Class f_ Book 7 Copyright^ - Of(U^7 ^"^ ' THE OETRY ***^ rJ <*|ANDfr ^O^NCx -«* IRELAND. with 4 SKETCHES OF HER POETS, ) AND EDITED . BY )YLE O'REILLY, ' Songs from Southern Seas;" "Songs, Legends and Ballads; in the Block ;'" " In Bohemia," and "The King's Men : a Tale of To-morrow." m\\) ^pteel and Wood Qnq.ravina.s. NEW YORK: GAY BROTHERS & CO. 14 Barclay Street. THE 37-3 OETRY IRELAND. WITH | BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF HER POETS, COMPILED AND EDITED . " BY /' JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY, Kditor of " The Boston Pilot ; " author of " Songs from Southern Seas ; " " Songs, Legends and "Moondyne;"' " The Statues in the Block ;'" " In Bohemia,"' and "The King's Men : a Tale of To-morrow.'' lustrated W1I9 ^pteel and Wood Qnaravlnas. NEW YORK: GAY BROTHERS & CO., 14 Barclay Street. COPYRIGHTED 1887, John Boyle O'Reilly, INTRODUCTION The many-sided Celtic nature has no more distinct aspect than its poetic one. The Celt is a born poet or lover of poetry. His mental method is sym- bolic like a Persian rather than picturesque like an Italian or logical like an Anglo-Saxon. The Poet has been more highly honored by the Irish race than by any other, except perhaps, the Jews. But the Jewish poet was removed from the masses, a man apart, a monitor, a Prophet. The Irish poet and bard was the very voice of the people, high and low, sad and merry — the song-maker, the croon- chanter, the story-teller, the preserver of history, the rewarder of heroes. In the old days of Celtic freedom, art and learning, the poet was part of the retinue or household organization of every Irish prince or chieftain. The claim of the poet in Arthur O'Shaughnessy's exquisite ode is nowhere more readily allowed than in Ireland: — " Wb are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams: World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams; Yet we are the movers and shakers, Of the world forever, it seems. " With wonderful deathless ditties, We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory; One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure, Can trample a kingdom down. *' A breath of our inspiration. Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming, Unearthly, impossible-seeming, The soldier, the king and the peasant Are working together in one, Till our dream shall become their present, And their work in the world be done." viii INTRODUCTION. POST-MORTEM. Aug. 27, 1881. " Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze Breaks at last upon thy story? " When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, As a sweet, new sister hail thee, Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, That have known but to bewail thee? " Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, When all men their tribute bring thee? Shall the mouth be clay, that sang thee in thy squalor, When all poets' mouths shall sing thee? " Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings Of thy exiled sons returning! I should hear, though dead and mouldered, and the grave damps Should not chill my bosom's burning. " Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them 'Mid thp shamrocks and the mosses, And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver, As a captive dreamer tosses. " I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, Giant-sinews I should borrow, Crying, ' O my brothers, I have also loved her, In her lowliness and sorrow. " ' Let me join with you the jubilant procession, Let me chant with you her story; Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, Now mine eyes have seen her glory.' " No land in human history has evoked deeper or more sacrificial devotion than Ireland; and, it is fitting that her poets should he the voice of this pro- found feeling. There are joyous notes in their gamut, they sing at times mer- rily, boldly, amorously, but the unceasing undertone is there, like a river in a forest. How touching is the question of D'Arcy McGee, written in a strange country, where he had earned fame and power:— " Am I remember'd in Erin — I charge you, speak me true — Has my name a sound, a meaning In the scenes my boyhood knew ? Does the heart of the Mother ever Recall her exile's name ? For to be forgot in Erin, And on earth is all the same." INTRODUCTION. ix But the days of gloom and travail are passing away from Ireland, and her scattered children "are like the ocean sand." Generations intensely Irish in blood and sympathies have never seen Ireland. They have been born under American, Australian and Argentine skies; they wander by Canadian rivers and vast American lakes; they tend their flocks on South African and New Zealand valleys. And the fancy of the poet must feed on what it sees as well as on what it dreams. Arthur O'Shaughnessy's noble poem, " The Song of a Fellow Worker," unconsciously brings to mind a street in London— for his life was passed in the vast city. In his almost" peerless prefatory ode (to " Music and Moonlight,") he is abstract as a Greek of old — one of the singers for man- kind, unrelated, unrestrained. There is a rare far-sighted philosophy in this dream of a poet, calmly placing his non-productive class highest and apart from the industrious, the potential, the ambitious, the utilitarian. "Among eminent persons," says Emerson, "those who are most dear to men are not of the class which the economist calls producers; they have nothing in their hands; they have not cultivated corn nor made bread; they have not led out a colony nor invented a loom." So sings Arthur O'Shaughnessy: — "But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see, Our souls with high music ringing: O men! it must ever be That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye. " For we are afar with the dawning And the suns that are not yet high, And out of the infinite morning Intrepid you hear us cry — How, spite of your human scorning, Once more God's future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die." Patriots, too, in other causes than Erin's are "the sea-divided Gael." No love for Ireland was ever more passionately laid around her feet than Father Abram Eyan's devotion to the South and her " Lost Cause. " There is no deeper note of manly dejection, no more poignant word of defeat than his " Con- quered Banner." The sweat and smoke-stain of the battle are on his face when the waved hand puts aside the beloved flag: — "Furl the Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, Furl it, fold it — it is best. For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, x INTRODUCTION. And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it,— let it rest." Father Eyan is a fitting voice for a Lost Cause. At his brightest he is sad. The shadow of the South 's failure in the field seems hardly ever to lift from his spirit. His is the yearning of a soul that cannot compromise — that walks with death ' ' down the valley of Silence ' ' sooner than accept new and strange condi- tions. But with the indestructible will of the poet and patriot he sends out " Sentinel Songs " to keep watch and ward over those who fell in the brave fight, that the victor may not trample on their graves and blot out their names forever: — " Songs, march! he gives command, Keep faithful watch and true; The living and dead of the conquered land Have now no guards save you. " List! Songs, your watch is long, The soldiers' guard was brief; Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong Te may not seek relief." Another phase of the Irish poetical nature, and a noble one, is moral, pro- phetic, and symbolical. This is well exemplified by William Allingham, a poet who touches two strong Irish keys, the peasant's song and the philosopher's vision, on consecutive pages — as for instance, his popular " Farewell to Bally- shannon and the Winding Banks of Erin," and his wonderful little poem, " The Touchstone." Another poem of Allingham's seems to me to be one of the best examples of an Irish song, for its melody and spirit — "Among the Heather." Observe the flow of these lines: — "One evening walking out, I o'ertook a modest < "When the wind was blowing cool and the harvest-leaves were falling: " Is our road by chance, the same? Might we travel on together? " "01 keep the mountain-side," (she replied,) "among the heather." But Allingham's "Touchstone" is a poem of another kind altogether. It is the utterance of a deep thought in allegory— the only means of expressing it whole, or without the cheap setting of mere intellectuality. The very rhythm suits the story as if invented for it: — "A man there came, whence none can tell, Bearing a touchstone in his hand; And tested all things in the land By its unerring spell." The poem will be read many times during a lifetime by him who reads it once; and it will never be forgotten. It will feed the mind with rare fancy to reflect on the strewn ashes, each grain of which " conveyed the perfect charm." INTRODUCTION. xi There is one remarkable feature absent from modern Irish poetry, from the "work of poets born in Ireland and other countries: the song- maker is rare, and becoming rarer. Allingham has written only a few songs; McCarthy not many; Alfred Perceval Graves a good many, and very good ones. In America the poets of the Irish have had only one eminent song-maker, Dr. Eobert Dwyer Joyce. His volume "Songs and Poems," is a most notable book of songs, written mainly to old Irish airs, which adds to their value and charm. Joyce had in a high degree the melody-sense and the brief one-idead and richly -chased song method. His ballads are stirring songs, as anyone knows who has ever heard the chorus of " The Iron Cannon " or " The Blacksmith of Limerick." In "Deirdre" and "Blanid," both noble epics, the songs interspersed are the high- water mark of Joyce's genius. We range the fields of literature to find more exquisite songs than " Forget me not," and " 0, Wind of the West that Bringest." Not only sweet to the ear but to the soul, the cry of the little blue- eyed blossom in the deadly embrace of the " bitter- fanged strong East wind: " — " O woods of waving trees! O living streams, In all your noontide joys and starry dreams, Let me, for love, let me be unforgot! O birds that sing your carols while I die, list to me! O hear my piteous cry — Forget me not! alas! forget me not! " Joyce's life was a poem in its unrealities, achievements, agony and gloom. He died in the strength of manhood, beloved by the friends whom he had made, proudly secretive, but beyond hope, and heart-broken. He was so strong, so wise, and so harmless to man or woman, that his life, under fair conditions, would have been as fair and natural as the flow of a river. He wrote his songs in his happier years. He composed as he walked in the crowded city streets. On his daily rounds as an over-burdened physician, the strongly-marked face was usually pre-occupied, the sight introverted. He was always ' ' making a song," or working some of his characters in or out of difficult positions. A friend met him once in Boston and was passed unnoticed. He stopped the Doctor by touching his arm, and the spell was broken. " Oh man ! " cried the poet, with his rich Limerick utterance, " I was getting Deirdre down from the tower ! she's been up there for three months, with the ladder stolen; and I could'nt think how I was ever to get her down, without a balloon." But in the streets, too, the chill of the secret grief would strike his heart like a breath from the grave, and the powerful form would shudder with the spirit's suffering. It was then he wrote the woful nameless little song in "Blanid," which I have called in this collection " The Cry of the Sufferer." There was no ■dainty seeking after artificial misery when Joyce wrote these lines: — " The measured rounds of dancing feet, The songs of wood-birds wild and sweet, xii INTRODUCTION. The music of the horn and flute, Of the gold strings of harp and lute Unheeded all shall come and go — For I am suffering, and I know! No kindly counsel of a friend With soothing balm the hurt can mend; I walk alone in grief, and make My bitter moan for her dear sake, For loss of love is man's worst woe, And I am suffering, and I know!" Dr. Joyce won a distinct and deserved renown in America's literary capital. Eespect and affection met him in the street, the garret, and the drawing- room. Old Harvard honored him with a degree. The poor, among whom he labored unceasingly, and to whom he gave unstintedly of money and gratuitous attendance, repaid him with love. A physician, who took his vacant place and much of his practice, and who did not know Joyce, has since said: — " He was an e>rtraordinary man, and a very good man. His charity was never-ending. I find traces of it in every poor street and tenement-house I visit." The splendid "Hymnos Paionios," or song of healing, by the Eev. Henry Bernard Carpenter, was sent after him to Ireland as a message of love, when he went there to die. The poem reached him in time to bring joy to his heart with the knowledge that the men whom he loved in America had given love in return, and would keep his memory green. Very beautiful are these strong: lines: — " O saddest of all the sea's daughters, Ierne, sweet mother isle Say how canst thou heal at thy waters the son whom we lend thee awhile? When the gathering cries implore thee to help and to heal thy kind, When thy dying are strewn before thee, thy living ones crouch behind, When about thee thy perishing children cling, crying, ' Thou only art fair, We have seen through their maze bewildering that the earth-gods never spare: ' And the wolves blood-ripe with slaughter gnaw at thee with fangs of steel; Thou, Niobe-Land of the water, hast many children to heal. Yet heal him, Ierne, dear mother, thy days with his days shall increase, At the song of this Delphic brother, nigh half of thy pangs shall cease. Nor art thou, sweet friend, in a far land,— all places are near on the globe,— Our greeting wear for thy garland, our love for the festival robe. While we keep through glory and gloom two altar-candles for thee, Thy ' Blanid ' of deathless doom and thy dead but undying ' Deirdre.' " In adding to this fine collection of Irish poems, originally compiled some years ago by another hand, I am necessarily restricted in space and in the number of the later Irish and Irish- American poets represented. But the names here are likely to " hold their own " till another generation gleans the literary field and throws away the crumbling ears. It is remarkable that Boston, the literary centre of the Anglo-American stock,. INTRODUCTION. xiiJ should also promise a similar harvest for the Irish- American. Here at one and the same time were Dr. Joyce, Bev. H. B. Carpenter, Louise Imogen Guiney, James Jeffrey Eoche, Mrs. M. E. Blake and Katharine Conway —poets winning- garlands outside the limits of their own race. Indeed, no truer New England singer than Louise Guiney has come in a generation. Her ' ' Gloucester Harbor ' r is a memorable poem. How striking are these stanzas: — " North from the beautiful islands, North from the headlands and highlands, The long sea-wall, The white ships flee with the swallow; The day-beams follow and follow, Glitter and fall. " The brown ruddy children that fear not, Lean over the quay, and they hear not Warnings of lips; For their hearts go a-sailing, a-sailing, Out from the wharves and the wailing After the ships!" It may be that the sweetest songs are sung in sorrow. An Irish air "is full of farewells for the dying And murmurings for the dead." It surely is true that "Affliction is a mother whose painful throes yield many sons, each fairer than the other." In the past, for nearly 1000 years, the Irish heart-song has been shaded by the woe of desolation. Dane and Saxon have oppressed and harried the land. There is no sorrow so piteous as the cry of weakness in the strangling grasp of Power. This cry is heard in all the songs of the Gael — even in the most joyous. The future has a hoarded summer time for Ireland — when her ancient glory may be revived and surpassed. In the dream of Clarence Mangan he pictures the Irish realm of the 13th century: — " I walked entranced Through a land of morn; The sun, with wondrous excess of light, Shone down and glanced Over seas of corn, And lustrous gardens aleft and right. Even in the clime Of resplendent Spain, Beams no such sun upon such a land; But it was the time, 'Twas in the reign, Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand." The despair of the past is now rarely expressed by an Irish poet — and never xiv INTRODUCTION. by the poet of the exiled race. Those who have wholly sung for Americans have expressed as deep love as those who had to stay and see the mother- country in her sufferings. The poems of Daniel Connolly and James J. Roche are notable illustrations, as for instance this ftne poem from Mr. Roche:— ANDROMEDA. THEY chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone; The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his own; The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there alone. Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her, Te left her there alone ! My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy pain; The night that hath no morrow was brooding on the main; But lo ! a light is breaking of hope for thee again. 'Tis Perseus' sword a-flaming, thy dawn of day proclaiming Across the western main. O Ireland ! O my country ! he comes to break thy chain ! When the foreign blight is removed from Ireland; when the valleys and hills and rivers ring with happy Irish voices, the voices of the owners of the land; when the long silence is broken by the whirr of busy wheels; when the dark treasures are dug from the earth and fashioned into lovely Art; when the nets of the fishers in lough and river and ocean are burdened daily with the heaping wealth; when the ships sail in and out on every tide from the harbor-serried coast; when Irish marbles and porphyries are carved into precious forms of beauty, and Irish metals are worked into shapes of loveliness and use; when the Irishman stretches out his hand to the world full of his kindred and rejoices in other men's joy instead of constantly grieving over his own grief — then there shall come poets to Ireland with songs attuned to a new spirit, and the voice of the Celt shall be heard through a thousand years of triumph as it has been through a thousand years of pain. JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. TABLE OF CONTENTS. THOMAS MOORE. PAGE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 20 IRISH MELODIES. Preface 27 Go where Glory waits Thee 31 War Song — Remember the Glories of Brien the Brave 31 Erin ! the Tear and the Smile in thine Oh, Breathe not his Name When He who adores Thee The Harp that once through Tara's Halls Oh think not my Spirits are always as ' light Fly not yet Though the Last Glimpse of Erin with Sorrow I see The Meeting of the Waters Rich and Rare were the Gems she Wore As a Beam o'er the Face of the Waters may Glow St. Senanus and the Lady How Dear to me the Hour.- Take Back the Virgin Page, — Written on Returning a Blank Book The Legacy How oft has the Benshee Cried We may Roam through this World. . . Eveleen's Bower The Song of Fionnuala Let Erin Remember the Days of Old .... Come, Send round the Wine Srblime was the Warning Believe me, if all those Endearing Young Charms Erin ! O Erin ! Drink to Her Oh, Blame not the Bard While Gazing on the Moon's Light Ill Omens Before the Battle After the Battle .' Oh, 'tis Sweet to Think The Irish Peasant to his Mistress On Music The Origin of the Harp It is not the Tear at this Moment Shed . . Love's Young Dream I saw thy Form in Youthful Prime 45 | xvii PAOE- The Prince's Day 45 Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye 46 Weep on, Weep on 46 By that Lake whose Gloomy Shore 47 She is far from the Land 47 Nay, tell me not 47 Avenging and Bright 48 Love and the Novice 48. What the Bee is to the Flowret 49 This Life is all Checkered with Pleasures and Woes 49> O, the Shamrock 49' At the Mid-hour of Night 50' One Bumper at parting 50 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer 51 The young May Moon 51 The Minstrel Boy 51 The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni. 51 Oh ! had we some Bright Little Isle of our Own 52' Farewell ! but Whenever you Welcome the Hour 52 You Remember Ellen 53 Oh ! Doubt me Not 53 I'd Mourn the Hopes 53 Come o'er the Sea 54 Has Sorrow thy Young Days Shaded ?. . 54 No, not More Welcome 55- When First I Met Thee 55. While History's Muse 55- The Time I've Lost in Wooing 56> Oh ! Where's the Slave so Lowly 56. 'Tis Gone, and Forever 57 I Saw from the Beach 57 Come, Rest in this Bosom 58 Fill the Bumper Fair ! 58: Dear Harp of my Country 58. Remember Thee 59 Oh for the Swords of Former Time !. . . . 59 Wreath the Bowl 59 The Parallel 60' Oh, YeDead! 60 O'Donohue's Mistress 61 Shall the Harp then be Silent 61 Oh, the Sight Entrancing 6a Sweet Innisf alien 63 'Twas one of those Dreams 63 Fairest ! put on Awhile 64 As Vanquish'd Erin 64 TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE Desmond's Song 65 I wish I was by that Dim Lake 65 Song of Innipfail 65 Oh ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore 66 Lay his Sword by his Side 66 The Wine-cup is Circling 67 Oh ! could we do with this World of Ours 67 The Dream of those Days 67 Silence is in our Festal Halls 68 LALLA ROOKH 69 The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan 70 Paradise and the Peri 108 The Fire-worshippers 118 The Light of the Harem 146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS Fragment of College Exercises 160 The Same 160 Song—" Mary, I Believe thee True " 160 To the Large and Beautiful Miss . . . 161 Inconstancy 161 I To Julia 161 To Rosa 161 Written in the Blank Leaf of a Lady's Common-place Book 162 Anacreontic 162 Anacreontic 162 Elegiac Stanzas 162 Go and Sin No More 162 To Rosa 162 The Surprise 163 A Dream 163 Written in a Common-place Book called " The Book of Follies.'\ 163 The Ballad .'... 163 The Tear 164 Song — "Have you not Seen the Timid Tear?" 164 Elegiac Stanzas 164 A Night Thought 164 Song — " Sweetest Love ! I'll not Forget Thee" 164 The Genius of Harmony 165 Song — "When Time, who Steals our years Away " 166 Peace and Glory 166 To Cloe 167 Lying 167 Woman 167 A Vision of Philosophy 167 A Ballad— "The Lake of the Dismal Swamp " 168 At Night 169 Odes to Nea (1) 169 " (2) 170 Lines — Written in a Storm at Sea 170 The Steersman's Song — Written aboard the Boston Frigate, 28th April 170 Lines — Written on Leaving Philadelphia 171 PAGE Lines— Written at the Cohoes, or Fall of the Mohawk River 171 Ballad Stanzas 172 A Canadian Boat Song — Written on the River St. Lawrence 172 Black and Blue Eyes 172 Love and Time 173 Dear Fanny 173 From Life, without Freedom 173 Merrily every Bosom Boundeth — The Tyrolese Song of Liberty 174 Sigh not thus , 174 SACRED SONGS. Thou art, O God 175 The Bird let Loose 175 Fallen is thy Throne 175 O, Thou who dry'st the Mourner's Tear. 176 But Who shall See 176 This World is all a Fleeting Show 176 Almighty God ! Chorus of Priests 177 Sound the Loud Timbrel — Miriam's Song 177 O, Fair ! O, Purest ! — Saint Augustine to his sister 177 SAMUEL LOVER. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 17 The Angel's Whisper 179 The Fairy Boy 179 True Love can ne'er Forget 180 Nymph of Niagara 180 How to Ask and Have 181 The Land of the West 181 Sweet Harp of the Days that are Gone. . 182 Oh yield not, thou Sad One, to Sighs. . . 182 Widow Machree 182 Molly Bawn 183 Mother, He's Going Away 183 The Quaker's Meeting 184 Native Music 185 The Charm 185 The Four-leaved Shamrock 186 Oh, Watch you Well by Daylight 186 Rory O'More ; or, Good Omens 186 The Blarney 187 The Chain of Gold 187 Give me my Arrows and give me my Bow 188 The Horn- Before Day 188 Macarthy's Grave (A Legend of Killar- ney) 189 St. Kevin (A Legend of Glendalough). . . 189 The Indian Summer 190 The War-Ship of Peace 190 An Honest Heart to Guide Us 190 The Birth of Saint Patrick 191 The Arab 191 Fag-an-bealach 192 The Bridge of Sighs 192 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 193 193 193 194 195 195 195 195 196 197 197 197 198 198 15 199 201 201 201 202 202 203 203 205 205 206 206 207 207 208 209 209 210 210 210 210 211 211 211 212 212 212 213 213 213 214 214 O, Brazil, the Isle of the Blest— A Spectre Island, said to be sometimes visible on the Verge of the Western Horizon, in Atlantic, from the Isles on Arran Lines addressed to a Sea-gull, seen off the Cliffs of Moher, in the County of PAGE Forgive, but Don't Forget The Flag is Half-mast High (A ballad of the Walmer Watch) I Can Ne'er Forget Thee 214 Memory and Hope Molly Carew My Dark-Haired Girl Nora's Lament The Silent Farewell 'Twas the Day of the Feast What will You do, Love ? The Sister of Charity To Memory The Song of the old Mendicant Would you choose a Friend ? JONATHAN SWIFT. 216 217 217 318 Who are You? GERALD GRIFFIN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Corinna Epigram Lines written on a Window Pane at Chester On Mrs. Biddy Floyd ; or the Receipt to Form a Beauty Epigram — On the Busts in Richmond Hermitage, 1732 Lesbia 219 219 219 The Bridal of Malabide (An Irish Legend Hark ! Hark 1 the Soft Bugle A Soldier — a Soldier To-night is out Guest 219 220 Know ye not that Lovely River ? 'Tis, it is the Shannon's Stream I love my Love in the Morning REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Vert- Vert, the Parrot— From the French of the Jesuit Gresset Hys original Innocence 18 Sleep that like the Couched Dove !W| Old Times 1 Old Times ! A place in thy Memory, Dearest For I am Desolate The Bridal Wake Adare The Poet's Prophecy Twilight Song The Mother's Lament You never Bade me Hope, 'tis True Like the Oak by the Fountain The Phantom City War I War ! horrid War Gone ! Gone ! forever Gone Sonnets — Addressed to Friends in Amer ica, and prefixed to " Card Drawing,' 221 Hys evil Voyage The awfull Discoverie The Silk-worm. (A Poem from the Latin of Jerome Vida) 223 227 RR3 The Red-breast of Aquitania L'Envoy to W. H. Ainsworth, Esq 234 235 33fi flBfi Life, a Bubble. A Bird's-eye View there- of BLARNEY SONGS. 237 o,ffi War Song of O'Driscol My Spirit is of pensive Mould Impromptu— On seeing an Iris formed bj the Spray of the Ocean, at Miltown Malbay HI. Terry Callaghan's Song The Lament of Stella Epitaph on Father Prout The Attractions of a fashionable Irish Watering Place From Cresset's Farewell to the Jesuits. . Don Ignacio Loyola's Vigil in the Chapel of our Lady of Montserrat The Song of the Cossack Popular Recollections of Bonaparte. . . . Address to the Vanguard of the French under the Duke D'Alencon, 1521 238 239 239 239 240 Written in Adare in 1820 The Wake of the Absent On pulling some Campanulas in a Lady' Garden They speak of Scotland's Heroes bold. . 240 241 242 243 X TABLE OF CONTENTS. Ode on the Signal Defeat of the Suitan Osman, by the Army of Poland and her Allies, September, 1621 243 Ode on the taking <>f ( !alais, addn Henry II., King- of France, by George Buchanan 244 Michael Angelo's Farewell to Sculpture 240 The Song of Brennus, or the Introduc- tion. of the Grape into France 847 Wine Debtor to Water 247 Popular Ballad on the Battle of Lepanto, 248 The three-colored Flag. (A prosecuted sun-) 248 Malbrouck 249 The Obsequies of David the Painter. From the French of Beranger 250 To Prostrate Italy 251 Ode to the Statue of Moses, at the Foot of the Mausoleum of Pope Julius II., in the Church of Saint Peter ad Vin- cula, Rome. The Masterpiece of Michael ingelo 2/51 Lines addressed to the Tiber, by Ales- sandro Ouildi 251 The Lngel of Poetry. To L. E. L 252 " Good Dry Lodgings," according to Be- ranger, Songster 253 The Carrier-dove of Athens — A Dream, 1822 254 The Fall of the Leaves. From the French of Millevoye 254 Lines on the Burial of a Friend's Daugh- ter, at Passy, July 16, 1832. From the French of Chateaubriand 255 Pray for Me. A Ballad from the French of Millevoye, on his Death-bed at the Village of Neuilly 255 The French Fiddler's Lamentation 256 Consolation, addressed by Lamartine to his Friend and Brother Poet, Manoel, banished from Portugal 256 The Dog of the three Days. A Ballad, September, 1881 257 The Mistletoe. A Type of the Heaven- born 258 Shooting Stars 259 A Panegyric on Geese, (1810) 259 Ode to Time 260 The Garret of Beranger 260 Political Economy of the Gypsies 261 The Cod of Beranger 261 The Autobiography of P J. De Beranger 262 Meditations in a Wine Cellar. By the Jesuit Vaniere 263 Lines on a Moth-eaten Book. From the Latin of Beza 265 The Fountain of Saint Nazaro. From the Latin of Sannazar 266 Petrarca's Dream. (After the Death of Laura) 206 On Solar Eclipses. (A new Theory). For the use of the London University 266 The Flight into Egypt. A Ballad 267 The Veil. An Oriental Dialogue. From the French of Victor Hugo 268 The Bride of the Cymbaleer. A Ballad from Victor Hugo ' 268 The Military Profession in France 270 Time and Love 270 Petrarca's Address to the Summer Haunt of Laura 271 The Porch of Hell. (Dante) 272 A True Ballad. Containing the Flight of Napoleon Bonaparte, with the Loss of his Sword, his Hat, and imperial Baton, besidesaWound inthe Head ; the good Luck of the Prussians in get! ing hold of his Valuables, in Diamonds and other Properties ; and lastly, the happy Entry of his Majesty, Louis Dix-huit, into Paris. From the Italian of Nicode- mus Lermil 273 The Wine-cup bespoken. From the Ital- ian of Claudio Tolomei 273 Village Song 274 The Vision of Petrarca 274 A Venetian Barcarolle 274 Ode to the Wig of Father Boscovich, the celebrated Astronomer. From the Ital- ian of Julius Ccesar Cordara 275 The Intruder. From the Italian of Men- zini 275 A Serenade. By Vittorelli 276 The Repentance of Petrarca 276 ODES OF HORACE. Ode I. — To Meeienas 276 Ode II 277 Ode III. — To the ship bearing Virgil to Greece 278 Ode IV 279 Ode V.— Pyrrha's Inconstancy 279 Ode VI...' ' 280 Ode VH.— To Munatius Plancus 280 OdeVIH 881 Ode IX 281 Ode X.— Hymn to Mercury 281 Ode XI.— Ad Leuconoen 282 Ode Xn. — A Prayer for Augustus 282 Ode XIII.— The Poet's Jealousy 283 Ode XIV.— To the Vessel of the State. —An Allegory 283 Ode XV.— The Sea-God's Warning to Paris 283 Ode XVI.— The Satirist's Recantation ... 284 Ode XVH— An Invitation to Horace's Villa 385 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Ode XVIII 285 Ode XIX.— De Glycera 285 Ode XX.—" Pot Luck " with Horace. . . 286 Ode XXI.— To the Rising Generation of Rome 286 OdeXXn 286 Ode XXIII.— A Remonstrance to Chole, the Bashful 287 Ode XXIV.— To Virgil. A consolatory Address 287 Ode XXVI.— Friendship and Poetry— the best Antidote to Sorrow 287 Ode XXVH.— A Banquet Scene— Toast and Sentiment 288 Ode XXIX.— The Sage Turned Soldier.. 288 Ode XXX.— The Dedication of Glyceras Chapel 289 Ode XXXI.— The Dedication of Apollo's Temple 289 Ode XXXH.— An occasional Prelude of the Poet to his Songs 289 Ode XXXIV— The Poet's Conversion.. 290 Ode XXXV.— An Address to Fortune. . . 290 Ode XXXVI.— A Welcome to Numida. . 291 Ode XXXVIL— The Defeat of Cleopatra. A joyful Ballad 291 Ode XXXVm.— Last Ode of Book the First 292 Lib. H.— Ode I.— To Pollio on his Med- itated History . . 292 Ode H. — Thoughts on Bullion and the Currency 293 Ode III.— A Homily on Death 293 Ode IV.— Classical Love Matches 294 Ode VI.— The Attractions of Tibur and Tarentum 294 Ode VH.— A Fellow Soldier Welcome from Exile 295 Ode VOL— The Rogueries of Barine 295 denis p. McCarthy. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 19 The Voyage of St. Brendan 297 Parti.— The Vocation 298 Part II.— Ara of the Saints 300 Part ni.— The Voyage 303 Part rv— The Buried City 305 Part V.— The Paradise of Birds 309 Part VI.— The Promised Land 312 LEGENDS AND LYRICS The Pillar Towers of Ireland 314 The Lay Missioner 315 Summer Longings 317 A Lament 317 The Clan of MacCaura 319 Devotion 321 Over the Sea. Home Preference The Fireside The Vale of Shanganah. The Window Advance The Emigrants, Part I. . " II. To Ethna Wings for Home To an Infant Home Sickness Youth and Ag - e Sunny Days in Winter. . Duty Order The First of the Angels. Spirit Voices Truth in Song All Fools' Day The Birth of the Spring. 1 523 324 325 335 327 327 JAMES C. MANGAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. The Lay of the Bell. Preparations for Founding the Bell . Offices of the Bell The Birth-day Bell The Wedding Bell The Fire Bell The Passing Bell The Tocsin, or Alarm Bell The Destination of the Bell The Diver. A Ballad The Maiden's Plaint The Unrealities The Words of Reality The Words of Delusion The Course of Time Hope Spirits Everywhere Spring Roses The Castle Over the Sea Durand of Blondeu Life is the Desert and the Solitude Light and Shade The Midnight Bell The Wanderer's Chant Not at Home Hope O Maria, Regina Misericordiaa ! Love Ditty Charlemagne and the Bridge of Moon- beams The Minstrel's Motherland Holiness to the Lord The Grave, the Grave 349 349 350 351 351! 351 352 352 353. 354 354- 355. 356 356 r ^^ Tl TABLE OF CONTENTS. The Minstrel The Rose A Voice from the invisible World A Song from the Coptic Another Coptic Song ToEbert The Brother and the Sister The Field of Kunnersdorf The aged Landman's Advice to his Son And then no more The Cathedral of Cologne . Dale and Highway A Sigh The Sheik of Mount Sinai Grabbe Freedom and Right To the Beloved One Cheerfulness Freedom The Grave The German's Fatherland Be Merry and Wise The Revenge of Duke Swerting The Student of Prague Andreas Hofer The Death of Hofer The Bereaved One Song. When the Roses blow Good Night The Midnight Review IRISH ANTHOLOGY. Dark Rosaleen Shane Bwee ; or, the Captivity of the Gaels A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Mau- rice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry Sars- field Part I Part II Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of Teach Molaga The Dawning of the Day The Dream of John MacDonnell The Sorrows of Innisfail The Testament of Cathaeir Mor Rury and Darvorgilla The Expedition and Death of King Dathy Prince Aldfrid's Itinerary through Ire- laud Kinkora Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnell Q'Hussey's Ode to the Maguire Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan Welcome to the Prince Lament for Banba PAGE Ellen Bawn 401 Love Ballad 402 The Vision of Conor O'Sullivan 403 Patrick Condon's Vision 403 Sighile Ni Gara 404 St. Patrick's Hymn before Tara 406 APOCRYPHA. The Karamanian Exile 407 The Wail and Warning of the Three Khalendeers 408 The Time of the Barmecides 409 The Mariner's Bride 410 To the Ingleezee Khafir, calling himself Djaun Bool Djenkinzun 410 MISCELLANEOUS. Soul and Country 411 Siberia 412 A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century 412 An Invitation 413 The Warning Voice 413 The Lovely Land 415 The Saw-Mill 415 Cean-Salla 416 Irish National Hymn 416 Broken-Hearted Lays 417 The One Mystery 418 The Nameless One 418 The Dying Enthusiast 419 To Joseph Brenan 420 Twenty Golden Years Ago 420 BICHABD B. SHEBIDAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 24 Ah ! Cruel Maid 422 How oft, Louisa 422 Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed. ... 422 Oh Yield, Fair Lids 423 A Bumper of Good Liquor 423 We Two 423 Could I her Faults Remember 423 By Coelia's Arbor 423 Let the Toast Pass 424 O, the Days when I was Young 424 Dry be that Tear 424 What Bard, O Time, Discover 425 Alas ! Thou hast no Wings, oh ! Time. . 425 I ne'er could any Lustre see 425 When Sable Night 425 The Mid-watch 423 Marked You her Cheek ? 426 OLIVEB GOLDSMITH. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 14 The Deserted Village 427 The Traveller 433 The Hermit 439 | TABLE OF CONTENTS. The Double Transformation 441 Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 442 Epitaph on Edward Purdon 443 Stanzas on Woman 443 An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize 443 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 443 A Prologue, written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roman Knight, whom Ctesar forced upon the Stage 444 Epilogue to the Comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer " 444 Emma 444 AUBREY DeVERE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 13 Song. Love laid down his golden Head. 445 Creep slowly up the Willow Wand 445 Spenser 445 Holy Cross Abbey 446 Sel f-Deception 446 Our King sat of old in Emania and Tara. 446 The Malison 448 Hymn, on the founding of the Abbey of St. Thomas the Martyr, ('A Becket) in Dublin, A. D., 1177 448 Dead is the Prince of the Silver Hand. . . 449 The Faithful Norman 450 St. Patrick and the Bard 450 'T was a Holy Time when the King's long Foemen 452 King Laeghaire and St. Patrick 452 The Bier that Conquered ; or, O'Donnell's Answer. A.D., 1257 454 Peccatum Peccavit 455 The Dirge of Athunree. A. D., 1316. . . . 455 Between Two Mountains 450 Ode. The un vanquished Land 456 The Statue of Kilkenny. A. D. 1367 457 The True King. A. D., 1399 457 Queen Margaret's Feasting. A. D., 1451. 458 Plorans Ploravit. A. D., 1583 459 War Song of MacCarthy 459 Florence MacCarthy's Farewell to his English Love 459 War Song of Tirconnell's Bard at the Bat- tle of Blackwater. A. D., 1597 460 The March to Kinsale. December, A. D., 1601 463 A. D., 1602 464 Dirge of Rory O'More. A. D., 1642 464 The Bishop of Ross. A. D., 1650 465 Archbishop Plunket. A. D., 1681 465 A Song of the Brigade 466 A Ballad of Sarsfield ; or, the Bursting of tlieGuns. A.D,,1690 466 Oh that the Pines which Crown Yon Steep 466 The Last MacCarthymore 407 Hymn for the Feast of St. Stephen 468 Grattan 468 Adduxit in Tenebris 468 The Cause 469 Gray Harper, Rest ! 469 Sonnet. Sarsfield and Clare 469 Song. A brighten'd Sorrow veils her Face 469 St. Columkill's Farewell to the Isle of Arran, on setting sail for Iona 470 Sonnet. Christian Education 470 Death 470 The Graves of Tyrconnel and Tyrone on San Pietro, in Montorio 471 Wayside Fountains 471 THOMAS PARNELL. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 21 The Hermit 472 A Night-Piece on Death 475 An Allegory on Man 476 Hymn to Contentment 477 THOMAS DAVIS. INTRODUCTION AND BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.— By John Mitchel 479 PART I.— NATIONAL BALLADS AND SONGS. The Men of Tipperary 483 The Rivers 484 Glengariff 484 The West's Asleep 485 Oh ! For a Steed 485 Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers 486 A Ballad of Freedom 486 The Irish Hurrah 488 A Song for the Irish Militia 488 Our Own Again 489 Celts and Saxons 489 Orange and Green will Carry the Day. . . 490 PART II.— NATIONAL SONGS AND BAL- LADS. TheLostPath 491 Love's Longings 492 Hope Deferred 492 Eibhlin, a Ruin 492 Tbe Banks of the Lee 493 The Girl of Dunbwy 493 Duty and Love 494 Annie, Dear 494 Blind Mary 494 The Bride of Mallow 495 The Welcome 495 The Mi-Na-Meala .* 496 Maire Bhan a Stoir 497 Oh ! The Marriage 497 A Plea for Love 498 TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAOE The Bishops Daughter 498 The Boatman of Kinsale 498 Darling Nell 499 Love Chant 499 A Christmas Scene 499 The Invocation 500 Love and War 500 My Land 500 The Right Road 501 PART DX— BALLADS AND SONGS IL- LUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. A Nation Once Again 501 Lament for the Milesians 502 The Fate of King Dathi 503 Argan Mor 504 The Victor's Burial 504 The True Irish King 505 The Geraldines 506 O'Brien of Ara 507 Emmeline Talbot 508 O'Sullivan's Return 510 The Fate of the O'Sullivans 511 The Sack of Baltimore 513 Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill 514 A Rally for Ireland 515 The Battle of limerick, August 27, 1690. 516 PART TV— BALLADS AND SONGS IL- LUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. The Penal Days The Death of Sarsfield The Surprise of Cremona (1702) The Flower of Finae The Girl I Left Behind Me Clare's Dragoons When South Winds Blow The Battle Eve of the Brigade Fontenoy (1745) The Dungannon Convention (1782) Song of the Volunteers of 1782 The Men of 'Eighty-Two Native Swords Tone's Grave PART V.— MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Nationality Self Reliance Sweet and Sad The Burial We Must Not Fail O'Connell's Statue The Green Above the Red The Vow of Tipperary A Plea for the Bog-Trotters A Second Plea for the Bog-Trotters .... A Scene in the South William Tell and the Genius of Switzei land The Exile My Home Fanny Power Marie Nangle ; or, 11 Navan My Grave Appendix Seven Sisters of 564 J. J. CALLANAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH The Recluse of Inchidony Accession of George the Fourth Restoration of the Spoils of Athens. The Revenge of Donal Comm MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Gougane Barra 575 To a Sprig of Mountain Heath 576 Spanish War Song 576 SONGS, LYRICAL PIECES, &c. "Si Je Te Perds, Je Suis Perdu " 577 How Keen the Pang 577 Written to a Young Lady on entering a Convent 578 Lines on a Deceased Clergyman 578 Lines on the Death of an Amiable and Highly Talented Young Man, who fell a Victim to Fever in the West Indies. 578 And must we Part 579 Pure to the Dewy Gem 579 To * * * * *— Lady, the Lyre thou bid'st me take 579 Stanzas. Hours like those I Spent with You 580 The Night was Still 580 Serenade. The Blue Waves are Sleeping 580 Rousseau's Dream 581 When each Bright Star is Clouded 581 Hussa Tha Measg Na Real tan More 581 SACRED SUBJECTS. The Virgin Mary's Bank Mary Magdalen Saul The Mother of The Machabees. Moonlight 584 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE IRISH. Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear 535 The Girl I Love 596 The Convict of Clonmel 587 The Outlaw of Loch Lene 587 JACOBITE SONGS. O Say, My Brown Drimin 588 The White Cockade. The Avenger TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE The Lament of O'Gnive 590 On the Last Day 590 A Lay of Mizen Head 591 The Lament of Kirke White 592 Lines, written to a Young- Lady, who, in the author's presence, had taxed the Irish with want of gallantry, proving her position by the fact of their not serenading, as the Italians, etc., do. . . 593 Stanzas to Erin 593 Lines to Miss O. D , 594 Lines to Erin 594 Wellington's Name 595 The Exile's Farewell 595 Song. Awake thee, my Bessy, the Morn- ing is Fair 595 De la Vida del Cielo 596 The Star of Bethlehem 596 Lines to the Blessed Sacrament 596 Though Dark Fate hath reft me 597 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 9 The Winding Banks of Erne 598 The Abbot of Innisfallen 599 Abbey Asaroe 601 The Wondrous Well 602 The Touchstone 602 Among the Heather 602 The Statuette 603 The Ballad of Squire Curtis 603 SAMUEL FERGUSON. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 14 LAYS OF THE WESTERN GAEL. The Tain-Quest '. 604 The Abdication of Fergus MacRoy 612 The Healing of Conall Carnach 614 The Burial of King Cormac 618 Aideen's Grave 620 The Welshmen of Tirawley 623 Owen Bawn 628 Grace O'Maly 629 BALLADS AND POEMS. The Fairy Thorn 631 Willy Gihiland 633 The Forging of the Anchor 634 The Forester's Complaint 636 The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan 637 Hungary 637 Adieu to Brittany 638 Westminster Abbey 639 VERSIONS AND ADAPTATIONS. The Origin of the Scythians 640 The Death of Dermic! 641 The Invocation 643 Archytas and the Mariner 643 VERSIONS FROM THE TRISH. Deirdra's Farewell to Alba 645 Deirdra's Lament for the Sons of Usnach 645 The Downfall of the Gael 646 O'Byrne's Bard to the Clans of Wicklovv. 647 Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of Timoleague 648 To the Harper O'Connellan 649 Grace Nugent 649 Mild Mabel Kelly 649 The Cup of O'Hara 650 The Fair Hair'd Girl 650 Pastheen Fin 650 Molly Astore 651 Cashel of Munster 651 The Coolun 652 Youghall Harbor 652 Cean Dubh Deelish 653 Boatman's Hymn 653 The Dear Old Air 653 The Lapful of Nuts 653 Mary's Waking 654 Hopeless Love 654 The Fair Hills of Ireland 654 Torna's Lament for Core and Niall 655 Una Phelimy 656 JOHN BANIM. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 10 Ailleen 658 Soggarth Aroon 658 The Fetch 659 The Irish Maiden's Song 659 The Reconciliation 660 CHARLES JAMES LEVER. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 16 Bad Luck to this Marching 661 It's Little for Glory I Care 661 Larry M'Hale 662 Mary Draper 662 Now Can't You be. Aisy ? 663 Oh ! Once we were Wig-ant People 663 Potteen, Good Luck to Ye, Dear 664 The Bivouac 664 The Girls of the West 665 The Irish Dragoon 665 The Man for Galway 665 The Pope he Leads a Happy Life 666 The Pickets are Fast Retreating, Boys. . 666 Widow Malone 667 JOHN STERLING. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 24' The Mariners 668 The Dreamer on the Cliff 668 The Dearest 669 TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE Lament for Daedalus 669 The Husbandman 670 Louis XV 670 REV. CHARLES WOLFE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 26 Go ! Forget Me 672 The Burial of Sir John Moore 672 The Chains of Spain are Breaking 673 Oh ! Say not that my Heart is cold. . . . 