be almost one : Lord Murrough late on the rath-top bides, Gazing the new moon on. The moon, he had dreamt, that night would throw O'er his lands a sign of warning or woe. ii. The night is holy the visible sea Spreads like a dinted silver plain, And Lord Murrough's oaks look shadowingly Across the vista meeting again. The watch-dog sleeps, and though prayers are said, 'Tis not the nightingale chants o'er the dead. 236 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. III. The watch-dog sleeps enough are awake ; Chapel and cloister are wakeful all Long after the final prayer they make, Lord Murrough walks still on the shining wall, Gazing the pale mute moon in the face By his feet lies his well-worn battle mace. IV. His battle mace ! What does it there ? Why are his greaves and armlets on ? Has he thrown his guage to the fiends of air That his visor is barr'd in the moonlight wan ? He awaiteth the sign he is to see If for war, he will hie forth instantly. v. The night is wearing of blessed Saint Bride, The hour may be nigh to three, Lord Murrough casts his glance aside From the moon out to the sea. What sable shade from the zenith fell ? Lord Murrough shuddered, yet could not tell. VI. He look'd aloft a wing a bill Another two ravens grim O'erspread the moon, wrapt castle and hill, And the sea to the horizon's rim. The birds of Odin in the spirit-sphere Ne'er shed from their wings such darksome fear. VII. Lord Murrough mutter'd his longest prayer, With a few added words at the end ; HISTOEICAL AND LEGENDAEY POEMS. 23T And lie held by his mace in the lightless air, With the grasp of a trusting friend ; And full an hour it might have been Till land, sky, and sea were again serene. VIII. Then looking seaward the sad lord saw A fisherman drawing his net, And the sea was as bright as a summer shaw, Though the shore was like rocks of jet And the sea-bird croak'd, and the coming oar Sent its dreary echoes to haunt the shore. IX. Lord Murrough knew that the days of rest For his native land were fled And he pray'd to God and St. Bride the blest To arm her heart and head ; Then he tenderly kiss'd, and lay down by his mace And he died the last free lord of his race ! THE DEATH OF KING MAGNUS BAREFOOT.** I. ON the eve of Saint Bartholomew in Ulfrek's-fiord we lay (Thus the importuned Scald began his tale of woe), And faintly round our fleet fell the August evening gray, And the sad sunset winds began to blow. ii. [ stood beside our monarch then deep care was on his brow "I hear no horn," he sighed, " from the shore : 238 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Why tarry still my errand-men ? 'tis time they were here now, And that for some less guarded land we bore." in. Into the valley 'd West these errand-men had gone To Muirkeartach, the ally of our king (Whose daughter late was wed to Earl Sigurd, his son), The gift-herd from Connacia to bring. IV. 'Twas midnight in the firmament, ten thousand stars were there. And from the darksome sea look'd up other ten I lay beside our monarch, he was sleepless, and the care On his brow had grown gloomier then. v. When morning dawning gray in lightsome circles spread, From his couch rose the king slowly up, " Elldiarn, what ! thou awake ! I must landward go," he said, " And with thee or with the saints I shall sup." VI. Then when the red sun rose, in his galley through the fleet Our noble Magnus went; and the earls all awoke, And each prepared for land the late errand-men to meet, Or to free them from the Irish yoke. It was a noble army ascending the green hills As ever kingly master led ; The memory of their marching my mournful bosom thrills, And I still hear the echo of their tread. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 239 VIII. Ere two hours had pass'd away, as I wander'd on the strand, Battle-cries from afar reach 'd my ear ; I climb'd the seaward mountain and look'd upon the land, And, in sooth, I saw a sight of fear. IX. As winter rocks all jagged with the leafless arms of pines, Stood the Irish host of spears on their path As the winter streams down dash through the terrible ravines, So our men pour'd along, white with wrath. x. The arrow flights, at intervals, were thicker o'er the field Than the sea-birds o'er Jura's rocks, While the ravens 51 in the darkness were lost shield on shield Within it clash'd in thunderous shocks. XI. At last one hoarse " Farrah !" broke from the battle-cloud Like the roar of a billow in a cave, And the darkness was uplifted like a plague-city's shroud And there lifeless lay our monarch brave. XII. And dead beside the king lay Earl Erling's son, And Erving and Ulf, the free ; And loud the Irish cried to see what they had done, But they could not cry as loud as we. XIII. Oh, Norway ! oh, Norway ! when wilt thou behold A king like thy last in worth, 240 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Whose heart fear'd not the world, whose hand was full of gold For the numberless Scalds of the North. XIV. A.h ! well do I remember how he swept the Western seas Like the wind in its wintry mood How he reared young Sigurd's throne upon the Orcades, And the isles of the South subdued. xv. In his galley o'er Cantire, how we bore him from the main How Mona in a week he won, By him, how Chester's earl in Anglesea was slain Oh, Norway ! that his course is run ! THE SAGA OF KINO- OLAF, OF NORWAY, AND HIS DOG.** I. [Of the early reigu c f Olaf, surnamed Tryggvesson.] Kixa OLAF, Harold Haarfager's heir, at last hath reach'd the throne, Though his mother bore him in the wilds by a mountain lake let lone; Through many a land and danger to his right the king hath pass'd, Outliving still the low'ring storms, as pines outlive the blast; Yet now, when Peace smiled on his throne, he cast his thoughts afar, And sail'd from out the Baltic Sea in search of Western war. His galley was that " Sea-Serpent" renown'd in sagas old, His banner bore two ravens grim, his green mail gleam'd with gold The king's ship and the king himself were glorious to behold. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 241 II. [The success of King Olaf's cruise to the West.] O'er the broad sea the Serpent leaves a train of foam behind, The pillaged people of the isles the darker record find; For the godly royal pirate, whene'er he took a town, Sent all its souls to Odin's court, its treasures to his own. His Scalds of prophet ear, oft heard it lives still in their lays- All the voices of Valhalla in chorus sing his praise ; But Tryggvesson was a fighting king, who loved his wolf- dog more, His stalwart ship and faithful crew and shining golden store, Than all the rhyming chroniclers gray Iceland ever bore. in. [How King Olaf made a descent on Antrim, and carried off the herds thereof.] Where Antrim's rock-begirdled shore withstands the north ern deep, O'er Ked Bay's broad and buoyant breast, cold, dark breezes creep The moon is hidden in her height, the night winds ye may see Flitting like ocean owlets from the cavern'd shore set free The full tide slumbers by the cliffs a-weary of its toil, The goat-herds and their flocks repose upon the upland soil The Sea-King slowly walks the shore, unto his instincts true While up and down the valley'd land climbeth his corsair crew, Noiseless as morning mist ascends, or falls the evening dew. IV. [The king is addressed by a clown having a marvellous cunning dog in his company.] Now looking to land and now to sea, the king walk'd on his way, Until the faint face of the morn gleam'd on the darksome bay; 242 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. A noble herd of captured kine rank round its ebb-dried beach The galleys fast receive them in, when, lo! with eager speech, A clown conies headlong from the hills, begging his oxen three, And two white-footed heifers, from the Monarch of the Sea. The hurried prayer the king allowed as soon as it he heard. The wolf-dog of the peasant, obedient to his word, Counts out and drives apart the five from the many-headed herd. v. [King Olaf off'ereth to purchase the peasant's dog, who bestows it on him with, a condition.] " By Odin, king of men !" marvelling, the monarch spoke, "I'll give thee, peasant, for thy dog, ten steers of better yoke -.. Than thine own five." The hearty peasant said : " King of the ships ! the dog is thine; yet, if I must be paid, Vow, by your raven banner, never again to sack Our valleys in the hours of night we dread no day attack." More wonder'd the fierce pagan still to hear a clown so say, And mused he for a moment, as was his kingly way, If that he should not carry both the man and dog away, VI. King Olaf taketh the vow, and saileth with the dog away.] The Sea-King to the clown made vow, and on his finger placed An olden ring the sceptre-hand of his great sire had graced, And round his neck a chain he flung of gold pure from the mine, Which, ere another moon, was laid upon St. Columb's shrine; Then with his dog he left the shore his sails swell to the blast ; Poor "Vig" hath howl'd a mournful cry to the bright shores as they pass'd. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 243 Now brighter beam'd the eunrise, and wider spread the tide ; Away, away to the Scottish shore the Danish galleys hied There, revelling with their kindred, three days they did abide. VII. [Of the Sea-King's manner of life.] King Olaf was a rover true his home was in his bark, The blue sea was his royal bath, stars gemm'd his curtains dark; The red sun woke him in the morn, and sail'd he e'er so far, The untired courier of his way was the ancient Polar star. It seem'd as though the very winds, the clouds, the tides, and waves, Like the sea-side smiths and Vikings, were his lieges and his slaves; His premier was a pilot old, of bronzed cheek and falcon eye, A man, albeit, who well loved life, yet fear'd he not to die, Who little knew of crowns or courts, and less to crouch or lie^ VIII. [The treason of the Jomsburg Vikings calleth home the king.] Strange news have come from Norway the Vikings have rebell'd ; Homeward, homeward fast as fate, his galley's sails are swell'd, Off Heligoland, Jarl Thover, and Band the "Witch they meet, But a mystic wind bears the evil one, unharm'd, far from the fleet. Jarl Thover to the land retreats the fierce king follows on, Slaying the traitors' compeers, who far from them doth run. After him flung King Olaf his never-missing spear, But Thover (he was named Hiort, 53 and swifter than the deer) In the distance took it up, and answer'd with a jeer. 244 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. IX. [Thover Hiort treacherously killeth the king's dog ] The wolf-dog then the monarch loosed the traitor trembled sore; Yig holds him on the forest's verge the king speeds from the shore. Trembled yet more the caitiff to think what he should do He drew his glaive, and with a blow pierced his captor through. And when the king came to the place, his noble dog lay dead, His red mouth foaming white, and his white breast crimson red. " God's curse upon you, Thover !" 'twas from the heart, I ween, Of the grieved king this ban burst out beside the forest green. The traitor vanish'd into the woods, and never again was seen. x. [How King Olaf and his dog were buried nigli unto one another by the sea.) TWT cairns rise by Drontheim-fiord, with two gray stones hard by, Sculptured with Runic characters, plain to the lore-read eye, A '/id there the king, and here his dog, from all their toils repose, And o'er their cairns the salt-sea wind, night and day, it blows; And close to these they point you the ribs of a galley's wreck, "With a fork'd tongue in the curling crest, and half of a scaly neck; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 245 And some late-sailing Scalds have told, that along the shore- side gray, They have often heard a kingly voice and a huge hound's echoing bay And some have seen the traitor to the pine woods running away. KING MALACIIY AND THE POET M'COISI." I. KING MALACHY, shorn of crown and renown, With nothing left but his mensal board, Hung in the troopless hall his sword, Cared his own horse in the stable, And daily sank deeper in joys of the table ; For Brian the King by force and art, By might of brain and hope of heart, Conquer'd the sceptre and won the crown, Leaving to Malachy little renown. n. In Tara's hall was room to spare, For few were the chiefs and courtiers there ; Of all who stood well in the monarch's graces, But three retain'd their ancient places, And two of the three had follow'd Brian, Had the conqueror thought them worth his buy in', The third, the Poet M'Coisi, alone Stood true to the empty, discrown'd throne. in. And many a tale the poet told Of Tara's splendor in days of old 246 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Of Erin's wonderful builders three, Of Troylane, the builder of Rath-na-ree, And Unadh, who built the banquet-hall, And the Gobhan Saer, the master of all ; Of the Miller of Nith, and the Miller of Fore, And many a hundred marvels more ; Of the Well of Galloon that, like sudden sorrow, Turns thehair to gray to-morrow ; Of the Well of Slieve-bloom, which, who profanes On the land around, draws down plagues and rains ; Of the human wolves that howl and prey Through Ossory's Woods from dark till day ; Of speaking babes and potent boys, And the wonderful man of Clonmacnoise, Who lived seven years without a head, And the edifying life he led ; Of ships and armies seen in the air, And the wonders wrought by St. Patrick's prayer. KING BRIAN'S AMBITION.** I. KINO BRIAN by the Shannon shore Stood musing on his power, For now it had the torrent's roar, SvvoH'n by the wint'ry shower But when the cold grave held him fast, Where would it be, or would it last ? ii. By him 'twas gather'd slowly as The Shannon gathers strength, HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 247 And now the force and freight it has The depth, the spread, the length, The very greatness so long sought Dark .shadows from the future caught ; in. The cold distrust of meaner souls, The hatred of the Tile, That pride which nothing long controls Worst evil of our isle All these like rocky barriers lay In the Clan-Dalgais' onward way. IV. " Care crowns a monarch with his crown, And he who cannot bear it Had better lay the burden down Nor vainly seek to share it ; "Wealth, honor, justice he may share, But all his own is kingly care." v. So spoke the heart within the breast Of that brave king whose story Burns redly in the Gaelic West, Its setting sun of glory. When night his house of darkness bars, There riseth after him but stars. VI. Dark shadows on the Shannon fell, The day was spent and gone, Long in the unfrequented dell The monarch mused alone Well may you deem what was the prayer The royal patriarch offer'd there. 248 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. KING BRIAN'S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER MAHON* A FBAGMENT. I. AH ! what is the news I hear, My brother dear ! my brother dear ! But yesterday we sent you forth In hope and health, in joy and mirth, But yesterday and yet to-day We lay you in your house of clay ! n. O Mahon, of the curling locks, With teeth like foam on ocean rocks, With heart that breasted battle's wave, Are mine the hands to make your grave These hands that first you taught to hold KING BRIAN'S ANSWER. I. " Go not forth to the battle," they said, " But abide with your councillors sage ; A helmet would weigh down the head That already is weigh'd down with age. There are warriors many a one In their prime, all impatient to go ; Let the host be led on by your son, He will bring you the spoils of the foe." * Treacherously slain by a Munster chieftain named O'Donovan. HISTORICAL AND LEG END AST POEMS. 249 II. But the aged king rose in bis place, And his eye had the fire of long-past years, And his hand grasp'd the keen-pointed rnace, And silence came over his peers. " 'Tis true I am old," and he smiled " And the grave lies not far on my road, But in arms I was nursed as a child, And in arms I will go to my G-od ! ni. " For this is no battle for spoil, No struggle with rivals for power ; The gentile is camp'd on our soil, "Where he must not exult for an hour. 'Tis true I am old," and he smiled " And the grave lies not far on my road, But in arms I was nursed as a child, And in arms I will go to my God." THE BATTLE OF CLONTARF. GOOD FRIDAY, 1014. I. As the world's Redeemer hung On a tree this day to save, In His love, each tribe and tongue From the thraldom of the grave, We vow attest, ye heavens ! by His gore To snap the damning chain Of this Christ-blaspheming Dane Who defiles each holy fane We adore. 250 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. n. But death to Erin's pride Amid Sitric's host behold Malmordha's squadron ride, Who betray, for Danish gold, Their countn r , virtue, fame, and their souls. " False traitors, by the rood, Ye shall weep such waves of blood As in winter's spring-tide flood Ocean rolls !" in. Thus spoke our wrathful king As he drew Kincora's sword, And abroad he bade them fling The emblazonry adored, The mystic sun arising on the gale ; And a roar of joy arose As they bent a wood of bows On thy godless robber foes, Innisfail ! IY. The fierce Vikinger now On the dreadful Odin call, And the gods of battle bow From Valhalla's cloudy hall, And bend them o'er the dim " feast of shells," But, like drops of tempest-rain, The innumerable slain Of the traitor and the Dane Strew the dells. v. Clontarf ! a sea of blood Rushes purple from thy shore, HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 251 And the billow's rising flood Is repell'd by waves of gore, That fling a sanguine blush o'er the tide, We have drawn the sacred sword Of green Erie and the Lord, And have crush'd the Sea-King's horde In their pride. VI. Rise ! Ruler of the North ! Terrific Odin, rise ! Let thy stormy laughter forth Burst in thunder from the skies. Prepare for heroes slain, harp and shell ! For we crowd thy feast to-night With the flow'er of Ocean's might, W T ho, in Freedom's burning sight, Blasted, fell ! VII. There lie the trampled Dane, And the traitor prince's band, Who could brook a foreign chain On the green Milesian land, Where immortal beauty reigns evermore ; And the surf is bloody red Where the proud barbarian bled, Or with terror winged fled From our shore. VIII. Such ever be the doom Of the tyrant and the slave Be their dark unhonor'd tomb 'Neath the falchions of the brave, 252 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. "Who, fired with Freedom's soul, clasp the brand- O goddess thrice divine ! Be our isle again thy shrine, And renew the soul of Bri'n Through the land ! THE SINFUL SCHOLAR. " FATHEE ABBOT !" the pale friar said, " Awake ! arise ! our scholar's dead !" "Dead! and so soon?" "Ay! even now His heart hath ceased." "Yet tell me how?' " Thus 'twas : As Clarence, Hugh, and I Watch'd by his pallet prayerfully, The gray dawn broke ; up from the bed Suddenly rose that mighty head ' Oh ! bring me forth into the light,' He cried ' I would have one last sight Of the fair morning as it breaks Upon the antlers of the Reeks!' * We bore him forth. Clarence and Hugh Turn'd and wept. He drank the view Into his very soul, and sigh'd As if content. I by his side Then heard him breathe, in accents faint, Some name perchance his patron saint ; He clasp'd my hand I felt it quiver, And the swift soul was fled forever ! Think me not crazed if now I tell What instant on his death befel : Beside the bed, become a bier, We, kneeling, heard a rustling near * Celebrated mountains in Kerry. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 253 Then dropp'd, like blossoms from a tree, Three doves, as lilies fair to see Think me not void of mind or sense Tliree lighted there, but four flew hence Four doves, if ever I said a prayer, Soar'd skyward through the lucid air Clarence and Hugh, as well as I, That they were four, can testify !" ****** Close by Killarney's gentle wave They made the scholar's simple grave The blue lake, like a lady, grieves Saddest in the long autumn eves The stern hills, like a warrior host, Look down upon their loved and lost The genius of the place he sleeps Beneath the heights, above the deeps "Who fed on sunshine, drank the dew, Who mortal weakness never knew. No stone spoke o'er him rose alone A wooden cross long, long since gone But far and near, through many an age, He lived in chronicles a sage One of the marvels of his race, Whose lightest word 'twere joy to trace ; And so the unreal shape became The heritor of all his fame And the true story slept as deep As this world's memory can sleep. Of gentle blood and generous birth, Neither a lord nor clod of earth, 254 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Of careful sire and mother holy, Our scholar \vas. This, and this solely He ever told. No more was known, Even when his fame afar had flown On the four winds. His after course Obscured the interest of his source. One, only one, in secret cell, The whole of that strange life could tell All that the scholar had reveal'd Could tell, but that his lips were seal'd By solemn vows, Avhich never yet Did the worst-fallen priest forget ; Yet, by the edict of the dead, Some passages were register'd Amid the abbey's psalter, where, In Gaelic letters round and fair, An after age's curious eye Alighting, clear'd the mystery. Hear, then, the tale, not idly told A story new as well as old A song of suffering and of fame, Of false and true, of pride and shame. Here ends the author's MS. and Part I. in the first rough draft. The plan of this noble poem he had mapped out as follows: " Part II. Glen-Manna; the eve of victory ; the morning after the battle ; Brian's apparition in the tent of Maelsuthain; advises him to retire from the world ; the scholar departs from the camp of the victorious king in search of Penance and Peace. " Part III His life at Irrelagh ; his literary work ; his school and scholars ; the three Donalds; the strange lady; the three Donalds wanted; they depart, beg his blessing, and leave to visit the Land of our Eedemption. " Part IV. Apparition of the three doves ; their message and warning ; Mael- suthain's resolution, repentance, and death." Had the author lived to complete it, the " Sinful Scholar " would have been one of the finest poems in Irish literature. ED. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 255 THE LANDING OF THE NORMANS. I. " ALAS ! for this day, The accursed of all years ! In BanDa's broad bay The invader appears ; The pennant of Cardigan Threatens the land, And the sword of Fitzstephen Burns red in his hand. Sleep no more ! sleep no more ! Up, Lagenians, from sleep ! While you dream on the shore They march o'er the deep ! ii Wake, Cymri and Ostman ! Wake, Cahirians ! and gather Tour strength on the plain, Arm, brother ! arm, father ! For our homes, for our lives, For the fair fields of Carmen, For the love of our wives, Down, down on the Norman ! Sleep no more ! sleep no more ! etc. in. Now, when Cardigan's chief And his penniless peers Look doubtfully forth From their rampart of spears, 256 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. In the very first hour, Ere a camp they inclose, Go, shatter the power Of our insolent foes ! Sleep 110 more ! sleep no more ! etc. EPITHALAMIUM. THE BRIDAL OF EVA M'MUKROGH. I. " Go forth into the fields, Bid the flow'rs to our feasts, "With the broad leaves which, as shields, Guard the noon-heat from their breasts ; Bid the nobly-born rose, And the lily of the valley, And the primrose of the sheep-walk, And the violet from the valley "Where the order'd trees in ranks Rise up from the river's banks, Bid them all one and all To our garland-hidden hall To the wedding of the worthy, to the bridal of the races Bid the humble and the noble, the virtues and the graces. n. " Go forth unto the shrines, Lift up your voices there ; Lay your off' rings, more than mines, And the prince of off 'rings, prayer ; Beg our Lady of the Isle, "Where King Dermid's tithes are tidal, HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 257 From her holy height to smile On this rare and noble bridal. From St. Brendan's to St. Bees', All along the Irish seas, Shore of shrines, pray a prayer For the valiant and fair, For the wedding of the worthy, the bridal of the races ! in. " Seek out the sons of song ; Let them know who hath been wed, That, amid the festive throng, Their seats are at the head ; Bid them come with harp and lay, And mellow mighty horn, To charm the night away And to 'gratulate the morn. For the Lady Eva's sake, Royal largess they must take, At the wedding of the worthy, the bridal of the races ! IV. " They are come ! they are here I The music and the flowers, The blessings far and near, Have a sound of summer showers ; Here Beauty's conscious eyes Flash with emulous desire ; Ah ! how many a gallant dies In this mortal arrowy fire ! What lessons by this light May young lovers read to-night, In the wedding of the worthy, the bridal of the races I 258 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. DE COUECY'S PILGRIMAGED " I'M weary of your elegies, your keenings and complaints, We've heard no strain this blessed night but histories of saints ; Sing us some deed of daring of the living or the dead !" So Earl Gerald, in Maynooth, to the Bard Neelan said. Answer 'd the Bard Neelan " Oh, Earl, I will obey ; And I will show you that you have no cause for what you say; A warrior may be valiant, and love holiness also, As did the Norman Courcy, in this country long ago." Few men could match De Courcy on saddle or on sward, The ponderous mace he valued more than any Spanish sword ; On many a field of slaughter scores of men lay smash'd and stark, And the victors, as they saw them, said "Lo! John De Courcy 's mark !" De Lacy was his deadly foe, through envy of his fame ; He laid foul ambush for his life, and stigmatized his name ; But the gallant John De Courcy kept still his mace at hand, And rode, unfearing feint or force, across his rival's land. He'd made a vow, for some past sins, a pilgrimage to pay At Patrick's tomb, and there to bide a fortnight and a day ; And now amid the cloisters the disarmed giant walks, And with the brown beads in his hand, from cross to cross lie stalks. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS, 259 News came to Hugo Lacy of the penance of the knight, And he rose and sent his murderers from Durrogh forth by night ; A score of mighty Meathian men, proof guarded for the strife, And he has sworn them, man by man, to take De Courcy's life. 'Twas twilight in Downpatrick town, the pilgrim in the porch Sat, faint with fasting and with prayer, before the darken'd church "When suddenly he heard a sound upon the stony street A sound, familiar to his ears, of battle-horses' feet. He stepp'd forth to a hillock, where an oaken cross it stood, And looking forth, he lean'd upon the monumental wood. "'Tis he! 'tis he!" the foremost cried : " 'tis well you came to shrive, For another sun, De Courcy, you shall never see alive !" Then roused the soften'd heart within the pilgrim's sober weeds He thought upon his high renown, and all his knightly deeds; He felt the spirit swell within his undefended breast, And his courage rose the faster that his sins had been con- fess'd. " I am no dog to perish thus ! no deer to couch at bay ! Assassins ! ware* the life you seek, and stand not in my way !'' He pluck'd the tall cross from its rooj;, and waving it around, He dash'd the master-murderer stark lifeless to the ground. As row on row they press'd within the deadly ring he made, Twelve of the score in their own gore within his reach he laid; * " Then ware a rising tempest on the main." Dryden. 260 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. The rest in panic terror ran to horse and fled away, And left the Knight De Courcy at the bloody cross to pray. " And now," quoth Neelan to the Earl, " I did your will obey; Have I not shown you had no cause for what I heard you say? " Faith, Neelan," answer'd Gerald, " your holy man, Sir John, Did bear his cross right manfully, so much we have to own." THE PILGRIMAGE OF SIR ULGARG." No supple ash in Cavan Wood "Was fairer to the eye Not clearer on Lough Oughter's flood Was pictured the blue sky, Than in the form and in the breast Of Ulgarg, God and grace had rest. In warlike camp, beneath the lead Of Breffni's potent flag In festal hall or sportive shade, On stormy sea or crag, 'Fore Ulgarg, none of all his race Could win by worth the 'vantage-place. One hope he held from boyhood's dawn Till manhood's rounded prime That he might live to look upon The fields of Palestine That he his swimming eyes might set On Sion, Sinai, Olivet. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 261 In vain the fairest of the land, Where beauty ever reigns, Wove for his youth love's rosy band To bind him to their plains ; In vain of glory sung his bards, His footsteps yearn'd to trace our Lord's. Free to command his after fate, He rose, and left behind Glory and beauty, place and state, For only sea and wind For palmer's staff, and mourner's weed, And desert thirst, and feet that bleed. What years he spent in Palestine It may not now be known, But all its hills and caves divine He knew them as his own Christ's route he traversed everywhere, From the manger to the sepulchre. Bound home, at last 'twas eventide, The sun was in the West, When calmly by the Jordan's side He sat him down to rest ; And looking toward the crimson sky, A patriot tear suffused his eye. He pray'd he slept the midnight moon Beheld him where he lay; The night winds seized his mutter'd breath, And flew with it away; Morn rose sublime on Jordan's tide, Sir Ulgarg still lay by its side. 2G2 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Another moon, and night, and morn Pass'd on, but never more Arose that palmer, travel-worn His pilgrimage was o'er. By a chance-passing Christian hand, His grave was made in Holy Land. THE PENITENCE OF DON DIEGO HI AS. A LEGEND OF LOUGH DERG.'" 18 I. THERE was a knight of Spain Diego Rias, Noble by four descents, vain, rich, and young, Much woe he wrought, or the tradition lie is, Which lived of old the Castilians among ; His horses bore the palm the kingdom over, His plume was tallest, costliest his sword, The proudest maidens wish'd him as a lover, The calmlleros all revered his word. ii. But ere his day's meridian came, his spirit Fell sick, grew palsied in his breast, and pined,- He fear'd Christ's kingdom he could ne'er inherit, The causes wherefore too well he divined ; Where'er he turns his sins are always near him, Conscience still holds her mirror to his eyes, Till those who long had envied came to fear him, To mock his clouded brow and wint'ry sighs. in. Alas ! the sins of youth are as a chain Of iron, swiftly let down to the deep, HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 263 How far we feel not till when, we'd raise 't again We pause amid the weary work and weep. Ah, it is sad a-down Life's stream to see So many aged toilers so distress'd, And near the source a thousand forms of glee Fitting the shackle to Youth's glowing breast 1 IV. He sought Peace in the city where she dwells not, He wooed her amid woodlands all in vain, He searches through the valleys, but he tells not The secret of his quest to priest or swain, Until, despairing evermore of pleasure, He leaves his land, and sails to far Peru, There, stands uncharm'd in caverns of treasure, And weeps on mountains heavenly high and blue. v. Incessant in his ear rang this plain warning " Diego, as thy soul, thy sorrow lives ;" He hears the untired voice, night, noon, and morning, Yet understanding not, unresting grieves. One eve, a purer vision seized him, then he Vow'd to Lough Derg, an humble pilgrimage The virtues of that shrine were known to many, And saving held even in that skeptic age. VI. With one sole follower, an Esquire trustful, He pass'd the southern cape which sailors fear, And eastward held, meanwhile his vain and lustful Past works more loathsome to his soul appear, Through the night-watches, at all hours o' day, He still was wakeful as the pilot, and 264 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. For grace, his vow to keep, doth always pray, And for his death to lie in the saints' land. But ere his eyes beheld the Irish shore, Diego died. Much gold he did ordain To God and Santiago furthermore, His Esquire plighted, ere he went to Spain, To journey to the Refuge of the Lake, Before Saint Patrick's solitary shrine, A nine days' vigil for his rest to make, Living on bitter bread and penitential wine.* 8 VIII. The vassal vow'd ; but, ah ! how seldom pledges Given to the dying, to the dead, are held ! The Esquire reach'd the shore, where sand and sedge is O'er melancholy hills, by paths of eld ; Treeless and houseless was the prospect round, Bock-strewn and boisterous the lake before ; A Charon-shape sat in a skiff a-ground The pilgrim turn'd, and left the sacred shore. IX. That night he lay a-bed hard by the Erne, The island-spangled lake but could not sleep When lo ! beside him, pale, and sad, and stern, Stood his dead master risen from the deep. " Arise," he said, " and come." From the hostelrie And over the bleak hills he led the sleeper, And when they reach'd Derg's shore, " Get in with me," He cried, " nor sink my soul in torments deeper." HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 265 X. The dead man row'd the boat, the living steer'd, Each in his pallor sinister, until The Isle of Pilgrimage they duly near'd " Now hie thee forth, and work thy master's will !'' So spoke the dead, and vanish'd o'er the lake, The Squire pursued his course, and gain'd the shrine, There, nine days' vigil duly he did make, Living on bitter bread and penitential wine. XI. The tenth eve shone in solemn, starry beauty, As he, rejoicing, o'er the old paths came, Light was his heart from its accomplished duty, All was forgotten, even the latest shame "When these brief words, some disembodied voice Spoke near him, " Oh, keep sacred, evermore, "Word, pledge, and vow, so may you still rejoice, And live among the Just when Time is o'er !" A LEGEND OF DUNLUCE CASTLE. THE northern winds howl'd through the sky, Above Dunluce's Tower, And the raven with a bitter cry "Wing'd away from her spray-wet bower ; And the white foam, as it trickled back To the sea, in a stream of light Appear'd, as the first ray of the morn Stealing through the clouds of night. And though without the storm raged high, And all was dark and dim, 26G HISTORICAL AND LEGENDAIIY POEMS. Fair dames and chiefs held revelry That sea-beat pile within ; And if they heard the tempest roar, They little reck'd, I ween It told them to enjoy the more Their own bright festive scene. But there was one within that pile Whose heart was far from light, For well she knew from Rathlin's Isle Her lover came that night. She left the heartless revelry Unnoticed and unknown, And from the lonely watch-tower high She gazed upon the gloom. Fierce howl'd the blast on the rocky shore, And shook the cavern'd cliff, And Ella's soul all hope gave o'er Oh ! could it spare his skiff ? The sea-sprites groan'd and the fortress moan'd, As the roaring north winds pass'd, And the watch-towers shook like a reed by the brook In December's piercing blast. And beneath the tower, from every cave, Such sounds came bursting forth As the Sea-King sends from his frozen grave In the gulfs of the sunless North, When, lo ! on the wave crest sparkling white A little boat she spied, And her heart's blood warmed with delight " My bride ! great heavens ! my bride !" HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 267 The wild winds raged more furious still Swept the watch-tower from the rock The waves dash'd high above the hill His boat sank in the shock ; He rose again, and through the gloom He saw his long-loved maid, And though the tempest was in its noon, Still was he not dismay'd. He clasp'd her close, and through the foam He cleft with a hero's stroke ; He whisper'd hope, but the billows' moan Swept away the words he spoke. The sea had nursed his infant years, Had given his boyhood joy, The tempest to him had sport, not fears, And he hush'd his Ella's sigh. A wave arose, and on its crest It bore them to the shore, And it flung them far, where some falcon's nest Had been in days of yore. The chief clung fast unto the rock " We're safe, my bonnie bride !" Then, wearied and worn by the struggle's shock, He fainted by her side. DEATH OF ART M'M URRO UG H.<" I. FROM the king's home rose a hum Like the rising of a swarm, And it spread round Ross, and grew Loud and boding as a storm ; 268 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. And from the many-gated town pass'd Easchlaghs 62 in affright, Pale as the morning hours when rushing forth from night, And north, east, south, and westward, as they spread, They cried, " The king is dead ! the king is dead !" n. As the mountain echoes mimic The mort of the bugle horn, So far and farther o'er the land The deadly tale is borne ; Echo answers echo from wood, and rath, and stream Easchlagh follows easchlagh, like horrors in a dream ; And when entreated to repose, they only said, In accents woe-begone and brief, "The king is dead!" in. The news was brought to Offaly, To the Calvach in his hall ; 63 He said, " Still'd be the harp and flute We now are orphans all." The news was brought to O'Tuathal, in Imayle ; He said, " We have lost the bulwark of the Gael ;" And his chosen men a-south to the royal wake he led Sighing, " The king is dead ! the king is dead !" IV. To O'Brin in Ballincor, To O'Nolan in Forth it came, To MacDavid in Biavach, 64 And ah 1 mourn'd the same ; They said, " We have lost the chief champion of our land, The king of the stoutest heart and strongest hand ;" The hills of the four counties that night for joy were red, And boastfully their Dublin bells chimed out, " The king is dead !" HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 269 V. It was told in Kilkenny, And the Ormond flag flew out, That had hid among the cobwebs Since the earl's Callan rout ; But the friars of Irishtown they grieved for him full sore, And Innistioge and Jerpoint may long his loss deplore. From Clones south to Bannow the holy bells they toll, And every monk is praying for his benefactor's soul. VI. For ages in the eastward Such a wake was never seen; Since Brian's death, in Erin Such mourning had not been ; And as the clans to St. Mullins bore the fleshly part That was earthy and had perished of King Art The crying of the keeners was heard by the last man, Though he was three miles off when the burial rite began. VII. "Mourn, mourn," they said, "ye chieftains, From Eiavach and from Forth ; e5 Mourn, ye dynasts of the lowlands, - And ye Tanists of the North ; The noblest man that was left us here to-day, In the churchyard of his fathers we make his bed of clay Unlucky is this year above all years His life was more to us than ten thousand tested spears. VIII. "No ash-tree in Shillelah Was more comely to the eye And, like the heavens above us, He was good as he was high. 270 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. The taker of rich tributes, the queller of our strife, The open-handed giver, his life to us was life. O Art ! why did you leave us ? Oh ! even from the grave, Could you not return to live for us you would have died to save? XI. " When we think on your actions How against you, all in vain, The king's son, and the king himself Of London, cross'd the main When we think of the battle of Athcro and the day When Roger Mortimer, at Kells, fell in the fiery fray, They chant the De Profundis, and we cannot help but cry ' Defender of your nation ! oh, why did you die ?' x. " If death would have hostages, A million such as we, To bring you back to Erin, Oh ! a cheap exchange 'twould be ; But silent as the midnight, and white as your own hair, With its sixty years of snow, O king ! you lie there Your lip at last is pale at last is closed your eye O terror of the Saxons ! Art, why did you die ?" XI. Thus by the gaping grave They mourn'd about his bier, Challenging with clamorous grief The dead that could not hear ; Then slowly and sadly they laid him down to rest, His sword beside him laid, and his cross on his breast. And each took his own way with drooping heart and head, Sighing, "The king is dead! the king is dead!" HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. AVKAN. His grave is in St. Mullins, But to pilgrim eyes unknown Unmark'd by mournful yew, Unchronicled in stone ; His bones are with his people's, his clay with common clay, His memory in the night that lies behind the hills of day, Where hundreds of our gallant dead await The long-foretold, redeem'd, and honor'd fate. 66 A BALLAl) OF BANNOW. I. STEETCH'D recumbent by the sea-side, in the bright midsum mer tide, With the volume of Our Poets lying open at my side, From the fijll urn of remembrance pressing on my heart I sigh'd. ii. 'Twas the storied shore of Carmen*; here, beneath our very feet, Bannow's buried city slumber'd in its sandy winding-sheet - Yonder ripple of the sea-surf marks the once o'er- crowded street. in. Heath, with blossom on the mountain, and the squat, un sightly thorn, Will put forth its stainless blossom, perfuming the breath of morn But for this long-buried city, spring can nevermore return. * Wexford. 272 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. IV. On this coast, when winter thunders, woe unto the ship that drives One huge billow combing over, might engulf ten thousand lives; Vain, oh ! vain as dreams of madmen, is the mortal strength that strives. v. Yet is not the buried city saddest of these thoughts to me, Nor the stranded, crewless vessel, torn and toss'd up from the sea; There are heavier griefs to mourn deem ye not what they may be ? VL Yonder, on that breezy sand-bar, where the thin bent scarce can grow, First on soil or strand of Erin, stood the Anglo-Norman foe, And my mind is with their landing, ages, ages, long ago. VII. High and dry the Flemish bottoms of Fitzstephen here were drawn: Off to Ferns to false King Dermod their ambassador has gone; Shore and sea alike deserted, all for days they look'd upon. VIII. Who could dream from such a vanguard such a following should come ? Veterans of France and England, bless'd in Palestine and Borne Who would dream the night that slumbers under yonder streak of foam ? HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 273 IX. Peace be with our fearless fathers ! never let the breath of fame Lightly pass your lips, to darken of their gallant deeds the fame; Dimly now we see the actors in their fierce imperial game. x. Here no Battle Abbey rises here no Falaise Pillar stands For, as ebbs the waves of ocean o'er these historic strands, So the surge of battle waver'd o'er our ancestral lands. XI. If our fathers felt the prowess of the steel-clad Norman host, Little had the valiant stranger in the after war to boast; 'Twixt the tides and 'twixt the races, leave we the disputed coast. XII. Three things stand: Throughout our borders, still the Gaelic race is found; Manly stem and lovely blossom flourish, on the ancient ground; And the dear faith of our fathers rooted deep as Danaan mound. XIII. Near the tomb of buried Bannow, with the Poets at my side, Such the changing thoughts that found me in the bright midsummer tide Past and present, hope and solace, patriot grief and patriot pride. 274 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. THE PRAISE OF MARGARET 0' CARROLL OF OFFALLY.^ I. THE myriad shafts of the morning sun had routed the wood land fays, And in the forest's green saloons danced the victorious rays; Birds, like Brendans in the promised land, chanted matins to the morn, And the larks sprung up with their chorus broods from the yellow fields of corn. In cloth of gold, like a queen new-come out of the royal wood, On the round-proud-white-walled rath Margaret O'Carroll stood. That day came guests to Rath Imayn C8 from afar, from beyond the sea Bards and Brehons of Albyn and Erin to feast in Offally. ii. With the Lady Margaret are her maidens, comely to the sight Ah ! how their eyes will thrill the harps and hearts of men to-night ! And in their midst, like a pillar old in a garden of roses, stands Gilla-n-noamh M'Egan, the Brehon of Offally 's lands ; His sallow brow like a vellum book with mystic lines is traced, Bat his eye is as an arrow, and his form as a bow unbraced, And he holds in his hand a book wherein he writes each learned name, And these were the men of lore who to this feast at Rath Imayn came. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 275 HI. First, Mselyn O'Mulconry comes, Arch-Brehon of the "West, Who gives dominion to O'Connor on Carnfraoich's crest; And with Mselyn comes M'Firbiss, from Tyrawley's hills afar, Whose learning shines, in Erris glens, like a lamp or a lofty star; And O'Daly, from Finvarra, renown'd in Dan, 69 appears, Whose fame, like the circling oak, grows wider with his years; And with them is O'Clery, from Kilbarron's castled steep, Whose hearthstone covers the sea-bird's nest above the foamy deep. IV. And lo ! where comes M'Ctirtin, sweet singer of the South, And O'Bruadin, with keen thoughts that swarm out of a honied mouth, And O'Doran, Leinster's upright judge, and MacNeogh of the lays, Whose tales can make December nights gayer than July days, And Nial Dal O'Higgin, whose words of power can drain The life out of the heart he hates, and the reason from the brain, 70 And Cymric bards from Cymric vales to the poet tryst have come, And many a Scottish rhymer from his Caledonian home. v. The Calvagh at the outer gate, he bids them welcome all, The Brehon meets them at the door, and leads them up the hall, The lady on the dais sits, amid her rich awards, Goblets, and golden harps, and ancient books for studious bards. 276 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. For them in the green meadow-lands a thousand horses feed, And a golden bit and a gilded rein hangs in stall for every steed, And the glorious eyes of Irish girls are glancing round her, too Guerdons, for which the poet-soul its noblest deeds can do. VI. Over the fields of Erin, war horns may blow to-day, Many a man in tower and town may don his war array, The mountain tops of Erin red alarm-fires may light, But no foot shall leave that hall of peace for the track of blood to-night. To-morrow as to-day shall rise in melody and peace, The Mass be said, the cup be fill'd, nor the evening revels cease For Margaret, like Our Lady's self, unto the troubled land, Brings quiet in her holy smile, and healing in her hand. It is not that her father is renown'd through Innisfail, It is not that her lord is hail'd the sentinel of the Gael, It is not that her daughter is the wife of the O'Neil, It is not that her first-born's name strikes terror through the pale, It is not all her riches, but her virtues that I praise; She made the bardic spirit strong to face the evil days, To the princes of a feudal age she taught the might of love, And her name, though woman's, shall be scroll'd their war rior names above. VIII. Low he the oaks of Offally Kath Imayn is a wreck; Fallen are the chiefs of Offally Death's yoke on every neck ; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 277 Da Sinchel's 71 feast no more is held for holy in the land, No queen-like Margaret welcomes now the drooping bardic band, No nights of minstrelsy are now like the Irish nights of old, No septs of singers such as then M'Egan's book enroll'd; But the name of Margaret O'Carroll, who taught the might of love, Shall shine in Ireland's annals even minstrel name above. MARGARET 0'CARROLL. I. Or bards and beadsmen far and near, hers was the name of names The lady fair of Offally the flower of Leinster dames, And she has join'd the pilgrim host for the citie of Saint James. ii. It was Calvagh, Lord of Offally, walk'd wretchedly apart, Within his moated garden, with sorrow at his heart, And now he vow'd to heav'n, and now he cursed his fate That he had not forbidden that far journey ere too late. in. " "Why did I not remember " 'twas thus he wish'd in vain "The many waves that roll between Momonia's cliffs and Spain ? Why did I not remember, how, fill'd with bitter hate, To waylay Christian pilgrims the Moorish pirates wait ?" IV. He thought of Lady Margaret, so fair, so fond, so pure, A captive in the galley of some Christ-denying Moor ; 278 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. He thought of all that might befal, until his sole intent Was to gallop to the southward and take the way she went. v. The noon was dark, the bitter blast went sighingly along, The sky hung low, and chill'd to death the warder's snatch of song ; The lymph flag round the flagstaff lay folded close and furl'd, And all was gloom and solitude upon the outer world. VI. A rush as of a javelin cast, the startled chieftain heard, A glance upon the castle- wall a carrier-dove appear'd ! A moment, and the courier had flutter'd to his breast, And panting lay against his heart, low cooing and caress'd. VII. There lay a little billet beneath the stranger's wing Bound deftly to his body with a perfumed silken string By night and day, o'er sea and shore, the carrier had flown, For of God's ways so manifold each creature knows its own. VIII. He press'd the billet to his lips, he bless'd it on his knees " To my dear lord and husband : From Compostella these We have arrived in health and peace, thank God and good Saint James " And underneath the simple lines, the lady's name of names. IX. " Now blessings on thee, carrier-dove !" the joyful Calva' cried ; " In such a flight both heart and wing were surely sorely tried ; True image of thy mistress dear, in mercy's errand bold, Thy cage shall hang in her own bower, all barr'd with good red gold. