JT % // (' Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/irishmelodies00moor_2 IRISH MELODIES. PH Qt^PELPHnAo POJ ©ILDSIKIEID) MY EJHLEyTILEtia &©? IRISH MELODIES. BY THOMAS MOORE.' II ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED. PHILADELPHIA: PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 18 55 . BOSTON COLLEGE UBRART CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. V), \ * 4 4 n \> CONTENTS. PAGE Go where Glory waits Thee, 17 Remember the Glories of Brien the Brave, 19 Oh ! Breathe not his Name. .... 20 Erin ! the Tear and the Smile in thine Eyes, 21 When He, who Adores Thee, 22 The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls, 23 Fly Not Yet, ...... 24 Oh ! Think not my Spirits are always as Light, . 25 Though the last Glimpse of Erin with Sorrow I see, 2Q, Rich and Rare were the Gems she Wore, 27 As a Beam o’er the Face of the Waters may Glow, . 28 The Meeting of the Waters, .... 29 St. Senanus and the Lady, .... . 30 How Dear to Me the Hour, 31 Take Back the Virgin Page, .... . 32 The Legacy, ...... 34 How Oft has the Benshee Cried, 35 We may Roam through the World, 37 Eveleen’s Bower, ..... 39 Let Erin Remember the Days of Old, 40 Desmond’s Song, ..... 42 X CONTENTS. PAGE The Song of Fionnuala, .... 44 Come, Send round the Wine, .... 45 Sublime was the Warning, .... 46 Believe Me if all those Endearing young Charms, 48 Erin, oh Erin, ..... 49 Drink to Her, . ..... 50 Oh ! Blame not the Bard, .... 52 While Gazing on the Moon’s Light, 54 111 Omens, ...... 56 Before the Battle, ...... 58 After the Battle, ..... 60 ’Tis Sweet to Think, ..... 61 The Irish Peasant to his Mistress, 63 On Music, ...... 64 It is not the Tear at this moment Shed, 65 The Origin of the Harp, ..... 66 Love’s Young Dream, . . . . . 67 The Prince's Day, ..... 69 Weep on, Weep on,' ..... *71 Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye, .... 72 I saw thy Form in Youthful Prime, . 74 By that Lake whose Gloomy Shore, 76 She is far from the Land, .... 78 Nay, Tell me not, ..... 79 Avenging and Bright, .... 81 What the Bee is to the Floweret, 83 Love and the Novice, .... 84 This Life is all Chequered with Pleasures and Woes, . 85 Oh ! the Shamrock, ..... 87 At the mid hour of Night, .... 89 One Bumper at Parting, .... 90 ’Tis the last Rose of Summer, .... 92 CONTENTS. The Young May Moon, ..... XI PAGE 93 The Minstrel Boy, ..... 94 The Song of O'Ruark, ..... 95 Oh! had we some bright little Isle of our Own, . 97 Farewell! — But whenever you Welcome the Hour, 98 Oh ! Doubt me Not, ..... . 100 You Remember Ellen, ..... 101 I’d mourn the Hopes, ..... . 103 Come o’er the Sea, ...... 105 Has Sorrow thy Young Days Shaded, . . 107 No, not more Welcome, ..... 109 When first I Met Thee, ..... . 110 While History's Muse, ..... 112 The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing, .... 114 Oh ! where’s the Slave, ..... 116 Come, Rest in this Bosom, .... 117 ! Tis gone, and for ever, ..... 118 I saw from the Beach, ..... . 120 Fill the Bumper Fair, ..... 121 Dear Harp of my Country, .... 123 My Gentle Harp, ...... 125 As Slow our Ship, ..... 127 In the Morning of Life, ..... 129 When Cold in the Earth, .... 130 Remember Thee, ...... 131 Wreath the Bowl, ..... 132 Whene'er I see those Smiling Eyes, 134 If thou'lt be Mine, ...... 135 To Ladies’ Eyes, ...... 136 Forget not the Field, ..... 138 They may rail at this Life, ..... 139 Oh! for the Swords of former Time, 141 PAGE Ne’er ask the Hour, ....... 142 Sail on, Sail on, . ...... 143 The Parallel, ....... 144 Drink of this Cup, ....... 146 The Fortune-Teller, . ...... 148 Oh, ye Dead, . . ...... 150 O'Donohue’s Mistress, . . . . . . 151 Echo, ......... 153 Oh, Banquet Not, . . . . . . . 154 Thee, Thee, only Thee, . . . . . . .155 Shall the Harp then be Silent, . . . . . 157 Oh, the Sight Entrancing, . . . . . . 159 Sweet Innisfallen, . ...... 161 ’Twas one of those Dreams, ...... 163 Fairest! put on awhile, ...... 165 Quick, we have but a second, ...... 167 And doth not a Meeting like this, . . . . 168 The Mountain Sprite, . . . . . . .170 As Vanquished Erin, ...... 172 They know not my Heart, ...... 174 I wish I was by that dim Lake, . . . . . 175 She Sung of Love, ....... 177 Sing — Sing — Music was given, . . . . . 179 Though Humble the Banquet, . . . . . .180 Sing, sweet Harp, . . . . . . . 181 Song of the Battle Eve, . . . . . . .183 The Wandering Bard, . . . . . . 185 Alone in Crowds to Wander on, ..... 187 I've a Secret to tell thee, . . . . . . 1S9 Song of Innisfail, ........ 190 The Night Dance, . . . . . . . 192 There are Sounds of Mirth, . ...... 193 CONTENTS. Xlll PAGE Oh ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, ..... 195 Lay his Sword by bis Side. . . . . . .197 Oh ! could We do with this World of Ours, . . . 199 The Wine-Cup is Circling, ...... 200 The Dream of those Days, ...... 202 From this Hour the Pledge is Given, . .... 203 Silence is in our Festal Halls, ..... 205 Appendix, ........ 207 Index of First Lines. ...... 233 2 ILLUSTRATIONS. PORTRAIT OF MOORE, VIGNETTE, GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE, THE VALE OF AVOCA, THE DESMOND’S LOVE, NORA CREINA, “ NAY, IF FLOWERS WILL LOSE THEIR ELLEN, .... “WHEN FIRST I MET THEE,’ - THE MORNING OF LIFE, . THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE, “ SHE SUNG OF LOVE," . . Frontispiece. Title Page. 17 29 42 72 LOOKS, ’ 83 . 101 110 129 170 177 IRISH MELODIES. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh ! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh ! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be ; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh ! then remember me ! When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, Oh ! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we’ve seen it burning, Oh ! thus remember me. 3 18 IRISH MELODIES. Oft as summer closes, "When thine eye reposes, On its ling’ring roses, Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, Oh ! then remember me. When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh ! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh ! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee ; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee, — Oh ! then remember me. BRIEN THE BRAVE. 19 REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.* WAR SONG. Remember the glories of Brien the brave, Though the days of the hero are o’er ; Though lost to Mononia,f and cold in the grave, He returns to KinkoraJ no more. That star of the field, which so often hath poured Its beam on the battle, is set ; But enough of its glory remains on each sword, To light us to victory yet. Mononia ! when Nature embellished the tint Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there ? No ! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains. * Brien Borombe, the great Monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements, t Munster. J The palace of Brien. 20 IRISH MELODIES. Forget not our 'wounded companions, who stood* In the day of distress by our side ; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirred not, but conquered and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with his light Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain ; — Oh ! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, To find that they fell there in vain. OH ! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. Oh ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid ; Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o’er his head. But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. * This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf. by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. — “ Let stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground , and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes , to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." “ Between seven and eight hundred wounded men (adds OHalloran), pale, emaciated, and sup- ported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops ; — never was such another sight exhibited. :! — History of Ireland , book xii. chap. i. ERIN ! 21 ERIN ! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES. Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies ! Shining through sorrow’s stream, Saddening through pleasure’s beam, Thy suns with doubtful gleam Weep while they rise. Erin ! thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin ! thy languid smile ne’er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow’s light, Thy various tints unite, And form in Heaven’s sight One arch of peace ! 2 IRISH MELODIES. WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE. When he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his faults and his sorrows behind, Oh ! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resigned ? Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, Thy tears shall efface their decree ; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been hut too faithful to thee. With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ; Every thought of my reason was thine ; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, Thy name shall be mingled with mine. Oh ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see ; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee. oh! think not my spirits. 25 OH ! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT. Oh ! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now ; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No : — life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touched by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile : — May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear ! The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows ! If it were not with friendship and love intertwined ; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind. But they who have loved the fondest, the purest, Too often have wept o’er the dream they believed ; And the heart that has slumbered in friendship securest Is happy, indeed, if ’twas never deceived. But send round the bowl : while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine, — That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. 4 26 IKISH MELODIES. THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE. Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can hunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. And I’ll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes, And hang o’er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.* * “ In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired.” — Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards , p. 134. Mr. Walker informs us, also, that about the same period there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels. CHESTNUT HILL, MASS, RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. 27 RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.* Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; But oh ! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand. “ Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray So lone and lovely through this bleak way ? Are Erin’s sons so good or so cold, As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?” “ Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin will offer me harm : — For, though they love woman and golden store, Sir Knight ! they love honor and virtue more.” On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the green isle ; And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin’s honor and Erin’s pride. * This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote : — “ The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are in- formed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels.” — Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book x. 28 IRISH MELODIES. AS A BEAM O’ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW. As a beam o’er the face of the waters may glow, While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm Sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes, To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting — Oh ! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead leafless branch in the summer’s bright ray ; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again. 0 MRCLjSI THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 29 THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.* There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ;f Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o’er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; ’Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. ’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. * “ The Meeting of the Waters'’ forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow; and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807. f The rivers Avon and Avoca. 30 IRISH MELODIES. ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. ST. SEN ANUS.* “ Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy hark, ere morning smile ; For on thy deck, though dark it be, A female form I see ; And I have sworn this sainted sod Shall ne’er by woman’s feet be trod.” THE LADY. “ Oh! Father, send not hence my bark, Through wintry winds and billows dark : I come with humble heart to share Thy morn and evening prayer ; * In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hibernia , we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party ; he refused to receive even a sister saint St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him. The following was the ungracious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical biographer : — Cui Prcesul : Quid focminis Commune est cum monachis ? Nec te nec ullam aliam Admittemus in insulam. See the Acta Sand. Hib. p. 610. According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon ; but O'Connor and other antiquarians deny the metamorphose indignantly. HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. 31 Nor mine the feet, oh ! holy Saint, The brightness of thy sod to taint.” The Lady’s prayer Senanus spurned ; The winds blew fresh, the bark returned ; But legends hint, that had the maid Till morning’s light delayed, And givOn the saint one rosy smile, She ne’er had left his lonely isle. HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR, How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, For then sweet dreams of other days arise, And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. And, as I watch the line of light, that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think ’twould lead to some bright isle of rest. 32 IRISH MELODIES. TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK. Take back the virgin page, White and unwritten still ; Some hand, more calm and sage, The leaf must fill. Thoughts come as pure as light, Pure as even you require : But oh ! each word I write Love turns to fire. Yet let me keep the hook : Oft shall my heart renew, When on its leaves I look, Dear thoughts of you. Like you, ’tis fair and bright ; Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write One wrong wish there. Haply, when from those eyes Far, far away I roam, Should calmer thoughts arise Towards you and home ; TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. 33 Fancy may trace some line Worthy those eyes to meet, Thoughts that not burn, hut shine, Pure, calm, and sweet. And as, o’er ocean far, Seamen their records keep, Led by some hidden star Through the cold deep ; So may the words I write Tell through wdiat storms I stray — You still the unseen light Guiding my way. 34 IRISH MELODIES. THE LEGACY. When in death I shall calm recline, 0 bear my heart to my mistress dear ; Tell* her it lived upon smiles and wine Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here. Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow, To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, To bathe the relic from morn till night. When the light of my song is o’er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; Hang it up at that friendly door, Where weary travellers love to call.* Then if some hard, who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh ! let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song. Keep this cup, which is now o’erflowing, To grace your revel when I’m at rest ; Never, oh ! never its halm bestowing On lips that beauty hath seldom blest. But when some warm devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him. * “ In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music.” — O Halloran. HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED. 85 HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED. How oft has the Benshee cried ! How oft has death untied Bright links that Glory wove, Sweet bonds entwined by Love ! Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth : Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth : Long may the fair and brave Sigh o’er the hero’s grave ! W T e’re fallen upon gloomy days !* Star after star decays, Every bright name that shed Light o’er the land is fled. Dark falls the tear of him who mourn eth Lost joy, or hope that ne’er returneth : But brightly flows the tear Wept o’er a hero’s bier. Quenched are our beacon lights — Thou, of the Hundred Fights If * I have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity. t This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is the 36 IRISH MELODIES. Thou, on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung!* Both mute, — but long as valor shineth, Or mercy’s soul at war repineth, So long shall Erin’s pride Tell how they lived and died. title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a poem by 0 Guive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the “ Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland,” page 433. “ Con, of the Hundred Fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories !” * Fox, “ Romanorum ultimus.” WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. 