673 Gone from her Cheek 673 Oh, My Love has an Eye of the Softest Blue 673 If I had thought Thou Could'st Have Died 674 JOHN ANSTER. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 9 Dirge Song. Like the Oak of the Vale. 675 The Harp 675 The Everlasting Rose 676 If I Might Choose 676 Oh 1 If, as Arabs Fancy 676 WILLIAM CONGREVE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 12 A Cathedral 677 JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 13 Oh! Sleep 678 The Deserter's Lamentation 678 The Monks of the Order of St. Patrick, commonly called the Monks of the Screw 678 The Green Spot that Blooms o'er the Desert of Life 680 DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 17 The Sack of Magdeburgh: 6S1 The Soldier-Boy 682 The Beaten Beggarman 682 CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 13 The Irish Rapparees 685 The Irish Chiefs 685 Innishowen 686 The Muster of f lie North. (1641) 687 The Voice of Labor 689 The Patriot's Bride 690 Sweet Sibyl 692 A Lay Sermon 692 0"Donnell and the Fair Fitzgerald 693 WILLIAM CARLETON. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 11 Sir Turlough, or the Church Yard Bride. 695 A Sigh for Knockmany 698 EDWARD WALSH. PAGE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 25 A Munster Keen 699 Battle of Credran. (1257) 700 Margread Ni Chealleadh 701 O'Donovan's Daughter 702 Brighidin Ban Mo Store 703 Mo Craoibhin Cno 703 Aileen the Huntress 704 ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 16 Forget me not 707 The Doves 707 What is this Love ? 707 The Blacksmith of Limerick 708 In Life's young Morning 709 The Cannon 710 The Mountain Ash 711 Song. (From "Blanid") 711 Song of the Sufferer 711 JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 22 The V— a— s— e 712 Andromeda 712 Netchaieff 713 A Sailor's Yarn 713 The Corporal's Letter 714 The Way of the World 715 For the People 716 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 16 Gloucester Harbor 717 Private Theatricals 717 Brother Bartholomew 718 A Ballad of Metz 718 The Rival Singers 719 An Epitaph for Wendell Phillips 720 The Caliph and the Beggar 720 EIATHARINE TYNAN. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 25 Waiting 721 Two Wayfarers 724 An Answer 724 Fra Ang'elieo at Fiesole 725 Eastertide 725 Olivia and Dick Primrose 7213 The Lark's Waking 726 Charles Lamb 727 August or June 727 Faint-hearted 727 Thoreau at Walden 728 A Sad Year. (18t<2) 70S A Song' of Summer 729 A Bird's Song 729 TABLE OF CONTENTS. ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY PAGE PAGE The first Red Leaf BIOGRAPHICAL, SKETCH . 21 . 730 Ode The Heaviest Cross of all 768 Song of a Fellow-worker . 731 A Parable of good Deeds . 732 MARY E. BLAKK, A Fallen Hero . 734 . 735 . 736 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Black Marble 769 In the Old House How Ireland answered 771 772 . 23 . 736 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH The Conquered Banner Our Record 773 . 737 . 738 774 March of the Deathless Dead Sonnet " 774 Song of the Mystic . 738 Lines. (1875) The Song of the Deathless Voice . 740 O'DONOVAN ROSSA. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 22 FANNY PARNELL. Jillen Andy My Prison Chamber is Iron lined 776 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . 21 Ireland, Mother ! . 742 A Visit from my Wife 779 . 742 A Visit to my Husband in Prison. (Maj Ireland . 743 . 744 1866) 780 What shall we weep for? Edward Duffy 781 Michael Davitt . 745 In Millbank Prison, London. (18o6). . . 782 To my Fellow-women . 745 Smuainte Broin — Thoughts of Sorrow. . 783 John Dillon . 747 Buckshot Forster . 749 HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. . 20 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 1". BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Fryeburg . 787 - The Fame of the City . 751 . 751 . 752 " Heart-hunger 791 - Jacqueminots 792 - My Native Land . 752 Beyond the Snow 796 - Western Australia . 753 796 " Waiting . 753 Sonnet . 797 - Living . 754 A New England Winter Son^- 797 Her Refrain . 754 Ode to General Porfirio Diaz 79S A Savage . 755 - Love's Secret . 755 PRANCES BROWNE. . 756 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 10 - At Fredericksburg. (Dec. 13, 1862).. . . - Released, Jan. 1878 . 756 . 758 . 800 Songs of Our Land . 800 "A Nation's Test . 759 JOHN SAVAGE, LL.D. LADY WILDE. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . 23 PJOftRAPHTCAT, SKETCH . 25 The Muster of the North 802 805 The Voice of the Poor . 763 Washington . 806 Buch'is and his Sons . 764 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. . 765 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 19 . 766 The Itinerant Singing Girl ■ 766 The Exile's Request 810 KATHARINE E. CONWAY. The Sea-divided Gaels . 810 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . 12 . 767 The Gobhan Saer The Death of Hudson 811 Two Vines . 811 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. John Boyle O'Reilly ....... Portrait, Face Title Thomas Moore ......... Portrait (Steel) 31 The Harp that once through Tara's Halls (Steel) 32 Rich and Rare were the Gems she wore ...... (Steel) 34 Eveleen (Steel) 37 Robert Emmet Portrait (Steel) 47 The Minstrel Boy . " . . . . . . . . . .51 Come Rest in this Bosom ......... 58 Lallah Rookh (Steel) 69 The Veiled Prophet 83 The Bereaved Mother (Steel) 176 Samuel Lover ........ Portrait (Steel) 179 The Angel's Whisper 180 Music (Steel) 185 Gerald, Ninth Earl of Kildare Portrait (Steel) 187 Ruins on the Rock of Cashel .......... 197 The Shannon . .(Steel) 202 Dean Swift Portrait (Steel) 219 Francis Mahoney (Father Prout) ... . . . . Portrait (Steel) 221 Church and Round Tower of St. Canice, Kilkenny ...... 314 Ruins of Clonmacnoise .......... 316 King Brian before the Battle of Clontarf ....... 394 Richard Brinsley Sheridan ....... Portrait (Steel) 422 Queen Margaret's Feasting ......... 458 Saint Patrick and the Bard ......... 468 The Patriot Bishop of Ross ......... 483 The Fate of King Dathi 503 Marriage of Eva and Strongbow ....... (Steel) 506 O'Connell Memorial ......... (Steel) 530 Honor the Brave .......... (Steel) 538 Samuel Ferguson ........ Portrait (Steel) 605 The Forging of the Anchor ......... 634 Carolan, the celebrated Irish Bard ......... 644 JohnBanim Portrait (Steel) 658 Charles Lever Portrait (Steel) 661 John Philpot Curran ........ Portrait (Steel) 678 Charles Gavan Duffy ........ Portrait (Steel) 685 King Brian Boroimhe killed by the Viking ...... (Steel) 686 Carrickfergus Castle ......... (Steel) 688 John Boyle O'Reilly's Study " . 751 The Return of The Irish Exile ......... 808 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES' OF THE POETS OF IRELAND AND GIVING PAGE WHERE POEMS OF EACH CAN BE FOUND IN THIS VOLUME. WM. ALLINGHAM. Wm. Allingham, poet and writer, born 1828 at Ballyshannon, County Done- gal, Ireland, to which picturesque locality he often refers in his lyrics. At a veiy early age he displayed marked literary taste. He served in the English Customs, meantime contributing to the Athenaeum, Household Words and other periodicals. The first volume of his poems was published in 1850, followed in 1854 by his "Day and Night Songs." In 1869 he brought out "Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland," its characteristic features of Irish life being a subject new to narrative poetry. Eetiring from the Customs in 1872 he in 1874 suc- ceeded James A. Froude as Editor of Frazer's Magazine. His marriage with Miss Helen Patterson, the artist, took place the same year. (Poems, page, 598.) JOHN ANSTEK. John Anster, LL.D., a distinguished poet and essayist, was born at Charle- ville, in the county of Cork in 1796. He entered Trinity college, Dublin, in the year 1810. Some of his earlier pieces were published before he took his degree. Subsequently to that period, he published a prize poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, and in 1819 he published his " Poems, with translations from the German." These were at once received into favor. The truth and vigor of the translated extracts from " Faust " were at once acknowledged, and it is said that the great German poet himself recognized their excellence. These extracts were reprinted in England and America, and their success encouraged Anster to undertake the laborious task of translating the entire poem, which 10 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF he completed in 1835. The publication of this work established the reputation of Anster. It is a production of rare felicity and genius, and one of the few instances in which translation attains to the level of original composition. In 1837, Dr. Anster published a small volume of poems under the title of " Xeniola," which contains many pieces of merit. He also contributed largely to the lead- ing British periodicals, and was a constant writer in ' ' The Dublin University Magazine," and the " North British Review." He was called to the Irish bar in 1824. During his later years he confined himself to the duties of his chair as regius professor of civil law in the University of Dublin. His literary services were recognized by a pension on the civil list, conferred upon him in 1841. (Poems, page 675.) JOHN BANIM. John Banim, a talented and popular novelist, was born in Kilkenny, April 3, 1798. After a collegiate course, his artistic tastes urged him to adopt paint- ing as a profession. Studying faithfully and successfully for two years at the academy of the Royal Dublin Society, he returned to his native city as a portrait painter; he also edited the Leinster Gazette. In 1820, we find him again in Dublin engaged in literary pursuits, but discouraged and disheartened with the product of his labors, until the production of his tragedy of "Damon and Pythias." This play, which was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre, Macready and Charles Kemble supporting the principal characters, established his reputation. The first series of the popular " Tales by the O'Hara family " was published in 1825, the last in 1829. They are "The Peep o' Day," "The Smuggler," "The Disowned," " The Fetches, " and "The Nowlans." These tales were the joint production of John and Michael Banim, and although highly sensational are web and powerfully written. John Banim was a hope- less invalid from Ms thirty-first year, and the close of his lif e was overshadowed by much privation and misfortune. Death ended his suffering in 1842 in the forty-fourth year of his age. (Poems, page 358.) MRS. M. E. BLAKE. Mrs. Mary E. Blake is one of Boston's sweetest poets. Her maiden-name was McG-rath. She was born September, 1S40, at Dungarvan, county Waterf ord, Ireland, and came to America when six years old. She married Dr. John G-. Blake, of Boston, in 1865 ; and has resided since in Boston — formerly in Quincy, Mass. Mrs. Blake is a poet of extensive range. She published a volume of "Poems" in 1882. (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Co.) (Poems, page 769.) FRANCES BROWNE. Frances Browne (The Blind Poetess) was born in the County Donegal, June 16, ISIS. Her loss of sight was owing to a severe attack of small pox during THE POETS OF IRELAND. II her infancy, which left this deplorable mark of its presence. Her early educa- tion was acquired through the attention with which she listened to the instruc- tions given her sisters and brother; her natural literary tastes requiring but little assistance to grow to perfect fruition. As early as her seventh year, her desire for verse-making made itself manifest. In 1844 her first volume of poems was published and received with much favor. "The Legends of Ulster," a volume of "Lyrics" and " Miscellaneous Poems " soon followed. Taking up her residence in London, her sister accompanied her, acting as her amanuensis. Here she became a contributor to the leading periodicals of the day. Her novels " The Hidden Sin " and the " Ericksons " acquired much popularity. In 1861 she published " My Thoughts of the World." (Poems, page 800.) J. J. CALLANAN J. J. Callanan was born in Cork in 1795, and was intended by his parents for the priesthood. After a preparatory classical course in his native city, he entered Maynooth College at seventeen. At twenty, he found that he had mis- taken his vocation, and he left the college. The next year he took two prizes in a poetical competition, and this decided his profession. He entered Trinity College to study medicine, and continued there for two years. He was full of literary projects; but they were not carried out. He was morbidly sensitive; and his unsettled aim and dependence increased his unrest. In 1827 he was a teacher in a school in Lisbon, Portugal, where his fatal illness came upon him. His moral qualities were of a veiy high order. Those who knew him well speak of him as scrupulously truthful, and honorable almost to romance. He was meek and charitable in speech to a degree not very common in those days. He never spoke ill of man; no injury could provoke him to it. Ingratitude itself did not awaken in him a spirit of resentment. Add to these qualities a rare gentle- ness of manner, and it is no wonder that he was, as is told, very dear to all that had intercourse with him. (Poems, page 551.) WILLIAM CAKLETON. Wm. Carleton, novelist, was born at Clogher, county Tyrone, 1798. In- tended for the Church he, in his twelfth year, started on foot to attend a classi- cal school in Munster. On the way the kindness of the peasantry provided him with bed and board. Disheartened, he returned, but had gained such a knowl- edge of the manners and customs of the people that, though the Church, perhaps, lost a gifted ornament, literature secured the most successful descriptive writer of the peasant character of Ireland. In turn village tutor in Louth and classical teacher in Dublin, he later devoted himself to literature, producing his Traits and Stories of the Irish peasantry. He died in Dublin, 1869. (Poems, page 695;) 12 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OK HENEY BERNARD CARPENTER. Rev. Henry Bernard Carpenter, the successor of Rev. Thomas Starr King, and Pastor of Hollis St. Church, Boston, Mass., was born in Ireland in the year 1840. He sprang from two old and honored families in Kilkenny and Derry. His early training and taste for ancient and modern literature he de- rived from his father, a clergyman of the once Established Church of Ireland, and an excellent classical scholar. After five years' residence at Oxford, where he was prizeman, honorman, and exhibitioner of his college, he was appointed by Her Majesty's Commissioners of Education in Ireland as tutor and assistant- master in the upper department of Portora Royal Collegiate School, often called "the Eton of Ireland." As a lecturer on classic and historic themes, he has obtained celebrity in the New England states and in Canada, where he began his career about twelve years ago. Discharging all the duties of the religious society, to which he has ministered for nearly eight years, Rev. Bernard Car- penter devotes his hard-earned leisure to the poetic studies to which he is most ardently attached. (Poems, page 785.) WILLIAM CONGREVE. William Congreve, an eminent dramatist, was born of Dublin parents, at Bardsey Grange, near Leeds, in 1670. Returning to Dublin he received his early •education at Kilkenny and afterward at Trinity College, Dublin. While study- ing law at the Middle Temple, his love for literature asserted itself, and setting aside his legal studies he applied himself to writing for the stage. The novel Incognita was published under the fictitious name of " Cleophil." His comedy "the " Old Bachelor " was received with gTeat favor at the Drury Lane Theatre in 1693. He subsequently produced " Love for Love," " Double Dealer," " The Mourning Bride," and " The Way of the World." " Love for Love " is Congreve's masterpiece. The general tone of his writ- ings savors much of immorality, and their popularity indicates the spirit of the rimes. He was ruined by the adulation heaped upon him by the most distin- guished men 6f his time. Pope honored him by dedicating to him his Iliad. Diyden was extravagance itself in his praise. After years of suffering from blindness and bodily weakness he died January 19, 1729. (Poems, page 677.) KATHARINE E. CONWAY. Miss Katharine E. Conway was born of Irish Catholic parents at Roches- ter, New York, September, 1853. Her first literary work was contributed to the daily press of that city. She has since written much in prose and poetry for New York and other periodicals, and in 1883 produced a volume of poems en- titled " On the Sunrise Slope." She was for some years a member of the edi- . THE POETS OF IRELAND. 13 torial staff of the Buffalo " Catholic Union and Times," and is now connected with the Boston " Pilot." (Poems, page 767.) JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN John Philpot Curran, a brilliant popular orator, was horn at Newmarket, county Cork, July, 1750. His ready wit attracted the attention of the Rector, Rev. Win. Boyse, who sent him to Middleton College, whence he was trans- planted to Trinity College, Dublin, in 1767. He studied Law at the Middle Temple and on his call to the Bar returned to Ireland in 1775. From 17S3 to 1797 in the Irish Parliament he advocated emancipation and reform. There- he was the " assistant most demanded," whilst in court " he was the advocate deemed essential." His defence of Hamilton Rowan stands unequalled. He resigned the Mastership of the Rolls in 1816, and died in London from an apoplectic attack, Octobei', 1S17, in the sixty-eighth year of bus age. (Poems, page 678.) THOMAS DAVIS. See memoir by John Mitchel, preceding Poems, page 479. AUBREY DE VERE. Thos. Aubrey De Vere, poet and political writer; born in county Limerick in 1814. Educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Devoting his leisure to travel and literature, almost every year since 1S42 beheld some production of his pro- lific pen. Amongst his poetic works, are "Recollections of Greece," and 1843, "Poems Miscellaneous and Sacred;" 1S56, "Inisfail;" 1861, "Alexander the Great;" a dramatic poem, 1874- His prose works include " Church Settlement of Ireland," 1866, and in 1878 Correspondence Religious and Philosophical, entitled " Proteus and Amadeus." (Poems, page 445.) CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. Charles Gavan Duffy, the son of a Monaghan farmer, of Celtic extrac- tion, was born in 1816. In his 10th year he went to Dublin, friendless and un- known; but determining on becoming an author, he obtained employment on the newspaper press. He next became the editor of an influential newspaper in Belfast. He returned to Dublin in 1841, and connected himself with " The Mountain " of the O'Connell party. In 1842 he started " The Nation," as an educational journal, to create and foster public opinion in Ireland, and to make it racy of the soil. In five years Mr. Duffy collected a party, afterward known as " Young Ireland. " In 1844 he was a fellow-prisoner with O'Connell in Rich- mond jail, Dublin; he acted in concert with O'Connell until 1847, when he left the Repeal Association, and was one of the founders of the Irish Confederation. 14 BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCHES OF He was tried for treason and felony in 1848-9, but after several ineffectual attempts, the prosecution was abandoned by the Government. He then re- sumed " The Nation," which had been suspended, which he limited to social reforms, such as landlord and tenant right, in support of which was f ormed the "Independent Irish Party" in Parliament. Mr. Duffy was elected in 1852 member for the borough of New Eoss, but resigned his seat in 1856, on proceed- ing to Australia. He has since held office twice in the government of Victoria as Minister of Public Lands and Works, and was sent for by the governor to form an administration during a severe ministerial crisis of 1860, but declined on his excellency's hesitating to grant the power of dissolving Parliament. Mr. Duffy, on his arrival in Victoria, was presented with a handsome estate by the Irish of that colony. Mr. Duffy has been thrice married. He is a banister, but has never practised. (Poems, page 685.) SAMUEL FERGUSON. Samuel Ferguson, poet and writer of historical romance, was born in Belfast, Ireland, in 1815. He was educated at the Belfast Academical Institute, also at the University of Dublin, which gave him the degree of LLD., in 1S65. He was admitted to the Irish bar in 1838. Ferguson (the original of which is McFergus) is a descendant from an ancient Celtic family; which ancestry is accountable for the wonderful power and energy, combined with the sweetness and descriptive beauty, which are the leading characteristics of his writings. During Ins earlier years, the practice of law becoming distasteful, his youth- ful imagination found more enjoyment in gratifying his natural love of litera- ture. He became a contributor to the Dublin University Magazine, in whose pages first appeared his fine romances of Irish History, ' ' The Rebellion of Silken Thomas " and " Corbie McGihnore. " His genius as ballad -writer alone is sufficient to build his poetic reputation. " The Forging of the Anchor " has of its own excellence become famous, and " The Welshmen of Tirawley " shows in eveiy line the powerful poetic genius of the author. Samuel Ferguson's " Lays of the Western Gael " breathe the genuine spirit of the Irish bards. As a translator of Irish ballads he is unrivalled. The latter years of Ferguson's life have been devoted almost entirely to his profession, working faithfully and earnestly. He acquired a high and honorable position at the Irish bar, and has been honored — if social title be an honor for a poet — With a baronetcy. He died in August, 18S6. (Poems, page 604.) OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Oliver Goldsmith was born at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland, November 10, 1728. His father was a poor curate of the Established Church. As a child, Oliver was remarkably dull, and was pronounced by his teacher an THE POETS OF IRELAND. 15 incorrigible dunce. Entering Trinity College (as a sizar) in his seventeenth year, he was noted for his inattention to his studies, and took his degree in 1749 as last on the list of graduates. After leaving the University he made futile efforts to enter the church, also to secure a livelihood in the professions of teaching, law and medicine. Disgusted and disappointed he travelled on foot over a considerable portion of the continent, paying for his food and lodgings by playing the flute. Arriving in England penniless, in 1756, he varied his occupation, as chemist's clerk, usher in a school, book-seller's apprentice, and medical practitioner. After a period of obscure drudgery, devoted to writing tales for children, articles for magazines and critical reviews, he became con- tributor to the Public Ledger. Under the title " Letters from a Citizen of the World," these publications attracted popular notice. His beautiful poem " The Traveller," the plan of which was sketched from his journeyings through Europe, was the beginning of his literary fame. " The Vicar of Wakefield," " The Good-natured Man," "The Deserted Village " following in quick succes- sion, he was acknowledged one of the leading writers of his time. In 1773 his comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer" won a triumphant success at Covent Garden Theatre. He was surrounded by the leading artists, statesmen, and writers of the day; he was also a member of the famous Literary Club. His inability to keep out of debt made him the slave of booksellers; his historical works were written to meet the wants of these creditors, and are not up to the general standard of his writings. He died in 1774 deeply mourned by his friends and by the many recipients of his charity. (Poems, page 427.) GEEALD GEIFFIN. Gerald Griffin, a most popular and talented Irish novelist and dramatist, was born in Limerick, December 12, 1803. As his parents desired him to study medicine he remained with an elder brother, Dr. Griffin, while they emigrated to the United States in 1820. His tastes inclining more to literature, he early contributed to Limerick newspapers, and in his nineteenth year wrote his drama of "Aguire." His brother, recognizing in Gerald the stamp of literary genius, encouraged him to go to London to work for fame and fortune. "Gisippus" was published while yet twenty, and at twenty-five "The Collegians " was written. Unable to procure a manager who would purchase his dramas, he grew despondent. His ambition to write for the stage receiv- ing a chill from which he never recovered, he turned his attention to writing for magazines and soon acquired a brilliant reputation. But success had come too late; his health had become undermined by his unceasing toil, long vigils and disappointments. His " Holland Tide," " Tales of the Munster Festivals, " " The Rivals," " The Invasion," " The Duke of Monmouth," a second series of " Tales of the Munster Festivals," etc., prove his ability to perform the tasks to which he set himself. His poems are creations of a singularly beautiful and 16 BIOGKAPIIICAL SKETCHES OF chaste imagination. His deeply religious nature yearning after a more perfect life, found its desire gratified in joining the Society of Christian Brothers. He died in Cork, June 12, 1840. After his death his tragedy of " Gisippus " was successf idly Drought out at Drury Lane Theatre. ' ' The Collegians ' ' has been successfully dramatized by Dion Boucicault as "The Colleen Bawn." (Poems, page 199.) LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. Louise Imogen Guiney, the only child of General Patrick Kobert Guiney, was born in Boston, January, 7th, 1861, her childish associations being mainly with camps and soldiers. She graduated from the Academy of the Sacred Heart, Elmhurst, Providence, R. I., in 1879, and began writing in the fol- lowing year, publishing " Songs at the Start " in 1884, and " GoosequiU Papers " in 1S85. (Poems, page 717.) EOBEKT DWYER JOYCE. Dr. Robert Dwyer Joyce, an eminent physician and celebrated poet, was born in Ireland about 1831. His poems are exclusively Irish in their subjects, he having had an intense love and appreciation for the legends and literature of his native country. His first venture, a volume of ballads, romances and songs, was published in Dublin in 1861. All his subsequent writings were published in Boston, Mass., which city he made his residence during the last seventeen years of his life, and where he enjoyed a position as one of the leading lights in the literary and social world. In 1868 and 1871, appeared "Legends of the Wars in Ireland," and "Fireside Stories of Ireland," followed by ' ' Ballads of Irish Chivalry. ' ' His finest work, ' ' Deirdre, ' ' was published in 1S76. This immediately won universal popularity, 10,000, copies being sold in a few days. His last poem, " Blanid," also merits much praise and won much favor. His desire to write a long poem on " The Courtship of Irnar," was not gratified, failing health making it necessary to cease all labor. In the hope of regaining strength he sought his native land, where he died on the 23d of October, 1S83, in less than two months after reaching its shores. Dr. Joyce was one of the leading medical practitioners of Boston, and was greatly beloved by aU who knew him. (Poems, page 707.) CHARLES JAMES LEVER. Charles James Lever, a most successful Irish novelist, was born in Dublin, August 31, 1806. He was educated for the medical profession, having taken his degree at Trinity College, also a degree at Gottingen, where he afterward studied. During the cholera which visited Ireland in 1832, as medical super- intendent, he acquired notable repute for his ability and skill in coping with THE POETS OF IRELAND. 17 the disease. Shortly afterward he became attached to the British Legation at Brussels in his professional capacity. During this time he published as a serial the novel " Harry Lorrequer," which met with unbounded popularity. Other novels followed in rapid succession: " Charles O'Malley," " Jack Hinton," Our Mess," " The O'Donoghue," " The Dodd Family Abroad," " Arthur O'Leary," and a host of others, in fact a whole library of graphic sketches introducing amusing incidents of Irish life and character. His anonymous writings are almost as numerous, among the best of which are his " Diary of Horace Tem- pleton" and "ConCregan." Most of his life was passed on the Continent, being appointed to a consular post on the Mediterranean. He died at Trieste in 1872. (Poems, page 661.) SAMUEL LOVEE. Samuel Lover, novelist, poet, musician and artist, was born in Dublin, Ireland, 1797. His paintings, which were exhibited at the Boyal Academy- in 1833, gained for him the notice of the public, and he became miniature painter to the local aristocracy, at the same time cultivating his taste for literature, "Legends and Shrines of Ireland," published in 1832 in Dublin, was his first venture; the illustrations were by himself. This book won such a reputation and became so popular, that a second edition was published in 1834. Taking up his residence in London he contributed largely to the literature of the time, also writing some of the wittiest novels in the English language. Of these " Rory O'More " and " Handy Andy " have been dramatized. His other works are " Treasure Trove," " Lyrics of Ireland," " Metrical Tales," and other poems. Nest to Thomas Moore he is the best known and most popular writer of Irish songs. The best known of them are, " Rory O'More," " Molly Bawn," " The Low- Backed Car," and "The Angel's Whisper." He was very popular in society, where he sang his own songs. His visit to the United States in 1847" proved him a general favorite. He died in 1868. (Poems, page 179.) DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. Dr. Wm. Magestn, a distinguished writer, born in Cork, July, 1793. At ten he entered Trinity College, Dublin, graduating in his fourteenth year. He returned to Cork, assisting in his father's school, in which, later, he succeeded as princi- pal. In 1816 he received the degree of Doctor of Laws. His contributions to the Literary Gazette and Blackwood's Magazine gained him first rank in litera- ture. He became junior Editor of the Standard in 1828, and the following year, in conjunction with the owner, projected Fraser's Magazine. After de- tention for debt in 1842, he retired to Walton-on-Thames where he died of con- sumption, at the age of forty-nine. (Poems, page 681.) 18 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OE FEANCIS MAHONEY ("FATHER PROUT"). Rev. Francis Mahoney (" Father Prout"), a charming poet and versatile writer, was born in Cork about 1803. Entering college at an early age he com- pleted his academic course, with much credit and finally was admitted to the priesthood, and appointed curate to Father Prout, an old clergyman who resided some eight miles from Cork. While fulfilling his duties in this quiet country district, Father Mahoney sent many successful contributions to the Cork jour- nals under the signature "Father Prout," much to the bewilderment of the good old priest. Articles sent to London periodicals and Fraser's Magazine meeting with favorable reception, he became weary of the monotony of a poor curate's life, and allured by the desire of literary fame, he abandoned his pro- fession and entered the world of letters. In London his genius met with the recognition it deserved, and a rivalry ensued among the leading journals as to which should secure his services. Finding the atmosphere of Paris more to his tastes, he went to reside there in his fortieth year, and was correspondent of two daily English journals, the News and Globe, He contributed his whimsi- cal papers " The Reliques of Father Prout," to Fraser's Magazine. These were afterwards published in book form. His " Bells of Shandon " and " Groves of Blarney" have enjoyed a world-wide reputation. He died in Paris, May 19, 1866. His remains were brought to Cork and buried under the shadow of Shandon steeple. (Poems, page 221 .) JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. James Clarence Mangan was born in Dublin in 1803. His father, a grocer, becoming bankrupt, James, was in his fifteenth year obliged to earn a livelihood. He drudged as a scrivener for seven years, from five o'clock in the morning until eleven at night, and afterwards became solicitor's clerk for three years. His earnings went toward the support of himself and parents. This period of his fife he afterwards refers- to as a time when a special providence prevented him from committing suicide. Obtaining an engagement in the magnificent library of Trinity College, he took advantage of means at his disposal, and ac- quired a proficiency in many languages. In his twenty-seventh year he published poetical translations from the German and Irish, which appeared in the Dublin University. His German translations were afterwards collected and published under the title of ' ' Anthologica Germanica. ' ' His translations from the ancient Gaelic bards, show wonderful fidelity in adhering to the spirit and metre of the original. These won for him the friendship of Dr. Petre and Eugene O'Curry, which he prized very dearly. He became a regular contributor to the Dublin Nation, The United Irishman and The Dublin University, and for these he wrote exquisite translations, some of which are said to surpass even the original, such as ' ' Lays of Many Lands, ' ' and ' ' Literse Orientales. ' ' He also contributed THE POETS OF IRELAND. 19 numerous original poems, noted for their chaste expression and exquisite pathos. Among the best known are "Dark Eosaleen " and "O Woman of Three Cows"(?). Of the most exquisite sensibility and fine impulses, his life-long poverty and misery threw a cloud over his entire existence, and seeking solace in stimulants, which undermined his health, he broke down under the weight of disease, and at his own request was admitted to Meath Hospital, where he died June 13, 1849. (Poems, page 337.) DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. Denis Florence McCarthy, poet, born in Dublin 1820. Composed ballads, poems, and lyrics, chiefly based on Irish traditioDS, written in a patriotic spirit and published in 1850. The volume includes translations from nearly every European language. His translation of Calderon's poems into English verse, with notes, was published in 1S53. He has also written "Bell-founder" and other poems, " Shelley's Early Life," etc. In 1871 he received a pension in con- sideration of his merit as a poet. He died in 1S82. (Poems, page 297.) THOMAS DARCY McGEE. D' Arcy McGee was born in Carlingford, Ireland, on April 13, 1825, and died by the hands of a fanatic assassin in Ottawa, Canada, April 7, 1868. In 1842 he emigrated to America, taking up his residence in Boston, where he became editor of Tlie Pilot, the leading Irish- American newspaper in America. In 1845, he returned to Ireland, and was engaged by the Dublin Freeman to report the Parliamentary debates. In 1S46, he joined the staff of the Dublin Nation, and became a leading figure in the Young Ireland movement. In 1S49, he again came to America, where he published, during nine years, Tlie Neiv York Nation, afterwards The American Celt. He became nationally known as a lecturer, organizer and poet. In 1857, he went to reside in Montreal, Canada, where he published a paper called Tlie Neiv Era. He was soon elected to Par- liament, and was re-elected every year till his death. He was twice a member of the Canadian ministry, as Secretary for Agriculture and Emigration, and once as President of the Executive Council. It was he who framed the draft for the confederation of the British American colonies, which has since been substantiated. He was returning from Parliament on the night of April 7, 1868, when he was shot at the door of his hotel by a man named Whalen, who was, it was charged on his trial, a Fenian agent; but was in all probability a self- acting lunatic. D Arcy McGee published many books, all of deep research and wide interest. Particularly interesting are his " Irish Settlers in North America from the Earliest Periods to 1850" (Boston, 1857); " O'ConnellandHis Friends;" " Popular History of Ireland," etc. His poems were published by Sadlier and Co., New York, with an introduction by Mrs. Sadleir. Poems, page 808.) 20 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THOMAS MOOEE. Thomas Moore, the greatest Irish lyrist, was bom in Dublin, May 28, 1770. In his eleventh year, an epilogue written by him was read at Lady Borrowe's private theatre, in Dublin. His teacher, Mr. Whyte, also instructor of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, encouraged the dramatic tastes of his pupils, and Moore became noted even in his early youth for his proficiency in music and theatrical effects. On the opening of Trinity College to Catholics, Moore entered to study law; here he distinguished himself as a successful and brilliant student, and here he be- came the friend of Bobert Emmet, who was also a student there. During this period Moore contributed to leading periodicals, and at home studied French, Italian and Music. His translation from the Greek " Odes of Anacreon " prov- ing a success, Moore threw aside his law and entered upon literature as a pro- fession. In 1803, he received a government appointment at Bermuda, but becoming dissatisfied, he appointed a deputy as substitute and travelled over the United States and Canada before returning to England. His "Odes and Epistles " were published in 1806. Five years afterwards he married a young Irish actress, Miss Bessy Dykes, and settled in the neighborhood of his friend Lord Moira. For his Eastern romance " Lalla Roohk, " published in 1817, he was paid £3000, and it was received with universal approbation. His news- paper contributions added greatly to his income, yet whde enjoying literary success, he became indebted to the amount of £6000 through the dishonesty of his deputy. To cancel this debt was his most earnest ambition. During this period he travelled through France and Italy, writing ' ' The Fudge Family in Faris, " " Loves of the Angels, ' ' and ' ' Rhymes on the Road. ' ' Clearing his in- debtedness, he returned to England, where he produced in 1825 a biography of R. B. Sheridan, in 1830 a "Life of Lord Byron," and completed in 1834 his " Irish Melodies," which have made him famous. His family relations were of the happiest character, and in his social life he was universally admired and sought after. He died in 1852. (Poems, page 31.) JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. John Boyle O'Reilly was born in Dowth Castle, county Meath, Ireland, June 28, 1844. His father, William David O'Reilly, was a scholar and an anti- quarian, and his mother, Eliza Boyle, was a woman of an extremely rare and beautiful nature. John Boyle O'Reilly became a journalist in early manhood, and at twenty-one years of age was a revolutionist, arrested, tried for high treason, and sentenced to twenty years imprisonment in an English penal colony. At twenty-five he escaped from West Australia, and came to America. He has lived in Boston since 1S69. He is the editor and part proprietor of The Pilot, perhaps the most widely known Irish- American newspaper. He has published five books: — " Songs from the Southern Seas," " Songs, Legends and THE POETS OF IRELAND. 21 Ballads," "Moondyne," "The Statues in the Block," "In Bohemia," and in union with three other authors, "The King's Men: a Tale of To-morrow." (Poems, page 751.) AKTHUB O'SHAUGHNESSY. Arthur (William Edgar) O'Shaughnessy was a poet of great beauty and simplicity. He was born March 14, 1844. Obtaining a position at the British Museum as transcriber, after two years he was promoted to the Natural History Department. A volume containing many of Iris best poems was published in 1870 under the title of an "Epic of Women." Among his other productions may be mentioned "Lays of France" and "Music and Moonlight." His " Songs of a Worker " were published in 18S1 after his death, which occurred in January 30 the same year. (Poems, page 730.) THOMAS PABNELL. Thomas Parnell was born in Dublin in 1679, in which city he received his education and was finally elevated to the ministry in 1703. In 1705, then Archdeacon of Clogher, he married a lady noted for her beauty and general excellence of character. His annual excursions to England, where he spent months at a time, living luxuriously, rather diminished than advanced his fortune. When the Whigs were in power, he was the friend of Addison, Congreve and Steele; during the ascendancy of the Tories, his former friends were neglected, and Swift, Pope, Gay and Arbuthnot became his companions. The death of his wife, in 1712, proved a severe blow, from the effects of which he never rallied. To drown his misery he had recourse to stimulants, and his intemper- ance shortened his life. A collection of his poems was published by Pope. Although not a poet of the first rank, his poems merit considerable praise for their melodic sweetness, clearness of language, and generally pleasing style. He died July, 1717. The great National leader and agitator of Ireland, Charles Stewart Parnell, is a direct descendant of the poet; and his gifted sister, Fanny Parnell, inherited the poetic genius of her ancestor. (Poems, page 472.) FANNY PABNELL. Fanny Parnell, second sister of the National leader of Ireland, Charles Stewart Parnell, was one of four daughters of John H. and Delia L. S. Parnell, and was bom at Avondale, the family estate, in county Wicklow, Ireland, about the year 184S. She was carefully trained at home, and though a Protestant, was sent, as many of the children of leading Irish families are, from Ireland to have her education finished at a convent in Paris. The brightness which her early years has shown was augmented by a thorough education. 22 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF In the roomy old house at Avondale Manor she passed some years. Here, in the midst of the wild and picturesque scenery of Wicklow and Wexford, she found much to nurture, not only her poetic temperament, but those national aspirations which have since distinguished the family. As romantic as any dreamy maiden could wish was the site of her home on the edge of the deep vale in which the Avon rushed on to meet the Avoca, which Moore has im- mortalized. Shortly after the foundation of the Irish People in Dublin, the organ of the Fenian Brotherhood, Fanny Parnell became a contributor to the poetic columns. Here, under the signature of "Alerta," she gave vent to her patriotic feelings. From the decline of the Fenian movement to the birth of the Land Agitation we find scarcely any literary work from her hand. Her lyre would only respond to one breeze — nationality. A few years ago, when she first began to write the powerful "Land League Songs," her name was quite unknown. Before she had published half a dozen of those extraordinary poems, extraordinary for their magnetic and almost startling force, as well as rhythmical beauty, it was recognized by those who watched-f or signs that the Land League had got that which crystallizes the efforts and aspirations of a popular movement — a Poet. Every note she struck was true and strong and timely. Her death was mourned by the whole Irish race. She died suddenly on the 20th of July, 1882, at the Old Ironsides mansion, her mother's home, near Bor- dentown, N. J. She is buried in Mt. Auburn cemetery, near Boston, and her grave is decorated with flowers every year, on Memorial Day, by delegates from the Irish societies of Boston. (Poems, page 742.) JAMES JEFFEEY ROCHE. James Jeffrey Eoche was born in Queens county, Ireland, May 31, 1847. His parents emigrated in that year to Prince Edward Island, where he spent his youth, being educated in St. Dunstan's College in that province. He has lived in Boston since 1866, contributing to various periodicals occasionally until 1883, when he joined the editorial staff of the Boston Pilot, with which he is still connected. (Poems, page 712.) O'DONOVAN ROSSA. Jeremiah O' Donovan Ross a, better known, perhaps, as a patriot and revo- lutionist than a poet, was born in Rosscarberry, county Cork, Ireland, in September, 1831. His life has been eventful. In 1858, he was arrested and imprisoned for organizing the Phoenix Society, which was the immediate fore- runner of the great Fenian revolutionary brotherhood. In 1865 he was arrested again, this time for Fenianism, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. He was, with many other Irish patriots, released after seven years' imprisonment, and banished out of Ireland for twenty years. He is editor of a paper called THE POETS OF IRELAND. 