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 279 X. " And ever on thee, while thine eyes shall open to the sun, White-handed girls shall wait and tend my own undaunted one ! And when thou diest, no hand but hers shall lay thee in the grave ! Brave heart ! that bore her errand well across the stormy wave." RANDALL H'DONALD. A LEGEND OF ANTRIM. SHOWING HOW RANDALL M 'DONALD OF LORN AVON THE LANDS OF ANTRIM AND THEIR LADY. THE Lady of Antrim rose with the morn, And doun'd her gi-andest gear ; And her heart beat fast, when a sounding horn Announced a suitor near ; Hers was a heart so full of pride, That love had little room, Good faith, I would not wish me such bride, For all her beautiful bloom. One suitor there came from the Scottish shore, Long, and lithe, and grim ; And a younger one from Dunluce hoar, And the lady inclined to him. " But harken ye, nobles both," she said, As soon as they sat to dine " The hand must prove its chief tainry That putteth a ring on mine. 280 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. " But not in the lists with armed hands, Must this devoir be done, Yet he who wins my broad, broad lands Their lady may count as won. Ye both were born upon the shore, Were bred upon the sea, Now let me see you ply the oar, For the land you love and me ! " The chief that first can reach the strand, May mount at morn and ride, And his long day's ride shall bound his land, And I will be his bride !" M 'Quill an felt hope in every vein, As the bold, bright lady spoke And M'Donald glanced over his rival again, And bow'd with a bargeman's stroke. 'Tis summer upon the Antrim shore The shore of shores it is "Where the white old rocks deep caves arch o'er, Unfatliom'd by man I wis Where the basalt breast of our isle flings back The Scandinavian surge, To howl through its native Scaggerack, Chanting the Viking's dirge. 'Tis summer the long white lines of foam Roll lazily to the beach, And man and maid from every home Their eyes o'er the waters stretch. On Glenarm's lofty battlements Sitteth the lady fair, And the warm west wind blows softly Through the links of her golden hair. HISTORICAL AND LEGEND AEY POEMS. 281 The boats in the distant offing, Are marshall'd prow to prow; The boatmen cease their scoffing, And bend to the rowlocks now; Like glory-guided steeds they start Away o'er the waves they bound ; Each rower can hear the beating heart Of his brother boatman sound. Nearer ! nearer ! on they come Row, M 'Donald, row ! For Antrim's princely castle home, Its lands, and its lady, row ! The chief that first can grasp the strand May mount at morn and ride, And his long day's ride shall bound his land, And she shall be his bride ! He saw his rival gain apace, He felt the spray in his wake He thought of her who watch'd the race Most dear for her dowry sake ! Then he drew his skein from out its sheath, And lopt off his left hand, And pale and fierce, as a chief in death, He huii'd it to the strand ! " The chief that first can grasp the strand, May mount at morn and ride ;" Oh, fleet is the steed which the bloody hand Through Antrim's glens doth guide ! And legends tell that the proud ladye Would fain have been unbann'd, For the chieftain who proved his chieftainry Lorded both wife and land. 282 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. THE IRIS If WIFE. EAKL DESMOND'S APOLOGY." I WOULD not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand ; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life An outlaw so I'm near her To love till death my Irish wife. Oh, what would be this home of mine A ruin'd, hermit-haunted place, But for the light that nightly shines Upon its walls from Kathleen's face ? What comfort in a mine of gold What pleasure in a royal life, If the heart within lay dead and cold, If I could not wed my Irish wife ? I knew the law forbade the banns I knew my king abhorr'd her race Who never bent before their clans, Must bow before their ladies' grace. Take all my forfeited domain, I cannot wage with kinsmen strife Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wife. My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, My heaven by day, my stars by night HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 283 And, twin-like, truth and fondness lie Within her swelling bosom white. My Irish wife has golden hair Apollo's harp had once such strings Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings. I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand ; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life In death I would lie near her, And rise beside my Irish wife. KILD ARE'S. BARD ON TOURNAMENTS. I. SING not to me of Normandie, Its armor'd knights and bloodless sports, Its sawdust battle-fields, to me, Are odious as its canting courts ; But sing to me of hunting far The antler'd elk in Erris' vales, Of flying 'neath the crackling spar, Off Arrau, through Atlantic gales. il. Raymond was brave, De Courcy bold, And Hugo Lacy bred to rule But I am of the race of old, And cannot learn in Norman school. 284 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Sing not to me of Guisnes field, Or how Earl Gerald match'd with kings I'd rather see him on his shield Than tilting in their Avrestler rings. TWAS SOMETHING TEEN TO BE A BARD. L IN long gone days when he who bore The potent harp from hall to hall, His courier running on before, His castle where he chose to call; When youthful nobles watch 'd for him, And ladies fair, with fond regard, Fill'd the bright wine-cup to the brim, 'Twas something then to be a bard. When seated by the chieftain's chair, The minstrel told his pictured tale, Of whence they came and who they were, The ancient stock of Innisfail When the gray steward of the house Laid at his feet the rich reward, Gay monarch of the long carouse, 'Twas something then to be a bard. in. 'Twas glorious then when banners waved, And chargers neigh'd, and lances gleam'd, When all was to be borne or braved That patriot zeal desired or dream'd HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 285 'Twas glorious in mid-host to ride A king's ift graceful as the 'pard, With famous captains by his side, Proud of the presence of the bard. 'Twas glorious, too, ere age had power To dim the eye or chill the blood, To fly to Beauty's evening bower, And lift from Beauty's brow the hood; To feel that Heaven's own sacred flame Can melt a heart however hard, To gather love by right of fame 'Twas glorious then to be a bard. THE BANSHEE AND THE BRIDE. A FEAGMENT. I. ON the landscape night and darkness, Sheep and shepherd sleeping lay Somewhere far the old moon wander'd, Scarce a star vouchsafed its ray ; While the cold breeze from the northward Stirr'd the anchor'd pleasure-boat, And thrill'd the long reeds, making music All along the castle-moat. ii. But the sadder sound was vanquish' d By the gazer from within, As upon the unlighted landscape Broke the festal midnight din; 286 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. For to-night Rath Imayn's chieftain Has brought home his lovely bride, And her kinsmen and his clansmen Seven days at Rath Imayn abide. in. " Hark !" he said, " what voice of sorrow Is it thus I chance to hear, Could they not await the morrow, Nor disturb our marriage cheer? Bid them enter, though untimely, Never was it truly said That we turn'd away the stranger, Or denied him board and bed !" THE LOVE CHARM. I. " ANCIENT crones that shun the highways, In dark woods to weave your spells Holy dwellers in the byways, Erenachs of blessed wells; House and lands to whoso finds me Where the cure for Connor dwells !" ii. One went out by night to gather Vervain by the summer star; 75 Hosts of Leeches sought the father In his hall of Castlebar; Blessed water came in vials From the wells of ancient saints; Vain their knowledge vain their trials- Science wots not youth's complaints. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 287 III. " Nearer, nearer, Sister Margaret (Lest the baffled Leeches hear) Listen to me, sister dearest, 'Tis of Love that I lie here. In Athenree there is a blossom More than all their charms could do; There is healing in her bosom, All my vigor to renew. IV. " But our father hates her father Deadly feud between them reigns Peace may come when I am sleeping Where the lank laburnum's weeping, And the cold green ivy creeping O'er the grave where nothing pains ! v. " Tell her then " " Nay, brother, brother, Live and hope and trust to me; In a guise none can discover, I will be your lady's lover, Woo her here to thee, my brother, Ere the new moon faded be !" VI. Clad in boyish guise sits Margaret, With a harp upon her knee, Harping to the lovely mistress Of the castled Athenree Chanting how, in daj's departed, All the world was truer-hearted How death only could have parted Love and fond Fidelity. 288 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Sighed the lady " Gentle minstrel, If such lovers e'en lived now, Ladies might be found as faithful, But few such there are, I trow." Quoth the singer, also sighing, " Nay, I know where one is lying For thy sake know where he's dying- Tell me, shall he live or no ?" Through the green woods, blossom-laden, Ride the minstrel and the maiden, O'er the Robe's bright waters gushing He exhorting and she blushing Athenree behind them far, Riding till the sun of even', Lingering late upon Ben Nephin, Saw them enter Castlebar. IX. Sat the sick heir in his chamber, Sore besieged by early death, Life and death's alternate banners "Waver'd in his feeble breath; All the Leeches had departed, While the sad sire, broken-hearted, Gazes from his turret lonely, Thinking of his sick heir only O'er his heirless lands beneath. x. " Connor ! Connor ! here's your blossom, Take her take her to your bosom ; HISTOEICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 289 Said I not to trust to me ? And this reverend man will wive you Albeit he comes to shrive you And the bridesmaid I shall be !" xr. On the turret wept the father, (While the son beneath was wed) Came the priest reluctant to him "Ah! I know," he cried, "he's dead!" " Nay, not so, my noble master, Young Lord Connor's come to life !" " Say 't again, again speak faster " " Yea, my lord and here's his wife !" QUEEN MARY'S MERCY. RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MKS. JAMES SADLIEB. PART I. i. CALL her not " Bloody Mary " she "Who loved to set the prisoner free, 76 And dry misfortune's tear Or, ere the ancient fraud prevail, Attend unto a simple tale, As true as we sit here. ii Long years in London's dismal Towers O'Connor told the heavy hours, Unpitied and unknown ; The serf who brought the prison bread Shook ominous his shagged head, And seal'd the crypt of stone ; 290 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Within his ken, no living thing Save some bat clinging to the wing, To the wet wall he saw While daily fainter grew his hope, That that dread gate would ever ope Such then was Saxon law. His manly locks were wither'd now, Sorrow had trenched his joyous brow, Quaver'd the voice at whose clear call The tumult hush'd in camp and hall, And trembled sore the limbs that once Was tireless in the chase and dance, And heavier than the chain he wore, The heart that in his breast he bore ! Six years had pass'd since unaware, He fell into the Saxons' snare ; False Francis Bryan's guest betray'd 77 From banquet-hall in chains convey 'd ! And well he knows what strife for power Rent Offally from that rash hour; Three kinsmen, haughty, fierce, and vain, Contending, rend his dear domain; A fourth, a youth of milder mood, In Mellifont draws close his hood, And, shuddering o'er their evil deeds, Seeks solace in his book and beads. IV. Ah ! sad must fare the chieftain's child, Left parentless in scene so wild ! No father's sway, no mother's art To guide her steps or school her heart ; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 291 With none to help her helplessness, With none to cheer her loneliness, Drifted at mercy of the storm What may befall this fragile form ? What eye keep guard ? what accents plead ? What arm defend in hour of need ? The fearful father turn'd to heaven By its dread Lord her life was given ; Albeit, in his propitious day, It cost hirn little time to pray ; Now all his soul went up in sighs To the good angels in the skies, To supplicate their guardian aid In warden of his orphan'd maid. v. Would that the pining captive knew, Sweet Marg'ret, how beloved you grew? How lovely was the mould of grace That charm'd the rustics of thy race ; How lovelier far the pious mind Thy beauty so devoutly shrined ; Seldom was camp or fortress sway'd By wiser head, or more obey'd ; Seldom were laws of kings or earls More potent than this orphan girl's ; For early care gives shape and course To minds that have the torrent's force, Which else with wasteful want exhaust, And quickly in life's sands are lost ! Fair Marg'ret's soul had all the fire That mark'd in youth her captive sire, With all the tenderness beside That won him to her mother's side, 292 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. And wlio need ask what load of care For love, such bosoms will not bear ? YI. Saint Bridget's holy sisterhood, Restored to their time-hallow'd wood, "VVatch'd o'er her youth with zeal as true As mortal maiden ever knew, And worthily she lived to pay Their priceless care in after-day. Of all the lore they knew to teach, She most pursued the English speech, 78 Unthreading meaning's mazy round Until the undoubted sense was found. Soon all familiar and by rote Was Surrey's lay and Chaucer's note ; With many a tear she ponder'd o'er The story of Sir Th,omas More, And frequent flash'd her eye of jet At thought of his true Margaret. 79 Not for its rythmic melody, Nor for its aspirations high, She prized the stranger's tongue ; A higher hope, a better aim Than pride of lore or love of fame From her fond fancy sprung. Her sire in Saxon prison, lay This speech alone could win her way ! It might God grant that it might be A guide, a passport, and a key To win that dear sire's liberty ! PART II. i. The Irish Sea benignant smiled On the imprison'd chieftain's child ; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 293 The western wind, with friendly zeal, Eastward impell'd the willing keel ; A cloudless morrow's sunrise shed Its saffron shower on Holyhead ; It seem'd the smiling Heaven bless'd Her dauntless heart and filial quest, As, lighted by a faithful hand, ' She lightly leap'd on Cambria's strand. 80 Instinct with hope, she sprang with speed Upon a rough Carnarvon steed A colt untrain'd to silken rein Or ambling in a lady's train Of foot unerring, skill'd to cross The wildest ridge of Penman-ross. High noon beheld the cavalcade At Bangor Ferry, close array 'd; With Bangor's monks an hour they stay'd; Then onward sped the impatient maid Past Penman JVlawr; at eve they stood By Aberconway's rapid flood; Another day, another night, Gave Chester's war- walls to their sight; By the third moon their coui'se was bent Along the eddying tide of Trent O'er Stoke's sad field, enrich'd and red With ashes of the Irish dead, 81 In Simnel's spurious cause misled. They paused not Litchfield's tow'rs to see; Snatch'd brief repose at Coventry; O'er Dunsrnore Heath at dawn they swept, And, ere the midwatch, wearied, slept Beneath the blessed calm and shade Saint Alban's ransom'd abbey made. 82 294 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. II. To royal Richmond's nuptial court Our trembling suitor must resort : There reigns Queen Mary ; by her side King Philip sits in silent pride ; Around, his glittering escort shine, A living, moving, Mexic mine, Mingling, like morning in the east, The light and shade, grandee and priest ; From lip to lip pass'd many a name Still living on the lips of fame ; Swart Alva and Medina's duke Reflect their master's cheerful look ; The banish'd cardinal is there, Grown gray with early woe and care ; Elizabeth, whose gay attire, Like Etna's vines, hides heart of fire ; Repentant Gardiner stands a-near, And many a high and puissant peer, And many a lady fine or fair, And many a jocund, hopeful heir. in. As when among the feather'd race, Assembled in their wonted place, Borne from its home by adverse blast, Some fate a foreign bird may cast, Whose plumage, rich with tropic dyes, Startles the native warbler's eyes Such wonder seized the courtiers all, As, trembling, up the audience-hall, Came the bright maiden of the West, In mourning weeds untimely dress'd^ Her cheek made pale by carking care, No jewel in her turban'd hair 83 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Upon her troubled breast there lay A starry cross, her only stay Through the long lash her eye that hid The big tear swell'd beneath the lid The suppliant scroll that told her woe Sore shaking in her hand of snow. IV. Before the throne she flung her down, 'Spite gallant's smirk and usher's frown " Mercy !" she cried, in accents wild, " Behold, my Queen, O'Connor's child ! The hand my orphan youth caress'd, The hand that night and morning bless 'd The teaching voice, the loving face, We miss them in his native place ! There is no music now, nor mirth About Offally's hostless hearth Offally's fields lie bare and brown, Offally's flowers all torn and strown Offally's desolate domain Echoes its absent master's name ; The peasant mourns, God's poor bemoan His woes, which truly are their own ; Contending Tanists rive and rend The lordship of their fetter'd friend ; potent lady, by the name Of Mercy, under which you reign, (By Mary, Mother of our Lord, Captive to treason and the sword), By her who knew what 'twas to shed Maternal tears o'er Jesus dead Be merciful to mine and me, 1 beg it on my bended knee." 296 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. V. Troubled with thought, Queen Mary's brow Is turn'd to royal Philip now ; Elizabeth has clench'd her hand, As if it held a seering brand; And moved her rigid lips, but hush'd The stormy words that upwards rush'd. The suppliant caught the sovereign's look, And guidance from its meaning took : " Oh, aid me, gracious Prince of Spain,"** She cried in piteous piercing strain; " The same high blood your heart inspires Still animates my captive sire's ; By your own knightly vows, I crave My father from his living grave By that dear faith we both revere, My poor petition deign to hear ; To you I turn, who still have stood The champion of Christ's holy rood : True to his faith my father fell, By it, shall he not rise as well ?" King Philip bow ; d his lofty head, And something to his consort said, "Who, smiling, spoke, "Fair maiden, well Your father's woes you've learn'd to tell. Arise ! the king agrees with me ; Your prayer is heard ! your sire is free !" jy ! on Barrow's bowery side, Joy throughout Erin far and wide ; Rath Imayn rings with jubilee Its noble chief is safe and free, HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Nor does he come alone, Kildare's young lord, and Ossory, Their fathers' halls have lived to see And hold them as their own ! F HA Gil H 'II UGH. FEAGH M'HuGH of the mountain Feagh M'Hugh of the glen Who has not heard of the Grlenmalur chief, And the feats of his hard-riding men ? Came you the sea-side from Carmen Cross'd you the plains from the "West No rhymer you met but could tell you, Of Leinster men who is the best. Or seek you the Liffey or Dodder Ask in the bawns of the Pale Ask them whose cattle they fodder, "Who drinks without fee of their ale. From Ardamine north to Kilmainham, He rules, like a king, of few words, And the Marchmen of seven score castles Keep watch for the sheen of his swords. The vales of Kilmantan are spacious The hills of Kilmantan are high But the horn of the Chieftain finds echoes From the waterside up to the sky. The lakes of Kilmantan are gloomy, Yet bright rivers stream from them all So dark is our Chieftain in battle, So gay in the camp or the hall. 298 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. The plains of Clan Saxon are fertile, Their Chiefs and their Tanists are brave, But the first step they take o'er the border, Just measures the length of a grave ; Thirty score of them foray 'd to Arklow, Southampton and Essex their van Our Chief cross'd their way, and he left of Each score of them, living, a man. Oh, many the tales that they cherish, In the glens of Kilmantan to-day, And though church, rath, and native speech perish, His glory's untouch'd by decay. Feagh M'Hugh of the mountain Feagh M'Hugh of the glen Who has not heard of the Glenmalur Chief, And the feats of his hard-riding men ? LAMENT OF THE IRISH CHILDREN IMPRISONED IN THE TOWER. I. FOR deep-valley 'd Desmond we sigh and we weep, The Funcheon and Maigue flow on through our sleep, And our eyes wax dim as the red clouds rest Like an advanced guard o'er our destined "West. n. Oh ! who will break us these walls of stone ? Oh ! who will list to our hapless moan ? Oh ! who will bear us forever, far From London Tower towai-d yonder star? HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 299 III. Children of Chieftains, we pine in chains, Sighing in vain for our flower-strewn plains; The ill wind that swept us so far away, Flung us on stones, not on kindred clay. IV. We look through these loops on the Saxon swine Carousing abroad over ale and wine, And their speech is familiar to us as to theirs, While our own sounds strange in our Gaelic ears. v. Oh ! land without love ! oh ! halls without song ! How luckless the weak race who find you strong ! Chivalry grows not on English ground, Nor can Mercy about its throne be found. VI. The day shall come men will doubt the tale Of the captive children of Innisfail They will doubt that false England made a prey Of orphans lured from their homes away. VII. Our mothers' eyes may grow dim with tears, Our fathers may barb their blunted spears, But this tower our charnel-house shall be, Ere our lost we gain, or our land we see. vin. Oh ! Blessed Virgin, who saw thy Son In a hostile city worse set upon, Be Thou unto us brother, mother, and priest. And let our poor heads on your bosom rest . 300 HISTORICAL AND LEGEND A 11 Y POEMS. IX. Farewell to Desmond ! farewell Loch Lene ! To Adare's rich feast, and to Thurles Green ! Farewell to old scenes, and friends, and songs Death chains us forever to the land of our wrongs ! THE POET'S PROPHECY. I. BY the Druid's stone I slept, "While my dog his vigil kept, And there on the mountain lone, By that old weird-rising stone, Visions wrapt me round, and voices Spoke the word my soul rejoices. ir. " Bard ! the stranger's roof shall fall Grass shall grow in Norman hall Mileadh's race shall rise again, Lords of mountain and of glen; Nial's blood and Brian's seed, Known for kingly word and deed Ollamh's skill and Ogma's lore, Time to Baubha will restore. in. " Destiny has doom'd it so ! Through pass of death and waves of woe, Banbha's sons shall come and go; Twelve score years a foreign brood Shall warm them in the native blood Shall lord it in the fields of Eri, Till her sons of life are weary. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 3Q1 IV. "When the long-wrong'd men of Eri Of their very lives are weary In that hour, from cave and rath, Mighty souls shall find a path They who won in Gaul dominion; They who cut the eagle's pinion; They of the prophetic race; 1 * They of the fierce blood of Thrace ; 89 They who Man and Mona lorded, s>0 Shall regain the land and guard it." v. So, upon that mountain lone, By the gray, weird-rising stone, Visions wrapt me round, and voices Spoke the word my soul rejoices. THE SUMMONS OF ULSTER.^ AEM ! arm ! ye men of Ulster, for battle to the death ! Arm to defend your fathers' fields, and shield your fathers' faith ! They are coming! they are coming! the foe is gathering near ! Arm for your rich inheritance, and for your altars dear ! They have sworn to rase from out Tyr-Owen the old Hy-Nial line ; They have sworn to spare no sacred thing, nor sex, nor holy shrine ; They have sworn to make the Brehons as elks rare on our hills ; They have vow'd to God to perish here, or work their evil wills. 302 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. They say the Queen of England is the Queen of Innishowen That Hugh O'Neil must be her earl, or else be overthrown That Hugh Roe, our own, must kneel to her, and Tyrconnel be no more, And an unbelieving bishop sit where Saint Patrick sat of yore. And they will have us beard ourselves in their own boyish trim, And put loyal-fashion'd garments on every Irish limb And our island-harps be broken, and our bards be turn'd away For the minstrel true must follow still the fortunes of his lay! Now swear we by our fathers' graves, and by the wives we've wed, And by the true-begotten heirs of each honest marriage-bed, And by our bless'd Apostle, they shall perish one and all, Ere they lord it thus o'er broad Tyr-Owen, Armagh, and Donegal ! Unfold our standards on the hills, and bid the heralds forth, Let them blow their challenges abroad through all the valley 'd North- Let them summon every spearsman from Lough Ramor to Lough Foyle, From Dundalk's bay of battles to the far-off Tory's Isle ! And if they ask for Hugh O'Neil and the O'Donnell Hoe, Bid them meet their trusted princes by the falls of Assaroe Let the curraghs of Fermanagh rot on fair Lough Erne's shore Let the fishers of Lough Swilly fling aside the peaceful oar Let the men of Ardnarigh leave their dogs upon the track, HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 3Q3 And the pilgrim from Saint Patrick's Isle to the trysting hurry back ; And, as over the deep-valley'd North the challenge thus they blow, Bid them meet their trusted Princes by the Falls of Assaroe. SO NO OF 0' DONNELL IN SPAIN. COEUNNA, WINTER OF 1603. I. OH, wild and wintry is the night, and lonely is the hour, But I wish I were far off at sea, in spite of storm and shower, So that the dawn might see me cast upon the Irish coast So that I had regain'd my land, whatever might be lost ! No headland gray, so far away From house or place could be, But the voice of kin would bid me in, And. welcome back from sea. ii. Full pleasant is the land of Spain, and kind my lord the King, And sweetly to the willing ear the Spanish minstrels sing; But in my ear the song of love sounds idle and profane, Until I clasp my only one my native land again. No headland gray, so far away From house or place could be, But the voice of kin would bid me in, And welcome back from sea. in. Oh, happy is the beaten bird, that from the billowy West, At fall of eve can still return in Erin to her nest; Oh, happy is the fond sea wave, that, when the storms cease, Can fling itself at Erin's feet, and breathe its last in peace. 304 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. No headland gray, so far away From bouse or place could be, But tbe voice of kin would bid me in, And welcome back from sea. IV. Blow, blow, ye winds, and fly ye clouds, let day and night be sped, G-od speed the hour, and haste the help, by Spain long prom ised; But help who may, God speed the day, and send His strong wind forth, To bear O'Donnell's flag again to combat in the North. No headland gray, so far away From house or place could be, But the voice of kin would bid me in, And welcome back from sea. LOST, LOST ARMADA. I. OXE by one men die on shore, Falling as the brown leaves fall; Daily some one doth deplore A sleeper in a sable pall. Slowly single coffins pass To cold crypts beneath the grass ; But on sea oh, misery ! Death is frantic death is free; So they found who sailed with thee, Lost, lost Armada ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS 3Q5 II. "What an Oriental show Thine was on the Biscay an tide; "Well might Philip's bosom glow "When his power you glorified; Indian wealth and Flemish skill, Spanish pride and Roman will, Borne on every carvel's prow; Where are all your splendors now ? Fallen like gems from Philip's brow, Lost, lost Armada ! in. Water-demons beat the deep Lir, the sea-god, waked in rage Sped his couriers forth from sleep None his anger durst assuage; Then the god-demented seas W T hitened round the Hebrides, On Albyn's rocks, on Erin's sands, Banshees wrung their briny hands, Keening for your perished bands, Lost, lost Armada ! IV. Fifteen hundred men of Spain Sunk in sight of Knocknarea; Twice a thousand strove in vain To reach your harbors, Tyrawley ! Oh ! they have not even a grave In the land they came to save; Only penitent Ocean moans O'er their white, far-drifting bones, Blends with it Erin's groans. Lost, lost Armada ! 306 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. LAY OF THE LAST MONK OF MUCRUSS. I. IF I forget thee, Irrelagb ! Irrelagh ! M If I forget thee, Irrelagh ! May the tongue ungrateful cleave To my mute mouth's eave, And the hand of my body wither Irrelagh ! n. "Woe, woe to the hand, Irrelagh ! Irrelagh ! "Woe to the guilty hand, Irrelagh ! The hand the godless spoiler laid On prayer-worn cell and sacred shade, And thy lustrous altars Irrelagh ! in. An ever-shining lamp, Irrelagh ! Irrelagh ! An ever-shining lamp, Irrelagh ! "Wert thou o'er valley and o'er wave, Taking only what you gave The oil of Aaron Irrelagh ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 3Q7 IV. I am worn and gray, Irrelagh ! Irrelagh ! I am worn and gray, Irrelagh ! Night and silence brooding o'er me, Death upon the road before me, While I kneel to bless thee Irrelagh ! v. May the myriad blessings, Irrelagh ! Irrelagh I May the myriad blessings, Irrelagh ! Of all the saints in heaven, Through all time to come be given, To him who builds thee up Irrelagh ! VI. For rebuilt thou shalt be, Irrelagh ! Irrelagh ! Kebuilt thou shalt be, Irrelagh ! At new altars like the old, Shining bright with gems and gold, Ancient rites shall be renewed Irrelagh ! THE OUTLAWED EARL. 3 I. DOWN through Desmond sailing, Come the sea-flocks wailing, Storms without prevailing On the wmtrv sea. 308 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Deep the snows that cover All the landscape over, Nor Rapparee nor rover Far to-night will be. ii. Yet, ah ! yet, remember, In this wild November, "Who, without an ember, Kay, or rushlight, bides "Who, in all the nation, Fill'd the highest station Who, in desolation, Hunted, homeless, hides ! Some highland herds concealing In his wretched shieling, The Lord for whose revealing Golden snares are spread, All merciless the victor Of our noble Hector, May God be his protector, The God for whom he bled 1 rv. This shall be Desmond's glory, Unknown in Norman story, That the cross he bore, he Bore for Christ's dear sake. Brother after brother, Another and another, Fell so, yet no other Part would any take. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 309 Y. Death can but deliver From man's worst endeavor, Then will Christ forever Make His own of thee ; For lost realm and palace For man's deadly malice His all-saving chalice Shall your banquet be ! VI. Down through Desmond sailing Come the sea-flocks wailing, Storms without prevailing On the wintry sea ; The hour may now be neariug, When you, Death's challenge hearing, Answer, all unfearing, " Master, I follow Thee !" SIR CAHIR O'DOGHERTY'S MESSAGE. SHALL the children of Ulster despair ? Shall Aileach but echo to groans ? Shall the line of Conn tamely repair To the charnel, and leave it their bones ? Sleeps the soul of O'Neill in Tyrone ? Glance no axes around by Lough Erne ? Has Clan Randall the heart of a stone ? Does O'Boyle hide his head in the fern ? Go, tell them O'Dogherty waits Waits harness'd and mounted and all, That his pikestaves are made by the gates That his bed 's by the white waterfall ! 310 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Say, he turneth his back on the sen,, Though the sail flaps to bear him afar ! Say, he never will falter or flee, While ten men are found willing for war ! Bid them mark his death-day in their books, And hide for the future the tale; But insult not his corpse with cold looks, Nor remember him over their ale. If they come not in arms and in rage, Let them stay, he can battle alone For one flag, in this fetter-worn age, Is still flying in free Innishowen ! If the children of Chieftains you see, Oh, pause and repeat to them then, That Cahir, who lives by the sea, Bids them think of him, when they are men ; Bids them watch for new Chiefs to arise, And be ready to come at their call Bids them mourn not for him if he dies, But like him live to conquer or fall ! THE RAPPAREES. l. WHEN the hand of the Tyrant was heavy and strong On our island, and hush'd was the psalm and the song; When hourly the blood of the unarm'd was spilt; When the worship of God was deem'd treason and guilt; When slaves' hearts were as callous as live hearts could be, Who requited the wronger ? the fierce Kapparee ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 31 II. Nay, smile as you will, they were real heroes then ; O'er a quagmire of terror, they, only, tower'd men ! The Hessian was lord of the plain, but the hill Was a fortress unwon from the free native still, He shelter'd the poor, set the law's victim free, In his high court of judgment the proud Kapparee ! in. The \vild was his house, and the heather his bed, And the cold stone the pillow that held up his head; But the Hessian that lay in his treble-strong keep "Would have given his eyes for so dreamless a sleep. His soul from all foul stains he ever kept free; " I want only my own! " said the stout Eapparee. IV. Nor was his life joyless, for oft in the shade Of the summer woods sombre his banquet he made; And, like " the good people," whoever pass'd by, He charm'd to the ring of his wild revelry; Oft, too, he adventur'd the wall'd towns to see, And mask'd in their markets the rash Kapparee ! At evening his music was heard from the rath, And the sprite-fearing herd turn'd aside from his path; When the lowland deer-hunters the long $hase gave o'er, He follow'd, and homeward its broad honors bore ; And the salmon, for him, seem'd to swim from the sea, And the mountain-birds bred for the stout Rapparee! VI. Oh ! name them not slightingly, mete them no scorn, Nor Bravoes, nor Thugs they, nor men basely born 312 HISTOEIOAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. O'Connors and Kavanaghs, heirs of the East, O'Dowds and O'Flaherties, old in the West ; O'Carroll, O'Kelly, O'Reilly, Mac Nee- Are all names that were borne by the brave Rapparee. VII. Oh ! name them not slightingly, mete them no scorn, Was not Redmond true heir to the vales of the Mourne Was not Cahir, who hunted the soft Harrow's side, An O'Dempsey as true as e'er ruled it in pride ? Was not Donald O'Keeffe, of the old Desmond tree, With the crown at its root a renown'd Rapparee ? VIII. Oh ! call them not brigands, those chiefs in decay, And weigh not their deeds in the scales of to-day; Let sick children and gossips turn pale at the name, But just men to brave men give fairness and fame. Let us try them, and test them, and shame to us be If we still blame the name of the wroug'd Rapparee ! AFTER THE FLIGHT. SEPTEMBER, 1607. i. H. FAR on the sea, to-night, ye are ye noble Princes and captains brave, and ladies lorn, And ship-pent children, happy in your trouble Who know not to what trials you are born. n. Far on the sea no gleam from any offing, No star in the mirk sky to guide you on, * This poem was, I think, the last written by Mr. McGee for the Dublin Nation ; it appeared in that paper on the 14th of March, 1868, less than a month before his death. ED. HISTOEICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 313 "While here, your foes exultingly are scoffing At all your clansmen now that you are gone. in. No port in sight no nobly lighted mansion To greet ye in, lords of the open hand ! Cleaving I see you by the sea-wash'd stanchion, Praying for any but your native land. IV. For any land where God's name stirs devotion For there some Christian prince would bid you hail For any star to light safe through this ocean To any shore, the Chieftains of the Gael. v. Gone from your land, you once made so resplendent With your achievements; darkness shrouds us o'er; On you our hopes and prayers have gone attendant To serve their season on another shore. VI. For God in heaven will not permit forever This exile of our greatest and our best, Who, for the Faith, in life-long leal endeavor Upheld the holy Crusade of the West. VII. They will return ! O God, the joy and glory Of that proud day to all the race of Conn They will return, and in their after story Find solace for the woes they 've undergone. 314 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. RORY D ALL'S LAMENTATION. AIR " Ma Coleen d/tas cruithe na bo." I. AH, where is the noble one vanish'd ? I look through the day and the night ; The sun and the north-star are steadfast, But my Eri is fled from my sight ! The mountainous Albyn I clamber, And Mona of winds I can see, Wild Wallia still frowns on the ocean, But my Eri is hidden from me. n. "Who passeth, all shrouded in sable, Moaning low like a wandering wind ? "What voice is this wailing ? I fear me 'Tis one that should madden my mind. Eri ! my saint and my lady Oh ! musical, beautiful, brave ; "Why, why do you pass like a shadow That smiles on the sleep of a slave ? in. If these dark eyes were bright as the falcon's, If my soul would fly with me away, And give me to-morrow with Eri, Death might have me for asking next day. For what is my life without Eri ? A harp with the base of it gone; And glory ? a bright golden goblet, When the wine that should fill it is done ! H1STOEICAL AND LE&ENDARY POEMS. 315 IV. Oh ! had I my foot on your \ieather, With my harp and my hound in my ken, No door but would play on its hinges To have Rory Dall coming again. Ah, potent the spell that would sever My Eri and me evermore The angel of judgment might part us, We could not be parted before ! THE LAST O'SULLIVAN BEARED ALL alone, all alone, where the gladsome vine is growing, All alone by the waves of the Tagus darkly flowing, No morning brings a hope for him, nor any evening cheer To O'Sullivan Beare, through the seasons of the year. He is thinking, ever thinking, of the hour he left Dunbuie, His father's staff fell from his hand, his mother wept wildly ; His brave young brother hid his face, his lovely sisters twain, How they wrung their maiden hands to see him sail away for Spain. They were Helen bright and Norah staid, who in their father's hall, Like sun and shadow, frolick'd round the grave armorial wall. In Compostella's cloisters he found many a pictured saint, But the spirits boyhood canonized no human hand can paint. All alone, all alone, where the gladsome vine is growing, All alone by the wave of the Tagus darkly flowing, 316 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. No morning brings a hope for him, nor any evening cheer To O'Sullivan Beare, through the seasons of the year. Oh ! sure he ought to take a ship and sail back to Dunbuie He ought to sail back, back again, to that castle o'er the sea; His father, mother, brother, his lovely sisters twain, "Tis they would raise the roof with joy to see him back from Spain. Hush ! hush ! I cannot tell it the tale will make me wild He left it, that gray castle, in age almost a child ; Seven long years with Saint James's friars he conn'd the page of might, Seven long years for his father's roof was sighir.g every night. Then came a caravel from the North, deep freighted, full of woe, His houseless family it held, their cftstle it lay low; Saint James's shrine, through ages famed as pilgrim haunt of yore, Saw never wanderers so wronged upon its scallop'd shore. Yet it was sweet, their first grief past, to watch those two sweet girls Sit by the sea, as mermaiden hold watch o'er hidden pearls To see them sit and try to sing for that sire and mother old, O'er whose heads five score winters their thickening snows had roll'd. To hear them sing and pray in song for them in deadly work, Their gallant brothers battling for Spain against the Turk. Corunna's port at length they reach, and seaward ever stare, Wondering what belates the ship their brothers home should beai\ HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 317 Joy ! joy ! it comes their Philip lives ! ah ! Donald is no more ; Like half a hope one son kneels down the exiled two before ; They spoke no requiem for the dead nor blessing for the living ; The tearless heart of parentage has broken with its grieving. Two pillars of a ruin'd pile two old trees of the land Two voyagers on a sea of grief, long sufferers hand in hand; Thus, at the woful tidings told, left life and all its tears, So died the wife of many a spring, the chief of an hundred years. One sister is a black-veil'd nun of Saint Ursula, in Spain, And one sleeps coldly far beneath the troubled Irish main ; Tis Helen bright who ventured to the arms of her true lover, But Cleena's stormy tides now roll the radiant girl over. All alone, all alone, where the gladsome vine is growing, All alone by the wave of the Tagus darkly flowing, No morning brings a hope for him, nor any evening cheer To O'Sullivan Beare, through the seasons of the year. BROTHER MICHAEL. WHEN the wreck of noble houses Strew'd the land, as the Armada Strew'd the iron beach of Erris In those days when faith and science Shared the fate of ancient lineage, And the holy men the planets On this earthly side of heaven Faded from the blank horizon; Then, when no man could determine If the present or the future 318 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Show'd most darkly, came a stranger From a distant shore, to gather And to save the old memorials Of the noble and the holy, Of the chiefs of ancient lineage, Of the saints of wondrous virtues; Of the Ollamhs, and the Brehons, Of the Bards and of the Betaghs, That they might not die forever; How he came, and how he labor'd, What he suffer'd, what adventured, That he might preserve the story Of the dear ancestral Island, That should never be forgotten ! Not a stranger, yet a stranger Was the patient pale explorer; Born the heir of bardic honors, Where Kilbarron, like a topsail, Soars above the North Atlantic Better days in green Tyrconnell, High beside its chiefs had found him Seated at the festal table; Now, poor brother of Saint Francis, Less than priest and more than layman, On the threshold of the chancel He is well content to hover; So that, fare and garb provided, Time to pray, and time to labor In the work his soul delighted, It might prosper let him perish ! Looking northward from the city By the Egyptian call'd Eblana, * Dublin. HISTOEICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 319 We can trace the careful stages Of the constant Brother Micliael ! We can trace him where the Slaney Spreads its waves around Beg-Erin, Holy isle of Saint Iberius ! Where the gables of Dunbrody Stand the proof of Hervey's penance, 100 By the junction of the rivers; Where the golden vale of Cashel Leads the pilgrim to the altar To the tabernacles glorious, Shining from that rocky altar; Where, in beauteous desolation, Like Saint Mary in the desert, Quin's fair abbey pleads with heaven. Looking northward from the city By the Egyptian call'd Eblana, We can trace the careful stages Of the constant Brother Michael, Where the Boyne, historic river, Dear to Corrnac and Cuchullin, Stretches seaward, sad and solemn, Loth to leave the plain of Tara; Where the lakes and knolls of Cavan Echo to the sound of harping; From the yet unconquer'd forests, Where Lough Erne's arbor islands Waft their fragrance to the mountains; Thence to the ancestral region Turns the constant Brother Michael With the gleanings of his travel, With the spoils of many ruins, With the pedigrees of nobles, 320 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. With the trophies of his Order, With the title-deeds of races, With the acts of Saints and Prophets; Never into green Tyrconnell Came such spoil as Brother Michael Bore before him on his palfrey! By the fireside in the winter, By the sea-side in the summer, When your children are around you, And the theme is love of country; When you speak of heroes dying In the charge, or in the trenches; When you tell of Sarsfield's daring, Owen's genius, Brian's wisdom, Emmet's early grave, or Grattan's Life-long epic of devotion; Fail not, then, my friend, I charge you, To recall the no less noble Name and works of Brother Michael, Worthy chief of the Four Masters, Saviors of our country's annals I THE FQ UE MA S TER S . MANY altars are in Banba, Many chancels hung in white, Many schools, and many abbeys, Glorious in our father's sight; Yet whene'er I go a pilgrim, Back, dear Holy Isle, to thee, May my filial footsteps bear me To that Abbey by the Sea, To that Abbey roofless, doorless, Shrineless, monkless, tho' it be ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 321 These are days of swift upbuilding, All to pride and triumph tends; Art is liegeman to Eeligion, Genius speaks, and Song ascends. As the day-beam to the sailor, Lighting up the wreckers' shore, So the present lustre shineth On the barrenness before, But no gleam rests on that Abbey, Silent by Tyrconnel's shore. Yet I hear them in my musings, And I see them as I gaze, Four meek men around the cresset, With the scrolls of other days; Four unwearied scribes who treasure Every word and every line, Saving every ancient sentence As if writ by hands divine. On their calm, down-bended foreheads, Tell me what is it you read ? Is there malice or ambition, In the will, or in the deed ? Oh, no ! no ! the Angel Duty Calmly lights the dusky walls, And their four worn right hands follow Where the Angel's radiance falls. Not of Fame, and not of Fortune, Do these eager pensmen dream; Darkness shrouds the hills of Banba, Sorrow sits by every stream ; One by one the lights that led her, 322 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Hour by hour were quenck'd in gloom ; But the patient, sad, Four Masters, Toil on in their lonely room Duty thus defying Doom. As the breathing of the west wind Over bound and bearded sheaves, As the murmur in the bee-hives, Softly heard on summer eves, So the rustle of the vellum, So the anxious voices sound, So the deep expectant silence Seems to listen all around. Brightly on the Abbey gable Shines the full moon thro' the night, While far to the northward glances All the bay in waves of light. Tufted isle, and splinter'd headland, Smile and soften in her ray, Yet within their dusky chamber, The meek Masters toil assay, Finding all too short the day. Now they kneel ! attend the accents From the souls of mourners wrung; Hear the soaring aspirations, Barb'd with the ancestral tongue; For the houseless sons of Chieftains, For their brethren afar, For the mourning Mother Island, These their aspirations are. And they said, before uprising, " Father, grant one other prayer HISTOEICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 323 Bless the lord of Moy-O'Gara, Bless his lady, and his heir; Send the gen'rous chief, whose bounty Cheers, sustains us in our task, Health, success, renown, salvation Father ! this is all we ask." Oh ! that we who now inherit All their trust, with half their toil, "Were but fit to trace their footsteps Through the Annals of the Isle ; Oh ! that the bright Angel, Duty, Guardian of our tasks might be, Teach us as she taught our Masters, In that Abbey by the Sea, Faithful, grateful, just, to be ! A PRAYER FOR FEARGAL O'GARA. WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF o'DONOVAN's "FOUR MASTERS.'' A PRAYER for Feargal ! Lord of Leyney He for whom this book was written, By the life-devoted Masters Brother Michael and his helpers ! May the generous soul of Feargal, In the mansions of the bless'd, By the learned, gifted elders, All whose love had elsewise perish'd By the countless saints of Erin, By the pilgrims to the Jordan, By the noble chiefs victorious, Over all life's sinful combats 324 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Dwell forever, still surrounded; As he gather'd up their actions, As he drew their names around him In these pages may he find them, Still around him and about him, In beatitude forever ! Oh ! forever and forever, Benedictions shower upon him, Brighter glories shine around him, And the million prayers of Erin, Rise like incense up to heavan, Still for Feargal, Lord of Leyney! SONNET TO KILBARRON CASTLE. DBOAD, blue, and deep, the Bay of Donegal Spreads north and south and far a-west before The beetling cliffs sublime, and shatter'd wall Where the O'Clery's name is known no more. Kilbarron, many castle names are sung In deathless verse they less deserved than thee, The Khine-tow'rs still endure in German tongue ; Gray Scotland's keeps in Scottish poesy; In chronicles of Spain, and songs >$. France, Full many a grim chateau and fortress stands ; And Albion's genius, strong as Uther's lance, Guards her old mansions 'mid their alter'd lands ; Home of an hundred annalists, round thy hearths, alas ! The churlish thistles thrive, and the dull graveyard grass. ASHANEE, July, 184G. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 325 "IN-FELIX FELIX." WHY is his name unsung, oh minstrel Lost ? Why do you pass his memory like a ghost ? Why is no rose, no laurel, on his grave ? Was he not constant, vigilant, and brave ? Why, when that hero-age you deify, Why do you pass " In-felix Felix " by ? He rose the first he looms the morning star Of the long, glorious, unsuccessful war; England abhors him ! has she not abhorr'd All who for Ireland ventured life or Avord ? What memory would she not have cast away, That Ireland hugs in her heart's heart to-day ? He rose in wrath to free his fetter'd land "There's blood, there's Saxon blood, upon his hand." Ay, so they say ! three thousand, less or more, He sent untimely to the Stygian shore, They were the keepers of the prison-gate He slew them, his whole race to liberate. O clear-eyed poets ! ye who can descry Through vulgar heaps of dead where heroes lie- - Ye to whose glance the primal mist is clear Behold there lies a trampled noble here ! , .-.;, Shall we not leave a mark ? shall we not do Justice to one so hated and so true ? If ev'n his hand and hilt were so distain'd, If he was guilty, as he has been blamed, 326 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. His death redeem'd his life he chose to die Rather than get his freedom with a lie. Plant o'er his gallant heart a laurel tree, So may his head within the shadow be. I mourn for thee, O hero of the North God judge thee gentler than we do on earth ! I mourn for thee, and for our land, because She dare not own the martyrs in our cause; But they, our poets, they who justify They will n.ot let thy memory rot or die ! THE CONNAUGHT CHIEF'S FAREWELL. [Scene Galway Bay after sunset. A Cor.naught Chief and his daughter on the deck of a departing ship. Time 1652. A few days after the surrender of Galway city to the Parliamentarians.] " MY DAUGHTER ! 'tis a deadly fate that turns us out to sea, Leaving our hearts behind us, where our hopes no more can be; The fate that lifts our anchor, and swells our sail so wide, Will have us far from sight of land ere morning 's on the tide. " "Why does the darkness lower so deep upon the Galway shore ? Will no kind beam of moon or star shine on the cliffs of Moher ? My child, you need not banish so the heart's dew from your eye, We cannot catch an utmost glimpse of Arran sailing by. " Thus all that was worth fighting for, for ever pass'd away, The true hearts all were given to death, the living turn'd to clay; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 327 No wonder, then, the shamefaced shore should veil itself in night, When slaves sleeve thickly on the land, why should the sky be bright ? " Yes, thus their light should vanish, as vanish'd first their cause, Its hills should perish from our sight, as sunk its native laws, Its valleys from our souls be shut like chalices denied, Nought have I now to love or serve, but God and you, my child." " My father dear my father, what makes you talk so wild ? To God place next your country, and after her, your child; Though the land be dark behind us, and the sea all dim before, A morrow and a glory yet shall dawn on Connaught's shore. " What though foul Fortune has her will, and stern Fate fills our sail, The slaves that sleep must waken up, nor can the wrong prevail; What though they broke our altars down, and roll'd our Saints in dust, They could not pluck them from that Heaven in which they had their trust." " May God and his Saints protect you, my own girl, wise as fair, An angel wrestling with my will, indeed you ever were; Oh, sure, when young hearts hold such hope, and young 1 heads hold such thought, Defeat can ne'er be destiny, nor the ancient fight unfought ! 328 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. " Good land green land dear Ireland, though I cannot see you, still May God's dew brighten all } - our vales, His sun kiss every hill; And though henceforth our nights and days in strange lands must be pass'd, Our hearts and hopes for your uprise shall keep watch till the last !" EXECUTION OF ARCHBISHOP PLUNKETT. LONDON, JULY, 1681. I. ANOTHER scaffold looms up through the night, Another Irish martyr's hour draws near, The cruel crowd are gathering for the sight, The July day dawns innocently clear ; There is no hue of blood along the sky, Where the meek martvr waits for light to die ! Which is the culprit in the car of death ? He of the open brow and folded hands ! The turbid crowd court every easy breath, There is no need on him of gyves or bands; Pale, with long bonds and vigils, yet benign, He bears upon his breast salvation's sign. in. What was his crime ? Did he essay to shake The pillar of the state, or undermine The laws which vow a worthy vengeance, tf And punish treason with a death condign ? HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 329 Look in that holy face, and there behold The secret of the sufferer's life all told. IV. Enough ! he was of Irish birth and blood, He fill'd Saint Patrick's place in stormy days, He lived, discharging duty, doing good, Dead to the world, and the world's idle praise, The faithless saw his faith with evil eyes, They doom'd him without stain, and here he dies. "CAROLAN THE BLIND." I. To the cross of Glenfad the Blind Bard came, And at the four roads he drew his rein, And stopp'd his steed, and raised his hand To learn from the currents the lie of the land ; And spoke he aloud, unconscious that near His words were caught up by a listening ear. ii. " The sun's in the south, the noon must be past, And cold on my right comes the northeast blast ; AVhat ho ! old friend, we '11 face to the west, For Connaught 's the quarter the Bard loves best ; 'T is the heart of the land, and the stronghold of song, So now for our Connaught friends march we along ! in. " In Connaught," he humm'd, as on he rode, " The heart and the house and the cup overflow'd ; 330 HISTORICAL AND LEGEND AEY POEMS. \ In Connaught alone does music find The answering feet and the echoing mind ; 'Tis the soul of the soil and the fortress of song, So now for our Connaught friends march we along !" TO THE RIVER BOYNE. I. BRIDE of Lough Ramor, gently seaward stealing, In thy placid depths hast thou no feeling Of the stormy gusts of other days ? Does thy heart, O gentle, nun-faced river, Passing Schomberg's obelisk, not quiver, While the shadow on thy bosom weighs ? ii. Thou hast heard the sounds of martial clangor, Seen fraternal forces clash in anger, In thy Sabbath valley, River Boyne ! Here have ancient Ulster's hardy forces Dress'd their ranks and fed their travell'd horses, Tara's hosting as they rode to join. in. Forgettest thou that silent summer morning When William's bugles sounded sudden warning, And James's answer'd, chivalrously clear; When rank to rank gave the death-signal duly, And volley answer'd volley quick and truly, And shouted mandates met the eager ear ? IV. The thrush and linnet fled beyond the mountains ; The fish in Inver Colpa sought their fountains; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 33], The unchased deer ran through Tredagh's* gates ; St. Mary's bells in their high places trembled, And made a mournful music, which resembled A hopeless prayer to the unpitying fates. Ah ! well for Ireland had the battle ended When James forsook what William well defended, Crown, friends, and kingly cause ; Well, if the peace thy bosom did recover Had breathed its benediction broadly over Our race, and rites, and laws. VI. Not in thy depths, not in thy fount, Lough Bamor, Were brew'd the bitter strife and cruel clamor Our wisest long have mourn 'd ; Foul faction falsely made thy gentle current To Christian ears a stream and name abhorrent, And all its sweetness into poison turn'd. VII. But, as of old, God's prophet sweeten'd Mara, Even so, blue bound of Ulster and of Tara, Thy waters to our exodus give life ; Thrice holy hands thy lineal foes have wedded, And healing olives in thy breast imbedded, And banish'd far the bitterness of strife. 104 VIII. Before thee we have made a solemn fcedus, And for chief witness called on Him who made us, Quenching, before his eyes, the brand of hate; Our pact is made for brotherhood and union, For equal laws to class and to communion, Our wounds to staunch, our land to liberate. * Tredagh now Drogheda. 332 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. IX. Our trust is not in musket or in sabre Our faith is in the fruitfulness of labor, The soil-stirred, willing soil; In homes and granaries by justice guarded, In fields from blighting winds and agents warded, In franchised skill and manumitted toil. x. Grant us, oh God, the soil, and sun, and seasons 1 Avert despair, the worst of moral treasons, Make vaunting words be vile; Grant us, we pray, but wisdom, peace, and patience, And Ave will yet re-lift among the nations Our fair, and fallen, and unforsaken isle ! THE WILD GEESE. I. " WHAT is the cry so wildly heard, Oh, mother dear, across the lake ? " " My child, 't is but the northern bird Alighted in the reedy brake." ii. " Why cries the northern bird so wild ? Its wail is like our baby's voice." " 'T is far from its own home, my child, And would you have it, then, rejoice ? " in. "And why does not the wild bird fly Straight homeward through the open air? I see no barriers in the sky Whv does she sit lamenting there?" HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 333 IV. " My child, the laws of life and death Are written in four living books; The wild bird reads them in the breath Of winter, freezing up the brooks v. " Reads and obeys more wise than man And meekly steers for other climes, Obeys the providential plan, And humbly waits for happier times. VI. " The spring, that makes the poets sing, "Will whisper in the wild bird's ear, And swiftly back, on willing wing, The wild bird to the north will steer." VII. " "Will they come back, of whom that song Last night was sung, that made you weep ? " "Oh! God is good, and hope is strong; My son, let 's pray, and then to sleep." TEE DEATH OF O'CAEOLAN. THERE is an empty seat by many a board, A guest is missed in hosteh'y and hall, There is a harp hung up in Alderford That was in Ireland sweetest harp of all. The hand that made it speak, woe's me, is cold, The darken'd eyeballs roll inspired no more; The lips the potent lips gape like a mould, "Where late the golden torrent floated o'er. 334 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. In vain the watchman looks from Mnyo's towers For him whose presence filled all 'hearts wit 1 ,! mirth; In vain the gathered guests outsit the hours-*- The honored chair is vacant by the hearth. From Castle-Archdall, Moneyglass, and Trim, The courteous messages go forth in vain, Kind words no longer have a joy for him "Whose lowly lodge is in Death's dark demesne. Kilronan Abbey is his castle now, And there till doomsday peacefully he'll stay; In vain they weave new garlands for his brow, In vain they go to meet him by the way; In kindred company he does not tire, The native dead, and noble, lie around, His life-long song has ceased, his wood and wire Rest, a sweet harp unstrung, in holy ground. Last of our ancient minstrels I thou who lent A buoyant motive to a foundering race Whose saving song, into their being blent, Sustained them by its passion and its grace God rest you \ May your judgment dues be light, Dear Turlogh \ and the purgatorial days Be few and short, till, clothed in holy white, Your soul may come before the Throne of rays I THE CROPPIES' GRAVE. I. PEACE be round the Croppies' grave, Let none approach but pilgrims brave; This sacred hillside even yet Should slavery fly with frightened feet. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 335 II. Peace to their souls, whose bodies here Met martyr's death and rebel's bier, Who sleep in more than holy ground, In death unparted and unbound. Fearless men of every time, In Christian land and pagan clime, Have sunk to rest by plain or hill, O'erwatched by cairn and citadel. IV. The roving sea-kings' tumuli Stand firm by northern strait and sea; The Pharaoh hath his pyramid, Whose gate and date the sands have hid. v. The Indian lies beside his lake, Waiting the final voyage to take, The good Manetto's passport given To the green hunting-grounds of heaven. VI. The Roman vault, the Grecian shrine, Are sacred haunts of all the " Nine," WTio there unweave the shrouds of death, And breathe around creative breath, vn. But vault, or shrine, or forest grave, Or sea-kings' cairn beside the wave, Or Egypt's proudest pyramid, Such hearts as Tara holds, ne'er hid. 336 mSTOEIGAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. VJII. What though of these none wore a crown, None crouched beneath a monarch's frown; What though none spoke the speech of Greece, Spartans were not more brave than these. IX. Though pompous line and pillar'd stone May never make their lost names known, They sleep wrapp'd by the noble sod, Ten thousand Irish chiefs have trod. x. Peace be round the Croppies' grave; Peace to your souls, ye buried brave; Tara's Hill, when crowned and free, Had never nobler guests than ye ! SONG OF "MOYLAN'S DRAGOONS." [Supposed to be sung after the surrender of Lord Cormvallis at Yorktown, 1781.] FUHL up the banner of the brave, And bear it gently home, Through stormy scenes no more 't will wave, For now the calm has come; Through showering grape, and drifting death, It floated ever true, And by the signs upon its path, Men knew what troop went through. HISTORICAL AND LEGEND AE Y POEMS. 337 II. Yon flag first flew o'er Boston free, When Graves's fleet groped out ; On Stocy Point reconquered, we Unfurl'd it with a shout ; At Trenton, Monmouth, Germantown, Our sabres were not slack, Like lightning, next, to Charlestown We scourged the British back. ii. And here at Yorktown now they yield, And our career is o'er, No more thou 'It flutter on the field, Flag of the brave! no more; The Redcoats yield up to " the Line," Both sides have changed their tunes; To peace our Congress doth incline, And so do we, Dragoons. IT. Furl up the banner of the brave, And bear it gently home, No more o'er Moylan's march to wave, Lodge it in Moylan's home. There Butler, Hand, and Wayne, perchance, May tell of battles o'er, And the old flag, on its splinter'd lance, Unfurl for joy once more. T. Hui'rah ! then, for the Schuylkill side, Its pleasant woody dells; Old Ulster m well may warm with pride, When each his story tells. 338 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POKMS. Comrades, farewell ! may Heaven bestow On you its richest boons; So let us drink before we go, To Moylan's brave Dragoons ! CHARITY AND SCIENCE. I. THE city gates are bound and barr'd whence comes the foe? Sentinels move along the walls, speechlessly and slow; The banner over the castle droops down despondingly New graves and fireless hearths are all the Castellan can see. ii. The priest was at the altar, chanting a solem mass ; Fearlessly through the crowded nave we saw the Leaguer pass He slew the clerk at the Agnus Dei- he struck the priest to death He spill'd the consecrated cup life wither'd at his breath. in. Then rose a cry to Heaven, " Who will stay this shape pi fear This bodiless avenger ? God ! is no succor near ?" Street after street sent up the cry to the warders on the wall, And the childless Castellan echo'd it from his heirless inner hall. IV. Now forth into the market-place there stepp'd two maidens young, Goddess-bright to look upon, and honey-sweet of tongue; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 339 Under the brow of one there lay the leeches' healing lore 'Twas fair Science, led by Charity they pass'd from door to door. v. In days of peace, no two so fond of silence or repose, But as the hearts of men sunk down, their spirits higher rose; Wealth had fled its steeds fell dead nor could its treasure bring A cool breath from the sultry heaven a pure drop from the spring. VI. These -maidens gave, for Jesus' sake, what treasures could not buy ; The sir grew pure as they approach'd, the darkness left the sky; The sentry at the eastern gate felt the foe hurrying out, And the citizen and the Castellan raised a wildly joyful shout. vn. The people sang Te Deum, and, at eve, this other song " May Charity and Science in our island flourish long; And wheresoe'er they turn their steps, let manhood bend the knee, Let our fairest and our sasrest their votaries still be !" TEE FAMINE IN THE LAND. I. DEATH reapeth in the fields of life, and we cannot count the corpses; Black and fast before our eyes march the biers and hearses ; In lone ways and in highways stark skeletons are lying, 340 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDAEY POEMS'. And daily unto Heaven their living kin are crying " Must the slave die for the tyrant, the sufferer for tLe sin And a wide inhuman desert be where Ireland has been; Must the billows of oblivion over all our hills be roll'd, And our land be blotted out, like the accursed lands of old ?" ii. Oh ! hear it, friends of France ! hear it, our kindred Spain ! Hear it, our kindly kith and kin across the western main Hear it, ye sons of Italy let Turk and Russian hear it Hear Ireland's sentence register'd, and see how ye can bear it ! Our speech must be unspoken, our rights must be forgot; Our land must be forsaken, submission is our lot We are beggars, we are cravens, and vengeful England feels Us at her feet, and tramples us with both her iron heels. in. These the brethren of Gronsalvo ! these the cousins of the Cid! They are Spaniels and not Spaniards, born but to be bid They of the Celtic war-race who made that storied rally Against the Teuton lances in the lists of Roncesvalles ! The}-, kindred to the mariner whose soul's sublime devotion Led his caravel like a star to a new world through the ocean! No ! no ! they were begotten by fathers in their chains, Whose valiant blood refused to flow along the vassal veins. IV. Ho ! ho ! the devils are merry in the farthest vaults of night, This England so out-Lucifers the prime arch-hypocrite; Eriend of Peace and friend of Freedom yea, divine Religion's friend, She is feeding on our hearts like a sateless nether fiend ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POJMS. 341. Ho ! ho ! for the vultures are black on the four winds; No purveyor like England that foul camp-following finds; Do you not mark them flitting between you and the sun ? They are come to reap the booty, for the battle has been won. v. Lo ! what other shape is this, self-poised in upper air, With wings like trailing comets, and face darker than despair ? See ! see ! the bright sun sickens into saffron in its shade, And the poles are shaken at their ends, infected and afraid "Tis the Spirit of the Plague, and round and round the shore It circles on its course, shedding bane for evermore; And the slave falls for the tyrant and the sufferer for the sin, And a wild inhuman desert is where Ireland has been. VI. 'Twas a vision 'tis a fable I did but tell my dream Yet twice, yea thrice, I saw it, and still it seem'd the same; Ah ! my soul is with this darkness nightly, daily overcast, And I fear me, Grod permitting, it may fall out true at last; God permitting, man decreeing ! What, and shall man so will, And our unseal'd lips be silent and our unbound hands be still ? Shall we look upon our fathers, and our daughters, and our wives, Slain, ravish'd, in our sight, and be paltering for our lives V Oh ! countrymen and kindred, make yet another stand Plant your flag upon the common soil be your motto Life and Land ! 342 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. From the charnel shore of Cleena to the sea-bridge of the Giant, Let the sleeping souls awake, the supine rise self-reliant; And rouse thee up, oh ! city, that sits furrow'd and in weeds, Like the old Egyptian ruins amid the sad Nile's reeds. Up, Mononia, land of heroes, and bounteous mother of song, And Connaught, like thy rivers, come unto us swift and strong; Oh ! countrymen and kindred, make yet another stand Plant your flag upon the common soil be your motto Life Land. THE FLYING SHIPS. AS SEEN FROM THE COAST OF IRELAND IN 1847. I. WHERE are the swift ships flying Far to the West away ? Why are the women crying, Far to the West away ? Is our dear land infected, That thus o'er her bays neglected, The skiff steals along dejected, While the ships fly far away ? Skiff! can I blame your stealing Over the mournful bay ? Ships flee, but they have no feeling, Bent on their order'd way; EISTOEICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 34.3 'Tis you, oh ! you lords of castles, Keeping your godless wassails, And banishing far your vassals, 'Tis you I curse this day ! IIL Sad is the sight that daunts me, Far to the West away, But a homeward hope still haunts me, Far to the West away; I see a fair fleet returning, I see bright beacons burning, And gladness in place of mourning, As the ships to the shore make way, THE WOFUL WINTER. SUGGESTED BY ACCOUNTS OF IRELAND, IN DECEMBER, 1848. I. THEY are flying, flying, like northern birds over the sea for fear, They cannot abide in their own green land, they seek a rest ing hei-e; Oh ! wherefore are they flying, is it from the front of war, Or have they smelt the Asian plague the winds waft from afar? ir. No ! they are flying, flying, from a land where men are sheep, Where sworded shepherds herd and slay the silly crew they keep; Where so much iron hath pass'd into the souls of the long enslaved, . That none was found by fort or field, or in Champion's right hand waved. 344: HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. III. Yea ! they are flying hither, breathless and pale with fear, And it not the sailing time for ships, but the winter, dark and drear ; They had rather face the waters, dark as the frown of God, Th^n make a stand for race and land on theii* own elastic sod. IV. Oh, blood of Brian, forgive them! oh, bones of Owen, rest ! Oh, spirits of our brave fathers, turn away your eyes from the West; Look back on the track of the galleys that with the soldier came Look ! look to the ships of Tyre, moor'd in the ports of Spain. T. But look not on, dread Fathers ! look not upon the shore Where valor's spear and victory's horn were sacred signs of yore; Look not toward the hill of Tara, or Iveagh, or Ailech high ! Look toward the East and blind your sight, for they fly at last, they fly ! VI. And ye who met the Romans behind the double wall, And ye who smote the Saxons as mallet striketh ball, And ye who shelter'd Harold and Bruce )U fittest hosts for the brave W T hy do you not join your spirit-strength, and bury her in the wave ? VII. Alas ! alas ! for Ireland, so many tears were shed, That the Celtic blood runs palely, th at once was winy red ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 345 They are flying, flying from her, the holy and the old, Oh, the land has alter'd little, but the men are cowed and cold. VIII. Yea ! they are flying hither, breathless and pale with fear, And it not the sailing-time for ships, but the winter, dark and drear; They had rather face the waters, dark as the frown of God, Than make a stand for race and land, on their own elastic sod. SHAWN NA GOW'S* GUEST. A FABLE FOB THE POETS OF THE NATION, IN 1848. I. A KILLALOE Gow wrought in his forge at night, "With a merry heart, in a glowing light; His arm of strength and head of sense, Brought the good heart due recompense. ii. 'Twas a red ploughshare on his anvil lay. Thought the Gow " Before a year and a day Many a sod of valley and lea Thy master will turn, clean colter, with thee." in. This Gow was a lonely bachelor man, And lived, like a tree, where his life began; His only love was that glorious river Which flows by Killaloe ever and ever. * Shawn na (?ow>-John, the Smith. 346 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. rv. He loved the trees and the men that rose On its sides, for the sake of the river that flows, And oft, though wearied, he lay awake, To hear the rapids their clamors make. v. In through the sruiddy door there came, And stood full in the forge's flame, A form most royal, and comely, and bold, Crown'd like a Kiiier of Kinkora old. There was regal power in every look, And lineage plain as a herald's book, As sitting down at the Gow's request, Out spoke the unexpected guest: " Shawn Gow, of Killaloe, I find Your craft has left my lore behind These chains are not for the vanquish'd in battle, But fetters, methinks, for pasture cattle." VIII. Answer'd the Gow: "My Khan and guest, The sun and the sunburst have set in the West; The conqueror iives in the heart of the land He alone hath fetters for foot and hand." " And tell me, truly, my stalwart Gow, Do you forge no swords in Bauba now ? I have temper'd a blade of old, and fain Would see the brave art flourish a^ain." HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 347 X. " Khan, Sliabh an Iron, still retains The martial ore in its giant veins ; But the men of Erin are thrown and bound, "Without a wrestle, without a wound." XI. " Ha !" said the guest, " ill news is this The slaves in spirit are slaves, I wis, That all the swords of Adam's race Can never uplift to freedom's place. XII. " But, Gow, where are the bards, whose words Struck late on my ears ' like the clash of swords ?' Hath the spirit of poesy stoop'd its pinion To laud the tyrant's dread dominion ?" XIII. " The bards," said the Gow, " as many as be, Still sigh that Erin is else than free; But of late they have only sigh'd and wept, And few the prophetic vigil hath kept." " Worse news than ill," replied the Khan, " For never since Banba first began, Lack'd there of bards when trial was near, To shout their warnings in her ear. " Throughout the age-long Danish fight, In camp and court, by day and night, The poet's brain and poet's hand Were toiling for Banba's holy land. 34:8 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS XVI. " I must be gone ! do thou go forth, Say Brian came from his grave in the north; Bid clairseachs sound and hearts be strung Give freedom first to mind and tongue ! " The land is old the land lies low They must not drown her soul with woe; The land 's in sleep but not death's sleep 'T is time to work, but not to weep." Out through the smiddy door there pass'd The Ard-righ's fetch, nor turn'd, nor cast A backward look, in deeper night His form was blended from the sight. THE IRISH HOMES OF ILLINOIS. CHORUS The Irish homes of Illinois, The happy homes of Illinois; No landlord there Can cause despair, Nor blight our fields in Illinois. 'T is ten good years since Ellen bawn Adventured with her Irish boy Across the sea, and settled on A prairie farm in Illinois. The Irish homes of Illinois, etc. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 349 II. Sweet waves the sea of summer flowers Around our wayside cot so coy, Where Ellen sings away the hours That light my task in Illinois. The Irish homes of Illinois, etc. in. Another Ellen 's at her knee, And in her arms a laughing boy; And I bless God to see them free From want and care in Illinois. The Irish homes of Illinois, etc. rr. And yet some shadows often steal Upon our hours of purest joy; When happiest we most must feel " If Ireland were like Illinois !" The Irish homes of Illinois, etc. THE SHANTY. I. THIS is our castle ! enter in, Sit down and be at home, sir ; Your city friend will do, I hope, As travellers do in Rome, sir ! 'T is plain the roof is somewhat low, The sleeping-room but scanty, Yet to the Settler's eye, you know, His castle is his Shanty ! 350 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. H. The Famine fear we saw of old, Is, like a nightmare, over ; That wolf will never break our fold, Nor round the doorway hover. Our swine in droves tread down the brake, Our sheep-bells carol canty, Last night yon salmon swam the lake, That now adorns our Shanty. in. That bread we break, it is our own, It grew around my feet, sir, It pays no tax to Squire or Crown, Which makes it doubly sweet, sir ! A woodman leads a toilsome life, And a lonely one, I grant ye, Still, with his children, friend, and wife, How happy is his Shanty ! IV. No feudal lord o'erawes us here, Save the Ever-bless'd Eternal ; To Him is due the fruitful year, Both autumnal and vernal; "\Ve 've rear'd to Him, down in the dell, A temple, neat, though scanty, And we can hear its blessed bell On Sunday, in our Shanty. v. This is our castle! enter in, Sit down, and be at home, sir ; Your city friend will do, I hope, As travellers do in Eome, sir ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 35} 'T is plain the roof is somewhat low. The sleeping-room but scanty, Yet to the Settler's eye, you know, His castle is his Shanty ! ST. PATRICK'S OF THE WOODS. i. " SIR, my guest, it is Sunday morning, And we are ready to mass to go, For the sexton sent us word of warning That the priest would be in the glen below." n. Quickly I rose, in mind delighted To find the old faith held so fast, That even in western wilds benighted My people still to the cross were clasp'd. in. We trod the forest's broken byway, "We burst through bush, and forded floods, Until we came to the valley's highway, Where stood St. Patrick's of the Woods. IV. A simple shed it was, but spacious, With ample entrance open wide; Where forest veterans, green and gracious, Stood sentinels at either side. v. And there, old friends with friends were meeting, And the last new-comer told his tale; And kindred kindred there were greeting, In the loving speech of the island Gael. % 352 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. VI. And here a group of anxious faces Were drawn around a bowering tree, While one, a reader, with sage grimaces Read from a record spread on his knee. Betimes I heard loud bursts of laughter At O'Connell's wit, from the eager throng, And then deep sighs would follow after Some verse of Moore's melodious song. VIII. Till at length the bell of the lowly altar Summou'd to prayer the scatter'd flock, And they moved with steps that would not falter If that summons led to the martyr's block. IX. I 've knelt in churches, new and ancient, In grand cathedrals betimes I 've stood, But never felt my soul such transport As in thine St. Patrick's of the Woods. THE BATTLE OF AYACHUCIIO. I. EARTH'S famous fields, how lost, how won, From first Time saw the unchanging sun O'er hostile ranks preside, The poet's voice hath given to fame But Ayachucho's glorious name Still sleeps on Andes' side. HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 353 II. "Where Condorkanki's battlement With the steep tropic sky is blent, The tide of war had roll'd. The Spanish tents along its base Look'd down upon a kindred race, By many wrongs made bold. in. La Serna from his tent, at morn Counted the Chilian host with scorn Scorn 'twere not wise to show; As condors close their wings, his flanks Drew up their far-distended ranks And swoop'd upon the foe. IV. Strange sight on Ayachucho's plain, Spain smiting down the sons of Spain, The nurslings of her breast ! Untaught by Britain's past defeat How Freedom guards her last retreat In the unfetter'd "West ! v. The Andes, with their crowns of snow, Crowns crested with the fiery glow Of the volcanic flood; The condor, sailing stiffly by, The oak trees struggling to the sky Beyond the palm-tree wood VI. These, Chili, were thy witnesses ! Long may 't be till scenes like this Thy mountains see again. 354 HISTORICAL AND LE&ENDAEY POEMS. But if, beneath the glowing Line, Such warfare must again be thine, God send thee more such men ! As bend and break before the shower The loaded wheat and scarlet flower, So broke the Spanish host ! As strikes the sail before the squall, I see the Viceroy's standard fall The day is won and lost ! VIII. A day is won that dates anew Thy story, Chili ! thine, Peru ! And, vast Pacific, thine ! By native skill and foreign aid Young Freedom hath securely made A lodgment at the Line I IX. Of Sucre's skill, O'Connor's aid, Cordova's flashing, ruddy blade, The Chilian muse will boast; And seldom can the muse essay The story of a nobler day Than that La Serna lost. x. The Andean echoes yet shall take The burden from De Sangre's lake Of the heroic lay And Conkorkanki's passes drear Age after age the tale shall hear Of Ayachucho's day ! HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 355 THE HAUNTED CASTLE. " How beautiful ! how beautiful !" cried out the children all, As the golden harvest evening's moon beamed down on Donegal; And its yellow light that danced along the Esker to the Bay, There tinged the roofless abbey's walls, here gilt the castle gray. " How beautiful ! how beautiful ! let us go hide and seek." Some run along the river's edge, some crouch beside the creek ; While two, more dauntless than the rest, climb o'er the Cas tle wall, And without note on horn or trump, parade the princely hall. Brave little boys, as bright as stars, beneath" the porch they pass'd, And paused just- where along the hall the keep its shadow cast; And, Heaven protect us ! there they saw a fire burning away, And, sitting in the ingle-nook, an ancient man and gray; He sat upon his stony seat like to another stone, And ever from his breast there broke a melancholy moan; But the little boys they feared him not, for they were two to one, And the man was stoop'd and aged, and sad to look upon. And he who was the eldest his mother called him Hugh Said, " Why for, sir, do you make moan, and wherefore do you rue ? 35C HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. Are you one of the old-time kings lang syne exiled to Spain, Like a linnet to its last year's nest, that here returns again ?" And the shape stood up and smiled, as the tiny voice he heard, And the tear that hung upon his cheek fell to his snowy beard. " My boys," he said, " come sit ye here beside me, until I Tell you why I haunt this hearth, and what so makes me sigh. " I am the Father of their Race the Cinnel-Connell's sire And therefore thus I watch their home, and kindle still their fire; For the mystic heat would perish amid a land of slaves, If it were not tended nightly by the spirits from their graves ; And here I still must keep my stand until the living are Deem'd meet to track the men of might along the fields of war; And, ah! my little men,'' he said, "my watch is very long, Unpromised of an early end, uncheer'd by friend or song. "And the present is embitter'd by the memories of old The bards and their delights, and the tales the gossips told; I remember me the ringing laughs and minstrelsic divine, That echoed here for Nial Grarv and Thorlogh of the Wine; I remember how brave Manus an early grave he met Traced the story here of Columb-cille, a tale surviving yet; And, oh ! I weep like Jacob, when of Joseph's death he heard, When I think upon you, young Hugh Roe, Tircounell's staff and sword ! " My boys, he was not thirty years of age, although his name Was spread all over Ireland upon the wings of fame; HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 357 Entrapp'd, imprison'd, frozen on Wicklow's wintry hills, He rose, he fought, he died afar, crowning our country's ills. Alas ! I cannot help but cry and you ! what, crying, too ? Indeed, it might melt iron hearts to think upon my Hugh. My boys, go home, remember him, and hasten to be men, That you may act, on Irish soil, his gallant part again." " How beautiful ! how beautiful !" cried out the children all, As the two boys clamber'd over the ancient castle wall; "Hun here run there take care take care;" but silently and slow To their humble homes, the little friends, hand in hand they go; And from that night they daily read, in all the quiet nooks About their homes, old Irish songs, and new-made Irish books; And many a walk, and many a talk, they had down by the Bay, Of the Spirit of the Castle Hall, and the words they heard him say. THE ABBEY BY LOUGH KEY."* I. PLEASANT it is in the summer time To sail upon Lough Key, Alone, or with a soul belov'd 'T is a lonely lough to see; But ah ! the ancient charm is fled, That charm 'd that lough for me ! it. Fair are the woods of Buckingham, And fair the islands all, 358 HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. And fair McDerrnot's castle is, Though nodding to its fall; But the ancient charm is fled away, Ah, me ! beyond recall. in. Of old, o'er Nature's fairest holds God's holy standard stood, The loveliest mirrors smiled to catch The image of the Eood; Then, many a cross-crown'd turret rose Around this spreading flood. IY. Then, many a cot was saved with prayer, And hail'd with holy cheer, And many a high-born penitent Was fain to labor here ; For holy names and holy deeds Then calendar'd the year. v. Full many a year sweet peace abode Beside the placid lake, And whoso claim'd the stranger's place For God's all-glorious sake, Was welcome still to stay his stay, And take what he would take. VI. Then on the evening traveller's ear Arose sweet chajint of psalm, Which all the forest list'ning to, Stood hush'd in cloistral calm, And the only airs that stirr'd abroad Whisper'd the dread " I AM." HISTORICAL AND LEGENDARY POEMS. 359 VII. Ah ! well-a-day ! the charm is fled No more across this flood, Shall traveller catch the solemn song Of Norbert's brotherhood; The pious peasant scarce can tell "Where once their convent stood ! VII. Yet though the years be fled in flocks, Six hundred years and more, I fancy yonder tree a tower, And there, along the shore, I see the Abbot Clarus pass, "With white-robed monks a score. IX. A prayer for Abbot Clarus, "Whose holy house stood here One of God's strongholds for the land, For many and many a year; For still Saint N orbert's brotherhood To Gael and Gaul were dear ! x. A prayer for Abbot Clarus McMailen, he who plann'd The house of the Blessed Trinity, Upon Lough Hey to stand Who here as guardian of the lake, Gave peace unto the land ! 360 HISTORICAL' AND LEGENDARY POEMS'. SAINT BEES. I. BKIGHT shone the joyful summer sun On Cumberland's dark shore, The wind had fail'd the fishermen And put them to the oar; The flippant swallow swept the shaw, The brown nuts bent the trees, "When, from the neighboring hill, I saw The village of Saint Bees. IT. " Who was Saint Bees ?" I asked of one "Who drove a lazy yoke. " Saint Bees," quoth he, " is that place yon: You '11 find 'em stiffish folk." " Who was Saint Bees ?" I asked again A squire in scarlet dress'd. " Who ?" echoed he " North Countrie men But little like a jest." in. I stood within the fontless porch, I paced the empty nave, The very verger of the church A false tradition gave. Hard by, a staring pile of brick (Or college, if you please) Had played the Saint the scurviest trick Had called itself Saint Bees. HISTORICAL AND LEGEND AET POEMS. 361 IV. A well-fed pedant in a train Of stuff (not train of thought), Who, like a great goose, strode before The gosling flock he taught, Said, stroking down his neckcloth white, That he, " In times like these, Must say that, being no Puseyite, He knew nought of Saint Bees." Was it for this, oh, virgin band, Your Irish home you left, And set, for heathen Cumberland, The life-spring in this cleft ? "Was it for this your vesper chant Charm'd all these savage seas ? Where is the fruit you strove to plant Along this shore, Saint Bees ? I could have borne the callous clown, The squire's chagrin amused, But the dullard in his cap and gown I from my heart abused. I wish'd that I had been his Pope, To put him on his knees, And make his fine pedantic gown An offering 1 to Saint Bees. POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. DIEFHON. FOR King Celeus in Eleusis, the evening board was spread, The monarch, with his youthful queen, sits at the table head ; The fairest fields of Attica for him their harvest bore, And generous was his royal heart and bountiful his store. A tiller of the land by day, a teacher by the hearth, When sunset seal'd his glorious book, the widespread, beauteous earth; No tangling purple trail'd behind his active limbs, no rod Of kingly show ere rnock'd his hand; no mimicry of God; His name through all Ionia was held in reverence meet, And blessings circled round his head, and prayers enthroned his feet. Metanira and her royal spouse sat at the table head, And the household and the guests are there for whom the board was spread; The wild boar, and the antler'd deer lie shorn of speed and strength, Along that royal banquet board stretched in their ample length; And the roof with ivy interlaced, and latticed with the vine, Hangs its clustering grapes above their heads, over their kindred wine; 366 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. And the thick-set pillars, either hand, are cover'd down with flowers, Which, on Ceplusus' bank late lured the wood-nymphs from their bowers. But where are the two royal sons of Metanira's womb ? Their vacant seats affront their sire why come the youths not home ? Triptolemus and Diephon were not wont to miss the feast; Gloom deepen's on the mother's brow as the evening shades increased. Lo ! they enter that long banquet-hall leading in a stranger- guest, A weary matron whom they found by the wayside taking rest; Then smiled the queenly mother her two kind boys to see, And the hospitable Celeus placed a son on either knee; And the weary matron by the queen is placed with honor meet, And maidens bear her water to cool her travel I'd feet; And Diephon from, his father's hand gave the ripe fruit of the vine; And Triptolemus flung his arms round a beaker fill'd with wine, And, in their artless, childish speech, which age can ne 'er translate, They press'd them on their matron friend, who bless'd them as she ate. King Celeus bade his guests farewell, the lady alone sits still, "When, lo ! what sudden glory the silent hall doth fill ? Aurora o 'er the mountains ne 'er loosed such golden flood As pour'd around the spot where the guest a goddess stood " Nay, Celeus," cried her silvery voice, " stoop not your head in fear ! Nor thou, O happy mother, Metanira ! but draw near And fear me not, my boys beloved ! 'tis Ceres calls you now; POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 367 Come to your guest, nor tremble at the halo on her brow, For blessed shall this household be, and blessed every one Thou, monarch ! and thou, mother ! Triptolemus, Diephon ! Beside the way I languish'd, ah me ! how wearily ! The fear of Pluto's darksome realm on my heart lay heavily; They found me as a woman, their kindness hath restored All the Immortal to my soul Metanira, hear my word : I will nurse thy boys until they grow of men the lordliest best, And their thirst for greatness shall be fed from Ceres' child less breast; They shall draw the pap's elixir that once fed Proserpine, And never yet had Attica such sons as these of thine!" Full thankful were the monarch and the mother for their sons, Through whose veins the immortal ichor already plenteous runs Their tow'ring forms and glowing eyes bespeak their fos terage rare, And fills their father's heart with hope, their mother's with new care; For beings cannot tenant Earth, if for Earth framed too finely, Nor this world's limits satisfy souls that aspire divinely And sadder Metanira grew, as, every day apace, Her sons walk'd godlier in thought, and heavenlier in grace; And she watch'd with stealthy constancy the goddess' every move, Lest she should bear away for aye the children of her love. Each evening at the twilight hour Ceres retired apart With the youths she loved, to work for them a rite's mys terious art; She sooth'd them to deep slumber, then spread a couch of flame, 3G8 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. There she nightly laid them till they less and less of earth became. Such is the art which still survives, such is the penal pain Through which the sons of earth to a spirit-life attain; But Metaniva, on an eve, this ordeal chanced to spy, It roused the human mother's fear, she raised a fearful cry The spell was broke, Diephon woke to perish in the fire. And Triptolemus scarce escaped for death more quick and dire; And Ceres, moaning piteously, forever passed away, And Celeus never saw her more, though he sought her many a day. Even 3'et Diephon's destiny tunes many an Attic lyre, How he perish'd earth-waked on the couch of purifying fire ! IIAXXIBAL'S VISION OF THE GODS OF CARTHAGE."* I. I SWEAR to thee, Silenus, 't was not an idle dream, When the gods of Carthage call'd me by the'Ebro's rushing stream, When I stood amid the council of the deities of Tyre And I felt a spirit on me, the spirit of my sire. ii. You know if I am fearful, yet I quiver' J when I saw The mighty form of Kronos, full of majesty and awe His glance was far and lifted, like one looking into space, When he turn'd it full upon me abash'd I hid my face. in. I heard the thrones communing in a language strange and high, Words of earth and words of heaven, in opinion and reply; POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 3G9 Names and actions all familiar, chei-ish'd secrets all untold, Were mingled in their councils with the unknown and the old. The prayer I pray'd at Gades, the boyish oath I swore The slaughter at Saguntum which slaked the thirsty shore, The tribes we smote at Tagus, all the actions of my youth Pasb'd bodily before me, till I trembled at their truth. v. Then a deity descended and touch'cTme with his hand, And I saw, outspread before me, the fair Italian land; Its interwoven valleys, where the vine and olive grow And the god who touch'd me, speaking, said gently, "Rise and go !" VI. But I knelt and gazed, as gazing I would have aye remain'd, This was the destined labor this was the task ordain'd As like a dragon breathing fire, I was loosed to overrun These gardens of ah 1 flowers, these cities of the Sun. VII. Where on snow-fed Eridanus the sacred poplars grieve, Where the artists of Etruria their spells and garments weave ; By a lake amid the mountains, by a gliding southern stream, Hosts and consuls fell before me I swear 'twas not a dream. VIII. We smote them with the sling, we smote them with the bow, Libyan and Numidian, and Iberian footmen slow; And the elephants of Ind, and the lances of the Gaul, Bore the standard of our Carthage, victorious over all. 370 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTOEY. I heard the voice of wailing, I heard the voice of Rome, Then I knew my day was waning, I knew my hour was come, For to me a bound is given by the gods whom I obey, And the wail of Rome must usher in the evening of my day. x. But I swear to thee, Silenus, since the vision of that night, When all the Tynan deities were given to my sight, I cast no look behind me, I nurse no weak desires For the lovely one I quitted, for the palace of my sires. XI. The daughter of Caluso, whose beauty thou hast seen, The ample halls of Barca, are as visions that have been ; The belov'd ancestral city, with its temples and its walls, Has no message which my spirit from its destiny recalls. XII. Beyond those peaks of crystal, my path lies on and on, Where the gods have drawn the channel there must the river run; For me, a tomb or triumph, exile or welcome home But the dragon of the vision must work its work at Rome ! THE ANSWER OF SI MO SIDES. " WHAT say'st thou ?" Unto Simonides King Hiero spake: " O thou wise ! Who yieldeth yonder orb its rays Who setteth the ni^ht-watch in the skies? POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. Who stirreth up this wondrous sea That waiteth here in Syracuse ? If thou hast read this mystery, I pray thee do not thy friend refuse !" " Of nights and days I ask for seven, King ! for this secret lies in heaven." n. Seven nights were pass'd and seven days, When thus again King Hiero said " I pray thee, wise Simonides, Hast thou our last week's riddle read ? 