37 WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. We may roam through this world, like a child at a feast, Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings, and be off to the west ; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle, For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home. In England, the garden of Beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery placed within call ; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden’s but carelessly watched after all. Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fence Which round the flowers of Erin dwells ; Which warns the touch, while winning the sense, Nor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home. 38 IRISH MELODIES. In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye. While the daughters of Erin keep the boy, Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Through billows of woe and beams of joy, The same as he looked when he left the shore. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home. eveleen’s bower. 89 EVELEEN’S BOWER. Oh ! weep for the hour When to Eveleen’s bower The Lord of the Valley with false vows came; The moon hid her light From the heavens that night, And wept behind the clouds o’er the maiden’s shame. The clouds passed soon From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame ; But none will see the day When the clouds shall pass away, Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen’s fame. The white snow lay On the narrow pathway, When the Lord of the Valley crossed over the moor ; And many a deep print On the white snow’s tint Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen’s door. The next sun’s ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false Lord came ; But there’s a light above, Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen’s fame. 40 IRISH MELODIES. LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betrayed her ; When Malachi wore the collar of gold,* Which he won from her proud invader ; When her kings, with standard of green unfurled, Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ; — f Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger. On Lough Neagh’s bank as the fisherman strays, When the clear cold eve’s declining, He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining ; * “ This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as tro- phies of his victory.'' — Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book ix. t “ Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland ; long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh , or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster Kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh , or the Academy of the Red Branch ; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg. or the House of the Sorrowful .Soldier.” — 0 Halloran's Introduc- tion , &c., part i. chap. v. LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. 41 Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over ; Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover.* * It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. Piscatores aqua illius turres ecclesias- ticas qua more patria arcta sunt et alta, necnon et rotunda , sub undis manifests sereno tempore conspiciunt , et extraneis transeuntibus , reique causas admirantibus , frequenter ostendunt. — Topogr. Hib., dist. ii. c. 9. 6 42 IRISH MELODIES. DESMOND’S SONG.* By the Feal’s wave benighted, No star in the skies, To thy door by Love lighted, I first saw those eyes. Some voice whispered o’er me, As the threshold I crossed, There was ruin before me, If I loved I was lost. Love came, and brought sorrow Too soon in his train ; Yet so sweet, that to-morrow ’Twere welcome again. Though misery’s full measure My portion should be, I would drain it with pleasure, If poured out by thee. * “ Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so en- gaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and was obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependants, called Mac Cormac. Catharine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride re- garded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family/’ — Leland, vol. ii. Desmond’s song. 43 You, who call it dishonor To bow to this flame, If you’ve eyes, look but on her, And blush while you blame. Hath the pearl less whiteness Because of its birth ? Hath the violet less brightness F or growing near earth ? No — Man for his glory To ancestry flies ; But woman’s bright story Is told in her eyes. While the Monarch but traces Through mortals his line, Beauty, born of the Graces, Banks next to Divine ! 44 IRISH MELODIES. THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.* Silent, oli Moyle, be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir’s lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furled ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world ! Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away ; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above. * To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at once ; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan and condemned to wander for many hundred years over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release. — I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira. 45 COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools ; This moment’s a flower too fair and brief, To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue, Deserves not the comfort they shed o’er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me ? From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ? No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this ! 