23 United Ireland, in New York. Nearly all his poems were written in English prisons; but his fine translations from the Gaelic have been recently made. (Poems, page 776.) REV. ABEAM J. RYAN. The Rev. Abram J. Ryan, nationally known as " The Poet-Priest of the South," was a Virginian by birth. He died of an organic heart trouble, at Louisville, Ky., on April 22, 1886, in the 46th year of his age. Father Ryan was pre-eminently the poet of the Southern Confederacy. He occupied in that ephemeral nation the enviable position described by the " very wise man " of whom old Fletcher of Saltoun wrote to the Marquis of Montrose, — "who be- lieved that if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation. " Henry Timrod, who died all too soon, had written some stirring lyrics for the South, but Father Ryan, who had just been ordained in 1861, threw himself heart and soul into the support of the Confederacy and followed its fortunes from beginning to end. (Poems, page 736.) The Rev. Wm. D. Kelly, a brother priest and poet, wrote the following tender sonnet on Father Ryan's death: — Tour saddest tears, O April skies, drop down, And let the voices of your sobbing breeze, Sigh the most plaintive of their threnodies For him, who, girt with sacerdotal gown, When war's wild tumult stirred each Southern town, And filled the land with its discordancies, Sang high above them all such melodies Their very sweetness won the South renown: Poet ! God rest thee, now thy songs are sung; Father ! heaven gain thee, now thy toil is o'er; "Whoever listened to thy tuneful tongue, Telling the mystic secrets of its lore, Trusts that thy voice, celestial choirs among, Hymns the new song of love forevermore. JOHN SAVAGE. John Savage, LL.D., a talented poet and miscellaneous writer, was born in Dublin, December 13, 1828. Receiving the advantages of a good education, and giving early evidences of artistic taste, he became a student at the Art School of the Royal Dublin Society. He was a prime actor in the Insurrection of '48, having edited a journal in the interest of the Young Ireland party, also assisting in arming the peasantry. For this interest, he was obliged to leave the country, and, escaping to New York, he contributed to a number of leading periodicals, and was connected with newspapers in New York, Washington and New Orleans. He edited the Manhattan, a monthly of much literary merit. 24 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF An ardent supporter of the Union cause during the war of the Eebellion he wrote many popular war-songs. His publications include, besides, several vol- umes of poems, dramas, sketches and biographies. .(Poems, page 802.) EICHAKD BEINSLEY SHERIDAN. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the renowned wit, orator and dramatist, was born in Dublin, October 31, 1751. He was the son of Mr. Thomas Sheridan, the tragedian, and grandson of Doctor Sheridan, the friend and correspondent of Swift. An impulsive marriage, made before completing his law studies, com- pelled him to have recourse to literature as a means of support. In his dramatic productions he achieved wonderful success, writing the ever-popular comedies, " The Rivals," and " The School for Scandal," the farce " The Critic," and the opera ' ' The Duenna. ' ' He became one of the proprietors of the Drury Lane Theatre in 1776. But the crowning glory of his life, was his Parliamentary career of thirty -two years. Here his unrivalled eloquence, and keen irony, found an ample field for then development, and the famous statesmen and orators, Burke, Pitt and Fox, had to look well to their laurels. His speech on the im- peachment of Warren Hastings was among his most brilliant orations. The burning of the Drury Lane Theatre and his extravagant habits, plunged him deeply in debt, and filled the latter days of his life with sorrow and disappoint- ment. He died July 7th, 1S16. (Poems, page 422.) JOHN STERLING. John Sterling was a native of Waterf ord, born in 1806. His family settled in London in 1824, where he entered Trinity College. He did not take his de- gree. He was an intimate friend of Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Carlyle. He died in 1S44. Archdeacon Hare published his works, and Carlyle wrote his biography. (Poems, page 668.) JONATHAN SWIFT. Jonathan Swift, a most celebrated wit and satirist, was born in Dublin, 16G7. He Avas sent to school in Kilkenny and later to Trinity College, Dublin. In KISS he became secretary of Sir William Temple, a connection of Mrs. Swift by marriage, in whose service he remained six years. The position in this family was very humiliating to Swift's pride, although he acquired much bene- fit from his opportunities of increasing knowledge, and at the death of Sir William Temple, Swift edited his posthumous works. Failing to obtain a bishopric (which was his most earnest ambition), he was forced to be content as Dean of St. Patrick's, the duties of which office he assumed in 1713. During his frequent visits to England, he was courted and enjoyed by the most illustrious minds of his day. He formed what was called the Scribblers' THE POETS OF IRELAND. 25 Club, with Pope, Gay and Arbuthnot. His first important work " The Tale of a Tub, "was published anonymously in 1704, " The Battle of the Books " soon followed. In 1724, by the anonymous " Drapier Letters *' published in a Dublin newspaper, he defended the rights of the Irish people with such warmth and skfil that he became universally popular. " Gulliver's Travels" appeared in 1726. His miscellaneous writings are chiefly religious and political pamphlets. During his later years he suffered from deafness and mental infirmities; in 1741 he passed into a condition of idiocy, from which death released him in 1745. In his will he made provision for the building of a hospital for the insane. (Poems, page 219.) KATHARINE TYNAN. Katharine Tynan was born at Clondalkin, county Dublin, Ireland, in the latter part of 1861. She began her literary career in her twentieth year, win- ning almost immediate recognition. She has contributed to the London Month, Merry England, The AthencBiim, and other leading publications. Her first vol- ume, " Louise de la VaUiere and other poems," appeared in 1885, was well re- ceived and went into a second edition in a few months. (Poems, page 721.) EDWARD WALSH. Edward Walsh was born hi Londonderry in the year 1805, and died in Cork on 6th August, 1850, in the forty-fifth year of his age. His father, who was a small farmer in the county of Cork, eloped with a young lady much above his own position in life. Shortly after marriage his difficulties increased, and to avoid them, he enlisted in the militia, and was quartered in Londonderry, where his son was born. Our author having received a good education, in early life became a private tutor. Some time after he taught school in Millstreet, county Cork, from which he removed in 1837, and went to teach in Toureen, where he first began to write for the Magazines. After some time he went up to Dublin, where he was elected schoolmaster to the convict station at Spike Island. In a year or two he left this place and became teacher at the Work- house in Cork, where he remained till his death. Two volumes of his poetical translations from the Irish have been published. He was a proficient in the fairy and legendary lore of the country. (Poems, page 699.) LADY WILDE ("SPERANZA.") Lady Wilde, the famous "Speranza," of the old Dublin Nation, is the mother of the poet and aesthete, Oscar Wilde, and the widow of the late eminent physician and archaeologist, Sir William Wilde, of Dublin. In the stormy days of "Young Ireland," from 1846 to 1S4S, the poems of "Speranza," next to 26 BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. those of Thomas Davis, were the inspiration of the National movement. Lady Wilde lives in London, where she is the centre of a distinguished literary and artistic circle. (Poems, page 762.) EEV. CHAELES WOLFE. Eev. Chaeles Wolfe was born at Dublin in 1791, and was educated at Trinity College. He became a curate at Castle Caulfield. He died of con- sumption in 1823. He was only a boy when he wrote one of the most perfect and most celebrated odes in the English language, "The Burial of Sir John Moore." (Poems, page 672.) POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. IRISH MELODIES. It has often been remarked, and oftener felt, that our music is the truest of all com- ments upon our history. The tone of defiance, succeeded by the languor of despondency — a burst of turbulence dying away into softness — the sorrows of one moment lost in the levity of the next — and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness, which is naturally produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off or forget the wrongs which lie upon it. Such are the features of our history and character, which we find strongly and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are many airs which, I think, it is difficult to listen to without recalling some period or event to which their expression seems pecu- liarly applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, yet shaded here and there by a mournful recollection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose * marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or to quit forever the land of their birth, (like the bird that abandons the nest which human touch has violated); and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the exile, mingling regret for the ties he leaves at home, with sanguine expectations of the honors that await him abroad — such honors as were won on the field of Fontenoy, where the valor of Irish Catholics turned the fortune of the day in favor of the French, and extorted from George II. that memorable exclamation, " Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such subjects I" Though much has been said of the antiquity of our music, it is certain that our finest and most popular airs are modern; and perhaps we may look no further than the last dis- graceful century for the origin of most of those wild and melancholy strains which were at once the offspring and solace of grief, and which were applied to the mind as music was formerly to the bodyj "decantare loca dolentia." Mr. Pinkerton is of opinion that none of the Scotch popular airs are as old as the middle of the sixteenth century; and though musical antiquaries refer us for some of our melodies to so early a period as the fifth cen- tury, I am persuaded that there are few of a civilized description (and by this I mean to exclude all the savage ceanans, cries, f etc.) which can claim quite so ancient a date as Mr. Pinkerton allows to the Scotch. But music is not the only subject upon which our taste for antiquity is rather unreasonably indulged; and, however heretical it may be to dissent from these romantic speculations, I cannot help thinking that it is possible to love our country very zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honor and happiness, * There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these Irish auxiliaries in The Complete History of the Wars in Scotland under Montrose, (1660.) Clarendon owns that the Marquis of Montrose was indebted for much of his miraculous success to this small baud of Irish heroes under Maedonnell. t Of which some genuine specimens may be found at the end of Mr. Walker's worK upon the Irish Bards. Mr. Bun- ting has disfigured his last splendid volume by too many of those barbarous rhapsodies. POEMS OF THOMAS MOOltE. without believing that Irish was the language spoken in Paradise* — that our ancestors were kind enough to take the trouble of polishing the Greeks f — or that Abaris, the Hyper- borean, was a native of the north of Ireland. J By some of these archaeologists it has been imagined that the Irish were early ac- quainted with the counterpoint,§ and they endeavor to support this conjecture by a well- known passage in Giraldus, where he dilates with such elaborate praise upon the beauties ■of our national minstrelsy. But the terms of this eulogy are too vague, too deficient in teulmical accuracy, to prove that even Oiraldus himself knew anything of the artifice of counterpoint. There are many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers which might be cited with much more plausibility to prove that they understood the arrangement of music in parts; || yet I believe it is conceded in general by the learned, that however grand and pathetic the melody of the ancients may have been, it was reserved for the ingenuity of modern science to transmit the "light of song" through the variegating prism of harmony. Indeed the irregular scale of the early Irish (in which, as in the music of Scotland, the interval of the fourth was wanting) ** must have furnished but wild and refractory subjects to the harmonist. It was only when the invention of Guido began to be known, and the powers of the harp f f were enlarged by additional strings, that our melodies took the sweet character which interests us at present; and while the Scotch persevered in the old mutilation of the scale,tJ our music became gradually more amenable to the laws of harmony and counterpoint. In profiting, however, by the improvements of the moderns, our style still kept its * See advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic Society Dublin. t O'Halloran, vol. i., parti., chap. vi. tld. ib., chap. vii. § It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood the diesis, or enharmonic interval. The Greeks seem to have formed their ears to thisdelicate gradation of sound ; and, whatever difficulties or objections may lie in the way of its practical use, we must agree with Mersenne. {Pre} tales de /" Ha/rmonie, quest. 7,) that the theory of music would be im- perfect without it; and, even in practice, as Tosi, among others, very justly remarks, (Observations on Florid Song,chap.i. , § 16,) there is no good performer on the violin who docs not make a sensible difference between D sharp and E flat, though, from the imperfection of the instrument, they are the same uotes upon the piano-forte. The effect of modulation by en- harmonic transitions is also very striking and beautiful. Il The words iromiAta and eTepotpama, in a passage of Plato, and some expressions of Cicero, in fragment, lib. ii., De Jlepubl., induced the Abbe Fraguier to maintain that the ancients had a knowledge of counterpoint. M. Burette, however, has answered him, I think, satisfactorily, (" Examen d'un Passage de Platon," in the third volume of Histoire de P Acad.) M. Huet is of opinion (Posies Lfirceses) that what Cicero says of the music of the spheres, in his dream of Scipio, is suffic- ient to prove an acquaintance with harmony ; but one of the strongest passages which I recollect in favor of the supposi- tion occurs in the Treatise, attributed to Aristotle, nepi Ko— Mouo-utt; Se ojei; «/*« ««. pVpeis, k. t. A. ** Another lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency of what composers call consecutive fifths; but this is au ir- regularity which can hardly be avoided by persons not very conversant with the rules of composition ; indeed, if I may venture to cite my own wild attempts in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually committing, and which has sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear that I have surrendered it to the critic with considerable reluctance. May there not be a little pedantry iir adhering too rigidly to this rule? I have been told that there are instances in Haydn of an un- disguised succession of fifths ; and Mr. Shield, in his Introduction to Harmony, seems to intimate that Handel has been sometimes guilty of the same irregularity. tr A singular oversight occurs in an Essay on the Irish Harp by Mr. IVaufoni. which is inserted in the Appendix to Walker's Historical Memoirs. lL The Irish, 11 says he, "according to Bromton, in the reign of Henry II., had two kinds of harps, ' Hibernici tamen in duobusmusici generis instruments, qua m vis priecipitetn et velocem, suavein tamen et jucun- dam, 1 the one greatly I 'old and quick, the other soft and pleasing." How a man of Mr. Beaufonl's learning could so mistake the meaning and mutilate the grammatical construction of this extract is unaccountable. The following is the passage as I find it entire in Bromton, and it requires but little Latin to perceive the injustice which has been done to the words of the old chronicler :—" Et cunt Scotia, hujus terra 1 (ilia, utatnr lyra, t ympano et choro, ac Wallia cithara, tubis et chora Hiber- nici tamen in duobus nmsiei generis iust rumentis. qeumcis )>ra:cipitcm et relneein, snavein tam< n et jitcundam, crispatis modulis et intricatis tiolulis, eff.civ.nt harmonium," (Hist. Anglic. Script., p. 1075.) I should not have thought this error worth remarking, but that the compiler of the Dissertation on the Harp, prefixed to Mr. Bunting's last work, has adopted it implicitly. it The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but i ours. They had formerly the same passion for robbing u •called "The Saint-stealer." POEMS OF THOMAS MOOEE. originality sacred from their refinements; and though Carolan bad frequent opportunities of hearing the works of Geminiani and other masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing his native simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, or affectation of their science. In that curious composition, indeed, called his Concerto, it is evident that he labored to imitate Corelli; and this union of manners so very dissimilar produces the same kind of uneasy sensation which is felt at a mixture of different styles of architecture. In general,, however, the artless flow of our music has preserved itself free from all tinge of foreign- innovation,*? and the chief corruptions of which we have to complain arise from the un- skilful performance of our own itinerant musicians, from whom, too frequently, the airs are noted down, encumbered by their tasteless decorations, and responsible for all their ignorant anomalies. Though it be sometimes impossible to trace the original strain, yet in most of them, "auri per ramos aura refulget/'f the pare gold of the melody shines through the ungraceful foliage which surrounds it; and the most delicate and difficult duty of a com- piler is to endeavor, as much as possible, by retrenching these inelegant superfluities, and collating the various methods of playing or singing each air, to restore the regularity of its form, and the chaste simplicity of its character. I must again observe that, in doubting the antiquity of our music, my skepticism extends but to those polished specimens of the art which it is difficult to conceive anterior to the dawn of modern improvement; and that I would by no means invalidate the claims of Ireland to as early a rank in the annals of minstrelsy as the most zealous antiquary may be inclined to allow her. In addition, indeed, to the power which music must always have possessed over the minds of a people so ardent and susceptible, the stimulus of persecution was not wanting to quicken our taste into enthusiasm; the charms of song were ennobled with the glories of martyrdom, and the acts against minstrels in the reigns of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth were as successful, I doubt not, in making my countrymen musicians as the penal laws have been in keeping them Catholics. With respect to the verses which I have written for these melodies, as they are in- tended rather to be sung than read, I can answer for their sound with somewhat more confidence than their sense; yet it would be affectation to deny that I have given much attention to the task, and that it is not through want of zeal or industry if I unfortunately disgrace the sweet airs of my country by poetry altogether unworthy of their taste, their energy, and their tenderness. Though the humble nature of my contributions to this work may exempt them from the rigors of literary criticism, it was not to be expected that those touches of political feeling, those tones of national complaint, in which the poetry sometimes sympathizes with the music, would be suffered to pass without censure or alarm. It has been accordingly said that the tendency of this publication is mischievous, % and that I have chosen these airs but as a vehicle of dangerous politics — as fair and precious vessels (to borrow an image of St. Augustine) from which the wine of error might be administered. To those who identify nationality with treason, and who see in every effort for Ireland a system of hos- tility toward England — to those too, who, nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed by the faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness, like that. * Among other false refinements of the art, our music (with the exception, perhaps, of the air called " Mamma, Ma7iima," and one or two more of the same ludicrous description) has avoided that puerile mimicry of natural noises, motions, &c, which disgraces so often the works of even the great Handel himself. D'Alembert ought to have had better taste than to become the patron of this imitative affectation. (Discours Preliminaire de V Encyclopedic.) The reader may find some good remarks on the subject in Avison upon Musical Expression ; a work which, though under the name of Avison, was. written, it is said, by Dr. Brown. t Virgil, Mneid, lib. 6, v. 204. ■ t See Letters, under the signatures of " TimaBus," &c, in the Morning Post, Pilot, and other papers. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Demophon of old who, when the sun shone upon him shivered ! * — to such men I shall not deign to apologize for the warmth of any political sentiment which may occur in the course of these pages. But as there are many among the more wise and tolerant who, with feel- ing enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all the danger of not redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree bold or inflammatory should be avoided in a publication of this popular description — I beg of these respected persons to believe that there is no one who deprecates more sincerely than I do any appeal to the passions of an ignorant and angry multitude; but that it is not through that gross and inflammable region of society a work of this nature could ever have been intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers — it is found upon the piano-fortes of the rich and the educated — of those who can afford to have their national zeal a little stimulated without exciting much dread of the excesses into which it may hurry them; and of many whose nerves may be now and then alarmed with advan- tage, as much more is to be gained by their fears than could ever be expected from their justice. Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has been hitherto made to the poetical part of this work, allow me to add a few words in defence of my ingenious coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of the airs by the chromatic richness of his symphonies and the elaborate variety of his har- monies. We might cite the example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported through all the mazes of musical science in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies; but it appears to me that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which it would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. Through many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country's music: and, far from agreeing with those critics who think that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs which they introduce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illuminated initials of old manuscripts which are of the same character with the writing which follows, though more highly colored and more curiously ornamented. In those airs which are arranged for voices, his skill has particularly distinguished itself, and, though it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favorite strain has been dismissed as having lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it returns in a harmonized shape with new claims upon our interest and attention; and to those who study the delicate artifices of composition, the construction of the inner parts of these pieces must afford, I think, con- siderable satisfaction. Every voice has an air to itself, a flowing succession of notes, which might be heard with pleasure independent of the rest, so artfully has the harmonist (if J may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distributing an equal portion of its sweet- ness to every part. * -'This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (rpaire £o:roios) to Alexander the Great."— Sext. Empir. Pyrrh. Hypotk., lib. i. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. GO WHERE GLOEY 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 eye thou rovest By the star thou lovest, Oh! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, Oh! thus remember me. Oft as summer closes, On its lingering roses, Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, Oh! then remember me. When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh! still remember me, Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee — Oh! then remember me. WAR SONG. REMEMBER THE GLORIES OP BRIEN THE BRAVE. 1 Remember the glories of Brien the Brave. Though the days of the hero are o'er; Though lost to Mononia/ and cold in the grave, He returns to Kinkora 3 no more! That star of the field, which so often has pour'd Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword To light us to glory yet! Mononia! when nature embellish'd the tint Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there ? No, freedom! whose smile we shall never Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, 'Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains! Forget not our wounded companions who stood ' In the day of distress by our side; 1 Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty- five engagements. 2 Munster. 3 The palace of Brien. 4 This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were inter- rupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf by Fitzpat- rick,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 hisrank by the side of a sound man." "Between seven and eight hun- dred wounded men," adds O'Halloran, pale, emaciated, and POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died ! The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, - Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ! Oh let him not blush, when he leaves us to- night, To find that they fell there in vain ! ERIN ! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES. Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies ! Shining through sorrow's stream, Saddening through pleasure's beam, Thy sons, with doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise ! Erin ! thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin ! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow's light, Thy various tints unite, And form, in Heaven's sight, One arch of peace ! OH BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. Oh breathe not bis name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid ; Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head ! But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps, •npported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops— never was Bach another sight exhibited."— BUtor\ of Inland, book ill., chap. 1 And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our soulfl. WHEN HE WHO ADORES When he who adores thee has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign'd ? Yes, weep, and however my foes may con- demn, Thy tears shall efface their decree ; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee ! With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Every thought of my reason was thine : In my last-humble prayer to the Spirit above, Thy name shall be mingled with mine ! Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee J THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more ! No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. IfflSMttJl - u _ ' < ~ ' BiMiL S., POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. 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 touch'd by the thorns ! But send round the bowl, and be happy a while ; May we never meet worse in our pilgrim- age here Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear 1 The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows ! If it were not with friendship and love intertwined ; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind ! But they who have loved the fondest, the purest, Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed ; And the heart that has slumber'd in friend- ship securest, Is happy indeed, if 'twas never deceived. But send round the bowl, while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine — That the sunshine of love may illumine out youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. FLY NOT YET. Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon ! 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made ; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing. Oh ! stay, — Oh ! stay, — Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh ! 'tis pain To break its link so soon. Fly not yet, the fount that play'd In times of old through Ammon's shade,* Though icy cold by day it ran, Yet still, like souls of mirth, began To burn when night was near; And thus should woman's heart and looks At noon be cold as winter brooks, Nor kindle till the night, returning, Brings their genial hour for burning. Oh! stay,— Oh! stay,— When did morning evvr break, And find such beaming eyes awake As those that sparkle here ! THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE. Though the last glimpse of Erin with sor- row I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ;, In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever Solie Fons, near the Temple of POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky- shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair. 1 THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.' There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet !* Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Tet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. 1 In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VHI., in Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being Bhorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing glibbes or cotilins (long locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called aommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, In which an Irish virgin is made to give the pre- ference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing Jocks) 10 all strangers, (by which the English were meant,) or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has readied ns, and is universally admired.— Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr. Walker informs us also «hat, about the same period, there were some harsh measures tak'n against the Irish minstrels. 3 " The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beau- tiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in \uc county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a Tisit to this romantic spot in the Bummer of the year 1807. * The rivers Avon and Avoco. 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace ! RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.* 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 1" " Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin will offer me harm — Forthougb they love women and golden store, Sir Knight ! they love honor and virtue more !" On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the Green Isle. And blest forever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride ! 4 This ballad is founded upon the following anccdott : — "The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his ex- cellent administration, that, as a proof of it. we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, unuertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her baud, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and euch an impression had the laws and government of thiB monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt wa« made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes o* jewels."— Warner's History of Ireland, vol. .., book x. ' POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 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 1 ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. ST. SENANUS. " Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile : lor 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 LADT. " O father, send not hence my bark, Through wintry winds and billows dark j I come with humble heart to share Thy morn and evening prayer; Nor mine the feet, O holy saint, The brightness of thy sod to taint." The lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd ; The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd. But legends hint, that had the maid Till morning's light delay'd, And given 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 burn- ing west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 'twould lead to some bright ifllf of rest ! TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK. Take back the virgin page, White and unwritten still ; Some hand more calm and sage The leaf must fill. Thoughts come, as pure as light, Pure as even you require ; But oh ! each word I write, Love turns to fire. Yet let me keep the book ; Oft shall my heart renew, When on its leaves I look, Dear thoughts of you ! Like you, 'tis fair and bright ; Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write One wrong wish there I Haply, when from those eyes Far, far away I roam, POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Should calmer thoughts arise Toward you and home ; Fancy may trace some line, "Worthy those eyes to meet, Thoughts that not hum, but shine, Pure, calm, and sweet ! And as the records are Which wandering seamen keep, Led by their hidden star Through winter's deep ; So may the words I write Tell through what storms I stray, You still the unseen light Guiding my way ! THE LEGACY. When in death I shall calm recline, Oh bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here. Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, To bathe the relic from morn till night. When the light of my song is o'er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; Hang it up at that friendly door, Where weary travellers love to call' Then if some bard who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh ! let one thought of its master waken Tour 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 1 never its balm bestowing On lips that beauty hath seldom blest ! But when some warm devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Oh I then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him. i " In every house wan one or two harps, free to all travel- len, who were the more caressed the more they excelled in 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. We'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 mourneth Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth, But brightly flows the tear Wept o'er the hero's bier ! Oh ! quench'd are our beacon-lights— Thou of the hundred fights ! s Thou on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung ! 4 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. WE MAT 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 : 3 1 have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to al- lude to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men. at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent asd integrity. 3 This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Neil, which is quoted in the Philo- sophical Survey of the South of Ireland, page 433 :— " Con, a\ the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and ap braid not our defeats with thy victories I" 4 Fox—'* Ultimus Romanorum I" POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But if hearts that feel and eyes that smile Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own Greeu Isle, For sensitive hearts and for sun-bnght eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. fn England the garden of beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery, placed within call ; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden's but carelessly watch'd after all. Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fenee Which round the flowers of Erin dwells, Which warms the touch while winning the Nor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye ! While the daughters of Erin keep the boy Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Through billows of woe and beams of joy, The same as he look'd when he left the shore, Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh ! remember the smile which adow? \ her at home. EVELEEN'S BOWER. Oh ! weep for the hour When to Eveleen's, bower The lord of the valley with faise vows came The moon hid her light From the heavens that night, And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame. The clouds past soon From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame; But none will see the day When the clouds shall pass away Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame. The white snow lay On the narrow pathway When the lord of the valley crost over the moor; And many a deep print On the white snow's tint Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door. The next sun's ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false loi;d came; But there's a light above Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame. THE SONG OF FIONNUALA. 1 Silent, O Moyle ! be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. 1 To make thlB Btoty Intelligible in a song wonld require a mach gTeater 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 Fionuuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed iuto a pwan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, o rer certaia lakes and rivers of Ireland till the coming of Ihrisiianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to b« POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world ? Sadly, O Moyle ! to thy winter wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away ! Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay ! When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above ? LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DATS OF OLD. Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betray'd her ; When Malachi wore the collar of gold 1 Which he won from her proud invader ; When her kings with standard of green unfurl'd Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ;' Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger. On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,' When the clear cold eve's declining, the signal of her release. I fcand this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations troro the Irish, begun under the direction of the late Countess of Moira. 1 "This brought on an encounter beiween Malachi (the mon- arch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encoun- tered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory."— Warner's Hist, of Ireland, vol. i., book ix. 8 " Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland. Long before the birth of Christ we ilnd in hereditary order of chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhena dalol/Ae ruadh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emtinia, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kin t *s, called Teagh na Craiobhe ntadh, or the Academy of the Ked 3t jnch : and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg, or the hous> of the sorrowful soldier."— Ofllalloran's Introduction, &c, Dvrt I., chapter v. ' It was an old tradition in the tirne of Giraldus, that Lingh Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden over- flowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, liku the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says, that the fisher- men, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall •eclesiastical towers under fie water. He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining ! Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime. Catch a glimpse of the days that are over Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover ! COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. Come, send round the wine, and leave point! of belief To simpleton sages and reasoning fools ; This moment's a flower too fair and brief To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, But while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier, who my side hts Sf In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? No ! perish the hearts and the laws that try Truth, valor, or love by a standard like this! SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. Sublime was the warning which Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the conqueroi 's chain ! POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. O Liberty ! let not this spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west — Give the light of your look to each sorrow- ing spot, Nor oh? be the shamrock of Erin forgot, While you add to your garland the olive of Spain ! If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia ! our cause is the same ; And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath For the shamrock of Erin and olive of Te Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd The green hills of their youth among strangers to find That repose which at home they had sigh'd for in vain, Breathe a hope that the magical flame which you light May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright ; And forgive even Albion, while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain ! God prosper the cause ! — oh! it cannot but thrive While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive Its devotion to feel and its rights to main- tain ; 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 BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE EN- DEARING YOUNG CHARMS. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away ! Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear rain each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known, To which time will but make thee more dear! Oh the heart that has truly loved never foi- gets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns to her god when she The same look which she turn'd when ho rose 1 ERIN ! O ERIN ! Like the bright lamp that lay on Kildare'a holy shrine, And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm ! Erin ! O Erin ! thus bright through the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears 1 The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy 6un is but rising when others are set; And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, 40 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE The full moon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. Erin ! O Erin ! though long in the shade, Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade ! Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind, And daylight and liberty bless the young Erin 1 O Erin ! thy winter is past, And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last ! DRINK TO HER. Drink to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh ; The girl who ga"ve to song What gold could never buy. Oh ! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone ! By other fingers play'd, It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy ! At beauty's door of glass When wealth and wit once stood, They ask'd her, " which might pass ?" She answer'd, "He who could." With golden key wealth thought To pass — but 'twould not do : While wit a diamond brought Which cut his bright way through ! Then here's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy ! The love that seeks a home Where wealth and grandeur shineB, 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 1 OH BLAME NOT THE BARD.' Oh blame not the bard if he flies to the bowers Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a bright bow to the war- rior's dart,' And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have pour'd the full tide of a patri- ot's heart ! But, alas for his country ! — her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken which never would bend. O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray ; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires ; ' We may suppose this apolo27 *o nSTe bee 11 tittered by one of those wandering bards whom Spencer so severely, and perhaps truly, describes in his Slate of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, " were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gra- cing of wickedness and vice, which with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue." * It is conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of whicll weapon the Irish were once very expert. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 41 And the torch that would light them through dignity's way Must be caught from the pile where their country expires ! Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget what he never can heal; Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel ! That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.' But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away, Thy name, loved Erin ! shall live in his songs ; Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs ! The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive and weep ! WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT. While gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turn'd, To look at orbs that more bright In lone and distant glory burn'd. But too far Each proud star For me to feel its warming flame — Much more dear That mild sphere Which near our planet smiling came ;* Thus, Mary, be but thou my own — While brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone, Which bless my home and guide my way . The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meek, Illumined all the pale flowers, Like hope that lights a mourner's cheek. I said, (while The moon's smile Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling bliss,) " The moon looks On many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this :* And thus I thought our fortunes run, For many a lover looks to thee, While oh ! I feel there is but one, One Mary in the world for me. ILL OMENS. When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still ling'ring shone, Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, The last time she e'er was to press it alone. For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon; And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon I As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er * " Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the son excepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put to- gether."— WhlstorCs Theory, &c. a This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works: " The moon tooks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one m ton." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. for a sly glance or Nor ever two, A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses, Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, She brush'd him — he fell, alas! never to rise — "Ah ! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces, For which the soul's innocence too often dies !" While she stole through the garden where heart's-ease was growing, She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night- fallen dew; And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too ; But while o'er the roses too carelessly lean- ing, Her zone flew in two, and her heart's-ease •was lost — " Ah ! this means," said the girl, (and she sigh'd at its meaning,) " That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost !" BEFORE THE BATTLE. By the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow's strife ; By that sun whose light is bringing Chains or freedom, death or life — Oh ! remember, life can be No charm for him who lives not free I Like the day-star in the wave, Sinks a hero to his grave, Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears 1 Bless'd is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years : — But, oh, how grand they sink to rest Who close their eyes on victory's breast ! O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, While his heart that field remembers Where we dimm'd his glory's light ! Never let him bind again A chain like that we broke from then. Hark ! the horn of combat calls — Oh, before the evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph ronnd I Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound : — But, oh, how blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wondering world shall weep ! AFTER THE BATTLE. Night closed around the conquerov's way, And lightning show'd the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day, Stood few and faint, but fearless still The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeai, Forever dimm'd, forever crost — Oh who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honor's lost ! The last sad hour of freedom's dream And valor's task moved slowly by, While mute they watch 'd till morning's beam Should rise and give them light to die ! There is a world where souls are free, Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; Bf death that world's bright opening be, Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? OH 'TIS SWEET TO THINK. Oh 'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear; And that, when we're far from the lips we love, ■ "The Irish Coma was not entirely devoted to martia. purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed meadh i do their beverage at this POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 43: We have but to make love to the lips -we are near! 1 The heart like a tendril accustom'd to cling, Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself and make closely its own. Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be doom'd to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We have but to make love to the lips we are near. 'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there, And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too, And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, It will tincture love's plume with a differ- ent hue ! Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be doom'd to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We have but to make love to the lips we are near. THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay; 1 I believe It is Marmontel who says, " Quand on rCa pas ee gue Von dime, ilfaut aimer ce que Von a." There are so many matter-of-fact people who take such jeux dV esprit, as this defence of inconstancy to be the actual and genuine senti- ments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self- defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them that Democritus was not the worse physiologist for having playfully contended that snow was black, nor Erasmus In any degree the less wise for having written an ingenious — '— 1 of folly. The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal waa turn'd ; Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrow that made me more dear to thee. Thy rival was honor'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd, Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd ; She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves, Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas ! were slaves ; Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would rather be, Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee. They slander thee sorely, who say thy vowb are frail — Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale ! They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains — Oh! do not believe them — no chain could that soul subdue. Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too ! ON MUSIC. When through life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love In days of boyhood meet our ear, Oh ! how welcome breathes the strain ! Wakening thoughts that long have slept Kindling former smiles again, In faded eyes that long have wept I Like the gale that sighs along Beds of oriental flowers POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Is the grateful breath of song That once was heard in happier hours ; Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on, Though the flowers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure's dream is gone, Its memory lives in music's breath 1 Music ! — oh ! how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell ! Why should feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are even more false than they ; Oh I 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray ! THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. 'Tis believed that this harp which I wake now for thee Was a siren of old who sung under the sea ; And who often at eve through the bright billow roved To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved. But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears all the night her gold ringlets to steep, Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm, And changed to this soft harp the sea- maiden's form ! Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheek smiled the same — While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the frame ; And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings, Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings ! Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I'm near thee and grief when away I IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED. 1 It is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the soul that'f fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, Through a life, by his loss all shaded ; "Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept When all lighter griefs have faded ! Oh ! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, While it 6hines through our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how he lived but to love them! And as buried saints the grave perfume Where fadeless they've long been lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom From the image he left there in dying I LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. Oh ! the days are gone when beauty bright My heart's chain wove ; When my dream of life, from morn till night Was love, still love ! New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream ! Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream ! POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Though the bard to purer fame may soar, Or could we keep the souls we love, When wild youth's past ; We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, Though many a gifted mind we meet, To smile at last ; Though fairest forms we see, He'll never meet To live with them is far less sweet, A joy so sweet Than to remember thee, Mary 1 In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And at every close she blush'd to hear The one loved name ! THE PRINCE'S DAY. 1 Oh ! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we'H Which first love traced ; forget them, Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot And smile through our tears, like a sun- On memory's waste ! beam in showers ; 'Twas odor fled There never were hearts, if our rulers would As soon as shed ; let them, 'Twas morning's winged dream ; More form'd to be grateful and blessed 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again than ours ! On life's dull stream ! But just when the chain Oh ! 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again Has ceased to pain, On life's dull stream ! And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, There comes a new link Our spirit to sink — Oh ! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, 1 SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant tc PRIME. stay; But though 'twere the last little spark in our I saw thy form in youthful prime, souls, Nor thought that pale decay We must light it up now, on our Prince's Would steal before the steps of time, day. And waste its bloom away, Mary ! Yet still thy features wore that light Contempt on the minion who calls you dis- Which fleets not with the breath ; loyal ! And life ne'er look'd more purely bright Though fierce to your foe, to your friends Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! you are true; And the tribute most high to a head that is As streams that run o'er golden mines, ro^al, With modest murmur glide, Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. Nor seem to know the wealth that shines While cowards, who blight Within their gentle tide, Mary ! Your fame, your right, So, veil'd beneath the simple guise, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle Thy radiant genius shone, array, And that which charm'd all other eyes The standard of green Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary i In front would be seen — If souls could always dwell above, Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; • This song was written for a fete in honor of the Prince ot Wales's birthday, given by my friend Major Bryan, at his aest in the county of Kilkenny. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Oh I my life on your faith ! were you sum- Oh ! my Nora's gown for me, mon'd this minute, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, You'd cast ever bitter remembrance away, Leaving every beauty free And show what the arm of old Erin has in it To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases ! When roused by the foe on her Prince's Yes, my Nora Creina ! day. My simple, graceful Nora Creina ! Nature's dress He loves the Green Isle, and his love is re- Is loveliness — corded The dress you wear, my Nora Creina ! In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget ; Lesbia hath a wit refined, And hope shall be crown'd and attachment But when its points are gleaming round us rewarded, Who can tell, if they're design'd And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet ! To dazzle merely, or to wound us ? The gem may be broke Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, By many a stroke, In safer slumber Love reposes — But nothing can cloud its native ray ; Bed of peace ! whose roughest part Each fragment will cast Is but the crumpling of the roses. A light to the last ! — my Nora Creina, dear ! And thus, Erin, my country ! though broken My mild, my artless Nora Creina ! thou art, Wit, though bright, There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will Hath not the light decay ; That warms your eyes, my Nora Crenia 1 A spirit that beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at their pain on the Prince's day! WEEP ON, WEEP ON. Weep on, weep on, your hour is past, Your dreams of pride are o'er, LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. The fatal chain is round you cast, And you are men no more ! Lesbia hath a beaming eye, In vain the hero's heart hath bled ; But no one knows for whom it beameth ; The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain \ Right and left its arrows fly, freedom ! once thy flame hath fled But what they aim at no one dreameth ! It never lights again ! Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid, that seldom rises ; Weep on — perhaps, in after days, Few its looks, but every one, They'll learn to love your name ; Like unexpected light, surprises 1 And many a deed may wake in praise my Nora Creina, dear ! That long has slept in blame ! My gentle, bashful Nora Creina I Beauty lies And when they tread the ruin'd isle, Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, In many eyes, They'll wond'ring ask how hands so vile But love in yours, my Nora Creina 1 Could conquer hearts so brave ! Lesbia wears a robe of gold, " 'Twas fate," they'll s:iy, " a wayward fat* But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Your web of discord wove ; Not a charm of beauty's mould And while your tyrants joiu'd in hate, Presumes to stay where nature placed it ! You never joiu'd in love 1 JESUIT HX£.'. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But hearts fell off that ought to twine, And man profaned what Goa had given, Till some were heard to curse ihe shrine Where others knelt to Heaven !" BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. 1 Bv that lake, whose gloomy shore Skylark never warbles o'er, Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. •" Here, at least," he calmly said, " Woman ne'er shall find my bed." Ah ! the good saint little knew What that wily sex can do. 'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, Eyes of most unholy blue ! See had loved him well and long, Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong. Wheresoe'er the saint would fly, Still he heard her light foot nigh ; East or west, where'er he turn'd, Still her eyes before him burn'd. On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Tranquil now he sleeps at last ; Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er Woman's smile can haunt him there. But nor earth, nor heaven is free From her power, if fond she be ; Even now, while calm he sleeps, Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. Fearless she had track'd his feet, To this rocky, wild retreat ; And when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it too. Ah 1 your saints have cruel hearts ! Sternly from his bed he starts, And with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetlinsr rock. 1 This ballad 1b fonnded npon one of the many stories re- nted or Saint Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow. Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave! Soon the saint (yet ah ! too late) Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. When he said, " Heaven rest her soui J" Round the lake like music stole; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling, o'er the fatal tide ! SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. [This poem refers to the betrothed of Robert Emmet. She ervfi rd became the wife of an officer, who took her to Sicily, the hope that travel \ her grief oken heart.] great that she died of She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying ! She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking ; Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him. Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved island of sorrow 1 NAY, TELL ME NOT. Nat, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. POEMS OF TnOMAS MOORE. Ne'er hath a beam Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul ; The balm of thy sighs, The spell of thine eyes, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl ! Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me ! Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee ! They tell us that love in his fairy bower Had two blush-roses of birth divine ; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, But ba*thed the other with mantling wine. Soon did the buds, That drank of the floods, Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade ; While those which the tide Of ruby had dyed, All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid ! Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me ; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee. AVENGING AND BRIGHT. Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin 1 On him who the brave sons of Usna be- tray'd ! For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling," When Ulad's" three champions lay sleep- ing in gore ; > The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irleh story called " Delrdri ; or The Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach." • " O Naisi 1 view the clond that I here see in the Bky I I ■ee over Eman green a chilling clond of blood-tinged red."— Dtirdri's Song. * Ulster. By the billows of war which so often high swelling Have wafted these heroes to victory'* shore ! We swear to revenge them ! — no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murder- er's head ! Yes, monarch ! though sweet are our home recollections, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall ; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, and affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all ! LOVE AND THE NOVICE. " Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers To Heaven in mingled odor ascend ! Do not disturb our calm, Love ! So like is thy form to the cherubs above, It well might deceive such hearts as ours." Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd, And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd ; His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. " Who would have thought," the urchin cries, " That Love could so well, so gravely disguise His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?" Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping : Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise ; Me tinges the heavenly fount with hit weeping, POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Me brightens the censer's flame with his sighs. Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them clothed in piety's vest. WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. Me. — What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew Through the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I'll be to you ! She. — What the bank with verdure glowing Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they're going, That I'll be to you, my dear ! She, — But they say the bee's a rover, That he'll fly when the sweets are gone; And when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on ! Me. — Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, If sunny banks will wear away, 'Tis but right that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them while they may. THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKER'D WITH PLEASURES AND WOES. Tins life is all checkered with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep, Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows, Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried ; And as fast as the rain-drop of pity is shed, The goose-plumage of folly can turn it aside. Bat pledge me the cup — if existence would cloy With hearts ever happy and heads ever wise, Be ours the light grief that is sister to joy, And the short brilliant folly that flasheB and dies ! When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. 1 Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted The fountain that runs by philosophy'* shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin- have wasted, And left their light wus all as empty as* mine ! But pledge me the goblut, while idlenes« weaves Her flowerets together ; if wisdom can see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for mel O THE SHAMROCK ! Through Erin's Isle, To sport a while, As Love and Valor wander'd, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squander'd ; Where'er they pass, A triple grass" > " Proposito florem pnetulit officio."— Property lib. i. eleg. 20. a Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil to which in Ireland we give the name of Sham- rock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, As softly green As emerald seen Through purest crystal gleaming 1 O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sham- rock ! Chosen leaf Of bard and chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock ! Says Valor, " See, They spring for me, Those leafy gems of morning !" Says Love, " No, no, For me they grow, .My fragrant path adorning !" But Wit perceives The triple leaves, And cries — " Oh ! do not sever A type that blends Three godlike friends, Love, Valor, Wit, forever !" ^O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sham- rock! Chosen leaf Of bard and chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock ! AT THE MID-HOUR OF NIGHT. At the mid-hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved when life shone warm in thine eye, And I think that, if spirits can steal from the region of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky 1 Then I sing the wild song which once 'twas rapture to hear, When our voices, both mingling, breathed like one on the ear ; And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls* Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. One bumper at parting ! — though many- Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest, of any Remains to be crown'd by us yet The sweetness that pleasure has in i<. Is always so slow to come forth, That seldom, alas, till the minute It dies, do we know half its worth ! But, oh, may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up ; They're born on the bosom of pleasure, They die 'midst the tears of the cup. As onward we journey, how pleasant To pause and inhabit a while Those few sunny spots, like the present, That 'mid the dull wilderness smile ! But Time, like a pitiless master, Cries " Onward !" and spurs the gay hours, And never does Time travel faster Than when his way lies among flowers. But come, may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up ; They're born on the bosom of pleasure, They die 'midst the tears of the cup. How brilliant the sun look'd in sinking, The waters beneath hirn how bright ! Oh ! trust me, the farewell of drinking Should be like the farewell of light. You saw how he finish'd by darting His beam o'er a deep billow's brim — So fill up, let's shine at our parting, In full liquid glory like him. • " There are countries," sayB Montaigne, " where they be- lieve the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty. In delightful fields ; and that it is those souls repeat.'ng the word* we utter which we call Echo." THE MINSTREL BOY. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 51 And oh ! may our life's happy measure Of moments like this he made up ; Twas born on the bosom of pleasure, It dies 'midst the tears of the cup ! TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. "Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh To reflect back hw blusheB, Or give sigh foi. sigh ! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one 1 To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them ; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed. Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may /follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle Thy gems drop away ! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh ! who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? THE YOUNG MAY MOON. The young May moon is beaming, love, The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, While the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! Then awake ! — the heavens look bright, my dear ! Tis never too late for delight, my dear 1 And the best of all ways To lengthen our days b to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake ! — till rise of sun, my dear, The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, Or, in watching the flight Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! THE MINSTREL BOY. The minstrel boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him, His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. " Land of song !" said the warrior bard, " Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee !" The minstrel fell ! — but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under ; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder ; And said, " No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery ! Thy songs were made for the pure and free. They shall never sound in slavery !" THE SONG OF O'RUARK, PRINCE OF BREFFNI. 1 The valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind, Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, That sadden'd the joy of my mind. Founded upon an event of most melancholy important* Ireland, if, ae we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of enslaving us. The king cl Leinster i.ad conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, though she had been for some "me married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni. They carried on private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage, and conjured him to em- brace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested. MacMurchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns. The mon- arch Rodrick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while MacMur- chad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry IJ I'OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. I look'd for the lamp which, she tohl me, Should shine when her pilgrim return'd, But though darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burn'd ! I flew to her chamber — 'twas lonely As if the loved tenant lay dead ! — Ah, would it were death, and death only ! But no — the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss, While the hand that had waked it so often, Now throbb'd to my proud rival's kiss. There teas a time, falsest of women ! When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen, Who dared but to doubt thee in thought ! While now — O degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame ! And, through ages of bondage and slaughter, Thy country shall bleed for thy shame. Already the curse is upon her, And strangers her valleys profane ; They come to divide — to dishonor, And tyrants they long will remain ! But, onward ! — the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt ; On our side is Virtue and Erin ! On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt. OH ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN ! Oh ! had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers, and the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers ; Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day ; Where simply to feel that we bieathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give ! There, with souls ever ardent, and pure an the clime, We should love as they loved in the first golden time ; The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there ! With affection as free From decline as the bowers, And with hope, like the bee, Living always on flowers, Our life should resemble a long day of light, And our death come on holy and calm as the nis;ht ! FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return — not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighteu'd his pathway of pain — But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while ling'ring with you ! And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that night ; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles ! — Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmurd, " I wish he were here 1" Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; And which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, To bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd ! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd— You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. 1 You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she bless'd her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride, And love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toil'd through winds and rains, Till William at length, in sadness, said, " We must seek our fortune on other plains ;" Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. They roam'd a long and a weary way, Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day, They see a proud castle among the trees. "To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there ; The wind blows cold, the hour is late:" — So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate. " Now, welcome, Lady !" exclaimed the youth ; " This castle is thine, and these dark woods all." She believed him wild, but his words were truth, • For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall ! And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves What William the stranger woo'd and wed ; And the light of bliss in these lordly groves Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed. OH ! DOUBT ME NOT. Oh ! doubt me not — the season Is o'er when folly made me rove, And now the vestal reason Shall watch the fire awaked by love. Although this heart was early blown, And fairest hands disturb'd the tree, Thfy only shook some blossoms down, Its fruit has all been kept for thee. Then doubt me not — the season Is o'er when folly made me rove, And now the vestal reason Shall watch the fire awaked by lova, And though my lute no longer May sing of passion's ardent spell, Oh, trust me, all the stronger I feel the bliss I do not tell. The bee through many a garden roves, And sings his lay of courtship o'er, But when he finds the flower he loves He settles there, and hums no more. Then doubt me not — the season Is o'er when folly kept me free, And now the vestal reason Shall guard the flame awaked by thee. I'D MOURN THE HOPES. I'd mourn the hopes that leave me, If thy smiles had left me too ; I'd weep, when friends deceive me, If thou wert, like them, untrue. But while I've thee before me, With heart so warm and eyes so bright, POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. No clouds can linger o'er me, That smile turns them all to light ! 'Tis not in fate to harm me, While fate leaves thy love to me; 'Tis net in joy to charm me, Unless joy be shared with thee. One minute's dream about thee Were worth a long, an endless year Of waking bliss without thee, My own love, my only dear! And though the hope be gone, love, That long sparkled o'er our way, Oh ! we shall journey on, love, More safely without its ray. Far better lights shall win me Along the path I've yet to roam — The mind that burns within me, And pure smiles from thee at home. Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller, at first, goes out, He feels a while benighted, And looks round in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds. COME O'ER THE SEA Comb o'er the eea, Maiden ! with me, Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows ! Seasons may roll. But the true soul Burns the same where'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not ! Then come o'er the sea, Maiden ! with me, Come wherever the wild wind blows ; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same where'er it goes. Is not the sea Made for th " Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit."— Keating. •The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland. • " The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, Is a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the That Eden, where the immortal brave Dwell in a land serene, Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, At sunset, oft are seen. Ah, dream too full of sadd'ning truth ! Those mansions o'er the main Are like the hopes I built in youth, — As sonny and as vain 1 LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. Lay his sword by his side* — it hath served him too well Not to rest near his pillow below ; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe. Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death, Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, And himself unsubdued in his grave. Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, As if breathed from his brave heart's re- mains ; — Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, Once sounded the war-word " Burst your chains !" And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, " Though the day of your Chieftain forever hath set, Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, — It hath victory's life in it yet ! " Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd, Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and con- cerning which they relate a number of romantic stories."— BeauforCs Ancient Topography of Ireland. • It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their htrott along with them. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath known the bright use Of' a falchion, like thee, on the battle- plain — Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, Leap forth from thy dark sheath again !" THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING. The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall, 1 And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining, Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall, Where his falchion hangs idly shining. When, hark ! that shout From the vale without, — "Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh !" Every Chief starts up From his foaming cup, And " To battle, to battle," is the Finian's cry. The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, And they sing such thrilling numbers — Oh ! 'tis like the voice of the Dead, of old, Breaking forth from their place of slumbers ! Spear to buckler rang As the minstrels sang, And the Sun-burst' o'er them floated wide ; While rememb'ring the yoke Which their fathers broke, " On for liberty, for liberty !" the Finians cried. Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, O'er the valley of Almhin lowering ; While onward moved, in the light of its fame, That banner of Erin, towering. With the mingling shock Ring cliff and rock, While, rank on rank, the invaders die : • The Palace of Fin MacCumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) In Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has re- tained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the Comity of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated Na- tional Militia of Ireland, which this Chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism Lost of the Finian and Ossianic legends. Th» name given to the banner of the Irish. And the shout, that last O'er the dying pass'd, Was " victory I" was " victory !"- Finian's cry. OH! COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS. Oh 1 could we do with this world of ours As thou dos* with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we'd make it 1 So bright a dwelling should be our own, So warranted free from sigh or frown, That angels soon would be coming down, By the week or month to take it. Like those gay flies that wing through air And in themselves a lustre bear, A stock of light, still ready there, Whenever they wish to use it ; So, in this world I'd make for thee, Our hearts should all like fireflies be, And the flash of wit or poesy Break forth whenever we choose it. While every joy that glads our sphere Hath still some shadow hovering near, In this new world of ours, my dear, Such shadows will all be omitted : — Unless they are like that graceful one, Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun, Still near thee, leaves a charm upon Each spot where it hath flitted ! THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.* The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sor rows then wore, And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom re- mains. * Written in one of those moods of hopelessness and dis- gust which come occasionally over the mind, in contempla- ting the present state of Irish patriotism. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 8ay, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chain less thou art; And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd ? Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread ! Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that sum- mit to gain, Or died in the porch, than thus dishonor the fane. SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS. Silence is in our festal halls, — O Son of Song ! thy course is o'er ; In vain on thee sad Erin calls, Her minstrel's voice responds no more ; — > It is hard] j necessary, perhaps, to Inform the reader, that these lines aro meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and vilaed colleague in this wn-k, Sir John All silent as the Eolian shell Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell At sunny morn, hath died away. Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long, Awaked by music's spell, shall rise ; For, name so link'd with deathless song Partakes its charm and never dies : And even within the holy fane, When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain Was echo'd there, shall long be given. But, where is now the cheerful day, The social night, when, by ihy side, He, who now weaves this parting lay, His skilless voice with thine allied ; And sung those songs whose every tone, When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own, Embalm'd by fame, undying last ? Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, — Or, if thy bard have shared the crown From thee the borrow'd glory came, And at thy feet is now laid down. Enough, if Freedom still inspire His latest song, and still there be, As evening closes round his lyre, One ray upon its chords from thee. , LALLA EOOKH. In* the «leventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, Abdalla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favor of his son, «et out on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet, and, passing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was enter- tained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterward escorted with the same splendor to Surat, where he embarked for Arabia. During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and the youngest daughter of the Emperor, Lalla Rookh 1 — a orincess described by the poets of her time as more beautiful than Leila. Shirine, Dewilde, or any of those heroines whose names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere ; where the young King, as soon as the cares of the empire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his lovely bride, and, after a few months' repose in that enchant- ing valley, conduct her over the snowy hilts into Bucharia. The day of Lalla Rookh's departure from Delhi was as Bplendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry ; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with then- banners shining in the water ; while through the streets groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called Gul Reazee, or the Scattering of the Roses, till every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind father. — who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran,— and naving sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept np tue perpetual lamp in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her ; and, while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to Lahore. Seldom had the Eastern world Been a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the imperial palace it was one unbroken line of splendor. The gallant appearance of the Rajahs and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's favor, 2 the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rimmed kettle-drums at the bows of their saddles; — the costly armor of their Cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder Khan. 3 in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the ' Tulip Cheek. 3 " One mark of honor or knighthood bestowed by the em- peror is the permisBion to wear a small kettle-drum at the bows of their saddles, which at first was invented for the training of hawks, and is worn in the field by all sports- men for that end." — Fryer's Travels. "Those on whom the king has comerred the privilege most wear an ornament of jewels on the right side of the tur- ban, surmounted by a high plume of the feathers of a kind of egret."— Elphinstane's Account, of Cavbul. • " Khedar Khan, the Khakan, or King of Turquestan, be- massineas of their maces of gold ;— the glittering of the gill pineapples, 4 on the tops o' the palankeens ;— the embroidered trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs small turrets, in the shape ot little antique temples, within which the ladies of Lalla Rookh lay, as it were enshrined ; — the roae- colored veils of tf>e Princess's own sumptuous litter, 5 at tha front of which * fair young female slave sat fanning her through the cu'tains with feathers of the Argus pheasant's wing ; — and the lovely troop of Tartarian and CashmeriaD maids of hoinr, whom the young King had sent to accompany his bride, ana who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Arabian horses; — all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, aud pleasoa even the critical and fastidious Fadladeen, Great Nazir or iJhan**»rlain of the Haram, who was borne in his palanke™ immediately after the Princess, and considered him- self n^t the least important personage of the pageant. Fadladeen was a judge of everything,— from the pencilling of h Circassian's eyelids to the deepest questions of science «ud literature ; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leavea to the composition of an epic poem : and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of the day tha\ »,'i the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. Bis political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line Mf Sadi,— '' should the Prince at noonday say, 'It is night,' ueclare that you behold the moon and stars." And his zeal for religion, of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector, 6 was about yond the Gihon (at the end of the eleventh century,) when- ever he appeared abroad was preceded by seven hundred horsemen with silver battle-axes, and was followed by an equal number bearing maces of gold." — Richardson's Disser- tation prefixed to his Dictionary, 4 " The kubdeh, a large golden knob, generally in the shape of a pineapple, on the top of the canopy over the litter or palanquin." — Scott's Notes on the Bahardanush. 