1 know thou art not rash to speak, Nor dost thou fear what may befall, That light will from thy darkness break Now who is God and Lord of all ?" But he answer'd : " Grant .me another seven T)ays, for this secret bides in heaven !" in. Seven days more were overpast, And Hiero sought the sage's cell, Assured the hour was come at last, The secret of the skies to tell; But he found the prophet worn and wan With travail, and vigil, and lonely thought; " It is not given to mortal man To find," he said, " that which I sought: Wherefore, if all life's days were given, O King, I still should ask for seven !" 372 POEMS ON GENEEAL HISTORY. THE JEWS IN BABYLON. [Psalm cxxxvi., verse i., "Upon the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept, and we remembered Sion ; v. ii. On the willows in the midst thereof we hung up our instruments ; v. iii. For there they, that led us into captivity, required of us the words of song. And they that carried us away said: ' Sing ye to us a hymn of the songs of Sion ;' v. iv. How shall we sing the songs of the Lord in a strange land ?" THE sun dwelt on the royal domes Of Babylon the great The captives sat upon the stones Without the water gate; The river through the willows rush'd, Where they their harps have hung 1 , For sorrow all their songs had hush'd And all their harps unstrung. ii. Forth came a thoughtless city throng, And round the mourners drew " Come, sing to us a Sion song, And string your harps anew ?" " Ah no, not so !" the captives said, " Not in a stranger land Song from our hearts is banished, And skill from every hand. in. " Jerusalem ! dear Jerusalem, Could thy sons sing or play, And thou that art all earth to them So fallen and far away ? POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 373 O, Sion ! may the tongue or hand That first forgets thee, rot If thou art fallen, our native land, Thou art not quite forgot." IV. The Babylonian troop are gone In thoughtful mood, away The rivers and their tears flow on, And none their grief gainsay: Their sad harps on the willows swing, Their lips in secret pray That yet in Sion they may sing Their native Sion lay. AN EASTERN LEGEND. , I. ONCE there was a Persian monarch, (So the Persian poets sing,) Aged, honor'd, great, religious, Every inch a man and king; Night and Morning were his subjects, North and South bow'd down the head, All went well within his palace, Till his only son fell dead. ii. Then his grief broke out in frenzy, On the floor he dash'd his crown, Tore his gray beard, in his madness, Call'd Grod's lightning impious down. 374 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. Till at length a Sage of sages, Who the Past and Future read, By command was brought before him, Order'd to restore the Dead ! in. And the Sage but stipulated This condition with the King, That three men who never suffer'd Sorrow, first they there should bring; Then the mighty monarch's servants Sought the three afar and long, But the happiest had known sorrow, Disappointment, loss, or wrong ! IV. Then the mighty Persian monarch,, (So the Persian poets sing,) Seeing sorrow universal, Felt himself again a king; Calmly for the path of duty Girded he his armor on, And perform'd his royal labors, Till, in time, he found his son. CALEB AND JOSHUA. [In the 13th and 14th chapters of the Book of Xumbers, the reader will find the history herein paraphrased.] I. WHEN Moses led the doubting host From Pharoah's power and Egypt's coast, God was his ally and his guide Through fordless floods and deserts wide; POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 375 Though years were spent and young men bent Famine in field, and feud in tent, The valiant Prophet and his band Believed and sought the Promised Land. ii. Now when in Pharan's sands they lay, Twelve were sent forth to seek the way, "Which through the thick of foemen lay; And ten returning, pale with dread, Show'd figs and grapes, but trembling said, ' A giant race of Enac's brood Possess'd the soil, where cities stood Mid brazen walls and towers so high, That whoso sought to take must die." P in. But two apart from all the rest Loudly the trembling tribes address'd: " The walls," they said, " and towers are high, But do not nearly reach the sky The men are men of mighty make; But, if we brethren courage take And trust in God and our own strength, "We'll win the Promised Land at length." IV. Above the camp there came a cloud, And forth from it, as thunder loud, A voice of power which swore, of men Alive, and in the desert then, The faithful two alone should tread The Land the Lord had promised. 376 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. V. Men have perish'd, years have flown, The faithful two survive alone, God's hostages to human sense, That faith is its own recompense. Caleb ! Joshua ! when will men Put trust in God, as ye did then ? NEW YOKE, 1849. THE MACCABEES. [" And every man said to his neigbor, ' If we shall all do as our brethren have done, and not fight against the heathen for our lives and our justifications, they will now quickly root us out of the earth.' " And they determined in that day, saying " Whosoever shall come up against us to fight on the Sabbath, we will fight against him, and we will not all die, as our brethren that were slain in the secret places." Maccabees, chap. II., v. 40, 41. DARKNESS o 'ershadow'd Israel all, Woe, and death, and lamentation; The Heathen walk'd on Sion's wall, The Temple all was desolation; A dumb demoniac shape of stone Was raised upon God's holy altar, Where children of the Faith kneel down, And fearful priests through false-rites falter. u. Buried the Book of God, the spirit Of Moses and of David gone Lost the traditions they inherit, Their Sabbath scoff d and spat upon; POKMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 377 Meek recusants, with bent necks bare, Besought swift death from lire and sword, Of all deliverance in despair. Died, rather than deny the Lord. in. But other men of hardier mood In Modin's mountains wander'd free, Their temple the o'erarching wood, The cave their solemn sanctuary ; Men Avho had sworn they would not die Like shambles-sheep a willing prey, Had sworn to meet the enemy Though he should come on Sabbath-day. Their chiefs were Judas Israel's shield, Her buckler, sword, and morning star; The first in every arduous field To bear the burden of the war; And Simon sage, the man of lore, Whose downcast eyes read coming signs; Who, from afar, could foes explore, And counteract their dark designs. v. Oh, valiant Assidean chiefs, How well your fathers' will ye wrought, How lifted Israel from her griefs, And bore her on your shields aloft; " She shall not perish !" so ye swore They shall not root us out of earth; Our fathers' God we dare adore, And rule the realm that p-avo us birth." 378 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. VI. Oh ! noble pair ! with aAvf ul odds Seron, Lysias, Nicanor, come ! Their trust is in their Syrian gods, Your firmer faith is in your own ! How valiantly, year after year, Ye gird your loins for warfare grand ! How proud at last your flag ye rear O'er your regenerated land ! O God ! I know an ancient race As sore oppress'd as Israel once, Fierce foes from earth would fain erase Our faithful fathers' filial sons; "Wilt Thou not grant us shield and sword For this last Maccabean war ? A Siinoa and a Judas, Lord ! Thy outlaw'd faithful to restore ? THE STAR OF THE MAGI AND OF BETHLEHEM. I. " WHENCE is the star that shineth so brightly ? 'Tis not of those that arise for us nightly Pale in its presence appearing all others, It looms like a first-born over its brothers." The herds of Arabia lay gather'd and sleeping, The sons of the shepherds their watches were keeping, "When the star of our faith all lustrous and tender, Fill'd the desert of grass with the sheen of its splendor. POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 379 III. Theu, in wonder and terror they ran to their seers, Wisest of men, in those primitive years, Ishmael's priests, the renown'd of Sabse, Who grew pale in the light that arose o'er Judea. IV. To their eyes, star-reveal'd, an angelical choir Fill'd the heavens with timbrel, and anthem, and lyre, And they heard through the calm of that marvellous morn, That the king, that the lion of Judah was born. v. Then the magi and lords of the desert arose, And gath'ring the myrrh in the Orient that grows, And the incense of Saba, in censer and coffer, And the virginal ore from the far mines of Ophir ! VI. By Jordan they sought the Messiah in Zion, The desert-born look'd for the trace of " the Lion " Dark, dark as Sinai enshrouded in thunder, Grew Herod, the king, at their tidings of wonder. VII. Again rose the star of the Orient, to guide them To the ox and the ass, and earth's Saviour beside them, "Where, child-like and weak, the Master of Ages Took tribute from Araby's princes and sages. VIII. So may God grant to us, amid all our demerit, The faith, love, and hope of the men of the desert, For us, as for them, dawns the marvellous morn, And the angels are singing " Lo ! Jesus is born." Christmas Eve, 1851. 380 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. VIII. RE -CONQUEST OF THE SPANISH LAND. I. MANY a day in summer time Ramiro, from the North, On the fair fields of the South impatiently look'd forth ; And in winter, when the torrents came like bandits leaping down- From their high Asturian homes, he avoided tower and town, And, scowling from some pathless pass, he spent the fruitless clay Counting the Moorish castles far beneath him as they lay. ii. By the altar of Saint Jago upon Christmas Eve he stood; Hoarsely thunder'd past the stream; wildly waved the naked wood. In the little mountain chapel King Ramiro knelt alone, When Saint Jago thus bespoke him. from his effigy of stone: " Ramiro, King Ramiro! thou who wouldst re-conquer Spain, You have allies in the winter, in the darkness, and the rain Strike when your foe is weakest, and you shall not strike in vain !" in. On the banks of the Douro there is darkness there is rain; On the banks of the Douro there is striking not in vain ! The eagles of the North, from their high Asturian nests, Are fasten'd on the Moslems, like falcons in their crests. On the domes of Compostello there is darkness -there is rain, .And bene.Vh feasts King Ramiro, the Deliverer of Spain. POEMS ON GENERAL HISTOEY. 381 THE VIRGIN MARY'S KNIGHT.^ A BALLAD OP THE CRUSADES. BENEATH the stars in Palestine seven knights discoursing stood, But not of warlike work to come, nor former fields of blood, Nor of the joy the pilgrims feel, prostrated fur, who see The hill where Christ's atoning blood pour'd down the penal tree ; Their theme was old, their theme was new, 'twas sweet and yet 'twas bitter, Of noble ladies left behind spoke cavalier and ritter, And eyes grew bright, and sighs arose from every iron breast, For a dear wife, or plighted maid, far in the widowed West. Toward the knights came Constantine, thrice noble by his birth, And ten times nobler than his blood, his high out-shining worth, His step was slow, his lips were moved, though not a word he spoke, Till a gallant lord of Lombardy his spell of silence broke. " What aileth thee, Constantine, that solitude you seek ? If counsel or if aid you need, we pray thee do but speak; Or dost thou mourn, like other/Veres, thy lady-love afar, W'hose image shineth nightly through yon European star ?" Then answer'd courteous Constantine, " Good Sir, in simple truth, I chose a gracious lady in the heydey of my youth, I wear her image on my heart, and when that heart is cold, The secret may be rifled thence, but never must be told. 382 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. For her I love and worship well by light of morn or even, I ne'er shall see my mistress deal', until we meet in heaven, But this believe, brave cavaliers, there never was but one Such lady as my holy love, beneath the blessed sun." He ceased, and pass'd with solemn step on to an olive grove, And kneeling there he prayed a prayer to the lady of his love, And many a cavalier whose lance had still maintained his own Beloved to reign without a peer, all earth's unequall'd one, Look'd tenderly on Constantine in camp and in the fight ; With wonder and with generous pride they raark'd the light ning light Of his fearless sword careering through the unbelievers' ranks, As angry Rhone sweeps off the vines that thicken on his banks. "He fears not death come when it will, he longeth for his love, And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells above. How should he fear for dying when his mistress dear is dead?" Thus often of Sir Constantine his watchful comrades said; Until it chanced from Sion wall the fatal arrow flew, That pierced the outworn armor of his faithful bosom through ; And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine As thy loyal comrades made for thee, beloved Constantine ! Beneath the royal tent the bier was guarded night and day, Where with a halo round his head the Christian champion lay; POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 383 That talisman upon his breast what may that marvel be "Which kept his ardent soul through life from every error free ? Approach ! behold ! nay, worship there the image of his love, The heavenly queen who reigneth all the sacred hosts above Nor wonder that around his bier there lingers such a light, For the spotless one that sleepeth, was the Blessed Virgin's Knight ! Written on Lady-day, 1853. COLUMBUS. A FRAGMENT. I. STAB of the Sea, to whom, age after age, The maiden kneels whose lover sails the sea Star, that the drowning death-pang can assuage, And shape the soul's course to eternity Mother of God, in Bethlehem's crib confined, Mother of God, to Egypt's realm exiled Thee do I ask to aid nay anxious mind, And make this book find favor with thy child ! n. Of one who lived and labor'd in thy ray, I would rehearse the striving and success Through the dense past I ne'er shall find my way Unless thou helpest, holy Comfortress ! A world of doubt and darkness to evade, An ocean all unknown to Christian kind Another world by natnre's self array'd, O'er the wide waste of waves, I seek to find ! 384 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. III. From Jesus death the fifteenth century's close "Was near at hand for all the elder world, "When sharp and ominous the Crescent rose On shores from which the Holy Cross was huiTd Constantine's city saw its banner torn, Its shrines all down, its people flying far Saw, year by year, the Moslem hosts return "With some fresh trophies of the Christian war. IV. No more the Red Cross in the West inflamed The valiant to the ancient enterprise No more Jerusalem, all pale and maiin'd, Bled, like its Lord, before the nation's eyes ! Godfrey and Richard in their armor slept, The sword of Tancred rusted, sheath'd in clay Europe still wept, but for herself she wept, And her grief wore not, in Time's course, away ! v. Rome trembled, like Jerusalem of old, The Tiber shrank at every eastern breeze; None in all Christendom was found so bold To seek the Sultan in his new-won seas; The Adriatic sky by day was dark, Italian galleys crept more close to shore; Venice, beneath the Lion of Saint Mark, Paid the Turk tribute, thankful 'twas not more ! VI. France gather'd in her limbs, like one benumb'd Beneath an icy and destructive sky, And once before the Crescent she succumb'd, And begg'd the peace she could not force or buy; POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 385 Albion, as yet disjointed and unbound, Slumber'd securely in the watery "West, One only champion Europe yet had found, One only arm to guard her naked breast. VII. Among the troubled Powers swart Spain arose, Arm'd and inspired, the battle's brunt to bear God's foes were hers, but even for heathen foes Her chivalry would open a career; Gentle, but faithful, constant to her creed, Buoyant amid the banners of the field, Grave in the council at the hour of need, Europe's true champion and Religion's shield. VIII. Two wedded sovereigns govern'd in Spain, He, from the North, as cautious and as cold She, from the South, of the more generous strain, Less bound in love of acres or of gold; Isabel, bright and generous as the spring That plants the primrose in the peasant's path, And Ferdinand, the sage but callous king, Whose muffled hand ne'er left the sign, of wrath. * * * # * * * SEBASTIAN CABOT TO HIS LADY. DEAR, my Lady, you will understand By these presents coming to your hand, "Written in the Hyperborean seas, ("Where my love for you doth never freeze,) Underneath a sky obscured with light, Albeit call'd of mariners the night, 386 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. That my thoughts are not of lands unknown, Or buried gold beneath the southern zone, But of a treasure dearer far to me, In a far isle of the sail-shadow'd sea. I ask'd the Sun but lately as he set, If my dear Lady in his course he met That she was matronly and passing tall, That her young brow cover'd deep thought withal, That her full eye was purer azure far Than his own sky, and brighter than a star ; That her kind hands were whiter than the snow That melted in the tepid tide below, That her light step was stately as her mind, Steadfast as Faith, and soft as summer wind ; Whether her cheek was pale, her eye was wet, And where and when my Lady dear he met ? And the Sun spoke not: next I ask'd the Wind Which lately left my native shores behind, If he had seen my Love the groves among, That round our home their guardian shelter Hung, If he had heard the voice of song arise From that dear roof beneath the eastern skies, If he had borne a prayer to heaven from thee For a lone ship and thy lone Lord at sea? And the Wind answer'd not, but fled amain, As if he fear'd my questioning again. Anon the Moon? the meek-faced minion rose, But nothing of my love could she disclose, Then my soul, moved by its strong will, trod back The shimmering vestige of our vessel's track, And I beheld you, darling, by our hearth. Gone was your girlish bloom and maiden mirth, POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 387 And Care's too early print was on the brow, Where I have seen the sunshine shamed ere now; And as unto your widow'd bed you pass'd, I saw no more tears blinded me at last. But mourn not, Mary, let no dismal dr.eam Darken the current of Hope's flowing stream; Trust Him who sets his stars on high to guide Us sinful sailors through the pathless tide, The God who feeds the myriads of the deep, And spreads the oozy couches where they sleep; The God who gave even me a perfect wife, The star, the lamp, the compass of my life, "Who will replace me on a tranquil shore, To live with Love and you for evermore. The watch is set, the tired sailors sleep, The star-eyed sky o'erhangs the dreamy deep No more, no more: I can no further write; Vain are my sighs, and weak my words this night; But kneeling here, amid the seething sea, I pray to God, my best beloved, for thee; And if that prayer be heard, as well it may, Our parting night shall have a glorious day. JACQUES C ARTIER. I. IN the seaport of Saint Malo, 'twas a smiling morn, in May, When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward snil'd away; lu the crowded old cathedral all the town were on their knees, For the eafe return of kinsmen from the undiscover'd seas; 388 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. And every autumn blast that swept o'er pinnacle and pier, Fill'd manly hearts with sorrow and gentle hearts with fear. n. A year pass'd o'er Saint Malo again came round the day When the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sail'd away; But i>o tidings from the absent had come the way they went, And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent; And manly hearts were fill'd with gloom, and gentle hearts with fear, "When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year. But the Earth is as the Future, it hath its hidden side, And the Captain of Saint Malo was rejoicing, in his pride, In the forests of the North while his townsmen mourn'd his loss He was rearing on Mount Royal the fleur-de-lis and cross; And when two months were over and added to the year, Saint Malo hail'd him home again, cheer answering to cheer. He told them of a region, hard, iron-bound and cold, Nor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold, Where the Avind from Thule freezes the word upon the lip, And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship; He told them of the frozen scene until they thrill'd with fear, And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make him better cheer. v. But when he changed the strain he told how soon is cast In early spring the fetters that hold the waters fast; POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 389 How the winter causeway, broken, is drifted out to sea, And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free ; How the magic wand of summer clad the landscape, to his eyes, Like the dry bones of the just, when they wake in Paradise. VI. He told them of the Algonquin braves the hunters of the wild, Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child; Of how, poor souls ! they fancy, in every living thing A spirit good or evil, that claims their worshipping; Of how they brought their sick and maim'd for him to breathe upon, And of the wonders wrought for them through the Gospel of St. John. 118 VII. He told them of the river whose mighty current gave Its freshness, for a hundred leagues, to Ocean's briny wave; He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight, What time he rear'd the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height, And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key, And they Avelcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils over sea. JACQUES CARTIER AND THE CHILD. I. WHEN Jacques Cartier return'd from his voyage to the west ward, All was uproar in Saint Malo and shouting of welcome Dear to his heart were the hail and the grasp of his towns men, 390 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. And dear to bis pride the favor and thanks of King Francis. But of all who drew nigh such was the cast of his nature A god-child beloved, he most delighted to answer On all the surmises that fill the fancy of children. " Tell me," she said, " what you found far away in the wood lands ; Say how you felt when you saw the savages standing Arm'd on the shore, and heard the first sound of their war- cry ? Were you afraid then ?" Quietly smiled the brave sailor " Nay, little daughter," he said, <: I was not afraid of the red men; But when I saw them, I sighed, alas ! for the bondage, The darkness that hangs over all the lost children of Adam. As I in the depths of their forests might wander and wander Deeper and deeper, and finding no outlet forever So they, in the old desolation of folly and error, Are lost to their kindred divine in mansions eternal. " And then, daughter dearest, I bless'd God in truth and in secret, That he had not suffer'd my lot to be with the heathen, But cast it in France among a people so Christian ; And then I bethought me, peradventure to me it is given To lead the vanguard of Truth to the inmost recesses Of this lost region of souls who know not the Gospel. And these were the thoughts I had far away in the wood lands, "When I saw the savages arm'd, and heard the roar of their war-cry," POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 391 VERSES IN HONOR OF MARGARET BOURGEOYS."* DARK is the light of Prophecy no heavenly dews distill On Sion's rock, on Jordan's vale, or Hermon's holy hill " Save us, Lord !" the Psalmist cries, pouring his soul's complaint; Save us, Lord ! in these our days, for Israel has no Saint. Not half so dark the sky of night, her starry hosts without, As the night-time of the nations when God's living lamps go out. But wondrous is the love of God ! who sends his shining host, From age to age, from race to race, from utmost coast to coast; And wondrous 'twas in our own land e'en on the spot we tread Ere yet the forest monarchs to the axe had bow'd the head, That in our very hour of dawn, a light for us was set, Here on the royal mountain's side, whose lustre guides us yet. 'Tis pleasant in the gay greenwood so all the poets sing To breathe the very breath of flowers, and hear the . sweet birds sing, 'Tis pleasant to shut out the world behind their curtain green, And live and laugh, or muse and pray, forgotten and unseen ; But men or angels seldom saw a sight to heaven more dear, Than Sister Margaret and her flock, upon our hillside here. From morn till eve, a hum arose, above the maple trees, A hum of harmony and praise from Sister Margaret's bees; 392 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. Egyptian hue and speech uncouth, grew fair and sweet, when won To sing the song of Mary, and to serve her Saviour Son ; The courier halted on his path, the sentry on his round, And bare-head bless'd the holy nun who made it holy ground. There carne a day of tempest, where all was peace before The Huron war-cry rang dismay on Hochelaga's shore Then in that day all men confess'd, with all man's humbled pride, How brave a heart, till God's good time, a convent serge may hide. The savage triumph'd o'er the saint a tiger in the fold But the mountain mission stands to-day ! the Huron's tale is told! Glory to God who sends his saints to all the ends of earth, "Wherever Adam's erring race have being or have birth, Glory to God who sheds his saints, our sunshine and our dew, Through all the realms and nations of the Old World and the New, Who perfumes the Pacific with his lily and his rose, Who sent his holy ones tob less and bloom amid our snows ! Dear Mother of our mountain home ! loved foundress of our school Pray for thy children that they keep thy every sacred rule, Beseech thy glorious Patron our Lady full of grace To guide and guard thy sisterhood and her who fills thy place, Thy other self to whom we know all glad obedience given As rendered to thyself will be repaid tenfold in heaven ! For thee, my Country ! many are the gifts God gives to thee, And glorious is thine aspect, from the sunset to the sea; POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 393 And many a cross is in thy midst, and many an altar fair, And many a place where men may lay the burden that they bear. Ah ! may it be thy crowning gift, the last as 'twas the first, To see thy children at the knee of Margaret Bourgeoys nursed. MONTREAL, October, 1865. "OUR LA DYE OF THE SNOW!" IF, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead Where, emblem of our holy creed, Canadian crosses glow There you may hear what here you read, And seek, in witness of the deed, Our Ladye of the Snow / 12 i. In the old times when France held sway From the Balize to Hudson's Bay O'er all the forest free, A noble Breton cavalier Had made his home for may a year Beside the Rivers Three. n. To tempest and to trouble proof, Eose in the wild his glitt'ring roof To every trav'ler dear; The Breton song, the Breton dance, The very atmosphere of France, Diffused a ^onerous cheer. 394 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. III. Strange sight that on those fields of snow The genial vine of Gaul should grow Despite the frigid sky ! Strange power of man's all-conqu'ring will, That here the hearty Frank can still A Frenchman live and die ! IV. The Seigneur's hair was ashen gray, But his good heart held holiday, As when, in youthful pride, He bared his shining blade before De Tracey's regiment on the shore Which France has glorified. v. Gay in the field, glad in the hall, The first at danger's frontier call, The humblest devotee Of God and of St. Catherine dear "Was the stout Breton cavalier Beside the Rivers Three. VI. When bleak December's chilly blast Fetter'd the flowing waters fast, And swept the frozen plain When, with a frighten'd cry, half heard, Far southward fled the Arctic bird, Proclaiming winter's reign. VII. His custom was, come foul, come fair, For Christmas duties to repair Unto the Ville Marie, POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 395 The city of the mount, which north Of tLe great Biver looketh forth, Across its sylvan sea. VIII. Fast fell the snow, and soft as sleep The hillocks look'd like frozen sheep, Like giants gray the hills The sailing pine seem'd canvas-spread With its white burden overhead, And marble hard the rills. A thick dull light where ray was none Of moon, or star, or cheerful sun, Obscurely show'd the way "While merrily upon the blast The jingling horse-bells, pattering fast, 'Timed the glad roundelay. Swift eve came on, and faster fell The winnow'd storm on ridge and dell, Effacing shape and sign Until the scene grew blank at last, As when some seamen from the mast Looks o'er the shoreless brine. XI. Nor marvel aught to find ere long In such a scene the death of song Upon the bravest lips The empty only could be loud When Nature fronts us in her shroud Beneath the sky's eclipse. 396 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTOEY. XII. Nor marvel more to find the steed, Though, famed for spirit and for speed, Drag on a painful pace With drooping crest, and faltering foot, And painful whine, the weary brute Seems conscious of disgrace. xm. Until he paused with mortal fear, Then plaintive sank upon the mere Stiff as a steed of stone In vain the master winds his horn, None, save the howling wolves forlorn Attend the dying roan. xiv. Sad was the heart and sore the plight Of the benumb'd, bewilder'd knight Now scrambling through the storm. At every step he sank apace The death-dew freezing on his face Iii vain each loud alarm ! xv. The torpid echoes of the rock Answer'd with one unearthly mock Of danger round about ! Then muffled in their snowy robes, Ketiriug sought their bleak abodes, And gave no second shout. XVI. Down on his knees himself he cast, Deeming that hour to be his last, Yet mindful of his faith POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 397 He pray'd St. Catherine and St. John, And our dear Ladye call'd upon For grace of happy death. XVII. When lo ! a light beneath the trees, "Which clank their brilliants in the breeze And lo ! a phantom fair, As God's in heaven ! by that bless'd light Our Lady's self rose to his sight In robes that spirits wear ! XVIII. Oh ! lovelier, lovelier far than pen, Or tongue, or art, or fancy's ken Can picture, was her face Gone was the sorrow of the sword, And the last passion of our Lord Had left no living trace ! XIX. As when the moon across the moor Points the lost peasant to his door, And glistens on his pane Or when along her trail of light Belated boatmen steer at night, A harbor to regain xx. So the warm radiance from her hands Unbind for him Death's icy bands, And nerve the sinking heart Her presence makes a perfect path. Ah ! he who such a helper hath May anywhere depart. 398 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. XXI. All trembling, as she onward smiled, Follow'd that Knight our mother mild, Vowing a grateful vow . Until far down the mountain gorge She led him to the antique forge, Where her own shrine stands now. xxir. If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead Where, emblem of our holy creed, Canadian crosses glow There you may hear what here you read, And seek, in witness of the deed, Our Ladrje of the Snow ! THE DEATH OF HUDSON. THE slayer Death is everywhere, and many a mask hath he, Many and awful are the shapes in which he sways the sea; Sometimes within a rocky aisle he lights his candle dim, And sits half-sheeted in the foam, chanting a funeral hymn; Full oft amid the roar of winds we hear his awful cry, Guiding the lightning to its prey through the beclouded sky ; Sometimes he hides 'neath Tropic waves, and, as the ship sails o'er, He holds her fast to the fiery sun, till the crew can breathe no more. There is no land so far away but he meeteth mankind there He liveth at the icy pole with the 'berg and the shaggy bear, He smileth from the southron capes like a May queen in her flowers, He falleth o'er the Indian seas, dissolved in summer showers; POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 399 But of all the sea-shapes he hath worn, may mariners never know Such fate as Heinrich Hudson found, in the labyrinths of snow 1Q1 The cold north seas' Columbus, whose bones lie far interr'd Under those frigid waters where no song was ever heard. 'Twas when he sail'd from Amsterdam, in the adventurous quest Of an ice-shored strait, through which to reach the far and fabled West; His dastard crew their thin blood chill'd beneath the Arctic sky- Combined against him in the night; his hands and feet they tie, And bind him in a helmless boat, on that dread sea to sail Ah, me ! an oarless, shadowy skiff, as a schoolboy's vessel frail. Seven sick men, and his only son, his comrades were to be, But ere they left the Crescent's side, the chief spoke, daunt- lessly : " Ho, mutineers ! I ask no act of kindness at your hands My fate I feel must steer me to Death's still-silent lands; But there is one man in my ship who sail'd with me of yore, By many a bay and headland of the New World's eastern shore ; From India's heats to Greenland's snows he dared to follow me, And is HE turn'd traitor too, is HE in league with ye ?" Uprose a voice from the mutineers, " Not I, my chief, not I I'll take my old place by your side, though all be sure to die." Before his chief could bid him back, he is standing at his side ; The cable's cut away they drift, over the midnight tide. 400 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. No word from any lip came forth, their strain'd eyes steadily glare At the vacant gloom, where late the ship had left them to despair. On the dark waters long was seen a line of foamy light It pass'd, like the hem of an angel's robe, away from their eager sight. Then each man grasp'd his fellow's hand, some sigh'd, but none could speak, While on, through pallid gloom, their boat drifts moaningly and weak. Seven sick men, dying, in a skiff five hundred leagues from shore ! Oh! never was such a crew afloat on this world's waves be fore ; Seven stricken forms, seven sinking hearts of seven short- breathing men, Drifting over the sharks' abodes, along to the white bear's den. Oh ! 'twas not there they could be nursed in homeliness and ease ! One short day heard seven bodies sink, whose souls God rest in peace ! The one who first expired had most to note the foam he made, And no one pray'd to be the last, though each the blow delay'd. Three still remain. " My son ! my sou ! hold up your head, my son Alas ! alas ! my faithful mate, I fear his life is gone." So spoke the trembling father two cold hands in his breast, Breathing upon his dead boy's face, all too soft to break his rest. POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 401 The roar of battle could not wake that sleeper from his sleep; The trusty sailor softly lets him down to the yawning deep; The fated father hid his face while this was being done, Still murmuring mournfully and low, " My son, my only son." Another night; uncheerily, beneath that heartless sky, The iceberg sheds its livid light upon them passing by, And each beholds the other's face, all spectre-like and wan, And even in that dread solitude man fear'd the eye of man ! Afar they hear the beating surge sound from the banks of frost, Many a hoar cape round about looms like a giant ghost, And, fast or slow, as they float on, they hear the bears on shore Trooping down to the icy strand, watching them evermore. The morning dawns; unto their eyes the light hath lost its cheer; Nor distant sail, nor drifting spar within their ken appeal*. Embay'd in ice the coffin-like boat sleeps on the waveless tide, Where rays of deathly-cold, cold light converge from every side. Slow crept the blood into their hearts, each manly pulse stood still, Huge haggard bears kept watch above on every dazzling hill. Anon the doom'd men were entranced, by the potent frigid air, And they dream, as drowning men have dreamt, of fields far off and fair. What phantoms fill'd each cheated brain, no mortal ever knew; What ancient storms they weather'd o'er, what seas explored anew; What vast designs for future days what home hope, or what fear There was no one 'mid the ice-lands to chronicle or hear. 402 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. So still they sat, the weird faced seals bethought them they were dead, . And each raised from the waters up his cautious wizard head, Then circled round the arrested boat, like vampires round a grave, Till frighted at their own resolve they plunged beneath the wave. Evening closed round the moveless boat, still sat entranced the twain, When lo ! the ice unlocks its arms, the tide pours in amain ! Away upon the streaming brine the feeble skiff is borne, The shaggy monsters howl behind their farewells all forlorn. The crashing ice, the current's roar, broke Hudson's fairy spell, But never more shall this world wake his comrade tried so well ! His brave heart's blood is chill'd for aye, yet shall its truth be told, When the memories of kings are worn from marble and from gold. Onward, onward, the helpless chief the dead man for his mate ! The shark far down in ocean's depth feels the passing of that freight, And bounding from his dread abyss, he snuffs the upper air, Then follows on the path it took, like lion from his lair. O God ! it Avas a fearful voyage and fearful company, Nor wonder that the stwut sea-chief quiver'd from brow to knee. Oh ! who would blame his manly heart, if e'en it quaked for fear, While whirl'd along on such a sea, with such attendant near ! POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 403 The shark hath found a readier prey, and turn'd him from the chase; The boat hath made another bay a drearier pausing place O'er arching piles of blue-veiu'd ice admitted to its still, White, fathomless waters, palsied like the doom'd man's fet- ter'd will. Powerless he sat that chief escaped so oft by sea and land Death breathing o'er him all so weak he could not lift a hand. Even his bloodless lips refused a last short prayer to speak, But angels listen at the heart when the voice of man is weak. His heart and eye were suppliant turn'd to the ocean's Lord on high, The Borealis lustres were gathering in the sky; From South and North, from East and "West, they cluster'd o'er the spot Where breathed his last the gallant chief whose grave man seeth not; They mark'd him die with steadfast gaze, as though in heaven there were A passion to behold how he the fearful fate would bear; They watch'd him through the livelong night these couriers of the sky, Then fled to tell the listening stars how 'twas they saw him die. He slcepeth where old Winter's realm no genial air invades, His spirit burneth bright in heaven among the glorious shades, Whose God-like doom on earth it was creation to unfold, Spanning this mighty orb of ours as through the spheres it roll'd. 404 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. His name is written on the deep, the rivers as they run Will bear it tirneward o'er the world, telling what he hath done; The story of his voyage to Death, amid the Arctic frosts, "Will be told by mourning mariners on earth's most distant coasts. THE LAUNCH OF THE GRIFFIN. I. WITHIN Cayuga's forest shade The stocks were set the keel was laid Wet with the nightly forest dew, The frame of that first vessel grew.' 22 Strange was the sight upon the brim Of the swift river, even to him The builder of the bark; To see its artificial lines Festoon'd with summer's sudden vines, Another New World's ark. ii. As rounds to ripeness manhood's schemes Out of 3'outh's fond, disjointed dreams, So ripen'd in her kindred wood That traveller of the untried flood. And often as the evening sun Grleam'd on the group, their labor done The Indian prowling out of sight Of corded friar and belted knight And smiled upon them as they smiled, The builders on the bark their child ! POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 4Q5 III. The hour has come: upon the stocks The masted hull already rocks The mallet in the master's hand Is poised to launch her from the land. Beside him, partner of his quest For the great river of the West, Stands the adventurous Eecollet Whose page records that anxions day. 123 To him the master would defer The final act he will not bear That any else than him who plann'd, Should launch " the Griffin " from the land. In courteous conflict they contend, The knight and priest, as friend with friend In that strange savage scene The swift blue river glides before, And still Niagara's awful roar Booms through the vistas green. IV. And now the mallet falls, stroke stroke On prop of pine and wedge of oak The vessel feels her way; The quick mechanics leap aside As, rushing downward to the tide, She dashes them with spray. The ready warp arrests her course, And holds her for a while perforce, While on her deck the merry crew Man every rope, loose every clew, And spread her canvas free. Away ! 'tis done ! the Griffin floats, First of Lake Erie's winged boats Her flag, the Fleur-de-lis. 406 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. Gun after gun proclaims the Lour, As nature yields to human power; And now upon the deeper calm The Indian hears the holy psalm Laudamus to the Lord of Hosts ! Whose name unknown on all their coasts, The inmost wilderness shall know, Wafted upon yon wings of snow That, sinking in the waters blue, Seem but some lake-bird lost to view. In old romance and fairy lays Its wondrous part the Griffin plays Grimly it guards the gloomy gate Seal'd by the strong behest of Fate Or, spreading its portentous wings, Wafts Virgil to the Court of Kings; And unto scenes as wondrous shall Thy Griffin bear thee, brave La Salle ! Thy winged steed shall stall where grows On Michigan the sweet wild rose; Lost in the mazes of St. Clair, Shall give thee hope amid despair, And bear thee past those isles of dread The Huron peoples with the dead, Where foot of savage never trod Within the precinct of his god; ISI And it may be thy lot to trace The footprints of the unknowji race 'Graved on Superior's iron shore, Which knows their very name no more. 1 ' 25 Through scenes so vast and wondrous shall POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. 407 Thy Griffin bear thee, brave La Salle True Wizard of the Wild ! whose art, Au eye of power, a knightly heart, A patient purpose silence-nursed', A high, enduring, saintly trust Are mighty spells we honor these, Columbus of the inland seas ! A PLEA FOE SPAIN. l. WHEN Asiatic plague and darkness, worse Than that which late appall'd the young and old, A cholera smiting souls, with Ishmael's curse, Torrent-like, from the gates of Mecca roll'd; A deluge from below ! it surged and spread O'er Salem, Syria, and the isles of Greece, Darkening the heavens, save where a symbol dread Its crescent rose to rob the West of peace. ii. From Jesus' death, the fifteen hundredth year, Beheld the panic of the Christian world Saw. like Death's ominous and fatal shear, Mahomet's moon on Stamboul's towers unfuii'd, Shrines beaten down, a people flying far, The Christian banner tremulous and torn, Saw, year on year, the Moslems to the war, With haughtier pride and mightier host return. in. No more the Red Cross in the West inflamed The valiant to the ancient enterprise In vain, Jerusalem, all pale and maim'd, Bled, like its Lord, a living sacrifice; 408 POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY. Godfrey and Richard in their armor slept, The sword of Tancred rusted in the clay Europe still wept, but for herself she wept, Her grief but deep'ning as Hope wore away ! Rome, menaced like Jerusalem of old, Kept open ear to every eastern breeze, None in all Christendom was there so bold To seek the Sultan in his new- won seas; The Adriatic capes by day were dark, Sardinian galleys crept in close to shore; Venice, beneath the Lion of Saint Mark, Paid the Turk tribute, thankful 'twas no more ! France gather'd in her limbs, like one benumb'd Beneath an icy and destructive sky, And once before the Crescent she succumb'd, And once she begg'd the peace she could not buy; Albion, as yet disjointed and unbound, Slumber'd securely in the watery West, One only champion Christendom had found, One only arm to guard her naked breast. VI. Among the troubled Powers swart Spain arose, Arm'd and inspired the battle's brunt to bear God's foes were Spain's but even to heathen foes Her chivalry would open a career ; Gentle and faithful constant to her creed Joyful amid the banners of the field, "Wisest in council at the hour of need, Ready to act as plan or sword or shield. POEMS ON GENERAL HISTORY 4Q9 V, Such then was Spain to Christendom. Oh ! shame That you and I should coldly here debate The tribute due to her, whose age of fame Bears, like a rock aloft, the Christian State ! Fitter the gather'd nations group'd around Should lay their annual garlands at her feet, Than thus and here conspirators be found To rob her of her last Atlantic seat. We are but young, and being young, must learn The past hath claims even as the present hath One eye through all things can a cause discern, One hand imperial holds the bolt of Wrath. A common reckoning through the ages runs, And thine, America, to Spain lies due; Arouse thee, then restrain thy eager sons, Nor let the Old World's story shame the New ! POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. THE PARTING. I. SAD the parting scene was, Mary ! By the yellow-flowing Foyle, Dark my days have been, and dreary, All this long, long while: Now the hermit of misfortune, In my rock I coldly dwell; In my ears are booming ever, " God be with you, love farewell !" n. Such the words your lips last utter'd Mistress of my wof ul heart ; 'TVas the first time you were pleasured, Thus in haste with me to part; For, behind, hot foes were pressing After him you loved so well; Sad and eager was our parting " God be with you, love farewell 1" in. Nightly, as through ocean's valleys, We held on our silent way, Memory brought the bitter chalice Despots fill'd for us that day; 414 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. In my exile still I drank it, Darkest gloom upon me fell Like a requiem, still rang round me " God be with you, love farewell !" IV. Daily gazing towards the eastward, Underneath the blinding sun, I am seeking for the dear ship Which should bring my chosen one; Daily do I count the white sails Looming o'er the long sea-swell When among them will my Mary Come to end our lonsf farewell ? THOUGHTS OF IRELAND. WRITTEN ON TUB RIVER HUDSON DURING THE SUMMER OF 1848. I. 'Tis summer in the green woods closely growing In valley and on hill-side's steep, Their shady awnings fringe the Hudson softly flowing O'er its sands to the engulfing deep. ii. 'Tis summer, and the brilliant birds are singing Songs of joy under Freedom's feckless sky, And mirth and plenty round me luxuriantly are springing, But they neither glad my heart nor eye. in. What more, to me, is the golden summer glowing, Without you, than the murkiness of March ? What, to me, is the Hudson grandly flowing Processional through its mountainous arch ? POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 415 rv. "Were we two in yon boat upon its current, Then, indeed, it had been a stream divine; Every ripple on its tide would bear an errand, Every rock along its shore be a shrine ! v. Joy dwelleth not for man in the external Pleasure cometh not to us from afar; True love it is that makes the very desert vernal, And lights the deepest darkness like a star. VI. In vain the summer spills its spikenard round me, Skies brighten and flow'rs bloom for me in vain; A parting and a memory hath so bound me, That I could bid the very birds refrain. VII. This surely is the noblest of new nations, And happy at their birth are its heirs; But for me, I still turn to the isle of desolations, Where the joys I felt outcounted all the cares. VIII. 'Tis summer in the woods where we together Have gather'd joy and garlands long ago The berries on the brier, the blossoms on the heather, The "Wicklow streams are singing as they flow. IX. There Nature worketh wonders less gigantic Man rears himself not there so sublime _ But still I would I were beyond the vast Atlantic, By your side in our own cloudy clime ! 