46 IRISH MELODIES. SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the conqueror’s chain. Oh, Liberty ! let not the spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o’er the waves of the west — Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh, he the Shamrock of Erin forgot, While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain ! If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same. And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory’s breath, For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! Ye Blakes and O’Donnels, whose fathers resigned The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find That repose which, at home, they had sighed for in vain, Join, join in our hope that the flame which you light May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright, And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. 47 God prosper the cause ! — oh, it cannot but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive, Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain. Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die ! The finger of Glory shall point where they lie ; While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain ! 48 IRISH MELODIES. BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still he adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And round the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can he known, To which time will hut make thee more dear ; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose. ERIN, OH ERIN. 49 ERIN, OH ERIN. Like the bright lamp that shone in Kildare’s holy fane,* And burned through long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm. Erin, oh Erin, thus bright through the tears Of a long night of bondage thy spirit appears. The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy sun is hut rising when others are set : And though slavery’s cloud o’er thy morning hath hung, The full moon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. Erin, oh Erin, though long in the shade, Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade. Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, The lily lies sleeping through winter’s cold hour, Till Spring’s light touch her fetters unbind, And daylight and liberty bless the young flower, f Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past, And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last. * The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Girald us mentions. “ Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctae Brigidae, quern inextinguibilem vocant ; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tarn solicite moniales et sanctae mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus.’' — Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibern ., dist. ii. c. 34. t Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this image to a still more important object. 7 50 IRISH MELODIES. DRINK TO HER, Drink to her who long Hath waked the poet’s sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. Oh ! woman’s heart was made For minstrel’s hands alone : By other fingers played, It yields not half the tone. Then here’s to her who long Hath waked the poet’s sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. At Beauty’s door of glass When Wealth and Wit once stood, They asked her, “Which might pass?” She answered, “ He who could.” With golden key Wealth thought To pass — but ’twould not do : While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through, So here’s to her who long Hath waked the poet’s sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. DRINK TO HER. 51 The love that seeks a home Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome That dwells in dark gold mines. But oh ! the poet’s love Can boast a brighter sphere ; Its native home’s above, Though woman keeps it here. Then drink to her who long Hath waked the poet’s sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. 52 IRISH MELODIES. OH ! BLAME NOT THE BARD.* Oh ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burned with a holier flame. The string that now languishes loose o’er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior’s dart ;f And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have poured the full tide of a patriot’s heart. But alas for his country ! — her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken, which never would bend ; O’er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, For ’tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they’ve learned to betray ; Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires ; * We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wander- ing bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps truly, describes in his “ State of Ireland,” and whose poems, he tells us, “ were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue.” t It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow , in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very ex- pert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following ; “ So that Ireland (called the land of Ire , from the constant broils therein for 400 years) was now become the land of concord.” — Lloyd's State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandison. 53 oh! blame not the bard. And the torch that would light them through dignity’s way, Must he caught from the pile where their country expires. Then blame not the hard, if in pleasure’s soft dream He should try to forget what he never can heal : Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he’ll feel ! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.* But though glory be gone, and though hope fade a'wa y, Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs, Not ev’n in the hour when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance -of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o’er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep ! * See the Hymn, attributed to Alcaeus, Ei> / ivprov k\