6 In the poem of Zobair, in the Moallakat, there is the following lively description of" a company of maidens seated on camels:"— " They are mounted in carriages covered with costly awn ings and with rose-colored veils, the linings of which have the hue of crimson Andemwood. "When they ascend from the bosom of the vale, they sit forward on the saddle-cloths with every mark of a voluptuous gayety. "Now, when they have reached the brink of yon blue gush- ing rivulet, they fix the poles of their tents like the Arabs with a settled mansion." 8 This hypocritical emperor would have made a wsrtny associate of certain Holy Leagues. " He held the cloak o! religion," says Dow, "between his actions and the vulgar; and impiously thanked the Divinity for a success which he owed to his own wickedness. When he was muideringand persecuting his brothers and their families, he was building a magnificent mosque at Delhi, as an offering to God for His assistance to him in the civil wars. He acted as high priest at ine consecration of this temple; and made a practice oX attending divine service there, in the humble dress nf ■ POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. u» disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyeo of the idol of Jugghernaut. 1 During the flrst days of their journey, Lalla Rookh, who nad passed all her life within the shadow of the royal gardens of Delhi, found enough in the beauty of the scenery through which they passed to interest her mind, and delight her im- agination ; and when, at evening or in the heat of the day, they turned off from the high road to those retired and romantic places which had been selected for her encamp- ments,— sometimes on the hanks of a 6mall rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of Pearl ; 5 sometimes under the sacred shade of a Banian tree, from which the view opened upon a glade covered with antelopes ; and often in those hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the West, 3 as "p'aces of melancholy, delight, and safety, where all the company around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves," — she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other amusement. But Lalla Rookh was young, and the young love variety ; nor could the conversation of her ladies and the great chamberlain, Fadiadeen, (the only persons, of course, admitted to her pavilion,) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, which were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the vina, and who, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wamak and Ezra, 4 the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver ; 6 not for- getting the combat of Ru6tam with the terrible White Demon. 6 At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Brahmins of the Great Pagoda to attend her. much to the horror of the good Mussulman, Fadiadeen, who could see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tingling of their golden anklets' was an abomination. Bat these and many other diversions were repeated til! they fakeer. But when he lifted one hand to the Divinity, he with the other signed warrants for the assassination of his rela- tions.' 1 — History of Hindustan, vol. iii., p. 235. See also the curious letter of Aurungzebe given in the Oriental Collections, vol. i., p. 320. i "The idol at Jaghernat has two fine diamonds for eyes. No goldsmith is suffered to enter the pagoda; one having stolen one of these eyes, being locked up all night with the idol."— Tavernier. = " In the neighborhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pearl, which receives this name from its pellucid water. "—Pennant's Eindostan. ' Sir Thomas Roe, ambassador from James I. to Jehanguire. * " The Romance Wamakweazra. written in Persian verse, which contains the loves of W.iinak and TSzra, two celebrated lovers who lived before the time of Mohammed." — Note on the Oriental Tales. 6 There is much beauty in the passage which describes the Blaves of Rodahver sitting on the bank of the river and throw- ing flowers into the stream in order to draw the attention of the young hero who is encamped on the opposite side. Vide " Champion's Translation of the Shah Nameh of Ferdousi." * Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. For the particu- lars of his victory over the S-ipeed Deeve. or White Demon, see Oriental CoUections, vol. ii., p. 45. Near the city of Shiraz tion of this combat, called the " Kelaat-i-Deev Sepeed," or Castle of the White Giant, which Father Angelo, in his Gazophylaciurn. Persicum, p. 12T, declares to have been the most memorable monument of antiquity which he had seen in Persia. Vide "Ouseley's Persian Miscellanies." * "The women of the idol, or dancing-girls of the Pagoda, have little golden bells fastened to their feet, the soft harmo- nious tinkling of which vibrates in unison with the exquisite melody of their voices."— Maurice' $ Indian. Antiquities. "The Arabian princesses wear golden rings on their fingers, to which little bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing tresses of their hair, that their superior rank may be known." Vide "Calmet's Dictionary," art. Belli. lost all their charm, and the nights and noondays were begin- ning to move heavily, when at length, it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by the bridegroom, was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the va ley for his manner of reciting the stories of the East, on whom hi» royal master had conferred the privilege of beinj; admitted to the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile th» tediousness of the journey by Bome of his most agreeable re- citals. At the mention of a poet. Fadiadeen elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a dose of that delicious opium, 8 which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to bo forthwith introduced into the presence. The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from be- hind the screens of gauze in her father's hall, and had con- ceived from that specimen no very favorable ideas of the cast expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her; — she felt inclined however to alter her opinion on the very first appearance of Feramorz. He was a youth about Lalla Rookh's own age. and graceful as that idol of woman, Chrishna (the Indian Apollo), 8 — such as be appears to their young imagina- tions, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. HiB dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness, and the ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering that the cloth which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply. Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, dis- posed with an air of studied negligence ; — nor did the exquisite embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these fair critics ; who, however they mi^ht give way to Fadiadeen upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had the spirit of martyrs in ev.-rvliiinL' relating to such momentous matters as jewels and embroidery. For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar.— such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the west used to listen to by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra.— and. having premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, 10 who. in the year of the Hegira 163, created such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance to the Princess, and thus began :— THE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN." In that delightful Province of the Sun, The first of Persian lands he shines upon, Where, all the loveliest children of his beam, Flowerets and fruits blush over every stream, 1 ' 1 8 " Abou-Tige. ville de la Thebaide, ou il croit beaucoup do pavot noir, dont se fait le meillenr opium." — D'Herbelot. " " He and the three Ramas are described as youths of per- fect beauty ; and the Princesses of Hindustan were all pas- sionately in love with Crishua, who continues to this hour the darling god of the Indian women." — Sir W. Jones, on the gods of Greece, Italy, and India. 10 For the real history of this impostor, whose original name was Hakera ben Haschem, and who was called Mokanna from the veil of silver gauze (or, as others say, golden) which ha always wore, vide D'Herbelot. " "Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, Province or Region of the Sun." " "The fruits of Merit are finer than those of any other place ; and one cannot see in any other city such palaces, with groves, and streams, and gardenB." — Eon Haukal's Geography. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And fairest of all streams, the Murga roves Among Merou's 1 bright palaces and groves ,-r- There on that throne, to which the blind belief Of millions raised him, sat the Propbet- Chief, The Great Mokanna. O'er his features hung The veil, the silver veil, which he had flung In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight His dazzling brow, till man could bear its light For, far less luminous, his votaries said, 3 Were even the gleams miraculously shed O'er MoussaV cheek, when down the Mount he trod, All glowing from the presence of his God ! On either side, with ready hearts and hands, His chosen guard of bold Believers stands ; Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their swords, On points of faith, more eloquent than words ; And such their zeal, there's not a youth with brand Uplifted there, but, at the Chief's command, Would make his own devoted heart its sheath, And bless the lips that doom'd so dear a death ! . In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night,' Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy white; Their weapons various — some equipp'd for speed, With javelins of the light Kathaian reed; 6 Or bows of buffalo horn, and shining quivers 1 One of the royal cities of Khorassan. * " See jlisciples assuroient quMl se couvroit le visage pour ne pas eblouir ceux qui l'approchoit par l'eclat de son visage, eomme fioyie."—D'Serbelot. ' Jtoses. « Black was the color adopted by the Caliphs of the House »f Abbas, in their garments, turbans, and standards. "11 faut remarquer ici touchant les habits Wanes des disciples de Hakem. que la couleur des habits, des coiffures, et des etendardB des Khalifes Abassides etant la uoire, ce chef de rebelles ne pouvoit pas choisir uue qui lui fut plus op- posed."— D' Ileroelol. * "Oar dark javelins, exquisitely wrought of Kathaian reedB, slender and delicate."— Poem of Am.ru. Fill'd with the stems' that bloom on Iran'* rivers ;' While some, for war's more terrible attacks, Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle- axe; And as they wave aloft in morning's beam The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem Like a chenar-tree grove," when winter throws O'er all its tufted heads his feathering snows. Between the porphyry pillars that uphold The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold, Aloft the Haram's curtain'd galleries rise, Where, through the silken net-work, glan- cing eyes, From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow Through autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp below. What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, would dare To hint that aught but H^nven had p^a^ed you there ? Or that the loves of this light world could bind In their gross chain your Prophet's soaring mind ? No — wrongful thought ! — commission'd from above To people Eden's bowers with shapes of love, (Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,) There to recline among Heaven's native maids, And crown the Elect with bliss that never fades !— Well hath the Piophet-Chief his bidding done ; 6 Pichula, used anciently for arrows by the Persians. 7 The Persians call this plant Gaz. The celebrated shaft of Isfendiar, one of their ancient heroes, was made of it. — " Nothing can be more beautiful than the appearance of this plant in flower during the rains on the baaks of risers, whera it is usually interwoven with a lovely twining ascle\>ias." — Si? W. Jones, Botanical Observations. 8 The oriental plane. "The chenar is a delightful tree; its bole is of a fine white and smooth bart aud its foliage,, which grows in a tuft at the summit, is of a or:ght green."— Moneys Travels. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And every beauteous race beneath the sun, From those who kneel at Brahma's burning founts,' To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er Yemen's mounts ; From Persia's eyes of full and fawn-like ray, To the small, half-shut glances of Kathay;" And Georgia's bloom, and Azab's darker smiles, And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles ; All, all are there ; — each land its flower hath given, To form that fair young nursery for Heaven ! But why this pageant now? this arm'd array ? What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day With turban'd heads of every hue and race Bowing before that veil'd and awful face, Like tulip-beds of different shape and dyes 3 Bcndina; beneath the invisible west-wind sighs? What new-made mystery now for Faith to sign And blood to seal as genuine and divine, — What dazzling mimicry of God's own power Hath the bold Prophet plann'd to grace this hour? "Vot such the pageant now, though not less proud, Ton warrior youth advancing from the crowd With silver bow, with, belt of broider'd crape, And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape, 4 So fiercely beautiful in form and eye, Like war's wild planet in a summer sky — That youth to-day, — a proselyte, worth hordes Of cooler spirits and less practised swords, — 1 " Near Chittagong, esteemed as holy." J China. » " The name of tulip is said to be of Turkish extraction, and given to the flower on account of its resembling a tnrban."— Beckmans lli«>< The nightingale. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. All fire at once, the maddening zeal she caught ; — Elect of Paradise ! blest, rapturous thought ; Predestined bride, in Heaven's eternal dome, Of some brave youth — ha ! durst they say " of some f n No — of the one, one only object traced In her heart's core too deep to be effaced ; The one whose memory, fresh as life, is twined With every broken link of her lost mind ; "Whose image lives, though reason's self be wreck'd, Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect ! Alas, poor Zelica ! it needed all The fantasy which held thy mind in thrall To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids A sainted colony for Eden's shades ; Or dream that he, — of whose unholy flame Thou wert too soon the victim, — shining came From Paradise, to people its pure sphere With soul* like thine, which he hath ruin'd here! No — had not reason's light totally set, And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet In the loved image, graven on thy heart, Which would have saved thee from the tempter's art, And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, That Durity, whose fading is love's death ! — But lost, inflamed, — a restless zeal took place Of the mild virgin's still and feminine grace ; — First of the Prophet's favorites, proudly first In zeal and charms, — too well the Impostor nursed Her soul's delirium, in whose active flame, Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, He saw more potent sorceries to bind To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, More subtle chains than hell itself e'er twined, No art was spared, no witchery ; — all the skill His demons taught him was employ'd to fill Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns — That gloom, through which frenzy but fiercer burns ; That ecstasy, which from the depth of sad- ness Glares like the maniac's moon, whose 'light is madness ! 'Twas from a brilliant banquet, where xha sound Of poesy and music breathed around, Together picturing to her mind and ear The glories of that heaven, her destined sphere, Where all was pure, where every stain that lay Upon the spirit's light should pass away, And, realizing more than youthful love E'er wish'd or dream'd, she should forever rove Through fields of fragrance by her Azim's side, His own bless'd, purified, eternal bride ! — 'Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this, He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, To the dim charnel house ; — through all its streams Of damp and death, led only by those gleams Which foul corruption lights, as with design To show the gay and proud she too can shine ! — And, passing on through upright ranks of dead, Which to the maiden, doubly crazed by dread, Seem'd, through the bluish death-light round them cast, To move their lips in mutterings as she pass'd — There, in that awful place, when each had quaff 'd And pledged in silence such a fearful draught, Such — oh ! the look and taste of that red ' bowl Will haunt her till she dies — he bound her soul By a dark oath, in hell's own language framed, Never, while earth his mystic presence claim'd, While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 77 Never, by that all-imprecating oath, In joy or sorrow from his aide to sever. She swore, and the wide charnel echo'd, " Never, never J" From that dread hour, entirely, wildly given To him and — she believed, lost maid ! — to Heaven ; Her brain, her heart, her passions all in- flamed, How proud she stood, when in full Haram named The Priestess of the Faith ! — how flash'd her eyes With light, alas ! that was not of the skies, When round in trances only less than hers, She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate worshippers ! Well might Mokanna think that form alone Had spells enough to make the world his own : — Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's play Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, When from its stem the small bird wings away ! Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smiled, The soul was lost; and blushes, swift and wild As are the momentary meteors sent Across the uncalm, but beauteous firmament. And then her look ! — oh ! where's the heart so wise, Could unbewilder'd meet those matchless eyts? Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, Like those of angels, just before their fall ; Now shadow'd with the shames of earth — now crost By glimpses of the heaven her heart had lost; In every glance there broke, without con- trol, The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, Where sensibility still wildly play'd, Like lightning, round the ruins it had made ! And such was now young Zelica — so changed From her who, some years since, delighted ranged The almond groves that shade Bokhara's tide. All life and bliss, with Azim by her side '. So altered was she now, this festal day, When, 'mid the proud Divan's dazzling array, The vision of that youth, whom she had loved, And wept as dead, before her breathed and moved ; — When — bright, she thought, as if from Eden's track But half-way trodden, he had wander'd back Again to earth, glistening with Eden's light— Her beauteous Azim shone before her sight. Oh, Reason ! wh< shall say what spells renew, When least we look for it, thy broken clew ! Through what small vistas o'er the darken'd brain Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again ; And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win Unhoped-for entrance through some friend within, One clear idea, waken'd in the breast By memory's magic, lets in all the rest ! Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee! But though light came, it came but par- tially ; Enough to show the maze in which thy sense Wander'd about, — but not to guide it thence ; Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave, But not to point the harbor which might save. Hours of delight and peace, long left behind,, With that dear form came rushing o'er her mind; But oh ! to think how deep her soul had gone In shame and falsehood since those moments shone ; And, then, her oath — there madness lay again, And shuddering, back she sunk into hei chain POEMS OF TnOMAS MOORE. Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee From light, whose every glimpse was agony ! Yet, one relief this glance of former years Brought, mingled with its pain, — tears, floods of tears, Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills Let loose in spring-time from tbe snowy hills, And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost, Through valleys where their flow had long been lost ! Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame Trembled with horror, when the summons came (A summons proud and rare, which all but she, And she till now, had heard with ecstasy) To meet Mokanna at his place of prayer, A garden oratory, cool and fair, By the stream's side, where still at close of day The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray ; Sometimes alone — but oftener far with one, One chosen nymph to share his orison. Of late none found such favor in his sight As the young Priestess ; and though since that night When the death-caverns echo'd every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own, The Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize, Had more than once thrown off his soul's disguise, And utter'd such unheavenly, monstrous things As even across the desperate wanderings Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt ; Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, The thought still haunting her of that bright brow Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye con- ceal'd, Would soon, proud triumph ! be to her re- veal'd, To her alone ;-?-and then the hope, most dear, Most wild of all, that her transgression here Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire, From which the spirit wonld at last aspire, Even purer than before, — as perfumes rise Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies — And that when Azim's fond, divine embraco Should circle her in heaven, no darkening trace Would on that bosom he once loved remain, But all be bright, be pure, be his again : — These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit Had chain'd her soul beneath the tempter's feet, And made her think even damning falsehood sweet. But now that shape, which had appall'd her view, That semblance — oh, how terrible, if true ! — Which came across her frenzy's full career With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe, As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark, An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, And, startling all its wretches from their sleep, By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep ; — So came that shock not frenzy's self could bear, And waking up each long-lull'd image there, But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it in despair ! Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, Mokanna waited her — too wrapt in dreams Of the fair-ripening future's rich success To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, Or mark how slow her step, how alter'd now From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound Came like a spirit o'er the unechoing ground, — From that wild Zelica, whose every glance Was thrilling fire, whose very thought * POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Upon his couch the veil'd Mokanna lay. While lamps around — not such as lend their ray, Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy Koom,' or Mecca's dim arcades, But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids Look loveliest in — shed their luxurious glow Upon his mystic veil's white glittering flow. Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of prayer, Which the world fondly thought he mused on there, Stood vases, fill'd with KishmeeV golden wine, And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine ; Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff 'd, Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness,' had ' power To freshen the soul's virtues into flower ! And still he drank and ponder'd — nor could see The approaching maid, so deep his reverie ; ,\t length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke From Eblis at the fall of man, he spoke : — "Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given, Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven ; God's images, forsooth* — such gods as he Whom India serves, the monkey deity ;* Fe creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say, 1 " The cities of Com (or Koom) and Kashan are fall of mosques, mausoleums, and sepulchres of the descendants of AH, the saints of Persia." ' An iBland in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine. " " The miraculous well at Mecca ; so called from the mur- muring of its waters." 4 The good Hannaman. " Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, out of respect to the god Hannaman, a deity partaking of the form of that race."— Pennant's Sindostan. See a curious account in Stephen's Persia of a solemn em- bassy from some part of the Indies to Goa, when the Portu- gese were there, offering vast treasures for the recovery of a monkey's tooth, which they held in great veneration, and which had been taken away upon the conquest of the kingdom Refused, though at the forfeit of heaven's light, To bend in worship, Lucifer was right !* — Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck Of your foul race, and without fear or check, Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's name ! — Soon, at the head of myriads, blind and fierce As hooded falcons, through the universe I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way, Weak man my instrument, curst man my prey ! " Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull way on By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, Like superstitious thieves, who think the light From dead men's marrow guides them best at night" — Ye shall have honors — wealth, — yes, sages, yes — I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothing- ness; Undazzled it can track yon starry spuere, But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here. How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along In lying speech, and still more lying song, By these learn'd slaves, the meanest of the throng ; Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk so small, A sceptre's puny point can wield it all ! " Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it * This resolution of Eblis not to acknowledge the new crea- ture man, was, according to Mohammedan tradition, thus adopted :— " The earth (which God had selected for the mate- rials of His work) was carried into Arabia, to a place between Mecca and Tayef, where, being. first kneeded by the angels, it was afterward fashioned by God himself into a human form, and left to dry for the space of forty days, or, as others say, as many years ; the angels in the mean time often visiting it, and Eblis (then one of the angels nearest to God's presence, after- ward the devil) amoDg the rest ; but he, not contented with looking at it, kicked it with his foot till it rung, and knowing God designed that creature to be his superior, took a secret resolution never to acknowledge him as such." — Sate on the Koran. ' A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, ca.led the Hand of Glory, the candle tor which was made of the fat of I dead malefactor. 80 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Who, bolder even than Nimrod, think to rise, By nonsense heap'd on nonsense, to the skies ; Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too, Seen, heard, attested, everything — but true. Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek One grace of meaning for the things they speak ; Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood For truths too heavenly to be understood ; And your state priests, sole vendors of the lore That works salvation ; — as on Ava's shore, Where none but priests are privileged to trade In that best marble of which gods are made ;' — They shall have mysteries — ay, precious stuff For knaves to thrive by — mysterious enough ; Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave, Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, While craftier feign belief, till they believe. A heaven too ye must have, ye lords of dust, — A splendid Paradise,— pure souls, ye must : That prophet ill sustains his holy call Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of all; Houris for boys, omniscience for sages, And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. Vain things ! — as lust or vanity inspires, The heaven of each is but what each desires, And, soul or sense, whate ; er the object be, Man would be man to all eternity ! So let him — Eblis ! grant this crowning curse, But keep him what he is, no hell were w orse." — " Oh, my lost soul !" exclaim'd the shud- dering maid, Whose ears had drunk like poison all he said, — Mokanna started — not abash'd, afraid, — 1 The material of which images of Guadma (the Binnan deity) i» made, is held sacred. "Birmans may not purchase the marble in mass, bat are suffered, and indeed encouraged, lo bay figures of the deity ready made."— Syme's Ava, vol. ii., 1.176. He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles ! But in those dismal words that reach'd his ear, " Oh, my lost soul !" there was a sound so drear, So like that voice, among the sinful dead, In which the legend o'er hell's gate is read, That, new as 'twas from her, whom naught could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him. "Ha, my fair Priestess!" — thas, wich ready wile, The impostor turn'd to greet her— "thou whose smile Hath inspiration in its rosy beam Beyond the enthusiast's hope or prophet's dream ! Light of the Faith ! wbo twin'st religion's zeal So close with lovo'fi, men know net which they fee', Nor which to s~gh for, in their trance of heart. The heaven thou preache^t cr the heaven thou art ! What should I be without thee ? without thee How dull were power, how joyless victory ! Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine Bless'd not my banner, 'twere but half divine. But — why so mournfnl, child ? those eyes that shone All life last night — what ! — is their glory gone ? Come, come — this morn's fatigue hath made them pale, They want rekindling — suns themselves would fail, Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy ! Thou seest this cup — no juice of earth is here, But the pure waters of that upper sphere, Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow, Catching the gems' bright color as they go. Nightly my genii come and fill these uran — POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Nay, drink — in every drop life's essence burns ; Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all bright — Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to- night : There is a youth — why start ? — thou sawst him then ; Look'd he not nobly ? such the godlike men Thou'lt have to -ttoo thee in the bowers above ; — Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern for love, Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss The world calls Virtue — we must conquer this ; — Nay, shrink not, pretty sage; 'tis not for thee To scan the mazes of heaven's mystery. The steel must pass through fire, ere it can yield Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. This very night I mean to try the art Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart ; All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit, Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, Shall tempt the boy ; — young Mirzala's blue eyes, Whose sleepy lid like snow on violet lies ; Arouya's cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun, And lips that, like the seal of Solomon, Have magic in their pressure ; Zeba's lute, And Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and shoot Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the deep ! — All shall combine their witching powers to steep My convert's spirit in that softening trance, From which to heaven is but the next advance; — That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast On which Religion stamps her image best. But hear me, Priestess! — though each nymph of these Hath some peculiar, practised power to please, Some glance or step which, at the mirror tried, First charms herself, then all the world beside ; There still wants one, to make the victory sure, One, who in every look joins every lure ; Through whom all beauty's beams concen tred pass, Dazzling and rich, as through love's burning-glass ; Whose gentle lips persuade without a word, Whose words, even when unmeaning, are adored, Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, Which our faith takes for granted are divine ! Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light, To crown the rich temptations of to-night T Such the refined enchantress that must be This hero's vanquisher, — and thou art she!"' With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and pale, The maid had stood, gazing upon the veil From which these words, like south-winds through a fence Of Kerzrah flowers, came fill'd with pesti- lence :' So boldly utter'd to* ! as if all dread Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, were fled, And the wretch felt assured that, once plunged in, Her woman's soul would know no pause in At first, though mute she listen'd, like a dream Seem'd all he said ; nor could her mind, whose beam As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme. But when, at length, he utter'd, "Thou art she !" All flash'd at once, and shrieking piteously, "Oh, not for worlds!" she cried — "Great God ! to whom I once knelt innocent, is this my doom ? Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly bliss, My purity, my pride, then come to this, — 1 " It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breatk" In the hot south wind, which in June or July passes ov«* *M flower, (the Kcrzereh,) it will kill him." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. I To live the wanton of a fiend ! to be The pander of his guilt — oh, infamy ! And, sunk myself as low as hell can steep In its hot flood, drag others down as deep ! Others ? — ha ! yes — that youth who came to day — Not him I loved — not him — oh ! do but say, But swear to me this moment 'tis not he, And I will serve, dark fiend ! — will worship, *' Beware, young raving thing ! — in time, beware, Nor utter what I cannot, must nor bear Even from thy lips. Go — try thy lute, thy voice, The boy must feel their magic — I rejoice To see those fires, no matter whence they rise, Once more illuming my fair Priestess' eyes ; And should the youth, whom soon those eyes shall warm, Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form, So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom, -As one warm lover, full of life and bloom, 1 Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb. Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet ! — those eyes were made For love, not anger — I must be obey'd." " Obey'd ! — 'tis well — yes, I deserve it all— On me, on me Heaven's vengeance cannot fall Too heavily — but Azim, brave and true And beautiful — must he be ruin'd loo ? Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven A renegade like me from love and heaven ? Like me ? — weak wretch, I wrong him — not like me ; No — he's all truth and strength and purity ! Fill up your maddening hell-cup to the brim, Its witchery, fiend, will have no charm for him. Let loose youi glowing wantons from their bowers, He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers ! Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign iPuie as when first we met, without a stain ! Tin 'd — lost — my memory, like a eh;: Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from harm. Oh ! never let him know how deep the brow He kiss'd at parting is dishonor'd now — Ne'er tell him how debased, how sunk is she Whom once he loved — once! — still loves dotingly ! Thou laughst, tormentor, — what ! — thou'lt brand my name ? Do, do — in vain — he'll not believe my shame — He thinks me true, that naught beneath God's sky Could tempt or change me, and so once thought I. But this is past — though worse than death my lot, Than hell — 'tis nothing, while he knows it not Far off to some benighted land I'll fly, Where suubeam ne'er shall enter till I die ; Where none will ask the lost one whence she came, But I may fade and fall without a name ! And thou — curst man or fiend, whate'er thou art, Who foundst this burning plague-spot in my heart, And spreadst it — oh, so quick ! — through soul and frame With more than demon's art, till I became A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all If, when I'm gone " " Hold, fearless maniac, holl, Nor tempt my rage — by Heaven not half so bold The puny bird that dares with teasing hum Within the crocodile's stretch'd jaws to come! 1 And so thou'lt fly, forsooth ? — what ! — give up all Thy chaste dominion in the Haram hall, 1 "The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or hum ming-bird, entering with impunity into the mouth of the cro- codile, is firmly believed at Java." The humming-bird is said to run this risk for the purpose of picking the crocodile's teeth. The same circumstance is re- lated of the lapwing, as a fact to which he was witneaa, by Pan! Lucas, ( Voyage faite en 1714.) "He raised his veil— the Maid tnrn'd slowly round, Look'd at him— shriek'd — and sunk npoii the ground ! POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Where, now to love and now to Alia given, Half mistress and half saint, thou hangst as even As doth Medina's tomb, 'twixt hell and heaven ! Thou'lt fly ? — as easily may reptiles run The gaunt snake once hath fix'd his eyes upon; As easily, when caught, the prey may be Pluck'd from his loving folds, as thou from me. No, no, 'tis fix'd — let good or ill betide, Thou'rt mine till death — till death Mokan- na's bride ! Hast thou forgot thy oath ?"— At this dread word, The maid — whose spirit his rude taunts had stirr'd Through all its depths, and roused an anger there That burst and lighten'd even through her despair — Shrunk back, as if a blight were in the breath That spoke tkat word, and stagger'd, pale as death. " Yes, my sworn Bride, let others seek in bowers Their bridal place — the charnel vault was ours! Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality ; — Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we were wed, And, for our guests, a row of goodly dead (Immortal spirits in their time no doubt) From reeking shrouds upon the rite look'd out ! That oath thou heardst more lips than thine repeat — That cup — thou shudderest lady — was it sweet ? That cup we pledged, the charnel's choicest wine, Hath bound thee — ay — body and soul all mine; Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or curst No matter now, not hell itself shall burst ! Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay, Look wild, look — anything but sad; yet stay — One moment more — from what this night hath pass'd, I see thou knowst me, knowst me well at last. Ha ! ha ! and so, fond thing, thou thoughtst all true, And that I love mankind ! — I do, I do — As victims, love them ; as the sea-dog doats Upon the small, sweet fry that round him floats ; Or as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives That rank and venomous food on which she lives ! — "And now thou seest my soul's angelio hue, 'Tis time these features were uncurtain'd too ; — This brow, whose light — oh, rare celestial light ! Hath been reserved to bless thy favor'd sight ; These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded might Thou'st seen immortal man kneel down and quake — Would that they were Heaven's lightnings for his sake ! But turn and look — then wonder, if thou wilt, That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt, Upon the hand whose mischief or whose mirth Sent me thus maim'd and monstrous upon earth ; And on that race who, though more vile they be Than mowing apes, are demigods to me ! Here — judge if hell, with all its power to damn, Can add one curse to the foul thing ] am !"— " He raised his veil — the Maid turn'd slowly round, Look'd at him — shriek'd — and sunk upon the ground ! Si POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE. On their arrival, next night, at the place of encampment, they were surprised and de- lighted to find the groves all round illumi- nated; some artists of Tamtcheou having been sent on previously for the purpose. 1 Oi. each side of the green alley, which led to the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of bamboo-work were erected, representing arches, minarets, and towers, from which hung thousands oi silken lanterns, painted by the most delicate pencils of Canton. Nothing could be more beautiful than the leaves of the mango-trees and acacias, shin- ing in the light of the bamboo scenery, which shed a lustre round as soft as that of the nights of Periston. Lalla Rookh, however, who was too much occupied by the sad story of Zelica and her lover, to give a thought to anything else, except, perhaps, to him who related it, hurried on through this scene of splendor to her pavilion, — greatly to the mortification of the poor artists of Yamtcheou, — and was followed with equal rapidity by the Great Chamberlain, cursing, as he went, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety in lighting up the shores of the lake, where his beloved daughter had wandered and been lost, was the origin of these fantastic Chinese illuminations. 1 ' Without a moment's delay young Feramorz was introduced, and Fadladeen, who could never make up his mind as to the merits of a poet, till he knew the religious sect to which he belonged, was about to ask him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni, when Lalla Rookh impatiently clapped her hands for silence, and the youth, being seated upon the musnud near her, proceeded : — Prepare tny sc-.U, foung Azim ! — thou hast braved 1 " The Feast of Lanterns is celebrated at Yamtcheoa with more magnificence than anywhere else."— Present State " The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a powder named the black kohol." » " The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-colored cam- ipac in the black hair of the Indian women has supplied the Sanscrit poets with many elegant allusions. " * " A tree famous for its perfume, and common on the hills cf Yemen." • " Of the genns mimosa, which droops its branches when- tver any person approaches it, seeming as if it salted those who retire under ita shade." Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, Silent and. bright, where nothing but the falli Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound From many ajasper fount, is heard around, Young Azim roams bewilder'd, — nor can guess What means this maze of light and loneli- ness. Here the way leads o'er tessellated floors Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors, Where, ranged in cassolets and silver urns, Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns ; And spicy rods, such as illume at night The bowers of Tibet,* send forth odorous light, Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road For some pure spirit to its blest abode ! — And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as noon ; Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays High as the enamell'd cupola, which towers All rich with Arabesques of gold and flcver?: And the mosaic floor beneath shines through The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, Like the wet, glistening shells of every dye That on the margin of the Red Sea lie. Here too he traces the kind visitings Of woman's love, in those fair, living things Of land and wave, whose fate — -in bondage thrown For their weak loveliness — is like her own ! On one side gleaming with a sudden grace Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase In which it undulates, small fishes shine, Like golden ingots from a fairy mine, — While on the other, latticed lightly in . With odoriferous woods of Comorin,* Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen ; — Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam between The crimson blossoms of the coral tree In the warm isles of India's sunny sea ; 'Cloves are a principal ingredient in the compositio >erfumed rods which men of rank keep constantly bur Oud Comari, r presence." "est d'oii vient le bois d'aloes, que les Arabes appellent "'■" du sandal, qui s'y tronve en grand POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Mecca's blue sacred pigeon, 1 and the thrush Of Hindostan, 9 whose holy warblings gush At evening from the tall pagoda's top ; — ■ Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food' Whose scent hath lured them o'er the sum- mer flood, 4 And those that under Araby's soft sun Build their high nests of budding cin- namon ; — In short, all rare and beauteous things that fly Through the pure element here calmly lie Sleeping in light, like the green birds" that dwell In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel ! So on, through scenes past all imagining — More like the luxuries of that impious king, 5 Whom Death's dark Angel, with his light- ning torch, Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's porch, Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent Arm'd with Heaven's sword for man's en- franchisement — Young Azim wander'd, looking sternly round, His simple garb and war-boots' clanking sound But ill according with the pomp and grace And silent lull of that voluptuous place ! "Is this then," thought the youth, "is this the way To free man's spirit from the deadening sway Of worldly sloth; — to teach him, while he lives. ' "In Mecca theie are quantities of blue pigeons, which none will affright or abuse, much less kill." 3 " The pagoda thrush is esteemed among the first choristers of India. It sits perched on the sacred pagodas, and from thence delivers its melodious song." s Tavernier adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lie in this intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat off their legs ; and that hence it is they are said to have no feet. • Birds of Paradise, which at the nutmeg season, come in flights from the southern isles to India, and "the strength of the nutmeg bo intoxicates them that Iney fall dead drunk to the earth." • " The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops of green birds."— Gibbon, vol. ix., p. 421. • Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Irim, In Saltation of Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning the first tmt he attempted to enter them. To know no bliss but that which virtue gives And when he dies, to leave his lofty name A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame ? It was not so, land of the generous thought And daring deed ! thy godlike sages taught It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease, Thy freedom nursed her sacred energies ; Oh ! not beneath the enfeebling, withering glow Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow With which she wreathed her sword, wheD she would dare Immortal deeds ; but in the bracing air Of toil, — of temperance, — of that high, rare, Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's wreath ! Who, that surveys this span of earth we press, This speck of life in time's great wilderness, This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, The past, the future, two eternities, Would sully the bright spot or leave it bare, When he might build him a proud temple there, A name that long shall hallow all its space, And be each purer soul's high resting-place ! But no — it cannot be that one whom God Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod, — A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane his cause With the world's vulgar pomp ; — no, no— T see — tie thinks me weak — this glare of luxury Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze Of my young soul : — shine on, 'twill stand the blaze !" So thought the youth ; — but even while he defied This witching scene, he felt its witchery glide Through every sense. The perfume, breath- ing round Like a pervading spirit ; — the still sound Of falling waters, lulling as the song Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng Around the fragrant nilica, and deen POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep !' And music too— dear music ! that can touch Beyond all else the soul that loves it much — Now heard far off, so far as but to seem Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream ; — All was too much for him, too full of bliss, The heart could nothing feel that felt not this; Soften'd he sunk upon a couch, and gave His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid ;— He thought of Zelica, his own dear maid, And of the time when, full of blissful sighs, They sat and look'd into each other's eyes, Silent and happy — as if God had given Naught else worth looking at on this side heaven ! " Oh, my loved mistress ! whose enchant- ments still Are with me, round me, wander where I will- It is for thee, for thee alone I seek The paths of glory — to light up thy cheek With warm approval—in that gentle look To read my praise as in an angel's book, And think all toils rewarded, when from thee I gain a smile, worth immortality ! How shall I bear the moment when restored To that young heart where I alone am lord, Though of such bliss unworthy, — since the best Alone deserve to be the happiest ! — When from those lips, unbreathed upon for years, I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, And find those tears warm as when last they started, Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted ! Oh, my own life ! — why should a single day A moment keep me from those arms away ?" While thus he thinks, still nearer on the Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, Each note of which but adds new, downy links • " My pundits assure me that the plant before us (the nili- ») la their eephalica, thuB named because the bees are snp- OHd to sleep on its blossoms."— Sir W. Janes. To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. He turns him toward the sound, and, far away Through a long vista, sparkling with the plky Of countless lamps, — like the rich track which day Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us ; So long the path, its light so tremulous : He sees a group of female forms advance, Some chain'd together in the mazy dance By fetters, forged in the green sunny bowerS; As they were captives to the King of Flowers ;' — And some disporting round, unlink'd and free, Who seem'd to mock their sisters' slavery, And round and round them still, in wheeling flight Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night ; While others walk'd, as gracefully along Their feet kept time, the very soul of song From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly thrill, Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still ! And now they come, now pass before his eye, Forms such as Nature moulds when she would vie With Fancy's pencil, and give birth to things Lovely beyond its fairest picturings ! A while they dance before him, then divide, Breaking, like rosy clouds at eventide Around the rich pavilion of the sun, — Till silently dispersing, one by one, Through many a path that from the chamber leads To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads, Their distant laughter comes upon the wind, And but one trembling nymph remains behind, — Beck'ning them back in vain, for they are gone, And she is left in all that light alone ; No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow, In its young bashfulness more beauteous now ; But a light, golden chain-work round her hair,* 3 "They deferred it till the King of FlowerB should ascend his throne of enamelled foliage." — Bahardanush. s " One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is com- posed of a light golden chain- work, set with small pearls, with a thin gold plate pendant, about the bigness of a crown-piece, on which is impressed an Arabian prayer, and which hang* apon the cheek below the eu.*'— Hanway't Tracelt. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Such as the maids of Yezd' and Shirazwear, From which, on either side, gracefully hung A golden amulet, in the Arab tongue, Elgraven o'er with some immortal line From holy writ, or bard scarce less divine; While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, Which, once or twice, she touch'd with hurried strain, Then took her trembling fingers off again. But when at length a timid glance she stole At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul She saw through all his features calm'd her fear, And, like a half-tamed antelope, more near, Though shrinking still, she came ; — then sat her down Upon a mnsnudV edge, and, bolder grown, In the pathetic mode of Isfahan, 3 Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began : — " There's a bower of roses by Bendem.eer's 4 stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long, Fa the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the birds' song. That bower and its music I never forget, But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think — Is the nightingale singing there yet ? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ? "No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly they shone, And a dew was distill'd from the flowers that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was a;one. i " Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women In Persia. The proverb is, that to live happy, a man must have a wife of Yezd. eat the bread of Yezdecas, and drink the wine of Shiraz." — Tavernier. * Mnsnnds are cushior.ed seats reserved for persons of dis- tinction. * The Persians, like the ancient Greeks, call their musical modes or Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, M the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, etc. * A river which flows near the rains of Chilminir. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer?" "Poor maiden!" thought the youth, "if thou wert sent, With thy soft lute and beauty's blaudish- ment, To wake unholy wishes in this heart, Or tempt its truth, thou little knowst the art. For though thy lip should sweetly counsel wrong, Those vestal eyes would disavow its song. But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, And leads thy soul — if e'er it wander'd thence — So gently back to its first innocence, That I would sooner stop the unchain'd dove. When swift returning to its home of love, And round its snowy wing new fetters twins, Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine !" Scarce had this feeling pass'd, when, sparkling through The gently-open'd curtains of light blue That veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes, Peeping like stars through the blue eveirng skies, Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair That sat so still and melancholy there — And now the curtains fly apart, and in From the cool air, 'mid showers of jessamine Which those without fling after them in play, Two lightsome maidens spring, lightsome as they Who live in the air on odors, and around The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, Chase one another, in a varying dance Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance, Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit : — While she, who sung so gently to the lute Her dream of home, steals timidly away, j Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray, — But takes with her from Azini's ..eart that sigh POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. We sometimes give to forms that pass us by- En the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, Creatures of light we never see again ! Around the white necks of the nymphs who danced Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanced More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering o'er The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore; 1 While from their long dark tresses, in a fall Of curls descending, bells as musical As those that on the golden-shafted trees Of Eden shake in the Eternal Breeze,' Rung round their steps, at every bound more sweet, As 'twere the ecstatic language of their feet ! At length the chase was o'er, and they stood wreathed Within each other's arms ; while soft there breathed Through the cool casement, mingled with the sighs Of moonlight flowers, music that seem'd to rise From some still lake, so liquidly it rose ; And, as it swell'd again at each faint close, The ear could track through all that maze of chords And young sweet voices, these impassion'd words : — " A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh Is burning now through earth and air; Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh, Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there ! " His breath is the soul of flowers like these ; And his floating eyes — oh ! they resemble Blue water-lilies," when the breeze Is making the stream around them tremble ! "Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power ! Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss ! 1 "To the north was a mountain which sparkled iike dia- monds, arising from the sea-glass and crystals with which it •bounds."— Journey of the Russian Ambassador to Persia, 1746. * "To which will be added, the sound of the bells hanging on the tre<.«, which will be put in motion by the wind pro- ceeding from the throne of God, as often as the blessed wish fM music."- Safe. ' The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia. " Whoae wanton eyes resemble blue water-liliisa agitated by Thy holiest time is the moonlight Lour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this." " By the fair and brave, Who blushing unite, Like the sun and wave When they meet at night ! " By the tear that shows When passion is nigh, As the rain-drop flows From the heat of the sky ! " By the first love-beat Of the youthful heart, By the bliss to meet, And the pain to part ! " By all that thou hast To mortals given, Which — oh ! could it last, This earth were heaven ! : 'We call thee hither, entrancing Power! Spirit of Love ! Spirit of Bliss ! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this." Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole, 3pke of himself, too deep into his soul, And where, midst all that the young heart loves most, Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost, The youth had started up, and turn'd away From the light nymphs and their luxurious lay, To muse upon the pictures that hung round,' — Bright images, that spoke without a sound, And views, like vistas into fairy ground. But here again new spells came o'er his sense ; — All that the pencil's mute omnipotence Could call up into life, of soft and fair, 4 It has been generally supposed that the Mohammedan* prohibit all pictures of animals; but Toderini showB that, though the practice is forbidden by the Koran, they are not more averse to painted figures and images than other people. From Mr. Murphy's work, too, we find that the Arate of Spaia had no objection to the introduction of figures into painting. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art Which paints of pleasure but the purer part ; Which knows even Beauty when half-veil'il is best, Like her own radiant planet of the west, Whose orb when half-retired looks loveliest !' There hung the history of the Genii-King,''' Traced through each gay, voluptuous wan- dering With her from Saba's bowers,' in whose bright eyes He read that to be blest is to be wise ; — Here fond Zuleika' woos with open arms The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms. Tet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone, Wishes that heaven and she could both be won ! And here Mohammed, born for love and guile, Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile ; Then beckons some kind angel from above With a new text to consecrate their love ! With rapid step, yet pleased and lingering eye, Did the youth pass these pictured stories by, And hasten'd to a casement, where the light Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright The fields without were seen, sleeping as still As if no life remain'd in breeze or rill. Here paused he, while the music, now less near, Breathed with a holier language on his ear, As though the distance, and that heavenly ray Through which the sounds came floating, took away All that had been too earthly in the lay. Oh ! could he listen to such sounds unmoved, And by that light — nor dream of her he loved ? Dream on, unconscious boy ! while yet thou maysfc ; • This is not quite astronomically true. " Dr. Halley," says KeL, " has shown that Venus is brightest when she is about forty degrees removed from the sun ; and that then but only a fourth part of her lucid disk is to be seen from the earth." s King Solomon, who was supposed to preside over the whole race of genii. * The Queen of Sheba or Saba. « The w ife of Poliphar, thus named by the Orientals. 'T is the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste. Clasp yet a while her image to thy heart, Ere all the light that made it dear depart. Think of her smiles as when thou sawst them last, Clear, beautiful, by naught of earth o'ercaat; Recall her tears to thee at parting given. Pure as they weep, if angele weep in heaven ! Think in her own still bower she waits thee now, With the same glow of heart and bloom of brow, Yet shrined in solitude — thine all, thine only, Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely ! Oh, that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy'd, Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy'd ! The song is hush'd, the laughing nympbg are flown, And he is left, musing of bliss, alone ; — Alone ? — no, not alone — that heavy sigh, That sob of grief, which broke from some one nigh — Whose could it be ? — alas ! is misery found Here, even here, on this enchanted ground ? He turns, and sees a female form, close veil'd, Leaning, as if both heart and strength had fail'd, Against a pillar near; — not glittering o'er With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore, But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress' Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfulness Of friends or kindred, dead or far away ; — And such as Zelica had on that day He left her, — when, with heart too full to speak, He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek. A strange emotion stirs within him, — more Than mere compassion ever waked before ;— Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she Springs forward, as with life's last energy, But, swooning in that one convulsive bound, Sinks ere she reach his arms, upon the ground ; — Her veil falls off — her faint hands clasp hit knees — ' Deep blue ie their mourning color.' POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 'Tis she herself ! — 'tis Zelica he sees ! But, ah, so pale, so changed — none but a lover Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine dis- cover The once-adored divinity ! even he Stood for some moments mute, and doubt- ingly Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gazed Upon those lids, where once such lustre Ere he could think she was indeed his own, Own dar'ing maid, whom he so long had known In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both ; Who, even when grief was heaviest — when loth He left her for the wars — in that worst hour Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower, 1 When darkness brings its weeping glories out, And spreads its sighs like frankincense about ! " Look up, my Zelica — one moment show Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know Thy life, thj loveliness is not all gone, Bmt there, at least, shines as it ever shone Come, look upon thy Azim — one dear glance, Like those of old, were heaven ! — whatever chance Hath brought thee here, oh ! 'twas a blessed one ! There — my sweet lids — they move — that kiss hath run Like the first shoot of life through every vein,, And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again ! Oh, the delight — now, in this very hour When, had the whole rich world been in my power, I should have singled out thee, only thee, From the whole world's collected treasury — To have thee here — to hang thus fondly o'er My own best, purest Zelica once more !" It was indeed the touch of those loved lips Upon her eyes that chased their short eclipse, And, gradual as the snow at heaven's breath Melts ofl\, and shows the azure flowers beneath, Her lids unclosed; and the bright eyes were seen Gazing on his, — not as they late had been, Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene ; As if to lie, even for that tranced minute, So near his heart, had consolation in it; And thus to wake in his beloved caress Took from her soul one half its wretched- ness, But, when she heard him call her good and pure, Oh, 'twas too much — too dreadful to endure I Shuddering she broke away from his em- brace, And, hiding with both hands her guilty face, Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riven A heart of very marble, " Pure ! — O Heaven !" That tone — those looks so changed — the withering blight That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light— The dead despondency of those sunk eyes, Where once, had he thus met her by sur- prise, He would have seen himself, too happy boy, Reflected in a thousand lights of joy ; And then the place, that bright unholy place, Where vice lay hid beneath such winning grace And charm of luxury, as, the viper weaves Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves ; All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold As death itself; — it needs not to be told — No, no — he sees it all, plain as the brand Of burning shame can mark — whate'er the hand, That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever, 'Tis done — to Heaven and him she's lost for- ever ! It was a dreadful moment ; not the tears, The lingering, lasting misery of years Could match that minute's anguish — all the worst Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst Broke o'er his soul, and, with one crash of fate, Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate ! " Oh ! curse me not," she criei, as wild he toss'd POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. His desperate hand toward heaven — " though I am lost, Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall ; No, no — 'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all! Nay, doubt me not— though all thy love hath ceased — I know it hath — yet, yet believe, at least, That every spark of reason's light must be Quench'd in this brain, ere I could stray from thee ! They told me thou wert dead — why, Azim, why Did we not, both of us, that instant die When we were parted ? — oh ! couldst thou but know With what a deep devotedness of woe I wept thy absence — o'er and o'er again Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, And memory, like a drop that, night and day, Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away! Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert to come, And all the long, long night of hope and fear, Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear — O God ! thou wouldst not wonder that, at last, When every hope was all at once o'ercas^ When I heard frightful voices round me say, Azim is dead! — this wretched brain gave way, And 1 became a wreck, at random driven, Without one glimpse of reason or of heaven — All wild — and even this quenchless love within Turn'd to foul fires to light me into sin ! Thou pitiest me ! — I knew thou wouldst — that sky Hath naught beneath it half so lorn as I. The fiend who lured me hither — hist ! come near, Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear — Told me such things — oh ! with such devil- ish art, As would have ruin'd even a holier heart — Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere, Where blest at length, if I but served him here, I should forever live in thy dear sight, And drink from those pure eyes eternal light! Think, think how lost, how madden'd I must be, To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee! Thou weepst for me — do, weep — oh ! that 1 durst Kjss off that tear! but, no — these lips are curst, They must not touch thee ; — one divine caress, One blessed moment of forgetfulness I've had within those arms, and that shall lie, Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die ! The last of joy's last relics here below, The one sweet drop in all this waste of woe, My heart has treasured from affection's spring, To soothe and cool its deadly withering ! But thou — yes, thou must go — forever go ; This place is not for thee — for thee ! oh no, Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again! Enough, that g'ti'rf !<:.'£-.* itie — tk*i l^.arts, once good, Now tainted, chill'd, and broken, are his food. Enough, that we are parted — that there rolls A flood of headlong fate between our souls, Whose darkness severs me as wide from tuee As hell from heaven, to all eternity !" — " Zelica ! Zelica !" the youth exclaim'd, In all the tortures of a mind inflamed Almost to madness — "'by that sacred heaven, Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be forgiven, As thou art here — here, in this writhing heart, All sinful, wild, and ruin'd as thou art ! By the remembrance of our once pure love, Which, like a church-yard light, still burns above The grave of our lost souls — which guilt in thee Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me ! I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence — If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, Fly with rne from this place " POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. " With thee I O bliss, Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. What ! take the lost o^e with thee ? — let her rove By thy deal side, as ~i tnose days of love, When we were both so happy, both so pure — Too heavenly dream ! if there's on earth a cure For the sunk heart, 'tis this — day after day To be the blest companion of thy way ; — To hear thy angel eloquence — to see Those virtuous eyes forever turn'd on me ; And in their light rechasten'd silently, Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, Grow pure by being purely shone upon ! And thou wilt pray for me — I know thou wilt — At the dim vesper-hour, when thoughts of guilt Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt lift thine eyes, Full of sweet tears, unto the darkening skies, And plead forme with Heaven, till I can dare To fix my own weak, sinful glances there ; — Till tr.r. good angels, when they see me cling Forever near thee, pale and sorrowing, •ihall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven, And bid thee take thy weeping slave to heaven ! Oh yes, I'll fly with thee " Scarce had she said These breathless words, when a voice deep and dread As that of Monker waking up the dead From their first sleep — so startling 'twas to both- Rung through the casement near, " Thy oath ! thy oath !" O Heaven, the ghastliness of that maid's look ! — " 'Ti3 he," faintly she cried, while terror shook Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes, Though through the casement now naught but the skies And moonlight fields were seen, calm as before — " 'Tis he, and I am his — all, all is o'ei — Go — fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too — My oath, my oath, O God ! 'tis all too true, True, as the worm in this cold heart it is — I am Mokanna's bride — his, Azim, his — The dead stood round us while I spoke that vow, Their blue lips echo'd it — I hear them now J Their eyes glared on me while I pledged tha bowl, 'Twas burning blood — I feel it in my soul ! And the Veil'd Bridegroom — hist ! I've seen to-night What angels know not of — so foul a sight, So horri ble — oh ! never mayst thou see What there lies hid from all but hell and me ! But I must hence — off, off — I am not thine, Nor Heaven's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine — Hold me not — ha ! — thinkst thou the fiends that sever Hearts cannot sunder hands ? — thus, then — ■ forever !" With all that strength which madness lends the weak, She flung away his arm ; and, with a shriek, — Whose sound, though he should linger out more years Than wretch e'er told, can never leave his ears, — Flew up through that long avenue of light, Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night Across the sun, and soon was out of sight ! Lalla Rookh could think of nothing all day but the misery of these two young lovers. Her gayety was gone, and she looked pen- sively even upon Fadladeen. She felt too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure in imagining that Azim must have been just such a youth as Feramorz ; just as worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without any of the pangs, of that illusive passion, which too often, like the sunny apples of Istkahar,' is all sweetness on one side, and all bitterness on the other. As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank, whose employment seemed to them so strange, that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and 94 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. placing it in an earthen dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream, and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. Lalla Rookh was all curiosity ; — when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, (where this ceremony is so frequent, that often, in the dusk of the evening, the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,) 1 informed the Princess that it was the usual way in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately, the omen was disastrous; but if it went shin- ing down the stream, and continued to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain. Lalla Rookh, as they moved on, more than once looked back to observe how the young Hindoo's lamp proceeded ; and while she saw with pleasure that it was still unextinguished, she could not help fearing that all the hopes cf this life were no better than that feeble light upon the river. The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She now, for the first time, felt that shade of melancholy which comes over the youthful maiden's heart, as sweet and transient as her own breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she heard the lute of Feramorz touched lightly at the door of her pavilion, that she waked from the reverie in which she had been wan- dering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up with pleasure, and, after a few unheard re- marks from Fadladeen upon the indecorum of a poet seating himself in pi-esence of a princess, everything was arranged as on the preceding evening, and all listened with eagerness, while the story was thus con- tinued : — Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the way, Where all was waste and silent yesterday? ' " The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, rises, and where there are more than a hundred springs, which •parkle like stars ; whence it is called Hotun-hor, that is, the bea of Stars - Description of Tibet in /W"-'»n. This City of War which, in a few short hours Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers Of him who, in the twinkling of a star, Built the high-pillar'd halls of Chilminar,* Had conjured up, far as the eye can see, This world of tents and domes and sun- bright armory ! — Princely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold Of crimson cloth, and topp'd with balls of gold ; — Steeds, wich their housings of rich silver spun, Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun ; And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells,' Shaking in every breeze their light-toned But yester-eve, so motionless around, So mute was this wide plain, that not a sound But the far torrent, or the lo«ust-bird, 4 Hunting among the thickets, could be heard ; — Yet hark ! what discords now of every kind, Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in the wind ! The neigh of cavalry ; — the tinkling throngs Of laden camels and their drivers' songs ;* — Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze Of streamers from ten thousand canopies ; — War-music, bursting out from time to time With gong and tymbalon's tremendaus chime ; — Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are mute, The mellow breathings of some horn or flute. That far off, broken by the eagle note Of the Abyssinian trumpet,' swell and float 1 2 The edifices of Chilminar and Baalbec are supposed to have been built by the genii, acting under the orders of Jan ben Jan, who governed the world long before the time of Adam. 3 "A superb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of small shells."— AH Bey. 4 A native of Khorassan. and allured southward by means of the water of a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called the Fountain of Birds, of which it is so fond that it will follow wherever that water is carried. 6 " Some of the camels have bells about their neck*, and some about their legs, like those which our carriers put about their fore-horses' necks."— Pitt's Account of the Moham- medans. "The camel-driver follows the camel Binging, and some- times playing upon his pipe; the louder he sings and pipas, the faster the camels go. Nay, they will stand still when a* gives over his music."— Tavernier. • •• This trumpet is often called in Abyssinia Ifesser daw* which signifies *he Note i f the Eagle." POEMS OP THOMAS MOORE. Who leads this mighty army ? — ask ye " who ?" And mark ye not those banners of dark hue, The Night and Shadow,' over yonder tent? — It is the Caliph's glorious armament. Housed in his palace by the dread alarms, That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms And of his host of infidels, who hurl'd Defiance fierce at Islam" and the world ; — Though worn with Grecian warfare, and behind The veils of his bright palace calm reclined, Yet brook'd he not such blasphemy should stain, Thus unrevenged the evening of his reign, But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave 3 To conquer or to perish, once more gave His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze, And with an army nursed in victories, Here stands to crush the rebels that o'errun His blest and beauteous Province of the Sua. Ne'er did the march of Mahadi display Such pomp before ; — not even when on his way To Mecca's temple, when both land and sea Were spoil'd to feed the pilgrim's luxury ;* When round him, 'mid the burning sands, he paw Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, And cool'd his thirsty lip, beneath the glow Of Mecca's sun, with urns of Persian snow: — Nor e'er did armament more grand than that Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat. First in the van, the People of the Rock," On their light mountain steeds of royal stock ;* Then Chieftains of Damascus, proud to see The flashing of their swords rich marque- try ;'— > " The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the House of Abbas were called, allegorically, 'The Night and The Shadow.' " 8 The Mohammedan religion. • " The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shah Besade, who is buried at Casbin ; and when one desires another to assev- erate a matter he will ask him if he dare swear by the Holy • Mahadi. in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six millions of dinars of gold. '• •' The inhabitants of Hejaz, or Arabia Petraea, called ' The People of the Rock.' " • " Those horses, called by the Arabians Kochlani, of whom % written genealogy has been kept for 200& years. They are laid to derive their origin from King Solomon's steeds." » " Many of the figures on the blades of their swords are wrought in gold or silver, or in marquetry with small genu." Men from the regions near the Volga's mouth Mbc'd with the rude, black archers of th« South ; And Indian lancers, in white turban'd ranks From the far Sinde, or Attock's sacred banks, With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,' And many a mace-arm'd Moor and Mid-Sea Islander. Nor less in number, though more new and rude In warfare's school, was the vast multitude That, fired by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd, Round the white standard of the Impostor throng'd. Beside his thousands of Believers, — blind, Burning, and headlong as th^Samiel wind, — Many who felt, and more who fear'd to feel The bloody Islamite's converting steel, Flock'd to his banner : — Chiefs of the Uzbek race, Waving their heron crests with martial grace :* Turkomans, countless as their flocks, led forth From the aromatic pastures of the North , Wild warriors of the turquoise hills, 10 — and those Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows Of Hindoo Kosh, in stormy freedom bred, Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's bed. But none, of all who own'd the chief's com- mand Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand Or sterner hate than Iran's outlaw'd men, Her Worshippers of Fire" — all panting then For vengeance on the accursed Saracen ; Vengeance at last for their dear country spurn'd, Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrinwi o'erturn'd. From Yezd's" eternal Mansion of the Fire, 6 Azab or Saba. » " The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars wear a plume of whit* heron's feathers in their turbans." 10 " In the mountains of Nishaponr and Tous in Khorassan they And turquoises." 1: The Ghebere or Quebres, those original natives of PersU who adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, and who, after the conquest of their country by the Arabs, were either persecuted at home or forced to become wan- derers abroad. " " Yezd, the chief residence of those ancient natives wh« worship the Son and the Fire, which latter they have car* POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Where aged saints in dreams of heaven expire ; From Badku, and those fountains of blue flame That burn into the Caspian, 1 fierce they came, Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, So vengeance triumph'd and their tyrants bled! Such was the wild and miscellaneous host That high in air their motley banners toss'd Around the Prophet-Chief — all eyes still bent Upon that glittering veil, where'er it went, That beacon through the battle's stormy flood, That rainbow of the field, whose showers were blood ! Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set, And risen again, and found them grappling yet; While steams of carnage, in his noon-tide blaze, Smoke up to heaven — hot as that crimson haze 8 By which the prostrate caravan is awed In the red desert when the wind's abroad ! " On, Swords of God !" the panting Caliph calls, — "Thrones for the living — heaven for him who falls !"— " On, brave avengers, on," Mokanna cries, "And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies !" Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day — They clash — they strive — the Caliph's troops give way ! Mokanna's self plucks the black banner down, And now the orient world's imperial crown Is just within his grasp — when, hark, that shout ! Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslems' rout, rally kept lighted, without being once extinguished for a moment, above 3000 years, on a mountain near Yezd, called Ater Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the Fire. He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain." 1 "When the weather is hazy, the springs of naphtha (on an Island near Baku) boil np the higher, and the naphtha often takes Are on the surface of the earth, and runs in a flame into the sea to a distance almost incredible." 3 Savary says — "Torrents of burning sand roll before it, the Armament is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears of the color of blood. Sometimes whole caravans are buried In it." And now they turn — they rally — at their head A warrior (like those angel youths, who led, In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail, The Champions of the Faith through Beder's vale,)' Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives At once the multitudinous torrent back, While hope and courage kindle in his track, And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes Terrible vistas through which victory breaks ! In vain Mokanna, 'midst the general flight, Stands like the red moon, on some stormy night Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, Leave only her unshaken in the sky ! — In vain he yells his desperate curses out, Deals death promiscuously to all about, To foes that charge and coward friends thai fly, And seems of all the great arch-enemy ! The panic spreads—" A miracle !" throughout The Moslem ranks," A miracle !" they* shout, All, gazing on that youth, whose coming seems A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams ; And every sword, true as o'er billows dim The needle tracks the load-star, following him ! Right toward Mokanna now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath He bears from Heaven withheld its awful burst From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, To break o'er him, the mightiest and the worst ! But vain his speed — though, in that hour of blood, Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood, With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, Mokanna's soul would have defied them all ; — Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong For human force, hurries even him along ; ■ "In the great victory gained by Mohammad at Beder, h« was assisted by three thousand angels, led by Gabriel r on his horse Hiaznra." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. In vain he struggles 'mid the wedged array Of flying thousands, — he is borne away ; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows In this forced flight is — murdering, as he goes ! As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might Surprises in some parch'd ravine at night, Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched flocks Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, And, to the last, devouring on his way, Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay! " Alia il Alia !" — the glad shout renew — " Alia Akbar !'" — the Caliph's in Merou. Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, And light your shrines and chant your zira- leets ; a The Sword of God hath triumph'd — on his throne Your Caliph sits, and the Veil'd Chief hath flown. Who does not envy that young warrior now, To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow, In all the graceful gratitude of power, For his throne's safety in that perilous hour! Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the acclaim Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name — 'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame Which sound along the path of virtuous souls, Like music round a planet as it rolls ! — He turns away, coldly, as if some gloom Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can il- lume ; — Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze Though glory's light may play, in vain it plays ! Yes, wretched Azim ! thine is such a grief, Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief; A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break, Or warm, or brighten, — like that Syrian Lake 3 1 The Tecbir, or cry of the Arabs. Ockley, "means God is most mighty." * " The ziraleet is a kind of chorus which the: wo East sing upon joyful occasions." ' The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal i ' Alia Acbar 1" says Upon whose surface morn and summer shed Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is dead ! — Hearts there have been o'er which this weight of woe Came by loner use of suffering, tame and slow, But thine, lost youth ! was sudden — over thee It broke at once, when all seem'd ecstasy ; When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy past Melt into splendor, and bliss dawn at last — 'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so frebhly blown, This mortal blight of misery came down ; Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy heart Were check'd — like fount-drops, frozen as- they start ! And there, like them, cold, sunless relics* hang, Each fix'd and chill'd into a lasting pang L' One sole desire, one passion now remains^ To keep life's fever still within his veins, Vengeance ! — dire vengeance on the wretch who cast O'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast. For this, when rumors reach'd him in his flight Far, far away, after that fatal night, — Rumors of armies, thronging to the attack Of the Veil'd Chief,— for thi,s he wing'd him back, Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl'd, And came when all seem'd lost, and wildly hurl'd Himself into the scale, and saved a world ! For this he still lives on, careless of all The wreaths that glory on his path lets fall ; For this alone exists — like lightning-fire To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire ! But safe as yet that spirit of evil lives; With a small band of desperate fugitives, The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven, Of the proud host that late stood fronting Heaven, He gain'd Merou — breathed a short curse of blood POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. O'er his lost throne — then pass'd the Jihon's flood,' And gathering all whose madness of belief Still saw a saviour in their down-fallen Chief, Raised the white banner within Neksheb's gates,* And there, untamed, the approaching con- qtieror waits. Of all his Haram, all that busy hive, With music and with sweets sparkling alive, He took but one, the partner of his flight, One, not for We — not for her beauty's light— For Zelica stood withering midst the gay, Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday From the Alma-tree and dies, while overhead To-day's young flower is springing in its stead !' No, not for love — the deepest damn'd must be "Touch'd with heaven's glory, ere such fiends as he 'Can feel one glimpse of love's divinity ! But no, she is his victim : — there lie all Her charms for him — charms that can never pall, As long as hell within his heart can stir, Or one faint trace of heaven is left in her. To work an angel's ruin, — to behold As white a page as Virtue e'er unroll'd Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll Of damning sins, seal'd with a burning soul — This is his triumph ; this the joy accurst, That ranks him among demons all but first ! This gives the victim that before him lies Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes, A light like that with which hell-fire illumes The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it con- But other tasks now wait him — tasks that need All the deep daringness of thought and deed With which the Dives' have gifted him — for mark, i The ancient Oxus. ■ A city of Transoxiania. » " You never can cast your eyes on this tree but you meet Ihere either blossoms or fruit; and as the blossoms drop tndemeath on the ground, others come forth in their stead." 