416 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. X. But Grod, who decrees our joys and trials, Hath led us to this far new land Hath ordain'd for our good these self-denials, Let us bow beneath his Fatherly hand ! ST. KEVIN'S BED. I. DOST thou remember the dark lake, dearest, Where the sun never shines at noon ; Dost thou remember the Saint's bed, dearest, Carved in the hard, cold stone ? n. Dost thou remember the history, dearest, Of the Saint of the churches, Kevin ? Hard was his couch here, and desolate, deai'est, But his bed is now made in heaven. in. Dost thou remember the waterfall, dearest, Furrowing the rocks so gray ? So, through this stony scene the sainted one, dearest, Channell'd cut his onward way. IV. Out of the dark lake, saw ye not, dearest, Issue the light, laughing river ? So, from his cold couch, his soul went up, dearest, Like a new star, to God's sky, forever. v. Oh ! never forget we the dark lake, dearest, And the moral of tales told there ; So may our souls meet the Saint's soul, dearest, On the hills of the upper air ! POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 417 TO MARY IN IRELAND. WRITTEN ON MAY EVB. I. MARY, Mary, are you straying In our olden haunts alone ? In the meadows are you Maying, Where the other flowers have blown ? In the green lanes are you roaming, Where we chanted young Love's hymn? Do you think you see me coming, Through the evening shadows dim ? n. Do you think I'm happy, dearest, In the wondrous sights I see ? Ah ! when my new friends are nearest, Happiness is far from me ! Two things have I loved supremely, Two things that I cannot see Mother Ireland, fallen but queenly, Mother Ireland, Love, and thee. in. Oh, for one June day together, By the Ovoca's auburn tide ! Oh, to walk the empurpled heather, Mantling royal Lugduff 's side! On the mountain, still to heaven, Like its hermit, I could pray, 126 All my days if God had given To my heart but one such day. 418 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. IV. in the moonlight, groves that we know, Silent stand as sheeted ghosts; Where the fairies dance till cockcrow, Marshall'd in unbanished hosts. If you look forth from your lattice, At the star that squires the moon, Know the same star looketh at us, And shall see our union soon. v. Seas and storms may be between us Anger and neglect are not Time, too, rolls his tide between us, Vainly to the unforgot. For your dwelling I have builded Here, a home, my heart's delight; Hope the eaves and panes hath gilded, Freedom makes the landscape bright. VI. Groves as stately fill the far-sight, Walks as silent tempt the feet; Steering by the polar star-light, Night winds bear the fairy fleet; Fraught with dews, and sweets, and voices, Bound for every open heart; Mine, my love, almost rejoices Would, if you were here for part. VII. Courage, never fear the ocean, Summer winds and summer skies, Without clouds or wild commotion, Call you to me, westernwise; POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 419 Love shall be your pilot, dearest, Over the charmed summer sea; Love, who a new home hath builded, In the West, for you and me. A DEATH-SONG. I. TAKE me to your arms, beloved, Before that I am dead Let me feel your warm hand at my heart, Your breast beneath my head; For my very soul is gasping, And it fain would be away In the far land, where the spirits dwell, For ever and for aye. n. The cold tear on my chilly cheek For this world is not shed But, to think how lonely you will be When I, beloved, am dead. I'm thinking of you, sad and lone, Here staying joylessly, When I am cold as the white gravestone, Beneath the dripping tree. I little dream'd, beloved, When you woo'd me long ago In our own green land, I'd leave you So soon, and in such woe. 420 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. But, all ! my heart's delight, we'll meet Beneath the immortal hills, Where falleth never snow or sleet, Where entereth not earth's ills. IV. Oh ! hasten, darling, hasten, To follow after me, For in heaven I will be desolate, Until rejoin'd by thee. Now, take me to your arms, love, Before that I am dead Let me feel your warm hand at my heart, And your breast beneath my head; For my very soul is gasping, And fain would be away In the far land, where the spirits dwell, For ever and for aye. LIVE FOR LO VE. I. I LIVE not alone for living I woo not glory's prize, The world, I hold, worth giving For one beam from beauty's eyes; I never seek to clamber My brother men above I pay court in a lady's chamber, And reign in a lady's love. ii. Of gold I am not chary, In death's dawn it melts away, Like gifts of the night- trapp'd fairy, 127 In the gray, grim break of day ; POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 421 For power all power is hollow And like to it are they, Who, the bloodless phantom follow, Turning from love away. m. Oh, call it not " idle passion," Or, prostrate poet's dream Since Adam 't has been the fashion, Since Ossian 't has been the theme; In this dear girl before me The sum of my hope is set The Past and the Present o'er me, Foes, future, and all, I forget. IV. Let others rule in the Senate, Let others lead in war; And if they find pleasure in it, May it stand to them like a star; But give me a simple dwelling, Away from the crowd removed A bower by the waters welling, And you by my side, beloved. AV THE EXILE. I. No more to bless my soul, shall rise The joys of by-gone years; No more my unstrung harp replies To wordly hopes or fears. In mirkest night is lost the star, "Whose light my pathway led ; I am lonely, very lonely, Oh . would that I were dead. 422 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. II. No more along thy banks, sweet Foyle, My evening path shall lie; No more my Mary's love-lit face Shall meet my longing eye. All that could cheer my wayward soul, Like sunset tints hath fled; I am lonely, very lonely, Oh ! would that I were dead. in. Ah ! when the pleasant spring time came, Like bride bedeck'd with flowers, How blest, adown the hawthorn lane, We pass'd the twilight hours. My Mary, Heaven had call'd you then, Its light was round } r ou shed; I am lonely, very lonely, Oh ! would that I were dead. IV. Even then your words of love would blend With hopes of freedom's day, And whisper thus " No woman's love In slavish hearts should stay." The while, the wild rose in your hair, Scarce match'd your cheek's pure red ; I am lonely, very lonely, Oh ! would that I were dead. v. Oh ! that my stubborn heart should live Tbat dreadful moment through, When those bleak robes I raised, to give One parting kiss to you; POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 423 When there lay all my earthly joy, Array 'd for death's cold bed; I am lonely, very lonely, Oh ! would that I were dead. VI. Yes, Mary dear, thy earnest wish Is all that wakes me now: To haste the day, when slavery's blush Shall flee our country's brow; To toil, to strive, till free she'll rise, Then lay with thee my head; For I'm lonely, very lonely, And longing to be dead. TO MARY'S ANGEL. A VALENTINE. I. YE angels, to whom space is not, Who span the earth like light, Keep watch and ward around the spot Where dwells my heart's delight; And when my true love walks abroad, Spread roses in her path, And let the winds, round her abode, Subdue their wail and wrath. ii. Ye angels, ye were made to be To one another kind ; And she to whom I charge ye, see, Your sister is in mind; 424 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. As gentle as soft strains, as wild As zephyrs in their youth, As artless as a country child, The very word of truth. in. Ye guard the sailor far at sea, The hermit in his cell; Yet they are less alone than she Good angels, watch her well ! He who should be her guard and guide, Alas ! is far away; Ye spirits, leave not Mary's side, I charge ye, night or day ! LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. TO MARY D.* MY gentle friend, your father's guest Might not refuse your high behest, Even though it were a sterner task Your loveliness was pleased to ask. If one who once was "reverend " 1S8 may For his own special favorites pray, Then heaven will hoard its blessings up To pour them in your path and cup. Daily and hourly on your head The blessings of both worlds be shed ! May sorrow have 110 power to stay Beneath your roof a second day ! * The accomplished daughter of an Irish lawyer of Philadelphia, now the esti mable wife of a prominent New York physician. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 425 May every weed, and woe, and thorn Out of your destined path be torn ! May all for whose delight you live Pay back the bliss you're born to give ! But if, lite all earth's other flowers, You, too, shall have your chilly hours, May God sow stars thick through your night, And make your morrow doubly bright ! May Love still wait, a faithful page, Upon your grace from youth to age And may you crown the gifts of Love With peace that cometh from above ! Oh ! how I wish that I were old, That seventy years of beads I'd told That all my sins were quite forgiven, So that I might be heard in heaven Ah ! then these blessings, one by one, Should on your path of life be strown, And neither earth nor fiends should rend God's favors from you, gentle friend ! PHILADELPHIA, Nov. 26, 1848. I LOVE THEE, MAR Y! INTRODUCED IN AN IBISH LEGEND THE EVIL GUEST. I. I MAY reveal it to the night, Where lurks around no tattling fairy, With only stars and streams in sight I love, I love thee, Mary ! 426 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. II. Your smile to me is like the dawn New breaking on the trav'ller weary; My heart is, bird-like, to it drawn I love, I love thee, Mary ! in. Your voice is like the August wind, That of rich perfume is not chary, But leaves its sweetness long behind, As thou dost, lovely Mary ! IV. Your step is like the sweet, sweet spring That treads the flowers with feet so airy, And makes its green enchanted ring, As thou dost, where thou contest, Mary ! MEMENTO MORI. I. MY darling, in the land of dreams, of wonder and delight, I see you and sit by you, and woo you all the night, Under trees that glow like diamonds upon my aching sight, You are walking by my side in your wedding garments white. ii. My darling, my Mary, through the long Summer's day, Though many are the scenes I pass and devious be my way, You follow me forever, and I cannot turn away Oh ! who could turn from wife like mine in her wedding garments gay ? POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS, 427 III. My darling girl, it is a yew a year and little more Since I took you in my arms from your happy mother's door, I thought I loved you then that I knew you long before, But I know you ten times better now, and love you ten times more. IV. Yet 'tis not what the world calls " love," that for my love I feel, 'Tis pure as martyr's memory, and warm as convert's zeal, 'Tis a love that cannot be dispell'd by time, or chance, or steel, 'Tis eternal as my soul, and precious as its weal. v. Dear Mary, do not grieve if I am long away, There is an added twilight hour joined to my life's long day, To rest with you in peace, may God grant me, I pray, And to sleep beside you, darling, until the Judgment-day! MEMORIES. I LEFT two loves on a distant strand, One young, and fond, and fair, and bland; One fair, and old, and sadly grand My wedded wife and my native land. One tarrieth sad and seriously Beneath the roof that mine should be; One sitteth sibyl-like by the sea, Chanting a grave song mournfully. A little life I have not seen Lies by the heart that mine hath been; A cypress wreath darkles now, I ween, Upon the brow of my love in green. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. The mother and wife shall pass away, Her hands be dust, her lips be clay; But my other love on earth shall stay, And live in the life of a better day. Ei'e we were born my first love was, My sires were heirs to her holy cause; And she yet shall sit in the world's applause, A mother of men and blessed laws. I hope and strive the while I sigh, For I know my first love cannot die; From the chain of woes that loom so high Her reign shall reach to eternity. HOME THOUGHTS. IF will had wings, how fast I'd flee To the home of my heart o'er the seething sea ! If wishes were power, if words were spells, I'd be this hour where my own love dwells. My own love dwells in the storied land, Where the holy wells sleep in yellow sand; And the emerald lustre of Paradise beams Over homes that cluster round singing streams. I, sighing, alas ! exist alone My youth is as grass on an unsunn'd stone, Bright to the eye, but unfelt below As sunbeams that He over Arctic snow. My heart is a lamp that love must relight, Or the world's fire-damp will quench it quite; In the breast of my dear, my life-tide springs Oh ! I'd tarry none here, if will had wings. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 429 XI AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. . I. OH ! come to the flower-fields, Mary, Where the trees and grass are green, And the trace of Spring the fairy ! Is in emerald circles seen. For the stoiiy-streeted city Is not fit for your tiny feet; Oh ! come, in love, or in pity, And visit my calm retreat. H. Was never so green a glade For human heart's desire Was never so sweet a shade, Since the fall, and the sword of fire. The birds, of all plumage, here Are singing their lovingest song Oh ! that she stood list'ning near For whom my lone heart longs ! m. Fair Spring is the fond Earth's bride, That cometh all wreath'd in flowers; And he laughs by his lady's side, And leads her through endless bowers. My lady's the Spring to me, And her absence wintereth all - For others the hours may flee, On me like a mist theA' fall. 430 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. IV. Oh ! come to the flower-fields, Mary, Where the trees arid grass are green, And the trace of Spring the fairy ! Is iii emerald circles seen. For the stony-streeted* city Is not fit for your tiny feet ; Oh ! come, in love, or in pity, And visit my calm retreat ! THE DEATH- BED. UP amid the Ulster mountains, Oh, my brother ! Where the heath-bells fringe the fountains, Oh, my brother ! Like a light through darkness beaming, Like a well, in deserts streaming Like relief in dismal dreaming, I beheld her, oh, my brother ! Hair like midnight, eyes like morning, Oh, my brother ! Breaking on me without warning, Oh, my brother ! Shooting forth fire so resistless, That my heart is low and listless, And my eyes of Earth are wistless, Oh, my brother ! POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 431 III. Daily, nightly, I've been pining, Oh, my brother ! For those eyes like morning shining, Oh, my brother ! And that voice ! like music sighing O'er the beds of minstrels dying, 'Twas a voice there is no flying, Oh, my brother ! IV. Say not, hope oh ! rather listen, Oh, my brother ! When the evening dew-drops glisten, Oh, my brother ! On the grass above me growing, Strew my grave with blossoms blowing, Where that haunted fount is flowing, Oh, my brother ! v. Where her feet did print the heather, Oh, my brother ! Grace and goodness grow together, Oh, my brother ! Even yon wither'd wreath doth move me, Seems to say, she might have loved me Strew no other flowers above me, Oh, my brother ! 432 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. MEMENTO MORI. [To the memory of Nicholas S. Donnelly, of New York, who died of cholera when oil a visit at St. Louis, Mo., May 18, 1849.] HE sought the South in his early prime, Ere half the worth of his heart was known, While yet we thought oh, how many a time ! By the light of his life to guide our own. n. He went where " the Father of Waters " rolls His united waves to the gulf of the sea Where the Pestilent Spirit was showering souls Into the lap of Eternity. in. Like a mower, it swept the tropical South Of mead, and flower, and fruit, and thorn; The vested priest, with the prayer in his mouth, It took, and the infant newly born; IV. The bride at the altar it breathed upon, And the white flowers fell from her clammy brow; And the hand the ring had been just placed on, Blacken'd, and fell like a blasted bough. v. But of all the pestilence gather'd in, The noblest heart and truest hand, And the soul most free from stain of sin, Was thine, young guest of the southern land ! POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 433 VI. In him the fullness of manly sense, With the Christian's zeal, were finely blent; "While a tender, child-like innocence The charm of love to his friendship lent. VII. And he is dead, and pass'd away, And we have bow'd to the chast'ning rod; In holy earth we have placed his clay; His soul rests on the breast of God. VIII. Yet still sometimes we think we hear His quick, firm step, and laughter shrill; So fancy cheats the accustom'd ear, While the heart is bent to the Maker's wilL IX. Kest, brother, rest in your early grave; Best, dutiful son, our dearest, best In vain have we pray'd your life to save, But not in vain do we pray for your rest ! IN MEMORIAM. TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE LAMENTED BISHOP o'KEILLY. 129 WRITTEN FOR THE EXHIBITION OF THE NEW EAVEN CATHOLIC SCHOOLS. I. SHALL the soldier who marches to battle require, From the chief, his own time to advance and retire ? The choice of the foe, or the choice of the field, Or the spot where at last his life's blood he may yield ? 434 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Then, how weak would his trust be, how faint his belief, "Who could barter for favors with Christ for his chief ? How unworthy to follow our Lord would he be Who could fly from the tempest, or shrink from the sea ! n. Oh ! not such was his hope, as we saw him depart On the work of his Master not such was his heart His spirit was calm as the blue sky above For there dwelt the Lord of his life and his love; No terrors for him whisper'd over the wave, For he knew that the Master was mighty to save; The ocean to him was secure as the land, Since all things obey the Creator's command. IIT. How oft in the eve, o'er the sky-pointing spar, His eye must have turn'd to the luminous star; " 'Tis the star of the sea !" he would say, as he pray'd To Mary our Mother for comfort and aid. In the last fatal hour, when no succor was nigh, How blest was his lot, with such helper on high ! When the sordid grew lavish, the brave pale with fear, How happy for him, our dear Mother was near ! IV. Where the good ship hath perish'd, or how it befell, No man that beheld it, is living to tell All is darkness, all doubt, on the sea, on the shore, But we know we shall see our dear father no more. Ye cold capes of Greenland, oh ! heard you the sound ? The shout of the swimmer, the shriek of the drown'd ? Ye vapors that curtain Newfoundland's dark coast, Have you tidings for us, of our father that's lost? POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 435 V. We may question in vain; still respondeth the Power Almighty, " Man knows not the day nor the hour, He was Mine, and I took him why question ye Me, On the secrets I hide in My breast, like the sea Oh, ye children of faith ! why bewail ye the just ? That I have the spirit, and you, not the dust ! The dust what avails where the righteous may sleep, In the glades of the earth, or the glens of the deep ? TI. "When the trumpet shall sound, and the angel shall call, To the place of My presence, the centuries all The dust of the war-field shall rise in its might, Embattled to stand or to fall in My sight, And the waves shall be hid by the hosts they give forth, From the sands of the South to the snows of the North, And ye too shall be there ! there with him you deplore, To be Mine, if ye will it, when Time is NO MOKE !" CEAU MILLE FAILTHE, O'MEAGHEEl I. As from dawn in the morning, As relief comes through tears, Beyond hope, beyond warning Our lost star appears. Lo ! where it shines out, Our long-loved and wept star, Hark ! hark to the shout Cead mille failthe, O'Meagher !* * Pronounced O'Mar. 436 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. In the melee of duty Your }^oung light was lost, To the sad eyes of beauty What vigils you cost ! On the bronze cheeks of men, Where each tear leaves a scar, There was trace of you then Cead millefailthe, O'Meagher ! m. The fond spell is broken, The bonds are all broke, As of old, God hath spoken, You walk'd from the yoke ! May the guidance that passeth All eloquence far, Be thine through the future, Cead millefailthe, O'Meagher ! A MONODY ON THE DEATH OF GERALD GRIFFIN, Author of " The Collegians,'' " Gysippus," etc. Died at Cork, June 12, 1840, WHEN night surrounds the sun, and the day dies, Leaving to darkness for its hour the skies, Nought has the heart of man thence to deplore The day lived long, was fruitful, is no more; But when the hurricane at noon o'erspreads The orb divine, which life and gladness sheds, Or some disorder'd planet rolls between The sun and earth, darkling the verdant green, Eclipsing ocean, shadowing like a pall The busy town, men, discontented all, POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 437 By sea and land, anxiously pause and pray For the returning giver of the day So have bright spirits been eclipsed and lost, Forever dark, if by Death's shadow cross'd. In Munster's beauteous city died a man As 'twere but yesterday, whose course began In clouded and in cheerless morning guise Had climb'd the summit of his native skies, And, as he rose, brighter and fairer grew, Beneath his influence, every scene he knew. His country hail'd him as a Saviour, given To chronicle past times; when 'mid the heaven Of expectation and achievement, lo ! A monastery's gate, therein the Bard doth go, And sees the children of the poor around Feed on the knowledge elsewhere yet unfound. The Poet then, his former tasks foreswore, Yowing himself to charity evermore, Folded his wings of light cast his fresh bays aside- His friends beloved abjured, abjured his pride, There lived and labor'd, and there early died. Short was his day of labor, but its morn Prolific was of beauty; thoughts were born In his heart's secret spots, which grew, attended By a fine sense instinct and reason blended Till, like a spring, they spread his haunts with glory, O'er-arch'd their streams, upraised their hills in story, Fixed the broad Shannon in its course forever, And bade it flow for aye, a genius-haunted river. Ye men of Munster, guard his sleep serene 1 Spirits of such bright order are not seen 438 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. But once in generations. He was an echo, dwelling Amid your mountains, all their secrets telling, Their mem'ries, their traditions, and their wrongs, The story of their sins the music of their songs, Their tempests, and their terrors, and the forms They bring forth, impregnated by the storms. He knew the voices of your rivers, knew Every deep chasm they leap or murmur through, Blindfold, at midnight, by their sounds could tell Their names and their descent o'er cliff and dell. Oh ! men of Munster, since the ancient time, Ye have not met such loss as in this monk sublime ! The second summer's grass was on his grave, When to his memory Melpomene gave A laurel wreath wove from the self-same tree That shades Boccaccio's dust perennially; Fair were the smiles her mournful glances met In woman's lovely eyes, with heart's-dew wet, And many voices loudly cried, " Well done !" As the sad goddess crown'd her lifeless son. Oh, ever thus: Death strikes the gifted, then Come the worms inquests and the award of men ! Low in your grave, young Gerald Griffin, sleep; You never look'd on him who now doth weep Above your resting-place you never heard The voice that oft has echo'd every word Dropp'd from your pen of light sleep on, sleep on I would I knew you, yet not now you are gone ! Written during the Author's visit to Ireland, in March, 1855. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 439 CONSOLATION. MEN seek for treasure in the earth; Where I have buried mine, There never mortal eye shall pierce, Nor star nor lamp shall shine ! We know, my love, oh ! well we know, The secret treasure-spot, Yet must our tears forever fall, Because that they are not. n. How gladly would we give to light The ivory forehead fair The eye of heavenly-beaming blue, The clust'ring chestnut hair Yet look around this mournful scene Of daily earthly life, And could you wish them back to share Its sorrow and its strife ? in. If blessed angels stray to earth, And seek in vain a shrine, They needs must back return again Unto their source divine: All life obeys the unchanging law Of Him who took and gave, We count a glorious saint in heaven For each child in the grave. 440 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. IV. Look up, my love, look up, afar, And dry each bitter tear, Behold, three white-robed innocents At heaven's high gate appear ! For you and me and those we love, They smilingly await God grant we may be fit to join Those Angels of the Gate. MAE Y'S HEART. I KNOW one spot where springs a tide Of feeling pure as ever ran, The path of destiny beside, To bless and soothe the heart of man. By night and noon, be't dark or bright, That fountain plays its blessed part; And heaven looks happy at the sight Of Mary's heart ! of Mary's heart ! n. There's wealth, they say, in foreign climes, And fame for those who dare aspire, And who that does not sigh betimes For something better, nobler, higher ? But here is all a golden mine, A sea unsail'd, a tempting chart; These, all these may be, nay, are mine The wide, warm world of Mary's heart ! POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 441 HI. Blow as ye will, ye winds of fate, And let life's trials blackly lower; I know the garden and the gate, Ye cannot strip my roseate bower. That safe retreat I still can keep, Despite of envy's venom'd dart ; Despite of all life's storms, can sleep Securely lodged in Mary's heart ! IN MEMORIAM. RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. DIED AT THIBODEAUX, LA., JULY 5, 1862, AGED 40. I. THE early mower, heart-deep in the corn, Falls suddenly, to rise on earth no more The lark he startled carols to the morn, The field flowers blossom brightly as before Gay laughs the milkmaid to the shouting swain, Who calls the dead afar, but calls in vain. ii. Thus in the world's wide harvest-field doth life, Unconscious of the stricken heart, rejoice Thus through the city's thousand tones of strife The true friend misses but the single voice Thus, while the tale of death fills every mouth, For us there is but one, fallen in the South ! in. One that amid far other scenes and years Leal mem'ry still recalls full to our view, Ere life as yet had reached the time of tears When many hopes were garner'd in a few 442 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS Blithe was his jest in those fraternal days, Before we reach'd the parting of the ways. They were a band of brethren, richly graced "With all that most exalts the sons of men Youth, courage, honor, genius, wit, well-placed When shall we see their parallels again ? The very flower and fruitage of their age, Destined for duty's cross or glory's page. v. And he, our latest lost among them all, No rival had for strangely-blended powers All shapes of beauty waited at his call ; Soft Pity wept o'er Misery in showers, Or honest Laughter, leaping from the heart, Peal'd her wild note beyond the reach of Art. Out of that nature, mingled to the sun, Sprang fount and flower, the saving and the sweet ; The gleesome children to his knee would run, The helpless brute would twine about his feet For he was nature's heir, and all her host Knew their liege lord in him our latest lost ! VII. Meekly o'er all, the rare and priceless crown Of gentle, silent Pity he still wore Like sorn^e fair chapel in the midmost town, His busy heart was wholly at the core ; Deep there his virtues lay no eye could trace The Pharisee's prospectus in his face. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 443 VIII. Sleep well, O Bard ! too early from the field Of labor and of honor call'd away ; Sleep, like a hero, on your own good shield, Beneath the Shamrock,* wreath'd about the bay. Not doubtful is thy place among the host Whom fame and Erin love and mourn the most. IX. While leap on high, Ben Heder, the wild waves ; W'hile sweep the winds through storied Aherlow ; While Sidney's victims from their troubled graves O'er Mullaghmast, at midnight, come and go ; While Mercy's sisters kneel by Mercy's bed Thou art not dead, O Bard ! thou art not dead ! x. War's ruffian blast for very shame must cease, And Nature, pitiful, will clothe its graves And then, true lover of God's blessed peace, When earth has swallow'd up her vaunting braves, Thy gentle star shall shine along The path of ages, solaced by thy song. WORDS OF WELCOME. TO MRS. S , ON REVISITING MONTREAL. THE leaves of October are wither'd and dead, All our autumn's brief honors have faded or fled, But this season the saddest, our brightest shall be, For there's sunshine and gladness in welcoming thee ! We heed not how darkly the evening may lower, Round yon mountain, surcharged with the tempest or shower, * " SHAMROCK" was the nom de plume of Williams, in the Dublin Nation. 444 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. O'er the light in our breasts there's no shadow of grief, From the tree of our friendship there falls not a leaf. Your voice brings the perfume and promise of spring, And we strive to forget 'tis a voice on the wing, For never was May-time to poets more dear, Than these days of October since you have been here ; If evening falls swiftly it lengthens the night, While with music and legend we burnish it bright, The sole pang of sorrow our bosoms can know, Is how lately you came, and how soon you must go. Alas ! for this stern life, how far and how few Are the friends we can honor and cherish like you ! Yet that rivers and realms so cold and so wide, Such friends from each other long years should divide ! But a truce to reflection, a conge, to care, This weather within doors is joyously fair, Here's a toast ! fill it up ! let us drink it like men : " May we soon see our dear guest among us again ! MONTREAL, October 25, 18G1. T A FR I END IN A US TRALIA* OLD friend ! though distant far, Your image nightly shines upon my soul ; I yearn toward it as toward a star That points through darkness to the ancient pole. Out of my heart the longing wishes fly, As to some rapt Elias, Enoch, Seth ; Yours is another earth, another sky, And I I feel that distance is like death. * Charles Oavin Duff}-. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 445 Oh ! for one week amid the emerald fields, "Where the Avoca sings the song of Moore; Oh ! for the odor the brown heather yields, To glad the pilgrim's heart on Glenmalur L Yet is there still what meeting could not give, A joy most suited of all joys to last; For, ever in fair memory there must live The bright, unclouded picture of the past. Old friend ! the years wear on, and many cares And many sorrows both of us have known ; Time for us both a quiet couch prepares A couch like Jacob's, pillow'd with a stone. And oh ! when thus we sleep may we behold The angelic ladder of the Patriarch's dream; And may my feet upon its rungs of gold Yours follow, as of old, by hill and stream ! A DREAM OF YOUTH. I. the summer evening fadeth from golden into gray, And night, dark night, sets his watch upon the hill, A gentle shadow standeth in my secret path alway, And whispereth to my heart its fond words still. ii. "When the fleeing of the shadows foretells the coming light, And morn, merry morn, winds her horn on the hill, There glideth by my bed the shadow of the night, "Whispering to my heart its fond words still. 446 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. III. And dearer far to me is that shadow and that dream, Than all the grosser jo}-s our daily life can give; Tis a lesson and a blessing, far more than it doth seem, It will teach me how to die, as it teaches me to live. IV. 'Tis the memory of my youth, when my soul was free from stain, The memory of days spent at my mother's knee; 'Tis the language of my youth that thus speaks to me again Dear dream, do not desert me; dear shadow, do not flee WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN. I. THUS we repeat the wretched past, Thus press to give Our offerings at the tomb at last, Forget forgive All that was warring, erring, lost, In those who now Can lift no more among our host, Or voice, or brow ! n. Two nations in our land are found: One lowly laid A host, an audience under ground, Sons of the shade; And one a noisy, driftless throng, Heroes of the day "Who chorus still the spendthrift's song, "Live while ye may!" POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 447 III. Now with the dead, the just, the true, Let our thoughts be To them the tribute long time due Give willingly; And when ye name the names who most Deserve our praise, Was there his peer in Erin's host In latter days ? IV. Behold the man ! ye knew him well, Erect, austere Whose mind was as an hermit's cell, Whence purpose clear Sprang headlong, thoughtless for its source, A self-will'd stream, Embower'd on all its onward course By dream on dream ! v. Pride, cold as in the stiff-ribb'd rock, Was in his mould, And courage, which withstood the shock Of trials manifold ; And tenderness unto the few he loved, His all in all And fortitude in fiery furnace proved At honor's call. VI. But over these friend, lover, patriot, seer, Let us proclaim, His name to Erin ever shall be dear, For this is fame 448 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Justice o'er all the saving salt of earth, He still pursued Justice, the world's regenerate second birth, Its holy rood ! VII. Sleep, pilgrim, sleep, beneath that blessed sign Whose saving shade Shadows for man the mystic sun divine, For whom 'twas made; Sleep, stainless of a Christian land, Whose arts all just Thy witnesses before the judgment stand, So let us trust ! THE DEAD ANTIQUAR Y, O'DONOVAN. FAR are the Gaelic tribes, and wide Scatter'd round earth on every side For good or ill; They aim at all things, rise or fall, Succeed or perish but through all Love Erin still. Although a righteous Heaven decrees 'Twixt us and Erin stormy seas And barriers strong, Of care, and circumstance, and cost, Yet count not all your absent lost, Ob, land of song ! Above your roofs no star can rise That does not lighten in our eyes, Nor anv set POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 449 That ever shed a cheering beam On Irish hillside, street, or stream, That we forget. No artist wins a shining fame, Lifting aloft his nation's name High over all; No soldier falls, no poet dies, But underneath all foreign skies We mourn his fall ! And thus it comes that even I, Though weakly and unworthily, Am moved by grief To join the melancholy throng, And chant the sad entombing song Above the chief The foremost of the immortal band Who vow'd their lives to fatherland; Whose works remain To attest how constant, how sublime The warfare was they waged with time; How great the gain ! I would not do the dead such wrong; If graves could yield a growth of song Like flowers of May, Then Mangan from the tomb might raise One of his old resurgent lays But, well-a-day, He, close beside his early friend, By the stark shepherd safely penn'd, Sleeps out the night; 450 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. So his wierd numbers never more The sorrow of the isle shall pour In tones of might ! Tho' haply still by Liffey's side That mighty master must abide Who voiced our grief O'er Davis lost;* and him who gave His free frank tribute at the grave Of Erin's chief ;f Yet must it not be said that we Failed in the rites of minstrelsie, So dear to souls Like his whom lately death hath ta'en, Although the vast Atlantic main Between us rolls ! Too few, too few among our great, In camp or cloister, Church or State, Wrought as he wrought; Too few of all the brave we trace Among the champions of our race. His fortress was a nation wreck'd, His foes were falsehood, hate, neglect, His comrades few; His arsenal was weapon-bare, His flag-staff splinter'd in the air, Where nothing flew ! Had Sarsfield on Saint Mary's Tower More sense of weakness or of power, More cause to fear * Samuel Ferguson. t Denis Florence McCarthy, whose poem on the death of O'Connell was one of the noblest tributes paid to the memory of the great Tribune. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS, Weak walls, strong foes, the odds of fate, Than had our friend, more fortunate, The victor here ? Far through the morning mists he saw Up to what heights of dizzy awe His pathway led; A-bye what false Calypso caves, Amid what roar of angry waves, His sail to spread ! On, on he press'd, from rise of sun Until his early day was done, Strong in the truth; As dear to friends, as meek with foes At evening's wearied sudden close As in his youth. He toiled to make our story stand As from Time's reverent, runic hand It came, xindeck'd By fancies false, erect, alone, The monumental arctic stone Of ages wreck'd. Truth was his solitary test, His star, his chart, his east, his west; Nor is there aught In text, in ocean, or in mine, By chemist, seaman, or divine, More fondly sought. Not even our loved Apostle's name Could stand on ground of fabled fame Beyond appeal; 452 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. But never sceptic more sincere Labored to dissipate the fear That good men feel; The pious but unfounded fear That reason, in her high career Too much might dare; Some sacred legend, some renown Should overturn or trample down Beyond repair. "With gentle hand he rectified The errors of old bardic pride, And set aright The story of our devious past, And left it, as it now must last, Full in the light ! Beneath his hand we saw restored The tributes of the royal hoard, The dues appraised On every prince, and how repaid; The order kept, the boundaries made, The rites obey'd.* All tribes and customs, in our view, He had the art to raise anew On their own ground; But chief, the long Hy Nial line, We saw ascend, prevail, decline O'er Tara's mound. The throne of Cashel, too, he raised High on the rock its glory blazed, And, by its light, * The " Book of Rights.'' POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 4.53 The double dynasty we saw Decreed by Olliol Ollum's law, Emerge from night. Happy the life our scholar led Among the living and the dead Loving beloved Mid precious tomes, and gentle looks, The best of men and best of books, He daily moved. Kings that were dead two thousand years, Cross-bearing chiefs and pagan seers, He knew them all; And bards, whose very harps were dust, And saints, whose souls are with the just, Came at his call. For him the school refill'd the glen, The green rath bore its fort again, The Druid fled; Saint Kieran's coarb wrought and wrote, Saint Brendan launch'd his daring boat, And westward sped ! For him around lona's shore Cowl'd monks, like sea-birds, by the score, "Were on the wing, For North or South, to take their way Where God's appointed errand lay, To clown or king. He marshall'd Brian on the plain, Sail'd in the galleys of the Dane Earl Kichard, too, 454 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Fell Norman as he was, and fierce Of him and his he dared rehearse The story true. O'er all low limits still his mind Soar'd Catholic and unconfined, From malice free; On Irish soil he only saw One state, one people, and one law, One destiny ! Spirit of Justice ! Thou most dread Author divine, whose Book hath said The just man's seed Shall never fail for lack of bread, Oh, let the flock his labor fed, Thy mercy feed ! Inspire, oh Lord ! with bounteous hand> The magnates of the Irish land, That, being so moved, As fathers of the fatherless, They shield from danger and distress His well-beloved. Aud teach us, Father, who remain Filial dependents on that brain So deeply wrought; Teach us to travel day by day By honest paths, seeking alway The ends he sought! MONTREAL, January, 1862. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 455 SUE SUM COR DA. ["Those, however, who are aware of the crushing succession of domestic afflictions and of bodily infirmities with which it has pleased Providence to visit me during the last three years, will, I am sure, look with indulgent eyes on these defects, as well as on those concerning which 1 have already confessed and asked pardon." Mr. O'Curry's Preface to his "Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History."} HEALTH and comfort ! may thy sorrow Pass as lifts the mournful night. Bringing in the calm to-morrow, Thoughtful, dutiful, yet bright - Though the new-made graves should thicken, Though the empty chairs increase Still the wakeful soul must quicken, Still through labor seek for peace. If, oh friend ! in all our forest, Healing grew on herb or tree For the wound that grieves thee sorest, Surely I would send it thee ! But the healing branch hangs nearer, By thy seldom-idle hand, Draws the magic all the dearer From the core of fatherland. That which made thy youthful vision, That which made thy manhood's goal Over coldness, toil, derision, Bore thee, heart and fancy whole; That which was thy first ambition In the early, anxious past, By the Almighty's just provision, Is thy stay and strength at last. 456 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Turn for solace to those pages Where your hived-up lore we read, To that company of sages Who for you have lived indeed; Think of him who strove to smother In his books a noble's grief; Think of the poor footsore brother Of the Masters Four the chief ! Think what life the scald of Lecan Led, through evil penal days, Let his gentle spirit beckon Yours to render greater praise. Sad must be your fireside, only Sadder was the wayside inn "Where he perish'd, old and lonely, By the Letcher of Dunflin ! All who honor Erin, honor You with her, beloved friend ! Blessings we invoke upon her, Without limit, without end; Blessings of all saints in glory, We invoke for him who drew Old Egyptian seeds of story From the grave, to bloom anew ! Sursum Corda ! with the Masters Whom you love, your place must be, There no changes, no disasters, Ever can imperil you ! Happy age ! unstain'd, untarnish'd By one blot of blame or shame, Happy age ! protected, garnish'd, With a patriot-scholar's fame ! POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 457 EUGENE 0' CURRY. WE listen to each wind that blows The white ship to our yearning shore; We tremble as if secret foes, Or alien plagues, it wafted o'er. Instinct with fear, we seize upon The record of the latest lost, To find some friend forever gone, Some hope we held forever cross'd. Oh wretched world ! who would grow old Outlive the loving, generous, just See friendship's fervid heart all cold, Laid low and pulseless in the dust ! Who would ordain himself, in age, To be of all he loved, the heir, To linger on the starless stage, With all life's company elsewhere ? Give me again my harp of yew, In consecrated soil 'twas grown Shut out the day-star from my view, And leave me with the night alone ! The children of this modern land May deem our ancient custom vain; But aye responsive to my hand, The harp must pour the funeral strain. It was, of old, a sacred rite, A debt of honor freely paid To champions fallen in the fight, And scholars known in peaceful shade; 458 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Alas ! that rite should now be claim'd, O world ! for one we least can spare; Whose name by us was never named Without its meed of praise or prayer ! An Ollamh of the elect of old, Whose chairs were placed beside the king, Whose hounds, whose herds, whose gifts of gold, The later bards regretful sing; Ay ! there was magic in his speech, And in his wand the power to save, 130 This sole recorder on the beach Of all we've lost beneath the wave. Who are his mourners ? by the hearth His presence kindled, sad they sit, They dwell throughout the living earth, In homes his presence never lit; Where'er a Gaelic brother dwells, There heaven has heard for him a prayer Where'er an Irish maiden tells Her votive beads, his soul has share. Where, far or near, or west or east, Glistens the soggarth' s* sacred stole, There, from the true, unprompted priest, Shall rise a requiem for his soul. Such orisons like clouds shall rise From every realm beneath the sun, For where are now the shores or skies The Irish soggarth has not Avon ? Oh ! mortal tears will dry like rain, And mortal sighs pass like the breeze, And earthly prayers are often vain, E'en breathed amid the Mysteries; * Soggarth priest. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 459 Happy, alone, we hold the man Whose steps so righteously were trod, That, ere the judgment-act began, Had suppliants in the Saints of God. Arise, ye cloud-borne saints of old, In number like the polar flock Arise, ye just, whose tale is told On Shannon's side and Arran's rock, In number like the waves of seas, In glory like the stars of night Arise, ambrosial-laden bees That banquet through heaven's fields of light ! This mortal, tall'd to join your choir, Through every care, and every grief, Sought, with an antique soul of fire, O'er all, God's glory, first and chief. And next he sought, oh, sacred band ! Ye disinherited of heaven, To give you back your native land, To give it as it first was given ! No more the widow'd glen repines, No more the ruin'd cloister groans, Back on the tides have come the shrines, Lo ! we have heard the speech of stones; In the mid-watch when darkness reign'd, And sleepers slept, unseen his toil But heaven kept count of all he gain'd For ye, lords of the Holy Isle ! Plead for him, oh ye exiled saints ! Te outcasts of the iron time ! He heard on earth your mute complaints, He heard you with a zeal sublime; 460 POEMS OF TI1E AFFECTIONS. If venial error still attaints His spirit wrapt in penal fire, Plead for him, all ye pitying saints, And bear him to your blessed choir ! Let those who love, and lose him most, In their great sorrow comfort find ; Remembering how heaven's mighty host Were ever present to his mind; Descending on his grave at even May they the radiant phalanx see Such wondrous sight as once was given, In vision, to the rapt Culdee ! 131 May Angus of the festal lays, And Marian of the Apostle's hill, 132 And Tiernan of the Danish days, 133 And Adamnan and Columb-kill, Befriend his soul in every strait, Recite some good 'gainst every sin, Unfold at last the happy gate, And lead their scribe and Ollamh in ! WISHES. ADDRESSED TO MRS. J. S . I. WHAT shall we wish the friends we love, To wish them well ? That fortune ever may propitious prove, And honor bear the bell ? Or that the chast'ning hand of grief, If come it must, May spare the stem, Avhile scattering the leaf Low in the dust ! POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. II. Then let us wish our lov'd the youthful zest To wish them well That laughs with childhood, gladdens for the guest That loves to tell, With brow unshamed, the story of its youth, Its simple tale Proving a life well spent, leads on, in sooth, To old age, green and hale ! m. This life we lead in outward acts, 'tis known Is ill contained By heart and hand, not equipage alone Our goals are gained; Trappings and harness made for passing show, Are little worth, When halts the hearse, where all things human go, With earth to earth ! TO MR. KENNEDY, THE SCOTTISH MINSTREL, OX HIS REVISITING MONTREAL. I. FULL often we ponder'd, as distant you wander'd, If friends rose around you like light on the lea Earth's fragrance unsealing, fair prospects revealing, With welcome as loyal as wishes were free. ii. For the songs you had sung us were never forgotten, And your name among all our rejoicings would blend; Nor was it the Minstrel alone was remembered, Every verse seemed to breathe of the man and the friend. 462 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS III. May the promise of spring, and the fullness of summer, The burthen of many an old Scottish song 1 , Be before you wherever your duty may call you, And the fruits of your harvest remain with you long. IV. And when for repose in some hour you are sighing For even a Minstrel must pause in his strain To one point in the north, like the needle returning, May the magnet of friendship here have you remain ! IN MEMORIAL. [MARY ANN DEVANEY, a child of twelve years, daughter of the author's friend, Mr. L. Devaney of Montreal, lost her life while endeavoring to save two of her playmates who had been skating on the Welland Canal, at St. Catherine's, C. W., on Thursday, March 3, 1864.] LOST, lost to us on earth, O daughter dearest ! Torn, as by a whirlwind, swift away; Little we know, when morning's skies are clearest, What tempests may engulf the closing day! Who would have dreamt, as, down to that sad water, They met thee passing, buoyant as a bird, They'd see no more thy face, O angel daughter ! They'd hear no more the gentle voice they heard ! Mary, " a tear " is said to be in Hebrew ; Ah ! many a tear thy death to us hath cost ! But if all little maidens grew as she grew, They might be strangely absent never lost ! POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 463 No turf enwraps her, and no tomb incloses* The mortal frame, but far in other spheres Our little maiden gathers Heaven's bright roses, "Whose roots still widen, fed by human tears. Sorrow is mighty, but a mightier spirit Descends upon the household of the just, Saying " Pray to God, that dying, you inherit Her life of life, beyond the dust to dust! " THE PRIEST OF PERTIl.-f (Requiescat in pace. Amen.) A PKAYER FOR THE SOUL OF THE PRIEST OF PERTH. I. WE who sat at his cheerful hearth, Know the wisdom rare, of priceless worth He bears away from the face of the earth ; Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth ! n. Dead ! and his sun of life so high ! Dead ! with no cloud in all his sky ! Dead ! and it seems but yesterday When happy and hopeful he sail'd away, As Priest and Celt, to his double home, For Westport bay, and Eternal Rome; Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! God rest the soul of the Priest of Perth ! * The child's body was not recovered until the ice melted in the spring, t The Very Reverend JOIIN H. McDoxAGH, of Perth, C. \V.; Vicar-General of the Dix-ese of Kingston. 464 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. III. Yet there was a sign in his gracious sky, Up where the Cross he lifted high, Glow'd in the morn and evening light, Kiss'd by the reverent moon at night Glow'd through the vista'd northern pines, " That's Perth, where the Cross so brightly shines.' Many will say, as many have said, Bearing true tribute to the dead Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! Eest to the soul of the Priest of Perth ! IV. And there \vas the home he -loved to make So dear, for friend and kinsman's sake ; Oh, many a da,y, and many a year Will come for his mourners far and near, But never a friend more true or dear. Many a wreath of Canadian snow Will hide the gardens and gates we know; And many a spring will deck again His trees in all their leafy glory, But none shall ever bring back for men The smile, the song, the sinless story; The holy zeal that still presided, Which none encounter'd and derided That yielded not one fast or feast, One right or rubric of the priest; Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth ! v. A golden Priest, of the good old school, Fearless, and prompt, to lead and rule; POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 465 Freed of every taint of pride, But ready, aye ready, to chide or guide; Tenderly binding the bruised heart, Sparing no sin its penal smart; His will was as the granite rock To the prowler menacing his flock; But never lichen or wild-flower grew On rocky ground, more fair to view Than his charity was to all he knew; Laying the outlines deep and broad Of an infant church, he daily trod His path in the visible sight of God; Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth I VI. O Saints of God ! ye who await Your beloved by the Beautiful Gate ! Ye Saints who people his native shore Beloved Saint John, whose name he bore And ye, Apostles ! unto whom He pray'd, a pilgrim, by your tomb And thou ! O Queen of Heaven and Earth ! Receive receive the Priest of Perth ! EDWARD WEE LAN. DIED DECEMBER 10, 1867, AGED 43. I. BY this dread line of light, Rises upon my sight, Borne up the churchyard white, The dead! 'mid the bearers; 4(J6 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Sharply the cold clods rung Silent for aye that tongue On which delighted hung Myriads of hearers ! n. Still, still, oh hopeful heart ! Cold as the clod, thou art, All, save the Saviour's part, All that was mortal; Rest for the teeming brain, Rest besought not in vain, When into God's domain Open'd life's portal ! in. Well for thee in this hour, That in thy mood of power, Truth was still nearest; Better than babbling fame That clear unspotted name, Honor's perennial claim, Left to thy dearest ! IV. Long may the island home* Look for thy like to come Few may she ever Find more deserving trust, Freer from thoughts unjust, Than this heart in the dust At rest and forever ! * Newfoundland, -which island Mr. Whelan represented in an official delega tion to Canada only a few months before his lamented death. ED. POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 467 REQUIEM LAWRENCE DEVANEY, DIED MAKCH 3, 1868. I. SAINT VICTOR'S DAY, a day of woe, The bier that bore our dead went slow And silent, sliding o'er the snow Miserere, Domine ! n. With Villa Maria's faithful dead, Among the just we made his bed, The cross he loved, to shield his head Miserere, Domine! m. The skies may lower, wild storms may rave Above our comrade's mountain grave, That cross is mighty still to save Miserere, Domine ! IV. Deaf to the calls of love and care, He bears no more his mortal share, Nought can avail him now but prayer Miserere, Domine ! v. To such a heart who could refuse Just payment of all burial dues, Of Holy Church the rite and use ? Miserere, Domine ! * Just one month after this poem was written, the author met his death by the assassin's hand. 468 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. VI. Right solemnly the Mass was said, While burn'd the tapers round the dead, And manly tears like rain were shed Miserere, Domine ! VII. No more Saint Patrick's aisles prolong The burden of his funeral song, His noiseless night must now be long Miserere, Domine ! VIII. Up from the depths we heard arise A prayer of pity to the skies, To him who dooms, or justifies Miserere, Domine ! IX. Down from the skies we heard descend The promises the Psalmist penn'd, The benedictions without end Miserere, Domine ! x. Mighty our Holy Church's will To shield her parting souls from ill; Jealous of Death, she guards them still Miserere, Domine ! xr. The dearest friend will turn away, And leave the clay to keep the clay; Ever and ever she will stay Miserere, Domine ! POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 469 XII. When for us sinners, at our need, That mother's voice is raised to plead, The frontier hosts of heaven take heed Miserere, Domine ! XIII. Mother of Love ! Mother of Fear ! And holy Hope, and Wisdom dear, Behold we bring thy suppliant here Miserere, Domine! XIV. His flaming heart is still for aye, That held fast by thy clemency, Oh ! look on him with loving eye Miserere, Domine ! xv. His Faith was as the tested gold, His Hope assured, not overbold, His Charities past count, untold Miserere, Domine ! XVI.. Well may they grieve who laid him there, Where shall they find his equal where ? Nought can avail him now but prayer Miserere, Domine! XVII. Friend of my soul, farewell to thee ! Thy truth, thy trust, thy chivalry; As thine, so may my last end be ! Miserere, Domine ! SAINT VICTOR'S DAY (March C). MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MY ROUND TABLE. Kixo ARTHUR, at his Table Round, had never knightlier guests, Nor Charles' Paladins such store of love-tales and of jests; The choicest spirits of the earth cross over land and sea, And blow their horns at my gate, and stall their steeds with me. Then fail me not, my trusty friend, be sure fail not to come, And your fellow-guests shall be the best, and boast of Chris tendom. ii. Sir Sherry, from the Xeres side, here hangs his Spanish sword, And humorous, though grave, he sits, and sparkles at my board; From Malaga of the Moors, and Oporio by the sea, Two gentlemen of kindred blood came in his company. Then fail me not, my trusty friend, be sure fail not to come, And your fellow-guests shall be the best, and boast of Chris tendom. in. A glowing Greek from Cypress came by way of Italy, And brings with him his tender spouse, Signora Lachrymse; Oh ! thrillirg are the tales he tells of far historic lands, Where once with demi-gods he fought, amid Homeric bands. 474 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Then fail me not, my trusty friend, be sure fail not to come, And your fellow-guests shall be the best, and boast of Chris tendom. And here we have, arrived last night, the gold-encased Magyar, Sir Tokay, from the Danube bank, renown'd in love and war. He telleth of three Bhinegraves, all men of name and fame, He pass'd chanting a drinking-song as hitherward he came; Then fail me not, my trusty friend, be sure fail not to come, And your fellow-guests shall be the best, and boast of Chris tendom. Our former friends will all be here the gifted and the good, The deputies of the Gironde, with nectar in their blood ; The soul of France had ne'er been stain'd with the sins of '93, If Robespierre had caught from them their high humanity. Then fail me not, my trusty friend, be sure fail not to come, And your fellow-guests shall be the best, and boast of Chris tendom. VI. And she we love the best shall sit in her accustom'd place, Lending to joy new pinions, to friendship's self new grace; And our hearts will leap like schoolboys' in the sunshine of her smile, A.nd nought in tale or thought shall stain our sinless mirth the while. Then fail me not, my trusty friend, be sure fail not to come, And our fellow-guests shall be the best, and boast of Chris tendom. NEW YEAR'S ETE, 184S. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 475 THE ROMANCE OF A HAND. " I see a hand you cannot see." Tickle. I. I REMEMBER me a hand that I play'd with long ago It was warm as milk, and soft as silk, and white as driven snow It petted me and fretted me by times my joy and bane TJie lovely little hand of my lovely cousin Jane. IT. It beckon'd me to manly deeds over sea and land By night and day, I swear it, I was haunted by that hand; Like the visitor of Priam, in the midwatch of the night, It drew my curtains open and let in the dreamy light. in. Return'd from lands afar, I sought my cousin Jane She grasp'd me by the hand that was now indeed my bane, For on the third-told finger who'd have thought of such a thing ? Of the hand that once was mine, coil'd a horrid yellow ring. IV. Oh, cousin, cousin Jane ! how alter'd was that hand And the form it belong'd to, through that golden circle scann'd, Indicative of orange wreaths, cradles, custards, nurses, babies, The daguerreotype's original, and many other may be's. 476 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS THE STUDENT'S LUCKLESS LOVE. I. BEAVE was young Hugh, and cheerful, When I met him first, in May; Dim was his eye, and tearful, When last he cross'd my way; And I knew, though no word was spoken, Though no tear was seen to fah 1 , That the young heart of Hugh was broken, That he heard Death's distant call. n. It was not the toil of study That furrow'd his fair white brow, For when his cheek was ruddy He prized books more than now. 'Twas not the chill October, With its cloud of wither'd weeds, That darken'd his spirit over, And shook his frame like the reeds. in. But when we met at May-day, Though earth and heaven were bright, 'Twas the loving look of his lady That fill'd his heart with light. And now Death's clammy charnel Houseth that lady dear, And he sees but dock and darnel, And Death alone doth he hear. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 477 IV. Thick, and .soft, and stainless Falleth the snow abroad, Where pulseless all and painless, Lieth the funeral load; White plumes are nodding fairly The dark, dim hearse above " Whom the gods love die early," And, alas ! they die of love. THE MOUNT A IN- LAUREL. i. FAR upon the sunny mountain, laurel groves were growing, Silently adown the river came a hot youth, rowing; Looking up, afar he spied The green groves on the mountain side Quoth the youth, and fondly sigh'd, "I'll pluck your plumes, and sail anon, fair the wind is blowing !" n. Landing, then, he took his way to where the groves were growing; Far he travell'd, all the morn, from the calm stream flowing; In the sultry June noontide, He reach'd the groves he had espied, And sat down on the mountain side; " Sing the snowy, plumy laurels, laurels gaily blowing !" in. Sat and slept within the groves of laurels bright and blowing, Oh ! the deadly laurel-tree, with flowering poison glowing ! 478 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Down they fell on lip and brain, Oh ! that odorous, deadly rain ! He never shall return again To his boat, upon the stream afar, so calm and gently flowing ! DARK BLUE EYES. STRANGE that Nature's loveliness, Should conceal destructiveness; Pestilence in Indian bowers, Serpents 'mid Italian flowers, Stranger still the woe that lies In a pair of dark blue eyes ! In my dreams they hover o'er me, In my walks they go before me, Eead I cannot while there dances O'er the page, one of those glances; Musing upward on the skies There I find those dark blue eyes ! Woe is me ! those orbs of ether Can I win, or banish, neither ! Never to be mine, and never To be banish'd by endeavor; Still my peace delusive flies Before those haunting dark blue eyes ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 479 THE LOED AND THE PEASANT. AN ALLEGORICAL BALLAD. I. A BAKON lived in Lombardy, Whose granaries might feed a nation, And fair his castle was to see As any monarch's habitation. But of its chambers there was one Whose inside ne'er had seen the light ; Young and old did that chamber shun As the dread haunt of crime and night. ii. At length this lord, more skeptic than His long-descended Gothic fathers, Resolved to test the tale that ran, And round him many a wise man gathers. The priest he pray'd that bolts and locks Might fly asunder, and the devil Respect the ritual orthodox, And leave, at once, his stronghold evil. An alchemist drew forth a vial, Containing something which he swore Would ope it wide on instant trial, If mortal hand had made the door. The prayer was pray'd the liquid tried The iron door remain'd unmoved; A clown stepp'd to the baron's side, And craves a boon; the boon's approved. 480 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. IV. Forth stalks he with an iron lever "Hold!" cries the priest; "rash man, depart!" " Great heavens !" cries the sage, " was ever Such outrage shown to mystic art !" In vain they talk ; his lusty strength, Upon the bar the peasant plies, Burst wide the stubborn door at length, And countless treasures greet their eyes ! v. "By Holy Rood!" the baron said, " My prince of clowns, thy bar shall be Into a golden one transform'd, For this great gain thou bringest me !" " Nay, lord !" replied the brave explorer, " I labor not for mortal meeds, Truth whose hard task 'tis to discover A truer, rougher lever needs !" IRISH PRO VERBS. FROM the mounds, where altars In the old time stood, Where the pilgrim-scholar Treads the Druid's wood; From the mountains holy, Crown'd with hermits' homes, From the far off Erin, "Wisdom's voice still comes. Time, beside his hour-glass And his scythe, still brings MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 481 Proverbs, far more precious Than the gift of kings : Mark the solemn ancient, Chanting, as he passes, Truths as keen as scythe-blades, Morals clear as glasses: "Young men, old men, listen To the sage's word, Still 'tis worth the hearing, Though so often heard; Hear the earliest proverb, Time-tried, trusty yet 'Doors of hope fly open, When doors of promise shut.' " Young men, old men, trust in "What the sages say ' When the night looks blackest, We are nearest day;' Take this creed, and keep it, Ever firm and fast That 'long withheld reckoning Surely comes at last.' " Young men, old men, wisely Journeying o'er life's path, Know that ' soft words ever Break the heart in wrath;' Waste not time in wishing, ' Gather tears or gravel In life's creels, and see which Fills, as on you travel.' " Young men, old men, humbly Bow your hearts to God ; 482 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Bear up under trials ' The back is for the load;' ' Censure others slowly' ' Praise them not in haste' ' Give the bridge due credit, When the river's past.' " From the mounds, where altars In the old time stood, Where the pilgrim-scholar Treads the Druid's wood; From the mountains holy, Crown'd with hermits' homes, From the far off Erin, Wisdom's voice still comes. "LOUGH DERG." A RECOLLECTION OF DONEGAL. I. IN a girdle of green, heathy hills, In song-famed Donegal, An islet stands in a lonely 7 lake, (A coffin in a pall), A single stunted chesnut tree Is sighing in the breeze, While to and fro "the Pilgrims" flit, Or kneel upon their knees; Down to the shore, from North and East, From Antrim and the Rosses, Come barefoot pilgrims, men and maids, Through water-ways and mosses; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 483 And some from Dublin city, far, Where sins grow thick as berries, From Sligo some, and Castlebar, Come crossing by the ferries. u. Oh ! blessed Isle, a weary wight, In body and in spirit, Last year amid your pious ranks Deplored his deep demerit ; And though upon his youth had fall'n A watchful tyrant's ban, Though sorrow for the unfought fight, And grief for the captive man, * Peopled his soul, like visions That cloud a crystal sleep, These sorrows there pass'd from him 'Twas his sins that made him weep. And forth he went, confess'd, forgiven, Across the heathy hills, His peace being made in heaven, He laugh'd at earthly ills. in. Oh ! holy Isle, a ransom'd man On a far distant shore, Still in his day-dreams and his sleep Sits by the boatman's oar; And crosses to your stony beach And kneels upon his knees, While overhead the chesnut-tree Is sighing in the breeze; * Charles Gavin Duffy 484 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And still he hears his people pray- In their own old Celtic tongue, And still he sees the unbroken race Froni Con and Nial sprung; And from departing voices hears The thankful hymn arise That hymn will haunt him all his years, And soothe him when he dies. IV. Oh, would you know the power of faith, Go ! see it at Lough Derg; Oh, would you learn to smile at Death, Go ! learn it at Lough Derg; A fragment fallen from ancient Time, It floateth there unchanged, The Island of all Islands, If the whole wide world were ranged. There mourning men and thoughtful girls, Sins from their souls unbind; There thin gray hairs and childish curls Are streaming in the wind; From May till August, night and day, There praying pilgrims bide Oh, man hath no such refuge left, In all the world wide ! THE MAN OF THE NORTH COUNTRIE. HE came from the North, and his words were few, But his voice was kind and his heart was true, And I knew by his eyes no guile had he, So I married the man of the North Countrie. MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. 485 Oh ! Garryowen may be more gay, Than this quiet street of Ballibay; And I know the sun shines softly down On the river that passes my native town. But there's not I say it with joy and pride Better man than mine in Munster wide; And Limerick Town has no happier hearth Than mine has been with my Man of the North. I wish that in Munster they only knew The kind, kind neighbors I came unto; Small hate or scorn would ever be Between the South and the North Countrie. GOD BE PRAISED! I. I AM young and I love labor, God be praised ! I have many a kindly neighbor, God be praised ! I've a wife my whole love bought her, And a little prattling daughter, With eyes blue as ocean water, God be praised ! ii. Care or guilt have not deform'd me, God be praised ! Tasks and trials but inform'd me, God be praised ! 48G MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I have been no base self-seeker ; With the mildest I am meeker; I have made no brother weaker, God be praised ! in. I have dreamt youth's dreams elysian, God be praised ! And for many an unreal vision, God be praised ! But of manhood's lessons sterner Long I've been a patient learner, And now wear, with ease life's armor, God be praised ! IV. The world is not all evil, God be praised ! It must amend if we will, God be praised ! Healing vervain oft we find With fell hemlock intertwined; Hate, not Love, was born blind, God be praised ! v. Calm night to-day is neighbor, God be praised ! So rest succeeds to labor, God be praised ! By deeds, not days, lives number, Time's conquerors still slumber, Their own master-pieces under, God be praised ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 487 YOUTH AND DEATH. I. DAILY, nightly, in the offing Of my soul, I see a sail Passing, with a gay troop quaffing Rosy wine from goblets pale; On the wine floats smiling roses, Smiling at the joy they give; Ah ! many a sunken leaf discloses How fast the years of youth we live. Daily, nightly, in the offing Of my soul's remoter shore, Hides a sable ship at anchor, Waiting for me evermore. From the poop a ghastly pilot, Sceptred with a scythe, loud calls, It was theirs, and must be my lot, To glide down Death's darksome falls. in. 'Twixt the ships I fain would tarry For a time in mid-life vale, There reposing with my Mary, Mock Death for an untrae tale; There reposing unregi-ettiug, I would sink to sleep at last, To awake behind the setting Of my sun, Death's passage past. 488 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. FALSE FEAE OF THE WORLD. AN IMPROMPTU. I. " THE World !" " The World ! why, plague it, man, Why do you shake your world at me ? For all its years, and all your fear, The thing I am I still must be. I see ! I see ! fine homes on hills, With winding pathways smooth and fair; But let me moil among the mills, Rather than creep to riches there. " A heather bell on Travail's cliffs, Smells sweeter than a garden rose; The luiiiber-barge outsails the skiffs, And saves men's lives when Boreas blows. 'Tis, sure, enough to note the day, With morning hail, and night adieu, Nor squander precious hours away With Affectation's empty crew. III. " My friend 's my friend, my foe's my foe; I have my hours of joy and gloom; I do not love all mankind No ! The heart I have has not the room. But there is half-a-score I know, And her, and you, and this wee thing, Who make my World, my all, below Cause, Constitution, Country, King!" MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 489 AN EPICUREAN DITTY. I. COME, let us sing a merry song, My lady gay, my lady gay, Nor fret and pine for right or wrong, By night or day, by night or day. Of right, the rich man still can have His ample share, his ample share, For wrong, when done unto the slave, "Why, who need care ? why, who need care ? n. Is it not plain the world was made, My lady gay, my lady gay, To be bamboozled and betray'd, By night and day, by night and day ? Then why not let the fat world hold Its ancient course, its ancient course ? "Why rage against its calf of gold, Or consul horse, or consul horse ? in. Now listen, listen unto me, Thou lady gay, thou lady gay, 'Tis moonshine, all this liberty Talk thrown away, talk thrown away. There is no joy the world can give Like wit aud wine, like wit and wine, He only can be said to live "Who lives to dine, who lives to dine. 490 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE STUDENTS. A FRAG:MENT. I. CLOSE curtain'tl was the students' room, And four bright faces fenced the hearth, Abroad the sky was hung with gloom, And snow hid all the earth; The current in the Charles' midst Chafed the thin ice overhead, The wailing wind of night evinced A message from the dead. Four friends around one hearth ! oh, need I say the four were young ? Four studious men who talk'd and read, Not all with eye and tongue; But one with heart of regicide, To level all earth's lore; And one for love, and one for pride, And one for more far more ! Cyrus breathed but ambition's breath, And dreamt but of renown; One of the souls his was, from Death Would, smiling, take its crown. Alban, to please a lady fair, And wise as fail', did toil ; And Eustace, as became an heir, Was liberal of his oil. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 491 IV. But Harry wrestled with the Past, And woo'd the old and dim, And bound the passing spirit fast That answer'd unto him. That in his heart, as in a cup, The heroic thoughts of old Might be transmuted, coffer'd up, As misers guard their gold. Heroic youth ! to him it seem'd 'Twere joyful but to die, In any breach above which stream'd The banner Liberty ! The scaffold-altar, prison-shrine, Where Freedom's martyrs bled * * * * GRAVES IN THE FOREST. THREE little graves, you can dimly see, Made in the shade of the tall pine-tree; The woodman turns his feet aside, "Where the mother's tears hath the flowers supplied, For there they bloom when no bud elsewhere Opens its folds to the chill lake air ; A rustic cross stands over all, And over the cross, the pine-tree tall; So while the young souls are with the blest, On the grave of grief Grows the flower, Relief, In the solemn woods of the West. 492 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The flower, Relief, on the young wife's breast, Is caught in an infant's soft caress; And it sheds its perfume round the room, And lends to the mother's cheek new bloom ; So fair, so constant, its rosy hue, You would never deem on what soil it grew. There is no ill but God can cure, Nor any that man may not endure; So, while the young souls are with the blest, On the grave of grief Grows the flower, Relief, In the solemn woods of the West. A PLEA FOR THE POOR. BONNET. 'Tis most true, madam ! the poor wretch you turn'd Forth from your door \vas not of aspect fair; His back was crooked, his eye, boa-like, burn'd, Wild and inhuman hung his matted hair; His wit's unmannerly, uncouth his speech, Awkward his gait; but, madam, pray recall How little Fate hath placed within his reach, His lot in life that may account for all. His bed hath been the inhospitable stones, His canopy the weeping mists of night; Such savage shifts have warp'd his mind and bones, And sent him all unseemly to your sight. Want is no courtier Woe neglects all grace; He hunger'd, and he had it in his face ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 493 LINES WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK. I. A CHILD of Ireland, far from Ireland's shore, Inscribes his name beneath, and fondly prays For this book's little mistress friends galore, And peaceful nights, and happy, happy days. n. And that, when her best friends are by her side, And light and gladness are her pages twain, She still may think with fondness and with pride Of her parental island of the main. in. Two things alone in life we can call ours The holy cross and love of native land ; Nor all earth's envy, nor the infernal powers, Can make us poor, with these on either hand. DONNA VIOL ETTA. A SPANISH BALLAD, NOT IN LOCKHART's COLLECTION. I. LYTHE and listen ladies gay, and gentle gallants listen: In Donna Violetta's eyes the pearly tear-drops glisten; The hour has come the priest has come have come the bridemaids three, The groomsman's there, but ah ! the groom, alas ! and where is he? Then sadly sigh'd that mother sage, "It is provoking, really; What can the good knight mean, or plead to justify his delav?" 494 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And red and pale alternate, turned the bride as wore tho morning, And there she stood amid a crowd, half sorrowing, half scorning, n. At last outspoke the best bridesmaid, as on the timepiece glancing, Her black eyes fired, and her small foot beneath her robe kept dancing: " If I were you, sweet coz," she said, "I'd die before I'd let a Man put ring, who first put slight, upon me, Violetta !" And out bespoke the groomsman gay, a dapper little fellow, Who, though 'twas early in the day, was slightly touch'd, or mellow: "My lands are full as broad as his my name is full as noble And as true knight I cannot see a lady fair in trouble; So, lovely mourner, list to me, and cease those sad tears shedding, Accept the hand I offer thee and let's not mar the wed ding !" in. The lady sigh'd, the lady smiled, then placed her fingers taper Upon the gallant groomsman's arm, who forthwith cut a caper. The vows were said, the prayers were read, the wedded pair departed About the time the former swain had from his lodgings started. Don Sluggard entered by one gate as they drove out the other MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 495 And where he should have found the bride he only found her mother. "His Costumier was slow," he said, "his horses needed baiting, And therefore he, unhappily, had kept the ladies waiting." IV. Ye ladies fair and gallants gay, true lovers prone to quarrel, I pray you heed the rhyme you read and meditate the moral; Full many a hopeful suitor's doom besides this has been dated From that dark hour when first he left his lady fair belated. All other sins may be forgiven to the repentant lover, But this alone in vain he may endeavor to recover; And should you have a youthful friend a friend that you regard, oh! Oh ! teach him, teach him to beware the fate of Don Slug- gardo ! A CONTRAST. IMITATED FROM THE IRISH. I. BEBINN is straight as a poplar, Queenly and comely to see, But she seems so fit for a sceptre, She never could give it to me. Aine is lithe as a willow, And her eye, whether tearful or gay, So true to her thought, that in Aine I find a new charm every day. ii. Bebinn. calmly and silently sails Down life's stream like a snow-breasted swan; 496 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. She's so lonesomely grand, that she seems To shrink from the presence of man. Aine basks in the glad summer sun, Like a young dove let loose in the air; Sings, dances, and laughs but for me Her joy does not make her less fair. in. Oh ! give me the nature that shows Its emotions of mirth or of pain, As the water that glides, and the corn that grows, Show shadow and sunlight again. Oh ! give me the brow that can bend, Oh ! give me the eyes that can weep, And give me a heart like Lough Neagh, As full of emotions and deep. RICH AND POOR. A SEASONABLE DITTY. I. THE rich man sat by his fire, Before him stood the wine, He had all heart could desire, Save love of laws divine; A daily growth of wealth, And the world's good word through all, Wife, and children, and health, And clients in his hall. ii. The rich man walk'd about His large luxurious room, His steps fell soft as the snows without, On the web of a Brussels loom ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 497 "Without, the bright icicles had Made lustres of all his trees, And the garden gods look'd cold and sad In their snowy draperies. m. The rich man look'd abroad Under the leaden sky, And struggling up the gusty road, He saw a poor man go by; He paused and lean'd on the gate, To husband his scanty breath, Then feebly down on the threshold sate, The counterfeit of death ! IV. The rich man turn'd his head And close his curtains drew, And by his warm hearth, gleaming red, The wine-fledg'd hours fast flew; Without, on the cold, cold stone, The poor man's head reclined, A snow-quilt Ocer him blown, A body without a mind ! v. The rich man's sleep that night Was vinous, dreamy, and deep, Till near the dawn, when a spectre white He saw, and heard it weep; He rose, and stepping forth, Beheld a sight of woe His brother Abel on the earth Slain and hid in the snow ! 498 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VI. The stone received the head Rejected by the brother; 'Twas of colder cause he lay there dead Than the cold of the winter weather ! His blue lips gaped apart, And the snow that lapp'd his frame, Lay through life on the rich man's heart After that night of shame. THE CHARTER SOXG OF THE TOM .MOORE CLUB* AIR" A place in thy memory, dearest." THE Greeks a Pantheon provided For their children of genius who died, Then let not the race be derided That remembers its poet with pride. CHORUS. Then, while gaiety reigns at the board, boys, And the wine in each goblet is bright, Let a loyal libation be pour'd, boys, To the soul of the minstrel to-night. The warm Irish blood in each bosom Once glow'd in the light of his fame, And though Fate has ordain'd we should lose him, We remember with honor his name. CHORUS. Then while gaiety, etc. For, wherever his footsteps may wander, The Irishman's bosom, be sure, Through time and through change, will still ponder On the genius and glory of Moore. CHORUS. Then while gaiety, etc. * The author was then President, as he was the founder, of the " Tom Moore Club " in Boston ED. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 499 THE TRIP OVER THE MOUNTAIN. A POPULAR BALLAD OF WEXFORD. I. 'TWAS night, and the moon was just seen in the west, When I first took a notion to marry; I rose and pursued my journey in haste, You'd have known that I was in a hurry. I came to the door, and I rattled the pin, I lifted the latch and did boldly walk in, And seeing my sweetheart, I bid her " good e'en," Saying, " Come with me over the mountain !' n. " What humor is this you've got in your head, I'm glad for to see you so merry ; It's twelve by the clock, and they're all gone to bed: Speak low, or my dadda will hear ye !" " I've spoken my mind, and I never will rue ; I've courted a year, and I think it will do; But if you refuse me, sweet girl, adieu ! I must go alone over the mountain !" in. " But if from my dadda and mamma I go, They never will think of me longer; The neighbors about them, too, will not be slow To say, that no one could do wronger." " Sweet girl, we're wasting the sweet hours away, I care not a fig what the whole of them say, For you will be mine by the dawn of the day, If vou'll come with me over the mountain !" 500 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. IV. She look'd in my face with a tear in her eye, And saw that my mind was still steady, Then rubb'd out the tear she was going to cry; " In God's name, my dear, now get ready!" " Stop ! stop ! a few moments, till I get my shoes !" My heart it rejoiced for to hear the glad news; She lifted the latch, saying, " I hope you'll excuse My simplicity, over the mountain !" v. 'Twas night, and the moon had gone down in the west, And the morning star clearly was shining, As we two pursued our journey in haste, And were join'd at the altar of Hymen ! In peace and contentment we spent the long day, The anger of parents, it soon wore away, And oft we sat chatting, when we'd nothing to say, Of the trip we took over the mountain ! LINES, WRITTEN ON THE EIGHTY-SECOND ANNIVERSARY OF THE BIRTH OF THOMAS MOORE. 'On, blame not the Bard !" was the prayer he put forth To the age and the nation he wished to adorn, Well he knew that man's life is a warfare on earth, And that peace only comes to the dust in the urn. Yet who that has paused o'er his magical page, Could couple the bard, e'en in fancy, with blame ? The delight of our youth, and our solace in age, In the bright roll of song, the pre-eminent name ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 501 Who can think of the thoughts, as in torrents they roll'd From the spring of his soul, and forget how, at first, "We learn'd to repeat them from lips that are cold, And caught them upheaving from hearts that are dust. He err'd is that more than to say he was human ? Yet how nobly he paid for the errors of youth ! Who has taught, as he taught, man's fealty to woman, Who has left us such texts of love, freedom, and truth ? Blame the Bard ! let the cynic who never relented Dwell alone on the page that is soil'd with a stain, Forgetting how deeply and long he repented Forgetting his purer and holier strain. For us while an echo remains on life's mountain, While the isle of our youth 'mid her seas shall endure We must pray, as we stoop to drink at the fountain Of song, for the soul of the Builder TOM MOORE. CONTENTMENT. MEN know not when they are most blest, But all alway Pursue the phantom Future's quest, Anxious to stray; As young birds long to leave the nest And fly away. Blessed is he who learns to bound The spirit's range, Whose joy is neither sought nor found In love of change ; A tiller of his own right ground, This world his grange. 502 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. He hears, far off, the city's din, Bat loves it not; He knows what woes and wrecks of sin Beneath it rot; Vainly the tide allures him on He bides his lot. So would I live, beyond the crowd, Where party strife, And hollow hearts, and laughter loud, Embitter life; Where hangs upon the sun the coal-black cloud With sorrow rife. Fain would I live beneath a rural roof, By whose broad porch Children might play, nor poor men keep aloof Whose artless arch The ivy should o'ergrow without reproof, And cares should march. The drowsy drip of water falling near Should lull the brain; The rustling leaves should reach the ear; The simplest swain Should sing his simplest song, and never fear A censure of his strain. But why these wishes ? does contentment grow, Even as the vine, Only in soil o'er which the south winds blow Warm from the Line ? Wherefore, in cities, if I will it so, May't not be mine ? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 503 Come, dove-eyed Peace! come, ivy-crowned sprite! Come from thy grot, And make thy home with me by day and night, And share my lot; And I shall have thee ever in my sight, Though the world sees thee not. WOMAN'S PRAISE. I. THE myriad harps of Erin oft, In other days, Were by enthusiast minstrels strung In woman's praise; And though they sometimes stoop'd to sing The praise of wine, Still, nightly, did each trembling string Resound with thine. ii. " Oh, who" (these ancient rhymers asked), "Would dwell alone, That could win woman to his side, For aye, his own ? Oh ! cold would be the household cheer" ('Twas so, they said), But for the light the mistress dear O'er all things shed. in. And tuneless many a harp would be, And many a brain, If woman, Queen of Minstrelsie, Lent not the strain; 504 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And many a heavy tear would chill On misery's cheek, If woman were not present still Her word to speak. " Ye who have seen her gentle hand Do gentle deeds, In haunts where misery made a stand, And men were reeds; Ye who have seen the fetter chain Undone by them, Find, find for that a fitting name Ye vaunting men ! v. " Oh ! blessed be the God that dower'd The earth with these, Our truest, firmest, noblest friends, In woe or ease; Bless'd for the grace that makes the earth Beneath their feet A garden, and that fills the air "With music meet. " And still, whate'er our fate may be" (The minstrel saith), " Let woman but be near, and we Will smile in death ! Whate'er the scene, where woman's grief And woman's sigh Can mingle round, there bard and chief May fitly die." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 5Q5 AD MISERICORDIAM. I. I SOUGHT out your shore, all storm-spent and weary, For over the sea your name was renown'd, My footsteps were light and my heart grew right cheery, As I trod, though alone, on republican ground. ii. The sun shone so brightly, the sky so serenely, Your men bore their brows so fearlessly high, Your daughters moved on, so calmly, so queenly, That I felt for your laws I could cheerfully die. in. If any distraction assail'd my devotion, 'Twas only my memory wander'd afar, To the Isle I had left, the saddest of ocean, "Whose night never knew a republican star. IV. But all this is over; this vision has faded; This hope in the west has forever gone down, And worn out with toiling, brain-sick and heart-jaded, Where I look'd for a welcome, I meet but a frown. v. When cometh the Messenger, friend of the friendless, Sweet unto me were the sound of his scythe ; When cometh the long night, starless and endless, The bed without dreaming, the cell without gyve. 506 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VI. Welcome ! thrice welcome ! to overtaxed nature, The darkness, the silence, the sleep of the grave ! Oh ! dig it down deeply, kind fellow-creature, I am weary of living the life of a slave. GRANDMA ALICE* I. I HAD just now a curious dream, While dozing after dinner, I dreamt I saw above my bed (As sure as I'm a sinner) In words and figures broad and tall, With nourishes a-plenty, " This is the time that mortals call The year Nineteen Hundred Twenty !" ii. I rubb'd my eyes in fancy rubb'd To find myself beholder Of any date so ancient dubb'd, And sixty summers older. I look'd about, 'twas Cornwall town, But grown as fine as Florence ! Only the river rolling down Look'd like the old St. Lawrence. in. Out from a shady garden green Came ringing shouts of laughter, I watch'd the chase, myself unseen, The flight, and running after; * This playful jeu d'esprit was written in the album of a very young lady in 1SG1. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 507 A group of matronly mamas, With scions in abundance, Who pour'd around their pleased papas Their spirits wild redundance. IV. Hard by a thickly-blooming bower, Rosy, and close, and shady, I saw, beguiling eve's cairn hour, A venerable lady: Her eyes were on a well-worn book, And, as she turn'd the pages, There was that meaning in her look Which sculptors give to sages. v. Sometimes she smiled and sometimes sigh'd, As leaf by leaf she ponder'd; Sometimes there was a touch of pride, Sometimes she paused and wonder'd; Her station seem'd all plain to me A grand-dame hale and hearty Happ3 r and proud was she to see The gambols of the party. VI. I closer drew, and well I knew, In Nineteen Hundred Twenty, The lady's book was old, not new I caught a well-known entry ! , The lady's years of life had pass'd Unsour'd by care or malice; The book this album 'twas, she clasp'd They call'd her G-KAND-MA ALICE ! COKXWALL, C. W., 1861. 508 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. [Of a similar character are the following lines, placed in a little Indian basket given by the author to the young daughter of a friend.] TO MISS M. S . IN a dream of the night I this casket received, From the ghost of the late Hiawatha deceased; And these were the words he spoke in my ear : " Mr. Darcy New Era* attention and hear ! You know Minnehaha, the young Laughing- Water, Mr. S r of Montreal's dear eldest daughter ; To her bring this trifle, and say that I ask it, She'll treasure for my sake the light little casket." This said, in his own solemn Longfellow way, With a bow of his plumed head, he vanish'd away ! As I hope to be spared all such ghostly commands, I now place the said Indian toy in your hands ! AUGUST 15, 1857. THE PENITENT RA YEN. I. The Raven's house is built with reeds, Sing woe, and alas is me ! And the Raven's couch is spread Avith weeds, High on the hollow tree; And the Raven himself, telling his beads In penance for his past misdeeds, Upon the top I see. * Mr. McGEE was at the time publishing the New Era in Montreal. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 509 II. Telling his beads from night till morn, Sing alas ! and woe is me ! In penance for stealing the Abbot's corn, High on the hollow tree. Sin is a load upon the breast, And it nightly breaks the Raven's rest, High on the hollow tree. in. The Raven pray'd the winter through, Sing woe and alas is me ! The hail it fell, the winds they blew High on the hollow tree, Until the spring came forth again, And the Abbot's men to sow their grain Around the hollow tree. IV. Alas ! alas ! for earthly vows, Sing alas ! and woe is me ! Whether they're made by men, or crows, High on the hollow tree ! The Raven swoop'd upon the seed, And met his death in the very deed, Beneath the hollow tree. v. So beat we our breasts in shame of sin, Alas ! and woe is me ! While all is hollowness within, Alas ! and woe is me. And when the ancient Tempter smiles So yield we our souls up to his wiles, Alas ! and woe is me ! 510 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. HALLOWE'EN IN CANADA 186S. [Written for, and read by the author at the annual celebration of Hallowe'en by the St. Andrew's Society of Montreal.] THE Bard who sleeps in Dumfries' clay, Were he but to the fore to-day, What think you would he sing or say Of our new-found Canadian way Of keeping Hallowe'en? n. Ah ! did we hear upon the stair The ploughman tread that shook Lord Dair, The President Avould yield his chair, And honor (over Member, Mayor), The Bard of Hallowe'en. in. Methinks I catch, then, ringing clear, The accents that knew never fear, Saying "I joy to see you here, And still to Scottish hearts be dear, The rites of Hallowe'en. IV. " Whene'er they meet, on any shore, Whatever sky may arch them o'er, Still may they honor, more and more, The names their fearless fathers bore, And, like them, Hallowe'en. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 5H V. I care not for the outward form, 'Tis in the heart's core, true and warm, Abides the glow that mocks the storm, And so God guard you a' from harm Till next year's Hallowe'en." THE FARTHER SHORE. How fair, when morning dawns and waters glow, Shines the far land by night conceal'd no more; Gladly we feel how blest it were to go And dwell forever on that Farther Shore. Nothing contents us nothing rich or fair Wears the bright, gladsome hue that once it wore; Sadness is in our sky and in our air To that which smiles upon the Farther Shore. Noon beams aloft ! the distant land draws near, The way seems narrower to venture o'er, Yet hourly grows the scene less green and clear, More equal seems the near and Farther Shore. Eve pale and paler fades into the dark ; We watch the rower resting on his oar, Unlovely to our eyes is that dim bark, A funeral shape lost in the Farther Shore. Night nestles down ! oh, happy sleep and night ! The winds are hush'd, the waters cease to roar, Let us depart by the stars' gentle light, And wake to-morrow on the Farther Shore. NOVEMBER, 1862. 512 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. TEE STAR VENUS. THE beautiful star, Venus, Shines into my heart to-night, With not a cloud between us To mar her radiance bright ! Over the snow-roof d city, Over the mountain white, With a glance of tender pity, Looks the Lady of the Night. And I think of the long-gone ages, When, with her sunny smile, She thrill'd the coldest sages Who sail'd by her Cyprus Isle. O Venus ! Alma Venus ! Thy lustre surprises nought, But wherefore so serene is The ray that drives distraught ? Is it to teach the lover To hope, and to persevere Till all the clouds blow over That hide his lady dear ? So my heart takes thy chidings, Fair Queen of Love and Light, And hoping for hopeful tidings, It bids thee hail to-night. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 513 THOMAS MOORE AT ST. ANN'S. I. ON these swift waters borne along, A poet from the farther shore, Framed as he went his solemn song, And set it by the boatman's oar. n. It was his being's law to sing From morning dawn to evening light; Like nature's chorister's, his wing And voice were only still'd at night. in. Nor did all nights bring him repose; For by the moon's auspicious ray, Like Philomela on her rose, His song eclipsed the songs of day. IV. He came a stranger summer-bird, And quickly pass'd; but as he flew Our river's glorious song he heard, His tongue was loosed he warbled too I v. And, mark the moral, ye who dream To be the poets of the land: He nowhere found a nobler theme Than you, ye favor'd, have at hand. 514- MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VI. Not in the storied Summer Isles, Not 'mid the classic Cjclades, Not where the Persian sun-god smiles, Found he more fitting theme than these. So, while the boat glides swift along, Behold above there looketh forth The star that lights the path of song The constant star that loves the north ! GOD BLESS THE BRAVE! [A New Orleans newspaper, the Southern Pilot, lately received, informs us that the Irish soldiers of Companies C and K, Eighth New Hampshire Volunteers, finding themselves encamped in the neighborhood of the grave of RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS, have had the sacred spot inclosed, and erected " a tall and graceful slab of Carrara marble," with this inscription : Sacred to tJie memory of RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS, the Irish Patriot and Poet, who died July 5, 1882, aged 40 years. This stone was erected by his countrymen serving in Companies C and K, Eighth New Hampshire Volunteers, as a slight testimonial of their esteem for his unsullied patriotism and his exalted devotion to the cause of Irish freedom. .] GOD bless the brave ! the brave alone Were worthy to have done the deed, A soldier's hand has raised the stone, Another traced the lines men read, Another set the guardian rail Above thy minstrel Innisfail ! ii. A thousand years ago ah ! then Had such a harp in Erin ceased, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 515 His cairn had met the eyes of men, By every passing hand increased. God bless the brave ! not yet the race Could coldly pass his resting-place. in. True have ye writ, ye fond and leal, And, if the lines would stand so long, Until the archangel's trumpet peal Should wake the silent son of song, Broad on his breast he still might wear The praises ye have planted there ! IV. Let it be told to old and young, At home, abroad, at fire, at fair, Let it be written, spoken, sung, Let it be sculptured, pictured fair, How the young braves stood, weeping, round Their exiled Poet's ransom'd mound ! v. How lowly knelt, and humbly pray'd, The lion-hearted brother band, Around the monument they made For him who sang the Fatherland ! A scene of scenes, where glory's shed Both on the living and the dead ! VI. Sing on, ye gifted ! never yet Has such a spirit sung in vain; Ho change can teach us to forget The burden of that deathless strain. Be true, like him, and to your graves Time yet shall lead his youthful braves ! 