4 The demons of the Persian mythology. Over yon plains, which night had else made dark, Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights That spangle India's fields on showery nights,' Far as their formidable gleams they shed, The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread, Glimmering along the horizon's dusky line, And thence in nearer circles, till they shine Among the founts and groves, o'er which the town In all its arm'd magnificence looks down. Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements Mokanna views that multitude of tents ; Nay. smiles to think that, though entoil'd, beset, Not less than myriads dare to front him yet; — That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay, Even thus a match for myriads such as they ! " Oh for a sweep of that dark angel's wing, Who brush'd the thousands of the Assyrian king 8 To darkness in a moment, that I might People hell's chambers with yon host to night ! But come what may, let who will grasp the throne, Caliph or Prophet, man alike shall groan ; Let who will torture him, Priest — Caliph — King- Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring With victims' shrieks and howlings of the slave, — Sounds that shall glad me even within my grave !" Thus to himself — but to the scanty train Still left around him, a far diiferent strain : — " Glorious defenders of the sacred Crown I bear from heaven, whose light nor blood shall drown Nor shadow of earth eclipse ; before whose gems The paly pomp of this world's diadems, The crown of Gerashid, the pillar'd throne' • Carreri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rainy • •' Sennacherib, called by the orientals King of Moussal." ' There were said to be under this throne or palace of Khoa- rou Parviz a hundred ranlts filled with " treasures so immensa, that some Mohammedan writers tell as, their Prophet, to en POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Of Parviz,' and the heron crest that shone,' Magnificent, o'er Ali's beauteous eyes,' Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies : Warriors, rejoice— the port, to which we've pass'd O'er destiny's dark wave, beams out at last ! Victory's our own — 'tis written in that Book Upon whose leaves none but the angels look, That Islam's sceptre shall beneath the power Of her great foe fall broken in that hour When the moon's mighty orb, before all eyes, From Neksheb's Holy Well portentously shall rise ! Now turn and see !" They turn'd, and, as he spoke, A sudden splendor all around them broke, And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, 4 Rise from the Holy Well, and cast its light Round the rich city and the plain for miles,*— Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles Of many a dome and fair-roof 'd imaret, As autumn suns shed round them when they set! Instant from all who saw the illusive sign A murmur broke — " Miraculous ! divine !" The Gheber bow'd, thinking his idol Star Had waked, and burst impatient through the bar Of midnight, to inflame him to the war ! While he of Moussa's creed saw in that ray The glorious Light which, in his freedom's day, Had rested on the Ark," and now again Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain ! courage his disciples, carried them to a rock, which at his command opened, and gave them a prospect through it of the treasures of Khosrou."— Universal History. 1 Chosroes. s " The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before the heron tuft of thy turban."— From one of the elegies or songs in praise of Ali, written in characters of gold round the gallery of Abbas's tomb. ' " The beauty of Ali's eyes was so remarkable that, when- ever the Persians would describe anything ■" "orr lnvohr they say it is Ayn Hali, or the ey~ o f »J3. V • We are not told more of wia tncK of the Impostor, than that it was " une machine qu'il disoit etre la lnne." Accord- ing to Richardson, the miracle is perpetuated in Nekscheb— " Nakshab, the name of a city in Transoxiania, where they say there is a well in which the appearance of the moon is to be seen night and day." • " n aniusa pendant deux mois le peuple de la ville de Nekh- ■cheb en faisant sortir toutes les nuits du fonds d'un puits un corps lnmineux semblable a la lune, qui portoit sa lumiire Jnaqn'a la distance de plnsienrB milles."— WHerbdot. Hence he was called Sazend6h Mah, or the Moon-maker. • The Shechinah, called Sakinat in the Koran ; vide Sale. "To victory !" is at once the ciy of all — Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call ; But instant the huge gates are flung aside, And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide Into the boundless sea, they speed their course Right on into the Moslems' mighty force, The watchmen of the camp, — who, in their rounds, Had paused, and even forgot the punctual sounds Of the small drum with which they count the night,' To gaze upon that supernatural light, — Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, And in a death-groan give their last alarm. " On for the lamps that light yon lofty screen,' Nor blunt your blades with massacre sc mean ; There rests the Caliph — speed — one lucky lance May now achieve mankind's deliverance !" Desperate the die — such as they only cast Who venture for a world, and stake their last. But Fate's no longer with him — blade for blade Springs up to meet them through the glim- mering shade, And as the clash is heard, new legions soon Pour to the spot, like bees of Kauzeroon,' To the shrill timbrel's summons, till, at length, The mighty camp swarms out in all its strength, And back to Neksheb's gates, covering the plain With random slaughter, drives the adven- turous train ; Among the last of whom, the Silver Veil Is seen, glittering at times, like the white sail Of some toss'd vessel, on a stormy night, Catching the tempest's momentary light ! i " The parts of the night are made known as well by in. struments of music as by the rounds of the watchmen with cries and small drums." » " The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloth stiffened with cane, used to enclose a considerable space round the royal The tents of princes were generally illuminated. Norden tells ns that the tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished from the other tents by forty lanterns being suspended before it. Vide " Harmer's Observations on Job." * " From the groves of orange-trees at Kauzeroon the boa* cull a celebrated honey." 100 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And hath not this brought the proud spirit low? Nor dash'd his brow, nor check'd his daring ? No, Though half the .wretches whom at night he led To thrones and victory lie disgraced and dead, Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking crest, Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the rest ; — And they believe him ! — oh, the lover may Distrust that look which steals his soul away ! The babe may cease to think that it can play With heaven's rainbow; alchymists may doubt The shining gold their crucible gives out, But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. And well the Impostor knew all lures and arts That Lucifer e'er taught to tangle hearts ; Nor, 'mid these last bold workings of his plot Against men's souls, is Zelica forgot. Ill-fated Zelica ! had reason been Awake through half the horrors thou hast seen, Thou never couldst have borne it — Death had come At once and taken thy wrung spirit home. But 'twas not so — a torpor, a suspense Of thought, almost of life, came o'er the intense And passionate struggles of that fearful night, When her last hope of peace and heaven took flight : And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy broke, As through some dull volcano's veil of smoke Ominous flashings now and then will start, Which show the fire's still busy at its heart ; Yet was she mostly wrapp'd in sullen gloom, — Not such as Azim's, brooding o'er its doom, And calm without, as is the brow of death, While busy worms are gnawing under- neath ! — But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free From thought or pain, a seal'd-up apathy, Which left her oft, with scarce one lhing thrill, The cold, pale victim of her torturer's wilL Again, as in Merou, he had her deck'd Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect; And led her glittering forth before the eyes Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice ; Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride Of the fierce Nile, when, deck'd in all the pride Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide !' And while the wretched maid hung down her head, And stood, as one just risen from the dead, Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell His credulous slaves it was some charm or spell Possess'd her now, — and from that darken'd trance Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliver- ance. Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame, Her soul was roused, and words of wildnesa came, Instant the bold blasphemer would translate Her ravings into oracles of fate, Would hail Heaven's signals in her flashing eyes, And call her shrieks the language of the skies ! But vain at length his arts — despair is seen Gathering around ; and famine comes to glean All that the sword had left unreap'd ; — in vain At morn and eve across the northern plain He looks impatient for the promised spears Of the wild hordes and Tartar mountaineers ; They come not — while his fierce beleaguerers pour Engines of havoc in, unknown before, 3 1 "A custom, Btill subsisting at this day, seems to nie to prove that the Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin to the god of the Nile ; for they now make a statue of eai-,h in shape of a girl, to which they give the name of the BetrotneC Bride, and throw it into the river."— Savory. 5 That they knew the secret of the Greek fire among the Mussulmans early in the eleventh century, appears from Dow'i Account of Mamood I. : — "When he had launched this lleet, he ordered twenty archers into each boat, and five others with fire-halls, to bnrn the craft of the Jits, and naphtha to set the whole river on fire." The Agnee oxter, too, in Indian poems, the Instrument of Fire, whose flame cannot be extinguished, is supposed to signify the Greek Fire. Vide " Wilks's South of India," vol. i., p. 471. The mention of gunpowder as in use among the Arabians, long before its supposed discovery in Europe, 1* introdioed POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And horrible as new ;' — -javelins, that fly Enwreath'd with smoky flames through the dark sky, And red-hot globes that, opening as they mount, Discharge, as from a kindled naphtha fount,' Showers of consuming fire o'er all below; Looking, as through the illumined night they go, Like those wild birds" that by the Magians oft, At festivals of fire, were sent aloft Into the air, with blazing fagots tied To their huge wings, scattering combustion wide ! All night, the groans of wretches who ex- pire In agony beneath these darts of fire Ring through the city — while, descending o'er Its shrines and domes and streets of syca- more ; — Its lone bazaars, with their bright cloth of gold, Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll'd ; — Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets Now gush with blood ; — and its tall minarets, That late have stood up in the evening glare Of the red sun, unhallow'd by a prayer ; — O'er each in turn the terrible flame-bolts fall, And death and conflagration throughout all The desolate city hold high festival ! by Ebn Fadhl, the Egyptian geographer who lived in the thirteenth century. " Bodies," he says, " in the form of scor- pions, bound round and filled with nitrous powder, glide along, making a gentle noise; then, exploding, they lighten as it were, and burn. But there are others, which, cast into the air, stretch along like a cloud, roaring horribly, as thunder roars, and on all sides vomiting out flames, burst, burn, and reduce to cinders whatever comes in their way." The his- torian Ben Abdalla, in speaking of Abulualid in the year of Hegira 712, says, "a fiery globe, by means of combustible matter, with a mighty noise suddenly emitted, strikes with the force of lightning, and shakes the citadel." Vide the extracta from "Casiri's Biblioth. Arab. Hispan.," in the Appendix to " Berrington's Literary History of the Middle '- The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the Em- perors to their allies. 2 See Hanway's " Account of the Springs of Naphtha at Baku" (which is called by Lieutenant Pottinger, Joala Mook- hee, or the Flaming Mouth), taking fire, and running into the tea. ■ "At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Seze, they ased to set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fastened round wild beasts and birds, which being then let loose, the air and earth appeared one great illumination; and as these terrified creatures naturally fled to the wood for shelter, it is easy to conceive the conflagrations they produced." Mokanna sees the world is his no more,;— One sting at parting, and his grasp is o'er. " What ! drooping now ?" — thus, with un- blushing cheek, He hails the few who yet can hear him speak, Of all those famish' d slaves around him lying, And by the light of blazing temples dying; — " What ! drooping now ? — now, when at length we press Home o'er the very threshold of success ; When Alia from our ranks hath thinn'd away Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray Of favor from us, and we stand at length Heirs of his light and children of his strength, The chosen few who shall survive the fall Of kings and thrones, triumphant over all ! Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you are, All faith in him who was your light, your star ? Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid Beneath this veil, the flashing of whose lid Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither Millions of such as yonder chief brings hither ' Long have its lightnings slept — too long — but now All earth shall feel the unveiling of this brov. ! To-night — yes, sainted men ' this very night, I bid you all to a fair festal nte, Where, — having deep refresh'd each weary limb With viands such as feast heaven's cherub: And kindled up your souls, now sunk and d With that pure wine the dark-eyed maids above Keep, seal'd with precious musk, for those they love,* — I will myself uncurtain in your sight The wonders of this brow's ineffable light ; Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse Yon myriads, howling through the universe!" Eager they listen — while each accent darts New life into their chill'd and hope-sick hearts ; — Such treacherous life as the cool draught supplies To nim upon the stake, who drinks and dies ! * "The righteous shall be given to drink of pure wins, sealed ; the seal whereof shall be musk."— Koran, cha». lxxxiil. -.,..- POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Wildly they point their lances to the light Of the fast-sinking sun, and shout, "To- night !"— " To-night," their chief re-echoes in a voice Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice ! Deluded victims — never hath this earth Seen mourning half so mournful as their mirth ! Here, to the few whose iron frames had stood This racking waste of famine and of blood, Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the shout Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out; — There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire, Danced, like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre, Among the dead and dying strew'd around ;— While some pale wretch look'd on, and from his wound Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled, In ghastly transport waved it o'er his head ! 'Twas more than midnight now — a fear- ful pause Had follow'd the long shouts, the wild ap- plause, That lately from those royal gardens burst, Where the veil'd demon held his feast accurst, When Zelica — alas, poor ruin'd heart, In every horror doom'd to bear its part ! — Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, W ho, while his quivering lip the summons gave, Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave Compass'd him round, and ere he could repeat His message through, fell lifeless at her feet ! Shuddering she went — a soul-felt pang of fear, A presage that her own dark doom was near, Roused every feeling, and brought reason back Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack. All round seeni'd tranquil — even the foe had ceased, As if aware of that demoniac feast, His fiery bolts; and though the heavens look'd red, Twas but some distant conflagration's spread. But hark ! — she stops — she listens — dread- ful tone ! Tis her tormentor's laugh — and no w, a groan, Along death-groan comes with it — can this be The place of mirth, the bower of revelry ? She enters — Holy Alia, what a sight Was there before her ! By the glimmering light Of the pale dawn, mix'd with the flare of brands That round lay burning, dropp'd from life- less hands, She saw" the board, in splendid mockery spread, Rich censers breathing — garlands over- head, — The urns, the cups, from which they late had quaff'd, All gold and gems, but — what had been the draught ? Oh ! who need ask, that saw those livid guests, With their swoln heads sunk blackening on their breasts, Or looking pale to heaven with glassy glare, As if they sought but saw no mercy there ; As if they felt, though poison rack'd them through, Remorse the deadlier torment of the two ! While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain Would have met death with transport by his side, Here mute and helpless gasp'd ; — but as they died, Look'd horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain And clench'd the slackening hand at him in Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare The stony look of horror and despair Which some of these expiring victims cast Upon their souls' tormentor to the last ; — Upon that mocking fiend, whose veil, now raised, Show'd them, as in death's agony they gazed, Not the long-promised light, the brow whose beaming Wa6 to come forth, all-conquering, all- redeeming, But features horribler than hell e'er tra«ed On its own brood ; — no Demon of the W aste ,' POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. No churchyard ghole, caught lingering in the light Of the blest sun, e'er blasted human sight With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those The Impostor now, in grinning mockery, shows — "There, ye wise saints, behold your Light, your Star — Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are. Is it enough ? or must I, while a thrill Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still ? Swear that the burning death ye feel within Is but the trance with which heaven's joys begin ; That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced Even monstrous man, is — after God's own taste ; And that — but see ! — ere I have half-way said My greetings through, the uncourteous souls are fled. Farewell, sweet spirits ! not in vain ye die, If Eblis loves you half so well as I. — Ha, my young bride ! — 'tis well — take thou thy seat ; Nay, come — no shuddering — didst thou never meet The dead before? — they graced our wed- ding, sweet; And these, my guests to-night, have brimm'd so true Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge one too. But — how is this ? — all empty ? all drunk up ? Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, Young bride : yet stay — one precious drop remains, Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins ; Here, drink — and should thy lover's conquer- ing arms Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, "Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss ! " For me — I too must die — but not like these Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze ; To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, With all death's grimness added to it own, whom they call the Gholee Beeabaa, or Spirit of the Waste. They often illustrate the wildness of any sequestered tribe, ay Hying they are wild a* the Demon of the Waste." And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes Of slaves, exclaiming! ' There his godship lies !'— No, cursdd race, since first my love drew breath, They've been my dupes, and shall be, eren in death. Thou seest yon cistern in the shade, — 'tis filled With burning drugs, for this last hour dis- till'd ;'— There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame — Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame ! — There perish, all — ere pulse of thine shall fail— Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave, Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint it gave ; — But I've but vanish'd from this earth a while, To come again, with bright, unshrouded smile ! So shall they build me altars in their zeal, Where knaves chall ininistei , and fooio shall kneel ; Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell, Written in blood — and Bigotry may swell The sail he spreads for heaven with blasts for hell !— So shall my banner through long ages be The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy; — Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokanna's name, And, though I die, my spirit, still the same, Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in life! But, hark ! their battering engine shakes the wall — Why, let it shake — thus I can brave them alL No trace of me shall greet them when they come, And I can trust thy faith, for — thou'lt be dumb. Now mark how readily a wretch like me In one bold plunge commences Deity !" — ' " II donna du poison dans le vin a tons ses gens, et se jetu lui-raeine ensuite dans une cuve pleine de drogues brulanten et consumantes, aftn qn'il ne restSt rien de tons les membrei de son corpB, et qne ceni qni restoient de sa secte puiBeenl croire qu'il Stoit monte an cif \ ce qni ne manqna pw du river."— D'Herbdol. 104 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. He sprung, and sunk as the last words were said — Quick closed the burning waters o'er his head, And Zelica was left — within the ring Of those wide walls the only living thing ; The only wretched one, still cursed with breath, In all that frightful wilderness of death ! More like some bloodless ghost, — such as, they tell, In the lone Cities of the Silent 1 dwell, And there, unseen of all but Alia, sit Each by its own pale carcase, watching it. But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs Throughout the camp of the beieaguerers. Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent By Greece to conquering Mahadi) are spent; And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent From high balistas, and the shielded throng Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along, — All speak the impatient Islamite's intent To try, at length, if tower and battlement And bastion'd wall be not less hard to win, Less tough to break down than the hearts within. First in impatience and in toil is he, The burning Azim — oh ! could he but see That monster once alive within his grasp, Not the gaunt lion's hug, nor boa's clasp, Could match that gripe of vengeance, or keep pace With the fell heartiness of hate's embrace Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls ; Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress falls, But still no breach — " Once more, one mighty swing Of all your beams, together thundering !' There — the wall shakes — the shouting troops exult — " Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult Right on that spot, and Neksheb is ou own !"— 1 "They have all a great reverence for bnrial-gronnds, which they sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of the it-parted, who ait each at th« head of his own grave, Invisible to mortal eyes." 'Tis done — the battlements come crashing down, And the huge wall, by that stroke riven in two, Yawning like some old crater rent anew, Shows the dim, desolate city smoking through ! But strange ! no signs of life — naught living seen Above, below — what can this stillness mean ? A minute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes — "In through the breach," impetuous Azim cries ; But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile In this blank stillness, checks the troops a while. — Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanced Forth from the ruin'd walls ; and, as there glanced A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see The well-known Silver Veil !— " 'Tis he, 'tis he, Mokanna, and alone !" they shout arouud ; Young Azim from his steed springs to the ground — " Mine, Holy Caliph ! mine," he cries, " the task To crush yon daring wretch — 'tis all I ask. ' Eager he darts to meet the demon foe, Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow And falteringly comes, till they are near ; Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim's spear, And, casting off the veil in falling, shows — Oh ! 'tis his Zelica's life-blood that flows ! " I meant not, Azim," soothingly she said, As on his trembling arm she lean'd her head, And, looking in his face, saw anguish there Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can bear — " I meant not thou shouldst have the pain of this ; — Though death with thee thus tasted is a bliss Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know How oft I've pray'd to God I might die so ! But the fiend's venom was too scant and slow ; — To linger on were maddening — and I thought If once that veil — nay, look not on it — caught POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 105 The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should he Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly. But this is sweeter — oh! believe me, yes-- I would not change this sad, but dear caress, This death within thy arms I would not give For the most smiling life the happiest live ! All that stood dark and drear before the eye Of my stray'd soul is passing swiftly by ; A light comes o'er me from those looks of love, Like the first dawn of mercy from above ; And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven, Angels will echo the blest words in heaven ! But live, my Azim ; — oh ! to call thee mine Thus once again ! my Azim — dream divine ! Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet, Oh, live to pray for her — to bend the knee Morning and night before that Deity To whom pure lips and hearts, without a stain, As thine are, Azim, never breathed in vain, — And pray that he may pardon her, — may take Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake, And naught idmembering out her love to thee, Make her all thine, all His, eternally ! Go to those happy fields where first we twined Our youthful hearts together — every wind That meets thee there, fresh from the well- known flowers, Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours Back to thy soul, and thou mayst feel again For thy poor Zelica as thou didst then. So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies To heaven upon the morning's sunshine, rise With all love's earliest ardor to the skies ! AikI should they — but, alas ! my senses fail — Oh for one minute ! — should thy prayers prevail — If pardon'd souls may from that world of bliss Reveal their joy to those they love in this, — I'll come to thee — in some sweet dream — and tell — O Heaven ! — I die — Dear love ! farewell, farewell !" Time fleeted— years on years had pass'd away, And few of those who, on that mournful day, Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see The maiden's death, and the youth's agony, Were living still — when, by a rustic grave Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave, An aged man, who had grown aged there By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer, For the last time knelt down — and, though the shade Of death hung darkening over him, there play'd A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek That brighten'd even death — like the last streak Of intense glory on the horizon's brim, When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim, — His soul had seen a vision while he slept ; She for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept So many years, had come to him, all drest In angel smiles, and told him she was blest ! For this the old man breathed his thanks, and died. — And there, upon the banks of that loved tide, He and his Zelica sleep side by side. The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khc- rassan being ended, they were now doomed to hear Fadladeen's criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidents had occurred to this learned chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, those cou- riers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the western coast of India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes for the royal table, had, by some cruel irreg- ularity, failed in their duty ; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, impossible.' In the next place, the elephant, laden with his fine antique porce- lain, 2 had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shat- 1 "The celebrity of Mazagong is owing to its mangoes, which are certainly the best fruit I ever tasted. The parent tree, from which all those of this species have been grafted, is honored during the fruit season by a guard of sepoys ; and in the reign of Shah Jehan, couriers were stationed between Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and fresh supply of mangoes for the royal table."— Mrs. Gmhan'a Journal of a Residence in India. » This old porcelain is found in digging, and " if it is es- teemed, it is not because it has acquired any new degree nl beauty in the earth, bat because it has retained Its ancieht beauty ; and thi3 alone is of great importance in China, when POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. tered the whole set to pieces — an irreparable lots, as many of the vessels were so exqui- sitely old as to have been used under tho Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran, too, supposed to be the identical Dopy between the leaves of which Moham- med's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days ; not without much spiritual alarm to Fadladeen, who, though professing to hold, with other loyal and orthodox Mus- sulmans, that salvation could only be found in the Koran, was strongly suspected of be- lieving, in his heart, that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. When to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks, in putting the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the einnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he came to the task of criticism with at least a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose. • " In order," said he, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, " to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a re- view of all the stories that have ever " My good Fadladeen !" exclaimed the Prin- cess, interrupting him, " we really do not deserve that you should give yourself so much trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard will, T have no doubt, be abundantly edifying, without any further waste of your valuable erudition. " " If that be all," replied the critic, — evidently morti- fied at not being allowed to show how much he knew about everything but the subject immediately before him, — " if that be all that is required, the matter is easily despatched." He then proceeded to analyze the poem, in that strain (so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi) whose censures were an in- fliction from which few recovered, and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief they give large suras for the 6isallest vessels which were used ■nder the Emperors Tan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dyuasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to M used by the Eape.ois," (about the year 4J2.) —Ihinn's eoliectiot. . oj Curious Observations, Ac.,— a bad translation of lome parts of the " I.-ettres Edifiantes et Curieuses" of the Missionary Jesuit*. last happily lis, you will ; story; and ant t^lf^ nrt personages of the 6tory were, if he right!, understood them, an ill-favored gentlema^ with a veil over his face ; — a young lady, whose reason went and came according as it suited the poet's convenience to be sensible or otherwise ; — and a youth, in one of those hideous Bucharian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. " From such materials," said he, " what can be expected ? — after rivalling each other in long speeches and absurdities, through some thousands of lines as indigestible as the fil- berds of Berdan, our friend in the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis ; the young lady dies in a set speech, whose only recommendation is, that it is her last ; and the lover lives on to a good old age, for the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost, which he at last happily accomplishes and expires. This, allow, is a fair summary of the if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all honor and glory !) had no need to be jealous of his abilities for story-telling.'" With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter: it had not even those politic contrivances of structure which make up for the commonness of the thoughts by the pe- culiarity of the manner, nor that stately poetical phraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's apron" converted into a banner, are so easily gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then as to the versification, it was, to say no worse of it, execrable ; it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafiz, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him, in the uneasy heavinese of its movements, to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licences, too, in which it indulged were unpardonable ; — for instance, this line, and the poem abounded with such — " Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream." 1 " La lecture de ces fables plaisoit si fort &ax Arabes, que, quand Mohammed les entretenoit de l'Histoire de l'Anciep Testament, ils les meprisoient. Ini disant que celles que Nas- ser leur racontoient Gtoicnt beaucoup plus belles." Cett* preference attira a Nas6er la malediction de Mohammed et d« tons ses disciples. ' The blacksmith Qao, who successfully resisted the tyrant Tohak, and whose apron became the roval standard of Persia. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 107 " What critic that can count," said Fadla- deen, " and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfluities ?" He here looked round, and discovered that most of his audi- ence were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemed inclined to follow their exam- ple. It became necessary, therefore, how- ever painful to himself, to put an end to his valuable animadversions for the present, and he accordingly concluded, with an air of dignified candor, thus : — " Notwithstanding the observations which I have thought it my duty to make, it is by no means my wish to discourage the young man ; — so far from it, indeed, that if he will but totally alter his style of writing and thinking, I have very little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased with him." Some days elapsed, after this harangue of the Great Chamberlain, before Lalla Rookh could venture to ask for another story. The youth was still a welcome guest in the pavil- ion, — to one heart, perhaps, too dangerously welcome ; but all mention of poetry was, as if by common consent, avoided. Though none of the parcyhad much respect for Fad- ladeen, yet his censures, thus magisterially delivered, evidently made an impression on them all. The Poet himself, to whom criti- cism was quite a new operation, (being wholly unknown in that Paradise of the Indies — Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is generally felt at first, till use has made it more tolerable to the patient ; the ladies be- gan to suspect that they ought not to be pleased, and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what Fadladeen said, from its having set them all so soundly to sleep ; while the self-complacent chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life, extinguished a poet. Lalla- Rookh alone — and Love knew why — persisted in being delighted with all she had heard, and in resolving to hear more as speedily as pos- sible. Her manner, however, of first return- ing to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain, on which some hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Garden of Sadi, — "Many, like me, hav« viewed this fountain, but they are gone, and their eyes are closed forever !" — that she took occasion, from the melancholy beauty of this passage, to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. "It is true," she said, " few poets can imitate that sublime bird 1 which flies always in the air, and never touches the earth ; — it is only once in many ages a genius appears, whose words, like those on the Written Mountain, 3 last for- ever; — but still there are some, as delightful perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our head, are at least flowers along our path, and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale, with- out calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short," continued she, blushing, as if conscious of being caught in an oration, " it is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his re- gions of enchantment, without having a critic forever, like the Old Man of the Sea, (Sinbad,) upon his back !" Fadladeen, it was plain, took this last luckless allusion to himself, and would treasure it up in his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden silence ensued ; and the Princess, glancing a look at Feramorz, saw plainly she must wait for a more courageous moment. But the glories of Nature, and her wild, fragrant airs, playing freshly over the cur- rent of youthful spirits, will soon heal even i The huma. a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground. It ii looked upon as a bird of happy omen ; and that every head it overshades will in time wear a crown.— Richardson. In thry terms of alliance made by Fuzzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 1760, one of the stipulations was, " that he should have the distinction of two honorary attendants standing Deside him, holding fans composed of the feathers of the huma^ according to the practice of his family."— Wilke's South of India. lie adds in a note:— "The huma is a fabulous bird. The head over which its shadow once passes will assuredly be circled with a crown. The splendid little bird suspended over the To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we mnst attribute the in- scriptions, figures, &c, on those rocks, which have front' thence acquired the name of the Written Mountain."— Volney. M. Gebelin and others have been at much pains to attach some mysterious and important meaning to theBe inscriptions ; but Niebuhr, as well as Volney, thinks that they must have been executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Sinai, " who were satisfied with cutting the unpolished rock with tmj pointed instrument ; adding to their names, and the date of their journeys, some rude flgnros, which Bespeak the hand of a people but little skilled in the arts."— Nitbuhr. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after, they came to the small Valley of Gar- dens, which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara, during their progress to Cashmere, some years before ; and never was there a more sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the Gulzar-e-Irem, or Rose-bower of Irem. Every precious flower was there to be found that poetry, or love, or religion has ever consecrated — from the dark hyacinth, to which Ilafi compares his mistress's hair, to the Cumaldta, by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Iudra is scented.' As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and Lalla Rookh remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that flower-loving nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, or of one of those Peris, — those beautiful creatures of the air, who live upon perfumes, and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Paradise they have lost. — the young Poet, in whose eyes she appeared, while she spoke, to be one of the bright spiritual creatures she was describing, said, hesitatingly, that he remembered a story of a Peri, which, if the princess had no objection, he would venture to relate. " It is," said he, with an appealing look to Fad- tadeeu, " in a lighter and humbler strain than the other ;" then, striking a few careless but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began : — PARADISE AND THE PERI. Oxb morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood disconsolate ; And as she listen'd to the springs Of life within, like music flowing, And caught the light upon her wings Through the half-open portal glowing ' " The Camalata (called by Linnxus, Jpomaa) is the most beautiful of its order both in the color and form of its leaves and flowers; its elegant blossoms are 'celestial rosy red, love's proper hue, 1 and have justly procured it the name of Curualata. or Love's Creeper." — Sir W. Jones. " Camalata may also mean a mythological plant, by which nil desires are granted to such as Inhabit the heaven of Indra ; and if ever flower was worthy of Paradise, it is onr charming Ipomsa." — lb. She wept to think her recreant race Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! "How happy," exclaim'd this child of air, " Are the holy spirits who wander there, 'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;. Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me, One blossom of heaven out-blooms them alii Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,' And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; Though bright are the waters of Siug-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray,' Yet — oh, 'tis only the blest can say How the waters of heaven outshine them all! Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of heaven is worth them all J* The glorious Angel, who was keeping The Gates of Light, beheld her weeping ; And, as he nearer drew and listen'd To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd Within his eyelids, like the spray From Eden's fountain, when it lies On the blue flower, which — Brahmins sa* Blooms nowhere but in Paradise !* " Nymph of a fair but erring line !" Gently he said — " One hope is thine. 