516 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE OLD SOLDIER AND THE STUDENT. I. THE star of honor on his breast, The gray head bow'd with years, Hush'd every roister student's jest; Still ready for his peers, The aged soldier gazed around, His sight was somehow dim; We saw that it was classic ground That had some spell for him. ii. "Your pardon, gentlemen," he said; " I interrupt your game ! But once I trod the courts you tread; The place is much the same; And if you heed a tale to hear, A brief, plain tale I'll tell There's none here holds this spot more dear, Though all may love it well. in. " Years, years ago, when that your sires "Were eager, planning men, T, stirred by travel's vague desires, Forsook my native glen. I cross'd the seas, and claimed the right A kinsman once bequeath'd, And long in Nature's sore despite, This learned air I breathed. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. IV. " For not of books, and not of lore, My days and dreams were spun; A banner some brave band before, A bold deed to be done, A rush upon some bristling wall, A midnight camisade These were my study, and my all To be of the brigade. " I took the cassock from my back, I flung my summa down, I rush'd away on war's wild track, I served the Church and Crown; And tottering now on life's last brink, I come to-day to view This place, of which I often think, And speak my heart to you. VI. " There must be soldiers ! yes, and they Should have a mission clear, To lead them on their awful way, As any tonsard here. There must be soldiers, and there must Be soldiers of the Cross The bravest, firmest, chief in trust, Or all our hopes are lost. VII. " Young men, forgive an old man's prose, Forgive an old man's tale, You combat with far fiercer foes, Than any we assail. 618 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. True chivalry of soul lies not In panoply or gear; Your good fight always must be fought, Be firm, and persevere." NICE, SAVOY, March 14, 18G7. SUNSET ON THE CORSO AT ROME. [An impromptu, written on St. Patrick's Day, 1867.] I. THE sun has set in amber Behind St. Peter's dome, Like some fair-hair'd Sicarnber Retreating west from Borne ; But he will bring the morrow, With all its promise bright, With its life, its strife, and sorrow, And its merciful " Good night !" II. We look upon his setting, A silken, smiling throng, We think life's span forgetting The darkness is not long; A few short hours over, And, all brighter from his rest, Like a rich returning lover, He'll deck the fair world's breast. in. Aye ! we believe in being Created as we are; Holding that true for seeing A rock, a sea, a star; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 519 Yet deny that the All-giver To creatures could assign A cycle of forever By a tenancy divine. IV. Saint Peter's dome at midnight, Though the sun be quench'd and gone, Will stand as high and upright As in the day that's done; And the Keys in Peter's keeping Will still be firmly grasp'd, Till, from their final sleeping, All men see day at last ! v. In Rome, as on Mount Sion, Hides Satan from the first; Now roused, a roaring lion, He dares and does his worst; Now a serpent, smooth, sweet-spoken, As when he ambush'd Eve, Through the angel-guard had broken, And, through man, made God to grieve. But still the Eternal City, Type of eternal power, Looks down in patient pity On the idols of the hour; As Genoa looks on the waters By passing clouds o'ercast, As Fiesole looks 011 Florence, From the high-ground of the past ! 520 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. TASSO'S TOMB, AT ROME. I. THE tepid air bespeaks repose, The noonday city sleeps; No shadow from the cypress groves Athwart the Tiber creeps. This seems the very land of rest To wondering wanderers from the West, Who walk as if in dreams ; English Ambition's onward cry, To all beneath this opiate sky Yet untranslated seems. Here is the goal; here ended all His tragedy of life ! The honors, banishment, recall, The love, the hate, the strife ! A weary man, the poet came To light a funeral-torch's flame At yonder chancel light ; When here he summ'd up all his days, Heedless of human blame or praise, And turn'd him to the Night ! ur. Oh, holy Jerome ! at thy shrine, Who could hope better meed, Than he who sang the song divine Of crusade and of creed ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 521 Who loved upon Jerusalem, As thou didst when at Bethlehem, The Master's steps to trace ! "Who burned to tread the very sod Imprinted by the feet of God, In the first years of grace ! IV. Wrapt in the shade of Tasso's Oak, I breathe the air of Rome ; He found his final home W T here, freed from every patron's yoke, The Alban and the Sabine range Down yonder, seeming nothing strange, Although first seen by me ; Firm as those storied highlands stand, So, deep-laid in Italian land, Shall Tasso's glory be. v. Calm here, within his altar-grave, The restless takes his rest ; Besculptured, as becomes the brave, With nodding casque, and crest, And shield, on which we trace the line, The key-note of his song divine, " Pro Fide !" Tasso lies. So may we find our legend writ, What time the Crucified shall sit For judgment, in the skies ! 522 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ICEBERGS. STEAMER ALBION, LAT. 46.55 N., LONG. 52.30 W. I. PARTING their arctic anchors The bergs came drifting by, A fearful fleet for a ship to meet Under the midnight sky; Their keels are fathoms under, Their prows are sharp as steel, Their stroke, the crash of thunder, All silently on they steal. ir. In the ruddy glow of daylight, When the sea is clear and wide, When the sun with a clear and gay light Gilds the avalanche's side; Then the sailor-boy sees castles And cities fair to view, With battlements and archways And horsemen riding through. Lonely in nights of summer, Beneath the starlight wan, A way-worn berg is met with, Sad-featured as a man ; All softly to the southward Trailing its robes of white, It glides away with the current Like a hooded Carmelite. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 523 IV. To-day 'twas Sunday evening When dimly from the north, Under the far horizon A church-like cloud came forth; It came, a white reminder Of the memories of the day; As a silent sign, we fancied, It paused, and pass'd its way. SUNDAY, 19th May, 1867. IMPROMPTU. A HAPPY bird that hung on high In the parlor of the hostelry, Where daily resorted ladies fair To breathe the garden-perfumed air, And hear the sweet musician; Removed to the public room at last, His spirit seem'd quite overcast, He lost his powers of tune and time, As I did mine of rhythm and rhyme When I turn'd politician. THE SEA CAPTAIN. I. THE anchor is up and the broad sails are spread, The good ship is adrift from the land, And the sportive spray sprinkles the fair figure-head, As if flung from some sea-spirit's hand. 524 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. II. The wind pipes aloud through cordage and spars, The sea-boy sings back to the wind, The day is all sunshine, the night is all stars Was never old Neptune more kind. But the master he paceth the deck to and fro, (Impatient of fortune, I ween !) Now his footstep is hurried, now leaden and slow, As he mutters his shut lips between. IV. And his eye fiercely glares at the blue blessed sky, As if all his tormenting lay there ; Now he smiteth his breast as to stifle a sigh A sigh that resounds of despair. v. 'Tis the midwatch of night still unwearied he stalks To and fro in the moonlight so dim; And unto himself or some phantom he talks, While the phantom seems talking to him. VI. Afar o'er the waters, an index of light, Points the eye to the darkness intense; Say, whence comes the skiff that entrances his sight What destiny carries it hence ? VII. There standeth a form where the mist might have stood, As a sail her scarf catches the breeze And the 'kerchief she waves has the color of blood, While her girdle hangs loose to her knees. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 525 VIII. There is sin, there is shame, there is shipwreck of fame In the eye, on the brow of the maid; No need unto him that she should name her name, At a glance the whole story is said. IX. To the ship's side she drew in her ghostly canoe, For a moment has waited her prey : In vain shout the crew, to the phantom he flew In the darkness they vanish away. x. When the Priest heard the tale by the gossips told o'er, ' Of a truth," so he said, " it may be; For the sins men imagine they leave upon shore, Do follow them often to sea." PEACE HA TH HER VICTORIES. I. To people wastes, to supplement the sun, To plant the olive where the wild-brier grew, To bid rash rivers in safe channels run, The youth of aged cities to renew, To shut the temple of the two-faced god Grand triumphs these, worthy a conqueror's car; They nefid no herald's horn, no lictor's rod; Peace hath her victories, no less than "War. ii. To raise the drooping artist's head, to breathe The word despairing genius thirsts to hear, To crown all service with its earned wreath, To be of lawless force the foe austere; 526 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. This is to stretch a sceptre over Time, This is to give our darkling earth a star, And belt it with the emerald scroll sublime ; Peace hath her victories, no less than War. in. To stand amidst the passions of the hour Storm-lash'd, resounding fierce from shore to shore; To watch the human whirlwind waste its power, Till drowned Reason lifts her head once more; To build on hatred nothing; to be just, Judging of men and nations as they are, Too strong to share the councils of mistrust; Peace hath her victories, no less than "War. To draw the nations in a silken bond, On to their highest exercise of good ; To show the better land above, beyond The sea of Egypt, all whose waves are blood; These, leader of the age ! these arts be thine, All vulgar victories surpassing far ! On these all heaven's benignant planets shine ; Peace hath her victories, no less than "War. PARIS, April, 1867. THE SUNLESS LAND. I. KNOW you the sunless land, where throng'd togethei The silent hosts stand out, unheeding whether 'Tis summer heat, or bleak December weather Know you that sunless land? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 527 II. Mark well the tents that multitude that cover, On each the crusade-standard flying over, Where sleeps the blameless maiden by her lover Know you that sunless land ? in. Its fields have never flash'd to share or sabre, There reigns the night in which no man can labor, There neighbor knoweth not his nearest neighbor Know you that sunless land ? IV. There Folly wears all year the same tame Fashion ; There "Wit the crowd around has ceased to flash on; There Age feels no regret, and Youth no passion Know you that sunless land ? v. Thence let us go, and slow its pathways measure; Leaving far off all scenes of sensual pleasure, There Let us dig the cave to store our treasure, Safe in that sunless land. THE MINSTREL'S CURSE. I. " My malison," the minstrel said, " I give to man or youth, Who slights a loyal lady's love, Or trusts a wanton's truth. ii. "And on his traitor head shall fall Not only curse of mine, But cited down, at Nature's call, God's malison divine ! 528 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. III. " We've borne our Lady to the grave This weary, weary day, While our young earl, a wanton's slave, Is false, and far away. IV. " He riots in his leman's bower, He quaffs her philter'd wine, False knight ! false love ! this very hour, Where is that wife of thine ? v. " He wed her on midsummer eve, With taper and with ring; His passion wither'd with the l^af, But came not with the spring. VI. " She marked the change, poor heart ! poor heart ! She missed him from her side ; She strove to play the stoic's part, She sicken'd, and she died! VII. " She lies outstretch'd in churchyard clay, She drinks the deadly dew, He leads the revels far away, The noisiest of the crew. VIII. " But on his traitor head shall fall Not only curse of mine, But cited down, at Nature's call, Grod's malison divine." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 529 THE LADY MO-BRIDE. I. I was a boy, and delighted to dream, "\\ here the sycamores shadow the bright Banna's stream, I remember, 'twixt waking and sleeping, I saw The first sight of the village-saint walking the shaw The Lady Mo-Bride! ii. Her eye was as black as the summer- ripe sloe, Her brow was as fair as the New-Year's day snow ; Have you seen the red berry that grows on the yew ? So shone her soft lips and so gleaming with dew, Oh ! Lady Mo-Bride ! m. In our poor little chapel, next Sunday again, 'Mid the sun-browned maidens and toil-weary men, On the hard-sanded floor, as I live, she did kneel, While the light of her grace like a glory did veil The Lady Mo-Bride ! IV. In summer the fever spread round through the poor, As a wild-fire devouring a desolate moor ; Ah ! then, through its raging how calmly she trod, The pure saint that she was on earth walking with God- The Lady Mo-Bride ! v. The grave-yard green crowded, the village forlorn, The harvest had fail'd, there was blight in the corn ; 530 MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. Then came that high lady, with comforts and wealth, Her smile giving joy, and her hand leaving health The Lady Mo-Bride ! VI. But now she is wedded, and carried away By some lord of the English, who loved her, they say And sad is our village, and valley, and all, For the lady we pray for, but cannot recall ! Dear Lady Mo-Bride ! INDEPENDENCE. I. LET Fortune frown and foes increase, And life's long battle knoAv no peace; Give me to wear upon iny breast The object of my early quest, Undimm'd, unbroken, and unchanged, The talisman I sought and gain'd, The jewel, Independence ! ii. It feeds with fire my flagging heart To act by all a fearless part; It irrigates like summer rain The thirsty furrows of my brain; Through years and cares my sun and star, A present help, a hope afar The jewel, Independence ! in. Rob me of all the joys of sense; Curse me with ail but impotence; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 531 Fling me upon an ocean oar; Cast me upon a savage shore ; Slay me ! but own above my bier, " The man now gone still held, while here, The jewel, Independence 1" AUTUMN AND WINTER. AN ANTIQUE. I. AUTUMN, the squire of Winter, is abroad, Making much dust upon the breezy road; His Joseph coat with every hue is gay, But seems as if 't had known a sunnier day; His master from the North is drawing nigh, Fur-clad, and little favor'd to mine eye. u. And vet this piebald courier doth him wrong; He loves a friend, a bottle, and a song; His memory's a mine, whereof the ore Is ever-wrought and never-ending lore. His white locks hide a head full of rare dreams, Which by a friendly fire with gladness streams, While Christmas shrives the perishing Old year He leads the New out from behind the bier. in. Oh ! motley Autumn, prithee mend thy pace, I do not like thy costume nor thy face; Thy hollow laugh and stage proprieties Tell of a bungling actor, ill at ease, To live such life as thine is shame, is sin; Prithee fah 1 back, let honest Winter in 532 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A SMALL CATECHISM. I. are children's eyes so bright ? Tell me why ? Tis because the infinite Which they've left, is still in sight, And they know no earthly blight Therefore 'tis their eyes are bright. n. Why do children laugh so gay ? Tell me why ? 'Tis because their hearts have play In their bosoms, every day, Free from sin and sorrow's sway Therefore 'tis they laugh so gay. in. W'hy do children speak so free ? Tell me why ? 'Tis because from fallacy, Cant, and seeming, they are free, Hearts, not lips, their organs be Therefore 'tis they speak so free. IV. Why do children love so true ? Tell me why ? 'Tis because they cleave unto A familiar, favorite few, Without art or self in view Therefore children love so true. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 533 PRIM A VISTA* " LAND ! land !" how welcome is the word To all or landsmen bred or seamen ! Deep in their lairs the sick are stirr'd The decks are throng'd with smiling women. The face that had gone down in tears Ten days since in the British Channel, Now, like Aurora, reappears Aurora wrapp'd in furs and flannel. " Where ?" " Yonder, on the right, dost see. A firm dark line, and close thereunder A white line drawn along the sea, A flashing line whose voice is thunder ?" " It seems to be a fearsome coast No trees, no hospitable whiffs God help the crew whose ship is lost On yonder homicidal cliffs !" " Amen ! say I, to that sweet prayer; The land, indeed, looks sad and stern, No female savans* field-day there, Collecting butterflies and fern. An iron land it seems from far, On which no shepherd's flock reposes; Lash'd by the elemental war, The land is not a land of roses." Proudly, oh Prima Vista ! still, Where sweeps the sea-hawk's fearless pinion, Do thou unfurl from every hill The banner of the New Dominion ! * Newfoundland. 534 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Proudly to all who sail the sea, Bear then, advanced, the Union standard, And friendly may its welcome be To all men, seaward bound or landward ! All hail ! old Prime Vista ! long As break the billows on thy boulders, "Will seamen hail thy lights with song, And home-hopes quicken all beholders. Long as thy headlands point the way Between man's old and new creation, Evil fall from thee like the spray, And hope illumine every station ! Long may thy hardy sons count o'er The spoils of ocean, won by labor; Long may the free, unbolted door Be open to each trusty neighbor ! Long, long may blossom on thy rocks Thy sea-pinks, fragrant as the heather; Thy maidens of the flowing locks Safe shelter'd from life's stormy weather ! Yes ! this is Prima Vista I this The very landmark we have prayed for; Darkly they wander who have miss'd The guidance yon stern land was made for. Call it not homicidal, then, The New World's outwork, grim its beauty; This guardian of the lives of men, Clad in the garb that does its duty ! Less gaily trills the lover lark Above the singing swain at morning, Than rings through sea-mists chill and dark This name of welcome and of warning. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Not happier to his cell may go The saint, triumphant o'er temptation, Than the worn captain turns below, Relieved as by a revelation. How blest, when Cabot ventured o'er This northern sea, yon rocks rose gleaming ! A promised land seeni'd Labrador (Nor was the promise all in seeming) ; Strong sea-wall, still it stands to guard An island fertile, fair as any, The rich, but the unreap'd reward Of Cabot and of Verrazzani ! 535 EEL1GIOUS POEMS. ETERNITY. ' Dies irae, dies ilhe, Solvet, secuhim in flavillse." ALL men are marsliall'd in array, And order'd for the Judgment Day I The grave is but a gate whereby They pass into eternity. n. More fearful will that hour be When every wave of every sea Will find a voice, and all shall cry " Behold, behold, eternity 1" nr. The metals which the mountains hold, Like tears adown them shall be roll'd ; The blinded earth, the shining sun, To the dread end will stagger on ! IV. Nought shall endure from pole to pole, Nought, save th' imperishable soul; The sea shall pass, the stars decay, Souls only can survive that day ! 540 BELIGIOUS POEMS. T. O God of justice ! God of love ! Rain down Thy mercies from above, And i&ake our sinful souls to be "Worthy to dwell for aye with Thee ! Teach us to live our little time, By thy deliver 'd law sublime; Teach us to die, so that we may Endure, in faith, Thy Judgment Day ! THE SAINTS OF ERIN. A FRAGMENT. How shall I sing the heavenly host That burn'd of old on Ireland's coast, "When their joint lustre shone afar, The Gothic world's morning star ? Their pious arts, their sacred names Live still in honor'd ancient fanes, Gray guardians of the isle or lake, Frequented for the founder's sake. Sad is the change, and sad the time, "When into hands unmeet as mine, Descends the white and purple thread Of what they suffer'd, what they said. Breathes there no more a soul of fire To wake to praise the Irish lyre ? To chant in high, enduring song A lay to be remember'd long ? RELIGIOUS POEMS, 541 Has green Momonia lost the art Through the ear to reach the heart ? Gushes there from no northern mount Of sacred song the crystal fount ? Has Shannon's tide no magic spring, Where he who drinks perforce must sing ? Lies Leinster voiceless as the clod Before the theme the Saints of God 2 Not so ! not so ! * * *> HYMN TO SAINT PATRICK. I. OH thoii ! Apostle of our race, Look down from thy bright dwelling-place On us thy suppliant sons, and hear The prayer we offer to thine ear. ir. Enthroned upon the eternal hills Where spring salvation's crystal rills, Dear Father ! from thy chalice grant That saving draught for which we pant I in. Standing hard by the awful throne Where rules the mystic Three in One, Beseech, oh Father ! for thy race The entail of God's precious grace ! IV. By the bright brotherhood of Saints, By weak humanity's complaints, By all our wants and all your bliss, Saint Patrick, hear our prayer in this ! 542 RELIGIOUS POEMS. THE CELT'S PRAYER. I. OH, King of Heaven ! who dwelleth throned afar Beyond the hills, the skylark, and the star, Whose ear was never shut to our complaints, Look down and hear the children of thy Saints ! u. We ask no strength of arm, or heart, Lord ! We still can hoist the sail and ply the sword, We ask no gifts of grain our soil still bears Abundant harvests to the fruitful years ! in. The gift, O Lord, we need, to David's son You gave, for asking, once in Gabaon ; The gift of Wisdom, which, of all your powers, Most needful is, dread Lord ! to us and ours ! IV. Our race was mighty once, when at their head W T ise men, like steadfast torches, burn'd and led; When Ollamh's lore and royal Cormac's spell Guided the Gael, all things with them went well. v. Finn, famed for courage, was more fam^d for art, For frequent meditations made apart; Dathi and Nial, valoro-us both and sage, Were slow in anger, seldom stirr'd to rage. RELIGIOUS POEMS. 543 VI. Look down on us, oh Sire, and hear our cries ! Grant to our chiefs the courage to be wise, Endow them with a wisdom from Thy throne, That they may yet restore to us our own I THE PRAYER TO ST. BRENDAN. I. UPON this sea a thousand dolphins swam, Tossing their nostrils up to breathe awhile; Aud here the lumbering leviathan, Lay heap'd and long like some half-founder'd isle; When, from the west, a low and antique sail Swell'd with soft winds that wafted prayers before, Bore thy frail bark, Columbus of the Gael, Far from thy native Connaught's sheltering shore 1 n. Mo-Brendan ! Saint of Sailors ! list to me, And give thy benediction to our bark, For still, they say, thou savest souls at sea, And lightest signal-fires in tempest dark. Thou sought'st the Promised Land far in the West, Earthing the sun, chasing Hesperion on, But we in our own Ireland had been blest, Nor ever sigh'd for land beyond the sun ! m. Shores of eternal spring might cross in vain, For all the odious wealth we counted nought ; The birds-of-paradise might sing in vain, Had not our cup with too much woe been fraught ! 544 EELIGIOUS POEMS. Then, sailing in thy legendary wake, We lift our hearts and voices unto thee; Bless the fair realm that for our spirits' sake You sought of yore through the untravell'd sea ! IV. And for us, outcasts for the self-same cause, Beseech from Heaven's full granary some store Of grace to love and fear the equal laws Enthroned upon that liberated shore. Help us to dwell in brotherhood and love, In the New Home predestined for our race ; So may our souls to thine, in heaven above, Pass glorified, through their great Master's grace ! ST. BRIDGET OF KILDARE. LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY. I. How few, on this once famous festival day, Remember the Virgin of Erin, whose fame Oft bow'd down the nations devoutly to pray, Of Kildare's holy abbess invoking the name ! n. On the Alps of the Swiss, on the friths of the Dane, "When the cross had supplanted idolatry's sign, How the sons of the Gentiles surrounded thy fame, What homage, O Virgin ! what conquests were thine ! in. As a queen of the seas, how resplendently shone, 'Mid the far Scotic islands the shrines of St. Bride, 141 But they who once claim'd thee, and call'd thee their own, Have gone out but oh ! not to return with the tide ! RELIGIOUS POEMS. 545 IV. To reign in one heart, through the changes of time, Is the fond expectation of maiden most fair, But what myriads have felt an affection sublime For thy beauty of goodness, sweet Bride of Kildare ! v. Even now may be found in the bosoms of men Some hearts, like the lamp at thy altar of old, Whose faith burns as bright and as steadfast as then, As warm as its flame, and as pure as its gold. VI. Let them roam where they may, they can never forget, And never forego, let what fate may betide, To remember the day, and to render the debt They owe to Kildare's holy abbess, St. Bride. SHRINES ON THE SHORE. WRITTEN OFF THE COAST OF MUNSTER, ASH-WEDNESDAY, 1855. I. EVENINGS there were when yon dim coast "Was lighted by a hermit-host, Ere yet the fervid faith was lost Our fathers held. How shall I, in this callous age, Speak of their choir, demure and sage, Who fed the lamp and fill'd the page, In nights of eld ! ii. A pilgrim then to Erin's shore Would nowhere find the ruins hoar, Which echo but the surge's roar, That I have seen; 54G RELIGIOUS POEMS. From cape to cape, from isle and bay, Chancels would light him on his way, His log would be a litany, As it hath been ! How alter'd now ! our faith how weak, Since the old days of which I speak, When every galliot dropp'd her peak, And spread her flag, As soon as saw the conscious crew Arran, emerging o'er the blue, Or the wild cell of Saint Macdugh, A sea-wash'd crag ! IV. Mayhap we may have wiser grown, Since Saints in Erin last were known, Since honors from the deep were shown To God's elect ! But of all gifts our fathers had, Yon shrines, by impious hands unclad, Seem to my soul the loss most sad Religion wreck'd ! v. "Wreck'd ! no, not so ! the eternal shrine Secure may stand, unquench'd may shine, In every breast, in mine and thine, Mine early friend ! The baffled tyrant cannot tear From out the heart, once rooted there, The Cross, our fathers' pride and care, Till time shall end ! RELIGIOUS POEMS. 547 THE DYING CELT TO HIS AMERICAN SOW. I. MY son, a darkness falleth, Not of night, upon my eyes ; And in my ears there calleth A voice as from the skies ; I feel that I am dying, I feel my day is done ; Bid the women hush their crying, And hear to me, my son ! ii. "When Time my garland gathers, Oh ! my son, I chai'ge you hold By the standard of your fathers In the battle-fields of old ! In blood they wrote their story Across its field, my boy; On earth it was their glory, In heaven it is their joy. in. By Saint Patrick's hand 'twas planted On Erin's sea-beat shore, And it spread its folds, undaunted, Through the drift and the uproar ; Of all its vain assaulters, Who could ever say he saw The last of Ireland's altars ? Or the last of Patrick's law ? 548 RELIGIOUS POEMS. IV. Through the western ocean driven, By the tyrant's scorpion whips, Behold ! the hand of Heaven Bore our standard o'er the ships! In the forest's far recesses, When the moon shines in at night, The Celtic cross now blesses The weary wanderer's sight ! v. My son, my son, there falleth Deeper darkness on my eyes; And the Guardian Angel calleth Me by name from out the skies. Dear, my son, I charge thee cherish, Christ's holy cross o'er all ; Let whatever else may perish, Let whatever else will fall. THE CEOS.S IN THE WEST. I. OH, fear not ! oh, fear not ! though storms may assail Salvation's old symbol in city or vale; By the waveless Pacific, by the new Median Sea, The cross over all shall triumphantly be. n. Its merciful shadow shall shelter our halls, Even they who despise it shall pause where it falls, The index that stands on the dial of time And shows man his hour and his errand sublime. RELIGIOUS POEMS. 549 III. The banner of faction shall fall at its feet, The flag of the free do it reverence meet; The wrath-driven host shall grow calm in its shade, Anti repe-ut of the vows that they rashly have made. IV. 'Twas the first of all banners unfurl'd on our shore, 'Twas the banner Columbus in humbleness bore; The needle might vary, the crew mutineer With the cross on his prow he was callous to fear. v. On thy shores, Guahania, when white men first stood, Their speech was the Spanish, their standard the rood; Upon Oregon's slopes, over Labrador's sands Still the cross of the Jesuit pioneer stands. VI. Then fear not ! oh, fear not ! though storms may assail Salvation's old symbol in city or vale; By the waveless Pacific, by the new Median Sea, The cross over all shall triumphantly be. THE HERMIT OF CROAGH PATRICK. I. A HERMIT here, in days of old, Lived by the fox's lair, The years of his life by his beads he told, The hours of his life by prayer. No roar of the clamorous plains Disturb'd his wild retreat, His paths, familiar to winds and rains, Were unknown to human feet. 550 RELIGIOUS POEMS. II. Night and morn, when the sky was bright, He sat on the mountain's crest, And sung God's praise with all his might, Or kneeling, beat his breast. And when the sky above him frown 'd, And the storm rose fierce and loud, He pray'd to Heaven for the land around, Its weak, and wicked, and proud. And many a tempted levin brand From its destin'd aim was turn'd, And many a sinful ship made land The sea would have inurn'd; And many whose final 'counting hour Was come, got Time of Grace ; And many a high and haughty tower His prayer kept in its place. IV. In all that land these things were known, Through all the proverb ran: " The chosen Friends of God alono Are real Friends to Man." Alas ! in our own alter'd day, Well may the guilty rue How few are living now to pray For the sins the many do ! v. When we are stricken with age or ill, Or frighteii'd with God's fires, Our trust is still in human skill, Or art's electric wires. RELIGIOUS POEMS. 551 Oh ! sages, make for me a heart Of ancient mould and faith, And then I'll venerate your art, And honor it in death ! "WINIFRED OF WALES." [Written in the album of a lady whose Christian name was Winifred.] ALONG our native glens, of old, In hut and hall, for young and old, When Night brought round her tales, No purer epic was to tell Than that which on the list'ner fell, Of Winifred of Wales ! The virgin martyr fair and true ; The tyrant sworn his will to do, Wliose wrath, wild as the gales That sweep o'er Snowdon, and whose sword Cropt that bright lily of our Lord, Sweet Winifred of Wales ! Where fell her blood, the conscious earth To a charmed spring gave instant birth, Whose ministry ne'er fails To heal the sick, to light the blind, If sought in fervid frame of mind, Amid the hills of Wales ! Auspicious name ! so meekly borne, I thee invoke, this holy morn, When all men's prayer prevails, To bless this roof, and her who bears Thy name so honor'd through all years Sweet Winifred of Wales ! QUEBEC, Sunday, April 6, 1862. 552 RELIGIOUS POEMS. THE CHRISTIAN BROTHERS. VERY RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE CHRISTIAN BROTHERS OF NEW YORK. I. IN the streets of the city, where laughter is loud, Where Mammon smiles down on his worshipping crowd, "Where the footsteps fall fast as the falling of rain, The sad and the sinful, the vile and the vain; In the streets of the city what form do we meet, With long sable robe flowing free to his feet, Who is it that moves through the wondering mall ? "Tis our teacher a son of the sainted La Salle. n. He hath left his young home in the land of the vine, For the vineyard of God for those tendrils of thine; He hath heard that dear voice which of old calm'd the sea, As it whisper'd to him, " Bring the children to me, For of such are the kingdom of God," ere the soul Hath a speck of the sin that defileth the whole. 'Tis for this that he liveth upbraid him who shall, Who walks in the way of the sainted La Salle ! in. Oh, city ! that looking forth seaward forever To the fleet on the bay, through the fleet on the river; Still laving thy limbs in the parallel tides, And proud of the strength that disaster derides; Would you win true renown 'tis a dutiful youth, An heirloom of honor, devotion, and truth; Would you have them to pillar the home and the hall, Oh ! teach them the Jore of the sainted La Salle ! NEW YORK, 1856. RELIGIOUS POEMS. 553 LIFE, A MYSTERY TO MAN. You ask me, comrade, " why I speak with awe, Harping forever on this Theme of Life, As if it were the only care of man, Instead of being a rope of slipp'ry strands, Full of vile accidents, vexations, dreams; A taper made but to be burned out, A better sort of shroud, a thistle-down, The airy carriage of an unsown seed, The wooden shedding of a lasting structure, A very flimsy, miserable makeshift, Neither an art, nor yet a mystery ?" Life is a mystery, might be an art ! Old men know all its secret sleights and laws, But when they learn to live, 'tis time to die, And so their knowledge, age by age, goes with them; And the young still begin to live, as though A past were not, and future could not be. It is Life's noon, and the young soul looks out: Oh Earth ! how fond and beautiful thou art ! How blue the sky is ! How benign the sun ! How glorified the night ! How joyous Spring And all the seasons look ! He's told " Life's but a voyage, a river, and a dream ;" And this he takes as literal, nor thinks The voyager's port is death; the river's end Is in the sea, eternity; the dream once over, The sleeper wakes up face to face with God ! He comprehends life's sacred sense no more Than the mute trumpet does the word it utters. 554 RELIGIOUS POEMS. Upward he goes, a-gathering shells and toys, As if God sent him museum-making; or, Sitting at some siren's feet of clay, He sings away the hours with wanton airs, Flinging his reason from him: then for days He will be searching after it, that he May squander it once more. He's heard that amid rosas beautiful, Remorse, even as crocodiles of Nile, Chooseth his den; he well knows that a poison, Deadliest to men, has ever been distilled From the fair blossoms of the laurel tree; Yet, like some laughing child of Memphis old, Playing among the sphinxes, never notes That Good and Evil, from their dateless posts Regard him with their all-unwearied eyes; He never thinks, while looking at his watch, A spirit sits within the works to note His actions by the hour; he little dreams, Sleep-walker as he is, that even now Angels descend from heaven every day, And might be seen if we had Jacob's grace. His lawless will he makes his only law, His god is pleasure, and his devil, pain. The first great end of life, is to be saved; And next, to leave the world the better for us. Both are commanded, both are possible. No good man's life was ever lived in vain : Lake hidden springs they freshen all around, And by the lonely verdure of their sphere, You know where good men dwelt. But man's true empire is his deathless soul How capable of culture and adornment ! RELIGIOUS POEMS. 555 His memory, which, from the distant years, Drives its long camel- cavalcades of lore; His will, a curb'd steed or a cataract, Full of directness, loftiness and power, If it were rightly schooled; his reason, An armory of Archimedean levers, Such as, reposing on the Word of God, Might raise the world ! "Will man never know To rule, the empire in himself contained, Its hosts of passions, tastes, affections, hopes; Each one a priceless blessing to its lord, If subject to Religion's holy law ? Ah ! were there many rulers among men, How fragrant in God's nostrils would become This reeling, riotous, and rotten earth ! Then should we see no more guilt and remorse, Life's vernal and autumnal equinox, Shaking down roof-trees on defenceless heads, Scattering the fairest hopes of dearest friends, And strewing peaceful places with the wreck Of lofty expectation ; then premature old age, And gray hairs without honor, could not be; Nor orphans rankly cumbering the waste, Like garden-seeds to some far prairie blown; Then blessed peals would daily fill the air, And God's house be familiar as our own ; Then Faith, and Truth, and patient Charity, Returning from their long sojourn in heaven, With all their glorious arts and gentle kin, Would colonize this moral wilderness, Making it something like what God design'd ! Thus would I have my friend consider life, And, like the diver in the secret sea, 55G RELIGIOUS POEMS. Open his 1 eyes and see it all reveal' d Quicksands, currents, monsters, weeds, and shoals. Thus would I have him school, in humbleness, His ear to catch the rhythmic admonitions Which come, upon the wings of every wind, From the far shore where the dead ages dwell. I would have him entertain such thoughts, That, being with him, they might still preserve His feet from pitfalls, and his cheek from shame, His heart from sorrow, and his soul from woe. THE ARCTIC INDIAN'S FAITH. l. WE worship the Spirit that walks, unseen, Through our land of ice and snow: We know not His face, we know not His place, But his presence and power we know. n. Does the buffalo need the pale-face' word To find his pathway far ? What guide has he to the hidden ford, Or where the green pastures are ? Who teacheth the moose that the hunter's gun Is peering out of the shade ? Who teacheth the doe and the fawn to run In the track the moose has made ? in. Him do we follow, Him do we fear The spirit of earth and sky; Who hears with the Wapiti's* eager ear His poor red children's cry. * Wapiti the elk. RELIGIOUS POEMS. 557 Whose whisper we note in every breeze That stirs the birch canoe, Who hangs the reindeer moss on the trees For the food of the Caribou. IV. That Spirit we worship who walks, unseen, Through our land of ice and snow : We know not His face, we know not His place, But His presence and power we know. A CHRISTMAS PRELUDE. THE seer-prince, the prophet-child, W"ho dwelt in Sennaar undefiled, Proclaim'd with fire-anointed lips, The elder law's apocalypse; Told of earth's powers, their rise and fall, Messiah's birth, and death, and all; How, prone by Tigris' shore he saw A vision fill'd with scenes of awe; All heaven's designs in earthly things, The fate of kingdoms and of kings; The Egyptian's, Persian's, Grecian's fate. But, saddest sight ! saw Zion's state: The second temple overthrown From pinnacle to corner-stone; Th' eternal sacrifice suppress'd By Gentile legions from the west; Dense darkness in all Judah's skies Till Michael, Israel's prince, arise, And He, the Saint of saints, descend On earth, captivity to end. 558 RELIGIOUS POEMS. Bound roll'd the times, and Asia knew "What Daniel saw; then Borne outgrew All other bounds. War's last wild roar Lay hush'd on Cantabria's shore; The idol of the two-fold face* Look'd on his temple's empty space; From the far frontier of the Medes, To where Day stalls his weary steeds, All earth adored, at Caesar's nod, Or frantic cried, " A god ! a god !" Then when the day had come, and hour, Augustus loosed the word of power, And kings and consuls, east and west, Echoed their sovereign lord's behest: "Number the nations who obey, Throughout the world, the Koman sway !" Then throng'd to tryst the human tide, Kindred to kin, from every side; O'er seas and Alps lost exiles came, 4 Bivers reversed, their source to claim; Ganges to Gades, floods of men Throng'd street, and bridge, and foot-mark'd glen; The very desert seem'd to be Peopled by Caesar's dread decree: " Number the nations who obey, Throughout the world, the Boman sway !" Lo ! from their Galilean home Where two of Caesar's subjects come ! Like tender sire and daughter, they Hold reverent converse on their way; A-foot and simply clad, yet grace Abundant shines in either face; * Jamts the god of peace amongst the ancient Romans. RELIGIOUS POEMS. 559 He, Neli's son, a thoughtful man, Whom every sign speaks artisan; She, fairest of all Israel's fair, "With godlike goodness in her air, Conscious of royal David's blood, And of her holy motherhood, Turns to her guide with filial ear, Well pleased his reverent speech to hear. December's breath falls keen and chill On Jacob's well from Ebal's hill; The wintry scene looks pale and dim On Sichem from Mount Gerazim, Where, pacing slowly, from the north, A mother near her baby's birth, Through scenes Samarian, bleak and wild, Borne, and not bow'd, by such a child ! For thou Ephrata art to be The Man-God's destined nursery ! For thee alone the star shall rise, For thee alone the morning skies Shall brighten with the angel's song; For thee the angel-aided seers By Ader's tower shall calm their fears, And ravish'd by the heavenly strain Shall seek their Lord beyond the plain I For thee alone the magi bring From the far East their offering ! For thee alone shall Herod quiver, Ephrata I blest be thou for ever ! Draw we the veil;, this mystery Is all too bright for mortal eye; How shall it, then, be fitly sung In earthly strains, by mortal tongue ! 5GO RELIGIOUS POEMS. In heaven above, by His own choir, "Where shines the strong Divine desire, Can worthily be raised the psalm That hail'd on earth the dread I AM ! CHRISTMAS MORN. i. UP, Christian ! hark ! the crowing cock Proclaims the break of day ! Up ! light the lamp, undo the lock, And take the well-known way. Already through the painted glass Streams forth the light of early Mass ! n. Our altar ! oh, how fair it shows Unto the night-dimm'd eyes ! Oh ! surely yonder leaf that glows, Was pluck'd in Paradise ! Without, it snows ; the wind is loud ; Earth sleeps, wrapp'd in her yearly shroud. Within, the organ's soaring peal, The choir's sweet chant, the bells, The surging crowd that stands or kneels, The glorious errand tells. Rejoice ! rejoice ! ye sons of men, For man may hope for heaven again ! 'Tis but a step, a threshold cross'd, Yet such a change we find; RELIGIOUS POEMS. "Without, the wand'ring worldling toss'd By every gust of wind ; Within, there reigns a holy calm, For here abides the dread " I AM " ! THE MIDNIGHT MASS. I. WHERE the mountains gray and weary, Watch above the valley pass, Come the frieze-clad upland people, To the Midnight Mass ; Where the red stream rushes hoarsely Through the bridge o'ergrown with grass, Come the whispering troops of neighbors, To the Midnight Mass ! n. No moon walks heaven's high hall as mistress, No stars pierce the drifting rocks, Only wind-gusts try back, whining Like dogs on a dubious track. Hark ! there comes a startling echo Upward through the central arch ! 'Tis the swollen flood that carries, Captive off, a raft of larch. m. Shines a light; it is the Chapel Softly, 'tis the hour of God; Poor and small, yet far more lowly Was the infant Christ's abode; 562 RELIGIOUS POEMS. Rude and stony is the pavement, Plain and bare the altar-stone; Ruder was the crib of Bethlehem Over which the east star shone. IV. Confiteor ! God of ages, Mercy's everlasting source ! I have sinned, oh ! do Thou give me Strength to stein my passion's force Mea culpa ! mea culpa ! Saviour of the world and me, By thy Passion, oh ! have mercy, Thorn-crown'd of Calvary ! v. Gloria in excehis Deo ! Shout the prean to the sky ! Eyes of faith, in yon poor stable, See disguised Divinity. Gloria in excehis Deo ! Christ, the hope of man, is born ! Shout the anthem ! join the angels ! "Tis our Saviour's natal morn. Praise to God, the Eternal Father, Who of clay created man ! Praise to Christ, who trod the wine-press Till the atonement overran ! Praise to Him, the Holy Spirit, Who inform'd our souls with grace ! Alleluia ! 'tis the morning Of redemption for our race ! RELIGIOUS POEMS. 5(53 THE ROSARY. I. " Bring hither to me my rosary !" Cried the lovely Lady Anne, As, by the sick bed where he lay, For her dear lord she began To count her bless'd beads one by one, As the hours of hope and life sped on. n. " Jesus save us !'' cried a knight, In the pagan forest lost, No star to lend its guardian light, No mereing, track, or post. " Jesus save us !" and forth he drew The rosary, salvation's clue. in. Brain sore, and feverish with care, In Armagh's cloister deep, . The scholar knelt all night in prayer; Thought would not let him sleep, Till the problems, all entangled, he Unwound them on his rosary. IV. "When fiercely broke the Atlantic sea Around the quivering bark, And the scowling crew with mutiny Made the scowling sky more dark; Columbus calmly tells his beads, Nor mutiny nor tempest heeds. 5G4 RELIGIOUS POEMS. V. Oh ! scorn not, then, the pious poor, Nor the rosary they tell; Ere Faust was born, or men grew proud To read by the light of hell, In noble and in humble hands Beads guided souls to heaven in bands. THE THREE SISTERS. I. THEEE are three angel sisters That haunt the open sea, Three loving, life-like sisters, Though different they be. One lifts her brow, like morning, Above the waters dark, And the star that brow adorning Laves many a beaten bark. in. One, by her anchor clinging, "Walks the waters, like our Lord, And the song she still is singing The dead to life hath stirr'd. IV. But of all the angel sisters Who haunt the open sea, The fondest and the fairest, Sweet Saint Charity for me. RELIGIOUS POEMS. 565 V. Her spirit fires the coldest, And arms the weakest heart ; "When death hath seized the boldest, The burial is her part. VI. On a thousand giddy headlands Her fleeting robe is seen; By a thousand bays her buried Calmly rest beneath the green. VII. She hath no star nor anchor, Nor lofty look hath she, But of all the angelic sisters, Sweet Saint Charity for me ! A PRATER FOR THE DEAD. I. LET Us pray for the dead ! For sister and mother, Father and brother, For clansman and fosterer, And all who have loved us here; For pastors, for neighbors, At rest from their labors; Let us pray for our own beloved dead ! That their souls may be swiftly sped Through the valley of purgatorial fire, To a heavenly home by the gate call'd Desire ! 566 RELIGIOUS POEMS. II. I see them cleave the awful air, Their dun wings fringed with flame; They hear, they hear our helping prayer, They call on Jesu's name. in. Let us pray for the dead ! For our foes who have died, May they be justified ! For the stranger whose eyes Closed on cold, alien skies; For the sailors who perish'd By the frail arts they cherisli'd; Let us pray for the unknown dead ! etc. IV. Father in heaven, to Thee we turn, Transfer their debt to us; Oh ! bid their souls no longer burn In mediate anguish thus. v. Let us pray for the soldiers On whatever side slain ; "Whose green bones on the plain Lay unclaim'd and unfather'd, By the vortex wind gather'd; Let us pray for the valiant dead ! etc. VI. Oh ! pity the soldier, Kind Father in heaven, Whose body doth moulder Where his soul fled self-shriven ! RELIGIOUS POEMS. 567 VII. We have pray'd for the dead ; All the faithful departed, Who to Christ were true-hearted; And oar prayers shall be heard, For so promised the Lord; And their spirits shall go Forth from limbo-like woe And joyfully swift the justified dead Shall feel their unbound pinions sped Through the valley of purgatorial fire, To their heavenly home by the gate called Desire. VIII. By the gate call'd Desire In clouds they're ascended; Oh, saints ! pray for us, Now your sorrows are ended ! SOLDIER! MAKE YOUR SWORD YOUR CROSS! I. SOLDIER ! make your sword your cross, Borne as the cross should be ; So, nor fame, nor honor's loss, Ever can o'ershadow thee ! Who were they, the bravest brave, In the early days of faith, W T hen Sebastian died to save The Church that glorifies his death ? n. The Saints of Rome, the Saints of Gaul, Rode arm'd offe o'er tented field, 5G8 RELIGIOUS POEMS. Who were Maurice, Martin, all The legion of the one-lock'd shield ? They, as you, were bred to war, Slept in guarded bivouac ; What they were, e'en that you are Follow in their sainted track ! & in. Know that power is from on high, Know that duty dwells beside it ; Man's worst fate is not to die, If well prepared and well provided ! Soldier ! make your sword your cross, Borne as the cross should be ; S"o, nor fame, nor honor's loss, Ever can o'ershadow thee ! THE FIRST COMMUNION. WRITTEN FOE A CONVENT FETE. WERE you bid to the bridal ? have you sat at the feast Of the life-giving bountiful Lord of the East ? Oh ! glorious the beauty that shone on His brow, As the innocent bride made her prayer and her vow. And who was the maid, in our old cloudy west, So sought from afar so chosen so blest ? Was her lineage as lofty, as old as His own ? Was she born in the purple and nursed on a throne? Fair Psyche the gentle, no noble was she, Nor born of lineage of lofty degree, A tiller of earth was her father, ordained To purchase by labor the food that he gained. RELIGIOUS POEMS. 569 Lowly born, lowly nursed, amid trial and tears, Fair Psyche had passed through her infantile years; Bat her heart was her dower, a fathomless mine Of the graces and virtues that made her divine. There bloomed all the flowers of a maidenly youth Its modesty, purity, piety, truth; There breathed all the perfumes that halo the air, From the soul of the saint or the censer of prayer. Thus it came that the life-giving Lord from His throne Called the daughter of Earth, his beloved, His own ; Thus gently He drew that sweet heart to his side, And thus proudly he crown 'd her, a queen and a bride. Oh, Psyche beloved ! your path now must be With our Lady of Pity, whose image you see; u * With the numberless host of those virgins who died, To be as you are of Jesus the bride ! With Agnes and Lucy and all the dear saints That history glories, and poetry paints, You shall tread in their path, and join in their psaltn, And bear of the same tree, the evergreen palm. Remember, oh ! Psyche,* the day and the hour When thy Lord in His grace veiled His terrible power When under the symbols of bread and of wine By the lips of His priest, He was offered to thine ! Remember the new robe all spotless and white; As pure be thy spirit preserved in His sight ! Remember the vow that you breathed at his feast, Happy bride of the bountiful Lord of the East ! * Psyche the soul. 570 RELIGIOUS POEMS. STELLA! STELLA! I. WHERE shall we turn, if not to Thee ! Stella ! Stella ! Star of the wilderness-ways of the sea, Stella ! Stella ! Hope of the ages that were, and shall be, Stella ! Stella ! ii. "Tis writ on the earth, and 'tis writ on the wave, Stella ! Stella ! That thou, glorious star, art mighty to save, Stella ! Stella ! From sin, and from death, and a watery grave, Stella ! Stella ! in. Darkness and tempest lie crouch'd in our way, Stella! Stella! Yield us not up to the monsters a prey, Stella! Stella! Shine ! and all danger will up and away, Stella ! Stella ! SUNDAY HYMN AT SEA. I. GUIDE thou our ship, Almighty Power ! Dread Lord of sea and land ! And make us feel, at every hour, The helm is in thy hand ; For they alone, by land or sea, Are guided well, who trust to Thee ! RELIGIOUS POEMS. II. The abyss may yearn beneath our path, The angry waves may rise, The winds rush headlong in their wrath, Out of their lowering skies, But well we know they all obey The Lord, the Guardian of our way. in. When darkness covers all the deep, And every star is set, Serenely we may sink to sleep, For Thou art wakeful yet. How thankful, Lord ! we ought to be ! Teach us how thankful here at sea ! / WILL GO TO THE ALTAR OF GOD. SUGGESTED BY THE ENTRANCE TO THE HOLY MASS. I. IN the night-time I groan'd on my bed, I felt, O my Father ! thy rod ; I felt all thy beauty and truth ; In the morning I rose and I said, " I will go to the altar of God To God, who rejoiceth my youth." n. I arose, and knelt under the sign Of Him who the wine-press hath trod, "Where it shone like a ruby, in sooth; And my soul drank the holocaust wine, As I knelt at the altar of God " Of God who rejoiceth my youth." 572 RELIGIOUS POKMS. III. Despair not, O sorrowing friend ! Down, down on the stone or the sod ; To our Father, all rnercy and truth, Cry aloud, " I repent ! I amend ! I will go to the altar of God To God, who rejoiceth my youth." THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE. I. THE richest diamond mortal man Has ever sought, or ever found, Lies cover'd up by scarce a span Of daily trodden, common ground. Not far to seek, nor hard to find, Oh, jewel of the earth and sky ! Worth all for which the caliphs mined, Worth all for which men delve and die ! in. A tear by Jesus shed, congealed, Were not more pure than this poor stone, That thirty years He bore concealed On earth, at first, the only one. IV. He taught his twelve to cast the net, He taught them to believe and trust ; He show'd them where this pearl was set, Its setting cover'd up with dust. RELIGIOUS POEMS. 573 V. Each gave a jewel unto each, And each could find out one for all ; Ever within the wretch's reach, Ever within the poor man's call. VI. It bound the risen Saviour's robe ; And when above Mount Olivet, He vanish'd in his own abode, The lustre earthward pointed yet. VII. It shone a lamp in many a cave Beside the Jordan and the Nile ; It lightened many a stormy wave, And brighten'd many a holy islr. VIII. It burned red on Godfrey's breast, What time Mahound was trampled down. And when in Salem he had rest, It graced him better than his crown. IX. Its worth is in the wearer's will A thousand or ten thousand fold ; As men may use it, good or ill, It fades to dross, or turns to gold. Would you then know the jewel's name, Or where this diamond mine may be ? Never 'twas sought but that it came The jewel is HUMILITY ! JUVENILE POEMS LINES DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF A BELOVED MOTHER AND TWO DEAR SISTERS.* THE sunbeam falls bright on the emerald tomb, And the flow'rets spring gay from the cold bed of death, "Which incloses within it oh ! earth's saddest doom ! Perfections too pure for the tenants of earth. How hallow'd the spot where she rests in the shade, A parent unequall'd for virtue and love, "Where the mould'ring remains of two sisters are laid, "Whose spirits are radiant in glory, above ! Sweet spirits, who dwell in the home of the Holy, Farewell ! a survivor must bid you adieu; Yet lives with the hope once again to behold you, By following the virtues once practiced by you ! BOYHOOD'S DREAMS. I LOVE the earth, the sea, the air, A faithful friend and a lady fair; A cottage half -hid in evergreens, "With a dozen of babies behind the screens, Looking out with their arch blue eyes. I love to roam o'er heath and hill, Down the dark glen and over the rill,' * Written in 1841, in the author's sixteenth year. 578 JUVENILE POEMS. To cool my brow with the mountain gale, And drink my own health in Adam's ale, 'Neath the radiant morning skies. I love to muse on the rocky steep, Where the old abbey flings its shade o'er the deep, To watch the bright sail on the sunlit wave, Like the spirit-land beaming behind the grave, Afar, from earth that lies. I love the lovely land of the west, Where my sires and their sorrows calmly rest; An idol her story hath been to me, And I love her the more that she is not free, For she shall and must arise ! BOSTON, August 13, 1842. TO WEXFORD IN THE DISTANCE. WRITTEN ON BOARD THE SHIP " LEO," ON THE AUTIIOIl's FIRST VOYAGE TO AMERICA, IX HIS SEVENTEENTH YEAH. OH, city ! o'er the still and silent sea, Farewell ! my heart is overrun with sorrow, I am not what I would be, gay and free, Farewell ! the ocean is my home to-morrow ! Friend of my early days, my happiest hours, No more among the rocky wilds we'll stray, Or in the sunny meadows cull the flow'rs, Or while with wondrous tales, the time away ; With riper years come care and sorrow's sense, Yet meet we may again, please Providence ! APRIL 8, 1842. JUVENILE POEM8. 579 CANTICLE OF THE IRISH CHRISTIAN. ON BOARD THE "LEO," MAY, 1842. I. LORD GOD of our progenitors, The mighty and the just, Of sages, chiefs, and senators, Now mingled with the dust ; Who through the night of ages For thee have wept in chains, Upon whose hist'ry's pages Thy foes have scatter'd stains ! ii. Oh, by the love you bore them, Look on their suffering sons ; Cast Thy soft shadows o'er them, Guard well their little ones ! Once Thou didst plant Thy fountains Of mercy and of grace, Mid Erin's holy mountains, And love her loyal race. in. Who rear'd these sacred ruins ? Who strew'd them o'er the land? Thy wise ones and Thy true ones, Who felt Thy guiding hand. Lord, by Thy love her children Have rear'd Thy Cross afar, Mid rude and untaught wild men, Who worshipp'd godless war 1 580 JUVENILE POEMS. IV. Jehovah ! look with kindness From Thy empyrean bowers ; Remove their selfish blindness, Prince of ten thousand powers 1 Lord ! in thy glorious mercy, Oh, let this ordeal cease ; Confound the fierce oppressor, Lord God of praise and peace ! LINES TO THE PETREL. HERALD of the stormy breezes, Where dost thou find thy place of rest, When billows rage, and each blast freezes Around thy wild, wild ocean nest ? When night hath drawn her robe of sables O'er the land, and o'er the billow, What guiding hand 'tis which enables Thee to attain thy secret pillow ? The hand which made ten thousand creatures To fill the earth, the sky, the air, Has given them spheres of life and natures Which in that life see nought of care. Ours is a life of stormy change, Yet wanting change, a weary waste ; Boundless your home, as ocean's range, It boasts a life of flight and feast. Ye view the proudest works of man, Torn by the fierce tornado's roar, Yet calmly the wild scenes ye scan, Safe lodged on some lake's woody shore. JUVENILE POEMS. 581 But, mortal ! when the storm runs high, Can your frail bark withstand its wrath ? Can you behold the sea and sky, Apd brave the lightning in its path ? Can you, prince of created things ! Withstand for aye, great Nature's power, Skim o'er the wave on buoyant wings, Or call your own one little hour ? APRIL 25, 1842, on board the Leo. SEA SONG. " OH, PILOT, 'TIS A FEAKFUL NIGHT !" I. " OH ! Pilot, 'tis a fearful night, There's horror in the sky, And o'er the wave-crests, sparkling white, The troubled petrels cry !" The hardy tar stood by the wheel, And answer'd not a word, But well I knew his heart could feel Each sound his ear had heard. ii. I saw the sea-boy far aloft, Rock'd on the top-sail yard, Yet, youthful as he was, and soft, He wrought, and little cared If waves ran high that fearful night, If eastern tempests roar, Nor reck'd, nor dream'd, that wayward wight Of friends left on the shore ! 582 JUVENILE POEMS. III. I turn'd again the pilot stood Still silent at the wheel, A billow smote the corvette good And threw her on her keel; The pilot's manly arm shook, His eye was big and wild, Some prayer his troubled spirit spoke For distant wife or child. IV. " Oh ! pilot, 'tis a fearful night ! There's horror in the sky, And o'er the wave-crests, foaming white, The troubled petrels fly ! " The hardy tar stood by the wheel, And answer'd not a word ; Full well I knew his heart could feel Each sound his ear had heard. AT SEA, May 2, 1842 SONG, SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY ONE OF THE SEAMEN DURING A STORMY NIGHT. OH, launch the life-boat out, my boys, Oh ! launch the life-boat out ! The raging waves are breaking, boys, The coral reef about ! The pride of India's golden streams Lies scatter'd on the shore, And fiercely though the sea-bird screams, It wakes the brave no more ! Then launch, etc. JUVENILE POEMS. 583 One tatter'd spar above tlie bark, Still braves the furious gale, And in the lightning-spangled dark, One bleach'd and tatter'd sail ! Then launch, etc. The pale, horn'd moon withdraws her light, The tempests louder roar, Their wrath has slain not few to-night Who ne'er shall brave it more ! Then launch, etc. ON BOAHD THE " LEO," April U, 1842. TO IRELAND. LAND of ray fathers ! I could weep Thy sorrows e'en as they were mine, Did not a fiercer passion creep, Into my thoughts of thee and thine, To feel earth's basest should so long Sit throned amid thy pauper throng ! Cannot the past beget some hope ? Doth not its fire your bosoms warm ? Look back; what foe feared they to cope ? Clontarf, Benburb, bearn'd through the storm, As suns obscured by clouds of years, Their victors little dreamed of fears ! Go ! seek Armagh's all-hallow'd pile, The tomb of Brian crumbles there; Seek Tara's Hall, lona's isle, And ask eve's shadows how and where 584 JUVENILE POEMS. The men who made those spots sublime Were nursed what was their native clime ! Must the grave yawn to answer them, " They were of Erin's sons the best ?" Do not your memories, Irishmen, Give answer to the humbling quest ? Yes, yes ! such were her sons of yore, And shall she see such sons no more ? Why boast ye of your olden plains, Where triumph'd the Milesians' might ? Are Saxons kindlier than Danes ? More brave than Eomans in your sight ? Or discord which hath gorged its fill Say, does the demon haunt ye still ? Will none arise with sword or cross, To drive the fiend from out your land, Where, fattening on the traitor's corpse, He sows defeat with tireless hand V Still must thy soil bring wretches forth, To suck blood from their parent earth ? Down with the altars faction-reared ! Blot out the class-badge of a hue; Still let the shamrock be revered, And drink love from its morning dew ! So may Old Ireland bear once more Such children as she reared of yore ! Each heart is yet a fitting shrine For household gods to harbor in; An essence dearer far than wine ; An angel's voice forewarning sin, JUVENILE POEMS. 535 Is not more true than the love which dwells In an Irish heart's ten hundred cells. There is not one who roams the land, Fro'm Kenbaan's cliffs unto the Lee, But owns a valiant heart and hand, A spirit panting to be free ; And by our sainted fathers' graves, They shall no longer live like slaves ! Thus from the founders of their kind, Courage and truth descend to them; And who in majesty of mind, Outsoars the sons of those ancient men ? My native land, rejoice ! once more Thy sons shall be as their sires of yore ! LINES ADDRESSED TO ME. A. M). " Cathal's Farewell to the Rye." Cathal Crov-derg (the red-handed) O'Connor, being banished in his in fancy from Connaught, was found in exile in Leinster by the Bollscaire (messenger or herald), who brought him the news of his father, Turlough's death, and his own election. The Bollscaire found him reaping rye in a field with clowns. On hearing the news, Cathal cast the sickle on the ridge, saying: "Farewell, sickle, now for the sword!" To this day, ' ' Cathal's farewell to the Eye ' ' has been a proverb among the Sil-Murray whenever they wanted to express a final farewell. See O'Donovan's Annals of the Four Masters, Vol. I., note, p. 212. Page 225, () "'The Death of Donnell More.-' Donnell More O'Brien was one of the most illustrious princes of that royal line. He is supposed to have been the munificent founder of Holy Cross Abbey, county Tipperary, one of the best endowed and most beauti ful of the great monastic houses of Ireland. In Hayes' Ballads of Ire land may be seen a noble poem on Holy Cross Abbey, by B. Simmons, in which allusion is made to "KingDonogh (Donnell) the Red " as founder of the abbey. It is a sad loss that only fragments of this noble historical poem on "The Death of Donnell More" could be found among the author's MS. remains. Page 228, (). " The Caoim of Donnell More." Only an Irish poet, and an Irish poet of the highest order, could have written this poem, simple as it seems. Unfortunately, we have only a part of it, but enough to show that the author was truly and indeed the Bard of the Gael, as he has been styled. Page 229, (). " As to the harp the Ceis." One of the Irish chiefs is lamented in the Four Masters as leaving his Kinel Connell ' ' a harp without the Ceis, a ship without a pilot, or a field without shelter." Page 229, () . " A Legend of the Isle of Lewis. " One of the first evangelizers of the Western Islands is known in Gaelic story as " St. Cormac, the Navigator." He was among the first mission aries sent out from lona. 598 NOTES. Page 231, ( 45 ). " St. Columbanus in Italy to St. Comgall in Ireland." St. Columbanus, the Paul of the Apostolic age of the Irish Church, preached the Gospel in Burgundy, and other provinces of France, in the Deigns of the Merovingian kings, and in Lombard}' against the Avians. He was an accomplished grammarian (which term then included all book-lore) and a good poet. Goldastus and Usher have preserved some of his epis tles, which were numerous, and Henry Caussius has published one of his poems, copied from an ancient MS. of Freisengen, in Bavaria. He was educated under St. Comgall, abbot, at Banchor, in the Ards of Down, to whom it is not unlikely he should give some account of his travels and experiences. He died in his own monastery of Bobbio, in northern Italy, on the 21st of November, 615. A town and many churches in upper Italy still bear his name. Page 233, (). " Peter's Coarbh." That is, successor. Page 235, ( 47 ). " Of the blessed Bishop Arbogast." See MacGeoghegan's Ireland, Vol. I., p. 201, for the account of the death of St. Avbogast. (Sadlier's New York edition.) Page 235, (). " The Coming of the Danes." The Danes first landed in Ireland A.D. 795 and 798. The object of their earliest voyages was Leinster, in which the scene of these verses is laid. Page 235, (). "The night is holy 'tis blessed Saint Bride's." Bride the abbreviation of Bridget. Page 237, ( 50 ). " The Death of King Magnus Barefoot." King Magnus Barefoot became joint King of Norway with Hiikon Olaf- son, in 1093. But Hakon, in chasing a ptarmigan over the Dofrefleld, caught an ague, of which he died, and after this Magnus reigned alone ten years. In this time he made many voyages into the West, conquering all he attacked, whether in the isles or on the Scottish or English shores. In 1102, he was slain in Ulster by an Irish force, near the sea-shore. In Miss Brooke's Reliqnes of Irish Poetry is a translation of an Irish poem on this event, "the author of which," that lady observes, "is said to have belonged to the family of the O'Neills." This poem agrees with Sturleson's as to the scene of the right and its result, but differs in the details. I have followed the latter for the facts of Magnus's previous life, as well as for the immediate cause of his death. The Ulfrek's-fiord of the ballad was the Danish name of Strangford Lough. It is scarcely necessary to add that at this period the Danes were nominal, if not practical Christians. NOTES. 599 Page 239, (si). " While the ravens in the darkness were lost.'; The ravens the Danish standard. Page 240, (). The Saga of King Olaf, of Norway, and his Dog. King Tryggvesson was king over all Norway from about A.D. 995 to A.D. 1000. His saga is the sixth in Snorro Sturleson's Humskringla, and is very curious and suggestive. Among other incidents, it contains the epi sode which suggested these stanzas. It may be here remarked that the chronicles of the North-men, of the several nations, throw much reflected light on our own more statistical annals. All through the ninth, tenth, and eleventh centuries, that restless race frown along the background of our history, filling us with an awful interest, similar to that which we feel in watching the advance of one thunder-cloud toward another. They certainly destroyed many native materials for our early history, but in their own accounts of their expeditions into Ireland, they have left us much we should use. That Davis was conscious of the value of this his torical resource, appeal's strikingly in his essay on the Sea-Kings. Page 243, ( 53 ). " He was named Hiort." "Hiort," literally a deer. Page 245, ( M ). ''King Malachy and the poet M'Coisi." It was by the unjiistifiable ambition of Brian Boroihme, aided, perhaps, by his own incompetency, that Malachy II. was deposed from the chief monarchy of Ireland. Page 246, ( 55 ). "King Brian's Ambition." The ambition of Brian at this late period of his heroic life was no longer that which had dethroned Malachy. The "ambition " of the aged mon arch had become purified and exalted into a purely Christian motive, namely, that of expelling the pagan Danes from Ireland. Page 258 , ( 56 ) . " De Courcy^s Pilgrimage. ' ' Sir John De Courcy, under King Henry (the Second,) was the chief con queror of "Ulster who about the getting of the same had seven battles with the Irish, five of which he won and lost two. Having at length reduced it to English rule and order, and occupied it for twenty years or more, King John, hearing that De Courcy had boldly declared that the death of the rightful heir to the English crown Prince Arthur was effected through his commands, he instructed the brothers, Sir Walter and Sir Hugh De Lacy, to arrest De Courcy, and send him to England to be hanged. Sir Hugh went with his host from Meath, and did battle with De Courcy in Down, and after many being slain on both sides the victory GOO NOTES. was in favor of De Courcy. (Finglas's Breviate, Harris's Hibernica, p. 48.) Among the traditional heroes of Ireland, John De Courcy occupies a prominent position. The exploits which fame ascribes to him entitle him to the character of an Irish Cid. The circumstance related in the ballad is popular in every homestead from Innishowen to Inisherkin. Page 260, ("). ' The Pilgrimage of Sir Ulgarg." A.D. 1231. The Four Masters simply record the death of Ulgarg O'Rourke, of Brcffny, as having occurred beside the river Jordan. Page 262, (5 s ) . "A Legend of Lough Derg. ' ' Lough Derg, in Donegal, was a place famous for pilgrimage from a very early period, and was much resorted to out of France, Italy, and the Pen insula, during the Middle Ages, and even in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In Mathew Paris, and Froissart, as well as in our native annals, and in O'Sullivan Beare, there are many facts of its extraordinary history. Page 264, ( 59 ). " Living on bitter bread and penitential wine." The brackish water of the lake, boiled, is called wine by the pilgrims. Page 265, ( eo ) . "A Legend of Dunlu.ce, Castle. ' ' A portion of Dunluce Castle was destroyed by a tempest some centuries ago, while the inmates were busily engaged in revelry. Many lives were lost by the accident. Page 267, ( 61 )- "Death of Art M'-Mur rough." Art M'Murrough died at Ross, in 1416, after having reigned over Lein- gter for forty years. He was the chief Irish soldier of the age, and the first, perhaps, that overreached the Normans by tactics and strategy. His campaigns were against Roger Mortimer, Richard the Second, the Earl of Ormond, Sir John .Stanley, and Sir Stephen Scrope. Lord Thomas of Lan caster, and the first Earl of Shrewsbury the British Achilles. He took Ross, Carlow, Enniscorthy, and other fortified places, from the English, and exacted an annual tribute of eighty marks from Dublin. Page 268, ( 62 ). "And from the many-gated town pass'd Easchlaghs in affright. ' ' "Easchlagh'' a courier among the Gaclelians, who was often a woman. The word is pronounced nearly as if it were written asla. Page 268, (3). "To the Calvach in his hall." The Calvach O'Connor Faly was Murrogh O'Connor, a renowned warrior. NOTES. 601 who beat the English in several battles ; amongst others, that of Killuchain, fought in 1413. Page 208, (*). "To MacDavid in Riavach." Contw Riavach a name given to Wexford in the fourteenth and fifteenth centimes. Page 269, (65). "Forth." In Wexford. Page 271, ( 66 ). " Where hundreds of our gallant dead await The long-foretold, redeem'd and honor'd fate." The coming of a historian who shall liberate our illustrious dead from the bondage of neglect and calumny, is foretold in our prophecies. God send him, and soon ! Page 274, (<"). " The Praise of Margaret 0' Carroll." Margaret, the daughter of 0' Carroll, married, early in the fifteenth cen tury, the Calvach O'Connor, chief of Offaly. She retained, after her mar riage (a not unusual custom with our ancestresses), her maiden name, and under that name she became famous. Several traits of her character, given in McFirbiss' Annals, prove her to have been a woman of remarkable spirit and capacity. Thus we read of her pilgrimage to Compostella, and how the English of Trim having taken several Irishmen, her neighbors, prison ers, and her lord having in his keeping certain English prisoners, she "went to Beleathatruim, and gave all the English prisoners for Macgeo- ghegan's son, and for the son's son of Art, and that unadvised to the Cal vach, and she brought them home." MS. Irish Arch. Society, Vol. I., page 212. "It was she," says the same annalist, "that, thrice in one year, proclaimed to, and commonly invited (in the dark days of the year), on the feast day of Da Sinchel in Killaichy, all persons, both Irish and Scot tish, or rather Albians, to the general feasts." The numbers who usually attended these feasts are set down as "upward of 2,000," by some as 2,700. It is stated, also " SheVas the one woman that has made most ot preparing highways and erecting bridges, churches, and mass -books, and of all manner of things profitable to serve God and her soul." Her death, from a cancer in her breast, is very pathetically bemoaned, as well it might be, by the McFirbiss of her time. It took place in 1461, which is called on that account "an ungratious an unglorious yeare to all the learned in Ireland, both philosophers, poets, guests, strangers, religious persons, soldiers, mendicants, or poor Orders, and to all manner and sorts of poor in Ireland." See MSS. Arch. Soc. Vol. I. In these days of exhortation to female patriotism, such a type of an Irishwoman of the middle ages will, I am sure, gain many more admirers than the grotesque fiction which is 602 NOTES. usually made of Grace O'Malley, who is represented in our "historians" much more like a savage than the high-bred and high-spirited gentle woman that she was. Page 274, (s). " Rath Imayn." Now Rathangan, County Kildare. Page 275, (<*). "Dan." The art of poetry. Page 275, ( 70 ). A. D., 1414. "The O'Higgins, on account of Nial, then satirized John Stanley, who only lived for five weeks after the satirizing, having died of the venom of the satire; this was the second instance of the influence of Nial O'Higgins' satires, the first having been the clan Con way turning gray the night they plundered Nial of Claidan." Annals of the Four Masters. Page 277, ( 71 )- " Da Sinchel." The two Sinchels Saints of the land of Offaly. Page 277, ( 7Z ) . ' ' Margaret 0' Carroll. ' ' Duald M'Firbis, the last antiquary of Lecan, in his MS. Annals, quoted by 0' Donovan (Four Masters, page 944), gives several details of the grea.t Irish Pilgrimage " towards the Citie of Saint James, in Spain," tindertaken in the year 1445, when the "goodlie companie" numbered the chiefs of the name of M'Dermott, M'Geoghegan, O'Driscoll, several of the Munster Geraldines, Eveleen, wife of Pierce D' Alton, and a great number of others, " noble and ignoble." The admirable Margaret 0' Carroll was a principal person in this pilgrimage. Page 282, ('3). " The Irish Wife." In 137C the statute of Kilkenny forbade the English settlers in Ireland to intermarry with the old Irish, under penalty of outlawry. James, Earl of Desmond, and Almaric, Baron Grace, were the first to violate this law. One married an O'Meagher ; the other a M'Cormack. Earl Desmond, who was an accomplished poet, may have made "the defence for his marriage. Page 284, ( 7 "). "Or how Earl Gerald match'd with kings. ' Gerald, eighth Earl of Kildare, whose splendor almost rivalled that of the King his master at the famous " Field of the Cloth of Gold." Page 286, ("*). " One went out by night to gather Vervain by the summer star. ' ' Vervain- -a healing plant, in great repute among the ancient Irish ; it should be gathered under the dog-star, by night, barefoot, and with the left hand. NOTES. 603 Page 289, ( 7e ). " Who loved to set the prisoner free." In justice to Queen Mary, it must be admitted that she was the only English sovereign who seems to have freely forgiven Irish state prisoners, as we see in this and other instances. Lingard (A. D. 1<654) shows that her clemency was far superior to that of Elizabeth, and of the governments who punished so severely the Jacobite insurrections of 1715 and 1745. Page 290, ( 77 ). "False Francis Bryan's guest betray'd." The insurrection, defeat, submission, and betrayal of Bryan O'Connor Faly, in the reigns of Henry VIII. and Edward VI., is carefully narrated in The Annals of the Four Masters. In 1546, with O'More, he con tended unsuccessfully with the Lord Justice St. Leger, and was compelled to retreat into Connaught ; the next year they recrossed the Shannon and attempted by arms to recover what they had lost. The Four Masters thus record the upshot : " 1547 : O'Connor (Bryan) and O'More (Gilla Patrick), having been abandoned by the Irish, went over to the English, to make submission to them upon their own terms, under the protection of an English gentleman, i.e., the Lieutenant. This, however, was a bad pro tection." This Lieutenant, 0' Donovan adds, was Francis Bryan, who married the Countess Dowager of Ormond, and was made Marshal of Ire land, and Governor of the counties of Kilkenny and Tipperary. He was Lord Lieutenant in 1549, and died early in 1550. O'More died soon after his imprisonment in England ; O'Connor, having made an unsuccessful attempt to escape, was sentenced to "constant confinement ever after." (Four Masters, A. D. 1551.) It was not till 1553 he was liberated. Page 292, ( 7S ). "She most pursued the English speech." This curious and highly interesting account of the liberation of O'Con nor, on his daughter's intercession, is given in the Annals, under the year 1553. (Vol. V., page 1531.) Page 292, (). " At thought of his true Margaret." Margaret Roper, More's favorite daughter. Page 293, ( 80 ). " She lightly leapt on Cambria's strand." The ancient route from Dublin to London was through Anglesea to Coventry and St. Alban's. The journey by that way was above three hundred miles. Page 293, ( 81 )- " O'er Stoke's sad field, enrioh'd and red With ashes of the Irish dead. ' ' At Stoke, in 1487, was fought the last great battle of the War of the Roses, under the banner of the poor pretender, Lambert Simnel. Simnel 60 4 N-OTES. had been crowned in Dublin, and accompanied by a large Anglo-Irish and Burgundian force, invaded England. They were defeated, with great loss, at Stoke, leaving among the dead Lords Thomas and Maurice Fitzgerald, the Earl of Lincoln, and Martin S \vartz, Commander of the German aux iliaries. Page 293, ( w ). " Saint Alban's ransom' d abbey made." The Abbey of St. Alban's was greatly favored by both the Saxon and Norman Kings of England. It was, at the spoliation, one of the richest in England, and its Abbot took precedence of all others in Parliament. Alban Butler, under June 22. Page 294, ( S3 ). " No jewel in her turban'd hair." The turban is stated by several writers to have formed the head-dress of Irish ladies. As for their other raiment, we find it thus depicted in the old Scottish romance of Squire Nddrwjn : " Her kirtill was of scarlot reid, Of gold and garland of hir heid, Decorit with enamelyne ; Belt and brochis of silver fyne ; Of yellow taftais wes hir sark, Begaryit all with browderit wark, Kicht craft elie with gold and silk." Page 296, ( 84 ). "Oh, aid me, gracious Prince of Spain." " He (Philip) obtained from Mary the release of several persons of dis tinction, whom she had thrown into prison, on suspicion of their disaffec tion to her government. Watson's Philip //., Book I. Page 297, ( 65 ). " FeagJi M'JIayh." Feagh McHugh O* Byrne, a celebrated Wicklow chieftain of the sixteenth century. Page 298, ( 86 ). " jMment of the Irish Children Imprisoned in the Toiver.'' In the reign of Henry VIII., the school of "King's Wards"' was pro jected, and it seems to have been a favorite practice, in that and the suc ceeding reigns, to demand the children of our chiefs as hostages, to be educated in London. Sir Edward Coke's infamous speech in James the First's Parliament, defending the perpetual imprisonment of the Irish children in the Tower, is the most striking document we know as to the fate of these unfortimate young captives. Page 300, (<). " The Poet's Prophecy." Hugh O'Niel had a poet, O'Clery, who foretold the victory of the Black- NOTES. 605 water. The original of .ttiese lines rnay have been written by the same hand, as I first met with them in an old MS. in the Burgundian library at Brussels, among other fragments left by Friar Michael O'Clery, one of the Four Masters. Page 301, ( 88 ). "They of the prophetic race." The Tuatha de Danaans. Page 301 , (89) . " They of the fierce blood of Thrace. ' ' The Picts, or Cruithmans, who are derived, by ancient traditions, from Thrace. Page 301, ( 90 ). " They who Man and Mona lorded." Beside their Scottish colony, the Irish had dominion over the isles of Man and Mona (Anglesea). Holyhead was called in Welsh Liany Gwyddyl, or "Irish Church." Golydan, an ancient Welsh writer, .divides the Irish of Vortigern's time into those of Ireland, Mona, and North Britain. See Irish edition of ' ' Nennim, ' ' published by the Irish Archceological Society, note, p. 191. Page 301, (si). " The Summons of Ulster." The time to which this ballad refers is that when Hugh O'Neil, Prince of Tyr-Owen, was forming his grand confederation against the oppressive power of Elizabeth. Page 306, (M). "Irrelagh." The ancient name of the Abbey of Mucruss, at Killarney. Page 307, ( 93 ) . " The Outlawed Earl. ' ' Gerald, the fifteenth and last Earl of Desmond, who lost life and land struggling against religious persecution and foreign tyranny. Page 309, ( 4 ). " Sir Cahir O" 1 Dogherty' s Message." In 1608, O'Dogherty, Chief of Innishowen, seized Deny, garrisoned Cul- more, and fought a campaign of five months against the troops of James I. with success. He fell by assassination in the twentieth year of his age. Page 310, (! 6 ). " The Rapparees." This is a logical defence of a most injured class of brave men. The Rapparees first appeared in the wars for James II. , and were the guerillas of that and the succeeding generation. A false Williamite nomenclature has made the name synonymous with assassination and larceny. This, to be true, would make all that history records of fugitive heroism false. 606 NOTES. Page 312, (). "After the Flight." These lines were written after perusing Rev. C. P. Meehan's " Flight of the Northern Earls." Page 314, ( 9 ~). " Rory DalVs Lamentation." Rory "Ball,' 1 or the blind, a celebrated Irish harper at the court of James V. of Scotland, who was banished that court for declaring he would rather be the O'Neil than King of Scotland. Page 315, ( 9S ). " The Last 0' Sullivan Beare." Philip O'Sullivan Beare, a brave captain, and the author of many works relating to Ireland, commanded a ship-of-war for Philip IV. of Spain. In his " Catholic History," published at Lisbon in 1609, he has alluded to the sad story of his family. It is, in brief, thus : li In 1G02, his father's castle of Dunbuiolhe being demolished by cannonade, the family consisting of a wife, two sons, and two daughters emigrated to Spain, where his young est brother, Donald, joined him professionally, but was soon after killed in an engagement with the Turks. The old chief, at the age of one hundred, died at Corunna, and was soon followed by his long-wedded wife. One daughter entered a convent and took the veil ; the other, returning to Ireland, was lost at sea." In this version, the real names have been pre served . Page 317, ("). "Brother Michael.'' Michael O'Clery, the chief of the Four Masters, was merely a lay- brother of the Order of St. Francis. "Brother Michael" was his solo name in religion, and by that alone I have presumed to call him. Page 319, (). " Where the gables of Dunbrody Stand the proof of Hervey's penance." The Cistercian Abbey of Dunbrody was founded by Hervey de Montema- risco, A. D. 1182. Page 324, ('<") " Sonnet To Kilbarron Castle." Kilbarron Castle, the time-honored dwelling of the O'Clerys, chief bards of the princely O'Donnells, overlooking Donegal Bay. Page 325, (*) . " In-felix Felix. ' ' Sir Phelim (Felix) O'Neill was executed by Cromwell's order, at Dublin, hi 16G2, as a punishment for the alleged " Popish Massacre" of 1641. He was offered his life, on the scaffold, if he would consent to inculpate King Charles. Ei stoutly refused," and was instantly executed. NO T ES. 607 Page 330, (><). " To the River Boyne." These stanzas, originally written several years ago, and included in Hayes' collection of The Ballads of Ireland, are here inserted (i. e., in The Canadian Ballads of Mr. McGee), as an evidence of what the author at the time of writing them considered, arid still does consider, the true spirit in which the events referred to in them ought alone to be remem bered by natives of Ireland, whether at home or abroad. Page 331, ( 104 ). "And banish'd far the bitterness of strife." An allusion to the Irish Tenant League, which just then (June, 1851) held one of its reunions on the banks of the Boyne. Page 332, ('05). T-he Wild Geese." This name was given to those Irish soldiers who, after the capitulation of Limerick, went over to France and formed the celebrated Irish Brigade. Page 333, G ). " The Death of O'Carolan" Turlogh O'Carolan, born at Nobber, A. D. 1670, became blind at the age of manhood, and then the harp which had been his amusement became his profession. The lady of the Mac Dermott of Aldersford, in Roscommon, equipped him with horse, harp, and gossoon. At every house he was a welcome guest, and for half a century he wandered from mansion to man sion, improvising words and airs. Roscommon, the native county of Gold smith, was his favorite district, where he died in 1731. at the house of his first patroness. One of Goldsmith's most touching essays is on "Carolan the Blind/' and his musical influence can certainly be traced not only in Goldsmith's Poems, but also in Sheridan, Moore, and Gerald Griffin. Page 334, (">T). " The Croppies' Grave." On the top of the hill of Tara is " the Croppies' Grave," and the stone at the head is thought by Petrie to be the true Lia Fail, or " Stone of Destiny." Page 336, ( 108 ). "Sana of 'Moylan's Dragoons.' " "Moylan's Dragoons," says Mr. G. W. P. Custis, nephew of Washing ton, " were in almost every action during the war." Page 337, ( 109 ). " Old Ulster." Ulster County, Pennsylvania. Page 338, (1 ') . " Charity and Science. ' ' Cities infected with pestilence are usually placed in a state of siege. Dr. Corrigan, of Dublin, in his humane pamphlet, Fever and Famine as Cause and Effect, has given a sketch of the town of Tullamore, so blockaded by these invisible and almost irresistible enemies, in the year of our Lord 1818 ; from that passage these stanzas took their rise. 608 NOTES. Page 344, ('). "And ye who shelter'd Harold and Bruce." Harold, the last of the Saxons, and Robert Bruce, both found refuge in Ireland from defeat, and returned from it to victory. Tage 352, ("*). " The Battle of Ayachucho.'' This battle, fought the 8th of December, 1825, was the Yorktown of South America. The Spanish Viceroy and his entire force surrendered themselves as prisoners of war to the Patriots under General Sucre. Col. O'Connor, mentioned in the poem, was chief of the Patriot staff. Page 355, ( i ) . "The Haunted Castle. ' ' Donegal Castle, the chief seat of the princely family of the O'Donnells, stands now in ruins, in the centre of the village of the same name, at the head of Donegal Bay. It was built in the fifteenth century, and shows, even in its decay, royal proportions. The present owner, Lord Arran, to his credit be it told, has it well walled and cared for. The remains of the abbey, where the Four Masters completed their Annals, are within sight of the castle. Page 357, ( 1I4 ). " The Abbey by Lough. Key." A famous monastery of Premonstratensians, the Order of St. Norbert, founded on Lough Key by Clarus McMailen O'Mulconry, A.D. 1215, figures frequently in our annals. There are notices of Clarus in the Four Masters, at the years 1235, 1237, 1240, and 1247, which give us interesting glimpses of the power and benevolence of this Irish representative of the great Arch bishop of Magdeburg. Page 3G8, ( 115 ). "Hannibal's Vision of the Gods of Carthage." " In his sleep, as he told Silenus, he fancied that the supreme God of his fathers had called him into the presence of all the gods of Carthage, who were sitting on their thrones in council. There he received a solemn charge to invade Italy." Arnold's Rome, chap, xliii. Page 381, C" 5 ). " The Virgin Mary's Knight." In the Middle Ages, there were Orders of Knights specially devoted to our Blessed Lady, as well as many illustrious individuals of knightly rank and renown. Thus the Order called "Servites," in France, was known as L'Esclaves de Marie, and there was also the Order of " Our Lady of Mercy," for the redemption of captives; the "Templars," too, before their fall, were devoutly attached to the service of our Blessed Lady. Page 385, ( 117 )- " Sebastian Cabot to his Lad;/." To the reader, whose idea of Sebastian Cabot is associated with the usual pictures of him. taken when he was nearly four-score, it may be necessary NOTES. (509 to remark, that he received his first commission from King Henry VII., jointly with his father, John Cabot, and discoved the Labrador coast in his twenty-first year (A.D. 1497). The ardent passion attributed to him in the ballad, would not be inconsistent with his age, 'in either his first or second expeditions. Page 389, ( 11S ). " Of how they brought their sick and maim'd for him to breathe upon, And of the wonders wrought for them through the Gos pel of St. John.'' So great was the veneration for the white men, that the chief of the town (Hochelaga, now Montreal), and many of the maimed, sick, and infirm, came to Jacques Cartier, entreating him, by expressive signs, to cure their ills. The pious Frenchman disclaimed any supernatural power, but he read aloud part of the Gospel of St. John, made the sign of the Cross over the sufferers, and presented them with chaplets and holy sym bols ; he then prayed earnestly that the poor savages might be freed from the night of ignorance and infidelity. The Indians regarded these acts and words with deep gratitude and respectful admiration. Warburton's Canada, Vol. I., p. 66. Page 391, ( 119 ). " Verses in Honor of Margaret Bourgeoys. " The saintly foundress of the great Canadian order, ' ' The Congregation of Our Lady," established by her in the little village of Hochelaga, the site of the present city of Montreal, toward the middle of the seventeenth century. These verses were written for a convent-ffite. at Villa Maria, the principal house of the Order, near Montreal. They were recited, on that occasion, by the daughter of Mr. McGee, then a pupil of the house. Page 393, (120). " Our Ladye of the Snow. 1 " The original church of Notre Dame des Neiges stood upon what is now the " Priests' Farm," on the southern slope of the Mountain of Montreal. It was originally surrounded by the habitations of the converted Indians and their instructors, of the "Mountain Mission." The wall of defence and two towers still remain, in good preservation, fronting on Sherbrooke Street, Montreal. The present chapel of the same name stands in the vil lage of Cote des Neiges, behind the Mountain. Page 399, ( 121 )- "Such fate as Heindrich Hudson found, in the labyrinths of snow. ' ' The inci ient on which this ballad is founded is related in Bancroft's History of the Colonization of America. Vol. II. The name of the faithful sailor, who preferred certain death to abandoning his captain in his lust extremity, was Philip Staafe- -a Hollander, no doubt. 61 Q NOTES. Page 404, (>2*). " The frame of that first vessel grew." The launch of the first sailed vessel that ever navigated the great lakes, an event in itself so well worthy of commemoration, is made still more noteworthy by the circumstances which surrounded it, and of which we have, fortunately, more than one account from the pens of eye-witnesses. The accuracy of Hennepin's Journal (Description de la Louisiane) lias been disputed in detail, and its pretensions and egotisms severely censured by several recent writers on those times ; but I believe the very full details he supplies of the beginning of the Sieur de la Salle's expedition, and the building of the "Griffin" (at Cayuga Creek, a few miles above Niagara Falls, on what is now "the American side"), have not been questioned. Page 405, ( 123 ). "Stands the adventurous Rccolld Whose page records that anxious day/' Father Hennepin. Page 40G, (>2->). " Within the precinct of his god.'' The Manitoulin Isles, iu Lake Huron, were supposed by the aborigines to be the special abode of the great Manitou, and were feared and reverenced accordingly. Page 400, (^). "And may it be thy lot to trace The footprints of the unknown race 'Graved on Superior's iron shore, Which knows their very namf no more.'' "That this region was resorted to by a barbaric race, for the purpose of procuring copper, long before it became known to the white man, is evident from numerous memorials scattered throughout its entire extent. Whether these ancient miners belonged to the race who built the mounds found so abundantly on the Upper Mississippi and its affluents, or were the progeni tors of the Indians now inhabiting the country, is a matter of conjecture. . . . The high antiquity of this rude mining is inferred from the fact that the existing race of Indians have no tradition by what people, or at what period, it was done. The places, even, were unknown to the oldest of the band, until pointed out by the white man." Whitney and Foster's Report on the Mining Region of Lake Superior, published by the United States Con gress. Page 417, ( 12e ). " On the mountain, still to heaven, Like its hermit, I could pray.'' St. Kevin's Bed is in the side of Lugduff Mountain, above the lake of Glondalough, County Wicklow. Page 420, ('2'). "Like gifts of the night-trapp'd fairy. 1 ' Of the fairy legends of Ireland, none is more common than that of the leprachaun, who, caught by some belated mortal, reveals where gold or other treasures are hidden, as the price of his liberation. NOTES. flu Pasje 424, ( IZ8 )- " If one who once was " reverend" may For his own special favorites pray." When the author escaped to America, in 1848, it was in the disguise of a priest. He was known on board ship as " Father John." Page 433, ( 12S ). " In Memoriam BISHOP REILLY.'' Tli is eminent prelate, it will be remembered, perished in the ill-fated steamer "Pacific." Page 458, ( 13 ). " And in his wand the power to save.'' For the faculties and privileges of our ancient Order of Ollamhs, see Dr. O'Curry's Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History, page 2. Page 460, ("i). ' In vision, to the rapt Culdee." Angus the Culdee. The cause of writing his Festalogium is thus stated in O'Curry's words: One time that Angus went to the church of Cull Benn- chair he saw, he says, a grave there, and angels from heaven constantly descending and ascending to and from it. Angus asked the priest of the church who the person was that was buried in this grave ; the priest- answered that it was a poor old man who formerly lived at the place. ' ' What good did he do ?' ' said Angus. ' ' I saw no particular good by him," said the priest, "but that his customary practice was to Recount and invoke the saints of the world, as far as he could remember them, at his going to bed and getting up, in accordance with the custom of the old devotees." "Ah, my God !" said Angus, " he who would make a poetical composition in praise of the Saints should doubtless have a high reward, when so much has been vouchsafed to the efforts of this old devotee." And then Angus commenced his poem on the spot. Page 460, ('32). " And Marian of the Apostle's hill." Marianus O'Gorman, Abbot of Cnoc-na-n-Aspel ("the Apostle's hill"), in Oriel, the present County of Louth. He composed his Martyrology to supply certain omissions of Angus the Culdee, but "in the first place to gain heaven for himself and every one who should sing it." O'Curry's Lectures, page 261. Page 460, ( IM ). " And Tiernan of the Danish days." Tiernan O'Brania, Abbot of Clonmacnoise (obit A. D. 1088), author of our earliest remaining chronology. Pago 477, ( I34 ). " The Mountain- Laurel. '' Rhododendron Maximus the mountain-laurel ; a deadly poison has been distilled from the beautiful blossoms of this tree of famo. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped below Form L-9 20m -1,' 42 (8519) OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES LIBRARY PS 2359 McGee - Mllp 1870 The poems* PS 2359 Mllp 1870 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILIT A A 000025244 5