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, The Peri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this eternal gate The gift that is most dear to Heavt I Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin; — 'Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in 1" Rapidly as comets run To the embraces of the sun ; — * Numerous small islands emerge from th uke of Cait » " The Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibf of gold in its sands."— Pinkerton. * "The Brahmins of this province insist ' Ml pac flowers only in Paradise." — Sir W. Jot i. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Fleeter than the starry brands Flung at night from angel-hands' At those dark and daring sprites, Who would climb the empyreal heights, Down the blue vault the Peri flies, And, lighted earthward by a glance That just then broke from morning's eyes, Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. But whither shall the spirit go To find this gift for Heaven? — "I know The wealth," she cries, " of every urn, In which unnumber'd rubies burn, Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ;' I know where the Isles of Perfume are' Many a fathom down in the sea, To the south of sun-bright Araby ;' — I know, too, where the Genii hid Thejewell'd cup of their king Jamshid,* With life's elixir sparkling high — But gifts like these are not for the sky. Where was there ever a gem that shone Like the steps of Alla's wonderful throne ? And the drops of life — oh ! what would they be Id the boundless deep of eternity ?" While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd The air of that sweet Indian land, Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads O'er coral banks and amber beds ;" Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem; Whose rivulets are like rich brides, Lovely, with gold beneath their tides ; 1 "The Mohammedans suppose that falling stare are the firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the had when they approach too near the empyrenm or verge of the heavens." s "The Forty Pillars— so the Persians call the ruins of Per- sepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace, and the edifices at Baalbec, were bnilt by Genii, for the purpose of hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, which still remain there." * Diodorus mentions the Isle of Panchaia, to the south of Arabia Felix, where there was a temple to Jupiter. This is- land, or rather cluster of isles, has disappeared—" sunk (says Grandore) in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foun- dations."— Voyage to the Indian Ocean. * The Isles of Panchaia. • " The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging for the foundations of PerBepolis." • " Like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls and ambergris, whose mountains on the coast are stored with gold and precious stones, whose gulfs breed creatures that yield ivory, and among the plants of whose shores are ebony, red wood, and the wood of Hairzan, aloes, camphor, cloves, landal-wood, and all other .spices and aromatics ; where par- rots and peacocks are birds of the foreBt, and musk and civet »ro collected upon the lands."— Travels of two Mohammedans. Whose sandal-groves and bowers of spice Might be a Peri's Paradise ! But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood— the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man, Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from the innocent flowers ! Land of the Sun ! what foot invades Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades' — Thy cavern shrines and idol stones, Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones V 'Tis he of Gazna" — fierce in wrath He comes, and India's diadems Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path. — His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks Of many a young and loved Sultana ;" Maidens within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane, he slaughters, And chokes up with the glittering wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters ! Downward the Peri turns her gaze, And through the war-field's bloody haze. Beholds a youthful warrior stand, Alone, beside his native river, — The red blade broken in his hand And the last arrow in his quivei. " Live," said the Conqueror, " live to share The trophies and the crowns I bear !" Silent that youthful warrior stood — Silent he pointed to the flood All crimson with his country's blood, Then sent his last remaining dart, For answer, to the invader's heart. False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; The tyrant lived, the here fell ! — Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay, And when the rush of war was past, Swiftly descending on a ray . Of morning light, she caught the last — T " The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow, About the mother-tree, a pillar'd shade."— Milton. 8 " With this immense treasure Mamood returned to Ghizni, and in the year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, where he displayed to the people his wealth iu golden throaM and other ornaments, in a great plain without the city of Ghizni."— Ferishta. 9 " Mahmoud of Gazna, or Ghizni. who conquered India in the beginning of the eleventh century." 10 "It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan Mahmoud was* so magnificent, that he kept four hundred grey- hounds and bloodhounds, each of which w ore a coLsr set wltll jewels, and a covering edged with go.'d and pearus.' POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Last glorious drop his heart bad shed, Before its free-born spirit fled ! " Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, " My welcome gift at the Gates of Ligbt. Though foul are the drops that oft distil On the field of warfare, blood like this, For Liberty shed, so holy is, 1 It would not stain the purest rill That sparkles among the bowers of bliss ! Oh ! if there be, on this earthly sphere, A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, Tis the last libation Liberty draws From the heart that bleeds and breaks in " Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave The gift into his radiant hand, " Sweet is our welcome of the brave Who die thus for their native land. — But see — alas ! — the crystal bar Of Eden moves not — holier far Than even this drop the boon must be That opes the gates of heaven for thee !" Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains,' Far to the south, the Peri lighted ; And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide, whose birth Is hidden from the sons of earth, Deep in those solitary woods, Where oft the Genii of the Floods Dance round the cradle of their Nile, And hail the new-born Giant's smile !* Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves, Her grots, and sepulchres of kings,* 1 Objections may be made to my nee of the word liberty, in this, and more especially in the story that follows it, as totally inapplicable to any state of things that has ever existed in the East ; but though I cannot, of course, mean to employ it in that enlarged and noble sense which is so well understood at the present day, and, I grieve to say, so little acted upon, yet it is no disparagement to the word to apply it to that national independence, that freedom from the interference and dicta- tion of foreigners, without which, indeed, no liberty of any kind can exist, and for which both Hindoos and Persians fought against their Mussulman invaders with, in many cases, a bravery that deserved mnch better success. ' " The Mountains of the Moon, or the Monies Lunce of an- tiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise. " " Sometimes called," says Jackson, " Jibbel Knrarie, or the White or Lunar-colored Mountains ; so a white horse is called by the Arabians a moon-colored horse." • " The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the name of Abey and Alawy, or the Giant." * Tidi Perry's " ^ iew of the Levant," for an account of the The exiled Spirit sighing roves ; And now hangs listening to the doves In warm Rosetta's vale' — now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of Mceris Lake.' 'Twas a fair scene — a land more bright Never did mortal eye behold ! Who could have thought, that saw this night Those valleys and their fruits of gold Basking in heaven's serenest light ; — Those groups of lovely date-trees bending Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads, Like youthful maids, when sleep descending Warns them to their silken beds ;' — Those virgin lilies, all the night Bathing their beauties in the lake, That they may rise more fresh and bright When their beloved Sun's awake ; — Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem The relics of a splendid dream ; Amid whose fairy loneliness Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard, Naught seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam) Some purple-wing'd Sultana 8 sitting Upon a column, motionless And glittering, like an idol-bird ! — Who could have thought, that there, even there, Amid those scenes so still and fair, The Demon of the Plague hath cast From his hot wing a deadlier blast, More mortal far than ever came From the red desert's sands of flame ! So quick, that every living thing Of human shape, touch'd by his wing, Like plants where the simoom hath pass'd, At once falls back and withering ! The sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pesthouse now, And ne'er will feel that sun again ! sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, car- ered all over with hieroglyphics, in the mountains of Upper Egypt. » " The orchards of Rosetta are filled with tnrtle-dovee." • Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Mceris. 7 "The superb date-tree, whose head languidly recline* like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep/' » " That beautiful bird, which, from the statelinesa oj U port, as well as the brilliancy of its colors, baa obtained tk* title of Sultana." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And oh ! to see the unhuried heaps On which the lonely moonlight sleeps — The very vultures turn away, And sicken at so foul a prey ! Only the fierce hysena stalks' Throughout the city's desolate walks At midnight, and his carnage plies — Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets The glaring of those large blue eyes Amid the darkness of the streets ! " Poor race of men !" said the pitying spirit, " Dearly ye pay for your primal fall — Same flowerets of Eden ye still inherit, But the trail of the serpent is over them all !" She wept — the air grew pure and clear Around her, as the bright drops ran ; For there's a magic in each tear Such kindly spirits weep for man ! Just then, beneath some orange-trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Were wantoning together, free, Like age at play with infancy — Beneath that fresh and springing bower, Close by the lake, she heard the moan Of one who, at this silent hour, Had thither stolen to die alone. One who in life, where'er he moved, Drew after him the hearts of many ; Yet now, as though he ne'er were loved, Dies here, unseen, unwept by any ! None to watch near him — none to slake The fire that in his bosom lies, With even a sprinkle from that lake Which shines so cool before his eyes. No voice, well known through many a day, To speak the last, the parting word, Which, when all other sounds decay, Is still like distant music heard ;— That tender farewell on the shore Of this rude world, when all is o'er. 1 Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West Barbary when he was there, says, " The birds of the air fled away from the abodes of men. The hyaenas, on the contrary, Tlsited the cemeteries," Ac. 41 Gondar was full of hyaenas from the time it turned dark till the dawn of day, seeking the different pieces of slaughtered carcasses, which this cruel and unclean people expose in the streets without burial, and who firmly believe that these ani- mals are Falashta from the neighboring mountains, trans- formed by magic, and come down to eat human flesh in the lark is safety."— Urwx. Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark Puts off into the unknown dark. Deserted youth ! one thought alone Shed joy around his soul in death — That she, whom he for years had known, And loved, and might have call'd his own, Was safe from this foul midnight'i breath ; — Safe in her father's princely halls, Where the cool air from fountains falls, Freshly perfumed by many a brand Of the sweet wood from India's land, Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd. But see, who yonder comes by stealth, This melancholy bower to seek, Like a young envoy sent by Health, With rosy gifts upon her cheek ? 'Tis she — far off, through moonlight dim, He knew his own betrothed bride, She who would rather die with him Than live to gain the world beside ! — Her arms are round her lover now, His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow, In the cool lake, her loosen'd tresses. Ah ! once, how little did he think An hour would come when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace, Those gentle arms, that were to him Holy as is the cradling place Of Eden's infant cherubim ! And now he yields — now turns away, Shuddering as if the venom lay All in those proffer'd lips alone — Those lips that, then so fearless grown, Never until that instant came Near his unask'd, or without shame. " Oh ! let me only breathe the air, The blessed air that's breathed by thee, And, whether on its wings it bear Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me ! There, — drink my tears, while yet they fall,— Would that my bosom's blood were balm, And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all, To give thy brow one minute's calm. Nay, turn not from me that dear face — Am I not thine — thy own loved bride— The one, the chosen one, whose place In life or death is by thy side ? 112 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Thinkst thou that she, whose only light In this dim world from thee hath shone, Could bear the long, the cheerless night That must he hers when thou art gone ? That I can live, and let thee go, Who art my life itself? — No, no — When the stem dies, the leaf that grew Out of its heart must perish too ! Then turn to me, my own love, turn, Before like thee I fade and burn; Cling to these yet cool lips, and share The last pure life that lingers there !" She fails — she sinks — as dies the lamp In charnel-airs or cavern-damp, So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes ! One struggle — and his pain is past — Her lover is no longer living ! One kiss the maiden gives, one last, Long kiss, which she expires in giving ! " Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast — " Sleep on — in visions of odor rest, In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd The enchanted pile of that holy bird Who sings at the last his own death lay, 1 And in music and perfume dies away !" Thus saying, from her lips she spread Unearthly breathings through the place, And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed Such lustre o'er each paly face, That like two lovely saints they seem'd Upon the eve of doomsday taken From their dim graves, in odor sleeping ; — While that benevolent Peri beam'd Like their good angel, calmly keeping Watch o'er them till their souls would waken ! But morn is blushing in the sky ; Again the Peri soars above, Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh Of pure, self-sacrificing love. • "In the East they suppose the Phcenix to have fifty orifi- ces it his bill, which are continued to his tail ; and that, after living one thousand year6, he builds himself a funeral pile, lings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty Organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to Ike wood, and consumes himself." High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate, The Elysian palm she soon shall win, For the bright spirit at the gate Smiled as she gave that offering in ; And she already hears the trees Of Eden, with their crystal bells Ringing in that ambrosial breeze That from the throne of Alia swells; And she can see the starry bowls That lie around that lucid lake, Upon whose banks admitted souls Their first sweet draught of glory take !* But ah ! even Peris' hopes are vain— Again the Fates forbade, again The immortal barrier closed — " Not yet," The Angel said, as, with regret, He shut from her that glimpse of glory — " True was the maiden, and her story, Written in light o'er Alla's head, By seraph eyes shall long be read. But, Peri, see — the crystal bar Of Eden moves not — holier far Than even this sigh the boon must be That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee." Now, upon Syria's land of roses' Softly the light of Eve reposes, And, like a glory, the broad sun Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; Whose head in wintry grandeur towera, And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flowers, Is sleeping rosy at his fpet. To one who look'd from upper air O'er all the enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, the sparkling from below ! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, More golden where the sun-light falls j — Gay lizards, glittering on the walls* Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright > On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy felicity drink the crystal wave.— From Chateaubriand's " Mo- hammedan Paradise," in his Beauties of Christianity. ' Sichardson thinks that Syria had its name from Snri, a beautiful and delicate species of rose for which that country has been always famous ;— hence, Suristan, the Land of Bosea, « " The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court of the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec amounted tc many tnoo POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. As they were all alive with light ; And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, With their rich restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west, — as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, or made Of tearless rainbows, such as span The unclouded skies of Peristan ! And then, the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd's ancient reed, 1 with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine, Banqueting through the flowery vales ; — And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales ! 3 But naught can charm the luckless Peri ; Her soul is sad — her wings are weary — Joyless she sees the sun look down On that great temple, once his own, 3 Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their shadows from on high, Like dials, which the wizard, Time, Had raised to count his ages by ! Yet haply there may lie conceal'd Beneath those chambers of the Sun, Some amulet of gems, anneal'd In upper fires, some tablet seal'd With the great name of Solomon, Which, spell'd by her illumined eyes, May teach her where, beneath the moon, In earth or ocean lies the boon, The charm, that can restore so soon An erring spirit to the skies. Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither ; — Still laughs the radiant eye of heaven, Nor have the golden bowers of even In the rich west begun to wither ; — When, o'er the vale of Baalbec winging Slowly, she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild-flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they ; Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, ■ands ; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined build- •ugt were covered with them."— Bruce. 1 "The syrinx, or Pan'6 pipe, is still a pastoral instrument la Syria " 3 " The river Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, and pleasant, woods, among which thousands of nightingales warble all together."— Thevenot. • Tho Temple of the Sun at Baalbec. The beautiful blue damsel-flies,* That flutter'd round the jasmine stems, Like winged flowers or flying gems : — And, near the boy, who tired with play, Now nestling 'mid the roses lay, She saw a wearied man dismount From his hot steed, and on the brink Of a small imaret's rustic fount' Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd Upon a brow more fierce than that, — Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire, Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire L In which the Peri's eye could read Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; The ruin'd maid — the shrine profaned — Oaths broken — and the threshold stain'd With blood of guests ! — there written, all, Black as the damning drops that fall From the denouncing Angel's pen, Ere Mercy weeps them out again ! Yet tranquil now that man of crime (As if the balmy evening-time Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay, Watching the rosy infant's play : — Though still, whene'er his eye by chance Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance Met that unclouded, joyous gaze As torches, that have burn'd all night Through some impure and godless rite, Encounter morning's glorious rays. But hark ! the vesper-call to prayer, As slow the orb of daylight sets, Is rising sweetly on the air, From Syria's thousand minarets ! The boy has started from the bed' Of flowers, where he had laid his head, And down upon the fragrant sod 4 "Ton behold there a considerable number of a remarkable species of beautiful insects, the elegance o. wnose appear- ance, and their attire, procured for them the name of Dam Bels." » Imaret " hospice ou on loge et nourrit, gratis, leg pelerine pendant trois jours." — Toderini. « " Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the road, or so employed as not to find convenience to attend the mosques, are Btill obliged to execute that duty : nor are they ever known to fail, whatever business they are then about, bnt pray immediately when tie hour alarms them, in tha» very place they chance to stand on."— Aaron BilTs Trtfrl*. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Kneels, with his forehead to the south, Lisping the eternal name of God From purity's own cherub mouth, And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies, Like a stray babe of Paradise, Just lighted on that flowery plain, And seeking for its home again ! Oh 'twas a sight — that heaven — that child — A scene which might have well beguiled Even haughty Eblis of a sigh For glories lost and peace gone by ! And how felt he, the wretched man Reclining there — while memory ran 'O'er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting-place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace! : ' There was a time," he said, in mild, Heart-humbled tones, "thou blessed child! When young, and haply pure as thou, I look'd and pray'd like thee ; but now — " He hung his head — each nobler aim And hope and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept ! Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. " There's a drop," said the Peri, " that down from the moon Falls through the withering airs of June Upon Egypt's land, 1 of so healing a power, So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour That drop descends, contagion dies, And health reanimates earth and skies ! — Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, ■ The precious tears of repentance fall ? Though foul thy fiery plagues within, One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all !" And now — behold him kneeling there By the child's side, in humble prayer, While the same sunbeam shines upon 1 The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt pre- cisely ou St. John's Day, in Juue, and is supposed to have the ifiect of stepping the plague. The guilty and the guiltless one, And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven The triumph of a soul forgiven ! 'Twas when the golden orb had set, While on their knees they liriger'd yet, There fell a light, more lovely far Than ever came from sun or star, Upon the tear that, warm and meek, Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek : To mortal eye this light might seem A northern flash or meteor beam — But well the enraptured Peri knew 'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw From heaven's gate, to hail that tear Her harbinger of glory near ! " Joy, joy forever ! my task is done — The Gates are'pass'd, and heaven is won ! Oh. ! am I not happy ? I am, I am — To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,* And the fragrant bowers of -Amberabad ! " Farewell, ye odors of earth, that die, Passing away like a lover's sigh ; — My feast is now of the Tooba tree, 3 Whose scent is the breath of Eternity ! " Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief, — Oh, what are the brightest that e'er have blown, To the lote-tree spring by Alla's throne, 4 Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf! Joy, joy forever ! — my task is done — The gates are pass'd, and heaven is won !" " And this," said the Great Chamberlain, " is poetry ! — this flimsy manufacture of the brain, which, in comparison with the lofty and durable monuments of genius, is as the s The Country of Delight^the name of a province in the kingdom of Jinnistan or Fairy Land, the capital of which is called " The City of Jewels." Amberabad is another of the cities of Jinnistan. » " The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of Mohammed."— Touba signifies eternal happiness. * Mohammed is described, in the fifty-third chapter of the Koran, as having seen the angel Gabriel " by the lote-tree, Deyond which there is no passing : near it is the Garden of Eternal Abode." This tree, say the commentators, stands is the seventh heaven, on Ihe right hand of the throne of God. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 115 gold filigree-work of Zamara beside the eter- nal architecture of Egypt !" After this gorgeous sentence, which, with a few more of the same kind, Fadladeen kept by him for ■rare and important occasions, he proceeded to the anatomy of the short poem just re- cited. The lax and easy kind of metre in which it was written ought to be denounced, he said, as one of the leading causes of the alarming growth of poetry in our times. If some check were not gi-ven to this lawless facility, we should soon be overrun by a race of bards as numerous and as shallow as the hundred and twenty thousand streams of Basra. ' They who succeeded in this style deserved chastisement for their very success ; — as warriors have been punished, even after gaining a victory, because they had taken the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or unestablished manner. What, then, was to be said to those who failed ? — to those who presumed, as in the present lamentable in- stance, to imitate the licence and ease of the bolder sons of song, without any of that grace or vigor which gave a dignity even to negligence; — who, like them, flung the jereed' carelessly, but not like them, to the mark ; — " and who," said he, raising his voice to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in his hearers, " contrive to appear heavy and constrained in the midst of all the latitude they have allowed themselves, like one of those young pagans that dance before the Princess, who has the ingenuity to move as if her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the light- est and loosest drawers of Masulipatam !" It was but little suitable, he continued, to the grave march of criticism to follow this fantastical Peri, of whom they had just heard, through all her flights and adventures between earth and heaven, but he could riot help adverting to the puerile conceitedness of the Three Gifts which she is supposed to carry to the skies, — a drop of blood, forsooth, a sigh, and a tear ! How the first of these articles was delivered into the Angel's " radi- ant hand" he professed himself at a loss to 1 " It is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reck- oned in the time of Belal Ben Abi Bordeh, and amounted to the number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams. 11 1 "The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exer- discover; and as to the safe carriage of the sigh and tear, such Peris and such poets were beings by far too incomprehensible for him even to guess how they managed such matters. " But, in short," said he, " it is a waste of time and patience to dwell longer upon a thing so incurably frivolous, — puny even among its own puny race, and such as only the Banian Hospital 3 for Sick Insects should undertake." In vain did Lalla Rookh try to soften this inexorable critic ; in vain did she resort to her most eloquent commonplaces, — re- minding him that poets were a timid and sensitive race, whose sweetness was not to be drawn forth, 4 like that of the fragrant grass near the Ganges, by crushing and trampling upon them ; — that severity often destroyed every chance of the perfection which it demanded ; and that, after all, per- fection was like the Mountain of the Talis- man, — no one had ever yet reached its summit. 6 Neither these gentle axioms, nor the still gentler looks with which they were inculcated, could lower for one instant the elevation of Fadladeen's eyebrows, or charm him into anything like encouragement or even toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, was not among the weaknesses of Fadladeen ; — he carried the same spirit into matters of poetry and of religion, and, though little versed in the beauties or sublimities of either, was a perfect master of the art of persecution in both. His zeal, too, was the same in either pursuit ; whether the game before him was pagans or poetasters, — worshippers of cows, or writers of epics. ' "This account excited a desire of visiting the Banian Hospital, as I had heard much of their benevolence to all kinds of animals that were either sick, lame, or infirm, through age or accident. On my arrival there were presented to my view many horses, cows, and oxen, in one apartment ; in another, dogs, sheep, goats, and monkeys, with clean straw for them to repose on. Above-stairs were depositories for seeds of many sorts, and flat, broad dishes for water, for the use of birds and insects. 11 — Parsons. It is said that all animals know the Banians, that the moat timid approach them, and that birds will fly nearer to them than to other people.— Tide Grandpre. 4 " A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Ganges, near Heridwar, which in some places covers whole acres, and dif- fuses when crushed a strong odor. 11 — Sir W. Jones on the Spikenard of the Anciente. • "Near this is a curious hill, called Koh Talism, the ' Moun- tain of the Talisman," because, according to the traditions cf the country, no perBon ever succeeded in gaining its summit." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. They had now arrived at the splendid city of Lahore, whose mausoleums and shrines, magnificent and numberless, where death seemed to share equal honors with Heaven, would have powerfully affected the heart and imagination of Lalla Rookh, if feelings more of this earth had not taken entire possession of her already. She was here met by mes- sengers, despatched from Cashmere, who in- formed her that the King had arrived in the valley, and was himself superintending the sumptuous preparations that were making in the saloons of the Shalimar for her reception. The chill she felt on receiving this intelli- gence, — which to a bride whose heart was free and light would have brought only images of affection and pk-asure, — convinced her that her peace was gone forever, and that she was in love — irretrievably in love — with young Feramorz. The veil, which this passion wears at first, had fallen off, and to know that she loved was now as painful as to love without knowing it had been delicious. Feramorz too — what misery would be his, if the sweet hours of intercourse so imprudently allowed them should have stolen into his heart the same fatal fascination as into hers ; if, notwithstanding her rank, and the modest homage he always paid to it, even he should have yielded to the krkence of those long and happy interviews, where music, poetry, the delightful scenes of nature — all tended to bring their hearts c!ose together, and to waken, by every mesns, that too ready pas- sion, which often, like the young of the desert-bird, is warmed into life by the eyes alone !' She saw but one way to preserve herself from being culpable as well as un- happy, and this, however painful, she was resolved to adopt. Feramorz must no more be admitted to her presence. To have strayed so far into the dangerous labyrinth was wrong, but to linger in it, while the clue was yet in her hand, would be criminal. Though the heart she had to offer to the King of Bucharia might be cold and broken, it should at least be pure ; and she must only try to forget the short vision of happiness she had enjoyed, — like that Arabian shepherd, who, in wandering into the wilderness, caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim and then lost them again forever !* The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore was celebrated in the most enthusiastic man- ner. The Rajas and Omras in her train, who had kept at a certain distance during the journey, had never encamped nearer to the Princess than was strictly necessary for her safeguard, here rode in splendid caval- cade through the city, and distributed the most costly presents to the crowd. Engines were erected in all the squares, which cast forth showers of confectionery among the people; while the artisans, in chariots adorned with tinsel and flying streamers, ex- hibited the badges of their respective trades through the streets. Such brilliant displays of life and pageantry among the palaces, and domes, and gilded minarets of Lahore, made the city altogether like a place of enchant- ment — particularly on the day when Lalla Rookh set out again upon her journey, when she was accompanied to the gate by all the fairest and richest of the nobility, and rode along between ranks of beautiful boys and girls, who waved plates of gold and silver flowers over their heads 3 as they went, and then threw them to be gathered by the populace. For many days after their departure frcm Lahore, a considerable degree of gloom hung over the whole party. Lalla Rookh, who had intended to make illness her excuse for not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, to the pavilion, soon found that to feign in- disposition was unnecessary. Fadladeen felt the loss of the good road they had hitherto travelled, and was very near cursing Jehan- Guire (of blessed memory !) for not having continued his delectable alley of trees/ at a Vide Sale's Koran, note, vol. ii., p. 484. 3 Ferishta. " Or rather, 11 says Scott, upon the passage of Ferishta, frcm which this is taken, " small coin, stamped with the figure of a flower. They are still used in India to distribute in char, ity. and, on occasion, thrown by the pursebearers of the great among the populace." * The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from Agra to Lahore, planted with trees on each side. Thi6 road is 250 leagues in length. It has " little pyramids or turrets, 11 says Beraier, "erected every half league, to mark the ways, and freqment wells to afford drink to passengers, and to water the younr trees " POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. least as far as the mountains of Cashmere ; — while the ladies, who had nothing now to do all day but to be fanned by peacocks' feath- ers and listen to Fadladeen, seemed heartily weary of tne life they led, and, in spite of all the Great Chamberlain's criticisms, were tasteless enough to wish for the poet again. One evening, as they were proceeding to their place of rest for the night, the Princess, who, for the freer enjoyment of the ainj had mounted her favorite Arabian palfrey, in passing by a small grove heard the notes of a lute from within its leaves, and a voice, which she but too well knew, singing the following words: — " Tell me not of joys above, If that world can give no bliss, Truer, happier than the love Which enslaves our souls in this I " Tell me not of Houris' eyes ; — Far from me their dangerous glow, If those looks that light the skies Wound like some that burn below I " Who that feels what love is here, All its falsehood — all its pain — • Would, for even Elysium's sphere, Risk the fatal dream again ? " Who that midst a desert's heat Sees the waters fade away, Would not rather die than meet Streams again as false as they ?" The tone of melancholy defiance in which these words were uttered, went to Lalla Rookh's heart ; — and, as she reluctantly rode on, she could not help feeling it as a sad but sweet certainty, that Feramorz was to the full as enamored and miserable as herself. The place where they encamped that even- ing was the first delightful spot they had come to since they left Lahore. On one side of them was a grove full of small Hindoo temples, and planted with the most graceful trees of the East ; where the tamarind, the cassia, and the silken plantains of Ceylon were mingled in rich contrast with the high fan-iike foliage of the Palmyra, — that favor- ite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up the chambers of its nest with fire-flies. 1 In 1 The baya. or Indian groBB-beak.' the middle of the lawn where the pavilion stood, there was a tank surrounded by small mango-trees, on the clear cold waters of which floated multitudes of the beautiful red lotus ;' while at a distance stood the ruins of a strange and awful-looking tower, which seemed old enough to have been the temple of some religion no longer known, and which spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of ail that bloom and loveliness. This singular ruin excited the wonder and conjectures of all. Lalla Rookh guessed in vain, and the all-pretending Fadladeen, who had never till this journey been beyond the precincts of Delhi, was proceeding most learnedly to show that he knew nothing whatever about the matter, when one of the ladies suggested that perhaps Feramorz could satisfy their curiosity. They were now approaching his native mountains, and this tower might be a relic of some of those dark superstitions which had prevailed in that country before the light of Islam had dawned upon it. The Chamberlain, who usually preferred his own ignorance to the best knowledge that any one else could give him, was by no means pleased with this officious reference ; and the Princess, too, was about to interpose a faint word of objection, but, before either of them could speak, a slave was despatched for Fer- amorz, who, in a very few minutes, appeared before them, — looking so pale and unhappy in Lalla Rookh's eyes, that she already re- pented of her cruelty in having so long ex- cluded him. That venerable tower, he told them, was the remains of an ancient Fire-Temple, built by those Gheberb or Persians of the old re- ligion, who, many hundred years since, had fled hither from their Arab conquerors, 1 pre- ferring liberty and their altars in a foreign land to the alternative of apostasy or perse- cution in their own. It was impossible, he added, not to feel interested in the many * " Here Is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water of irtnch float mnltitndes of the beautiful red lotus ; the flower ie largei than that of the white water-lily, and is the most lovely of the nymphseas I have seen."— Mrs. Graham's Journal of a Resi- dence in India. ' " On les voit, persecutes par les Khalifes, se retirer danr les montagnes du Kerman : plusieurs choisirent ponr retra.l* la Tartarie et la Chine ; d'autres s'arStdrent sur les horde da Gange, a Test de Delhi."— M. Anquetil, Memoires de V Acad- emic, torn, nxi., p. 346. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. glorious hut unsuccessful struggles which had been bade by these original natives of Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted conquerors. Like their own fire in the Burn- ing Field at Bakou, when suppressed in one place, they had but broken out with fresh flame in another; and, as a native of Cash- mere, of that fair and holy valley, which had in the same manner become the prey of strangers,' and seen her ancient shrines and native princes swept away before the march of her intolerant invaders, he felt a sympathy, ;ie owned, with the sufferings of the perse- cuted Ghebers, which every monument like this before them but tended more powerfully to awaken. It was the first time that Feramorz had ever ventured upon so much prose before Fadladeen, and it may easily be conceived what effect such prose as this must have produced upon that most orthodox and most pagan-hating personage. He sat for some minutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals, " Bigoted conquerors ! — sympathy with Fire- Worshippers !" B — while Feramorz, happy to take advantage of this almost speechless hor- ror of the chamberlain, proceeded to say that he knew a melancholy story, connected with the events of one of those brave struggles of the Fire- Worshippers of Persia against their Arab masters, which, if the evening was not too far • advanced, he should have much pleasure in being allowed to relate to the Princess. It was impossible for Lalla Rookh to refuse ; — he had never before looked half so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy Valley his eyes had sparkled, she thought, like the talismanic characters on the scimitar of Solomon. Her consent was therefore most readily granted, and while Fadladeen sat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason and abomination in every line, the poet thus began his story of the Fire- Worshippers : — 1 "Cashmere," says Hb historians, "had its own princes 4000 years before its conquest by Akbar in 15S5. Akbar would have found some difficulty to reduce this paradise of the In- dies, situated as it is within such a fortress of mountains, hut its monarch, Yusef Khai., was basely betrayed by his Omrahs." — Pennant. ' Voltaire tells as that in his tragedy Les Guebrts, he was generally supposed to have alluded to the Jansenists I and I I should not be surprised if this story of the Fire-Worshippeia I were found capable of a similar doubleness of application. ' THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 'Tis moonlight over Oman's sea ;' Her banks of pearl and palmy isles Bask in the night-beam beauteously, And her blue waters sleep in smiles. 'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's* walls, And through her Emir's porphyry halls, Where, some hours since, was heard thi swell Of trumpet and the clash of zel,' Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell ; — The peaceful sun, whom better suits The music of the bulbul's nest, Or the light touch of lovers' lutes, To sing him to his golden rest ! All hush'd — there's not a breeze in motion ; The shore is silent as the ocean. If zephyrs come, so light they come, Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven; — The wind-tower on the Emir's dome* Can hardly win a breath from heaven. Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps Calm, while a nation round him weeps; While curses load the air he breathes, And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths Are starting to avenge the shame His race hath brought on Iran's' name. Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alike 'Mid eyesthat weep and swords that strike ;— One of that saintly, murderous brood, To carnage and the Koran given, Who think through unbelievers' blood Lies their directest path to heaven. One who will pause and kneel unshod In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd, To mutter o'er some text of God Engraven on his reeking sword ;" — Nay, who can coolly point, the line, The letter of those words divine, To which his blade, with searching art, Had sunk into its victim's heart ! • The Persian Gulf. ' Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Golf. • A Moorish instrument of music. • "At Gombaroon, and other places in Persia, they b»v« towers for the purpose of catching the wind, and cooling the jouses." ' "Iran-is the true general name lor ihe empire of Persa.' • "On the blades of 'heir scimitare some verse from th« Koran iB usually inscribed." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Just Alia ! what must be Thy look, When such a wretch before Thee stands Unblushing, with Thy sacred book, — Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands, And wresting from its page sublime His creed of lust and hate and crime ? Even as those bees of Trebizond, Which from the sunniest flowers that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, Draw venom forth that drives men mad !' Never did fierce Arabia send A satrap forth more direly great ; Never was Iran doom'd to bend Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. Tier throne had fallen— her pride was crush'd— Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd In their own land, — no more their own, — To crouch beneath a stranger's throne. Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd, To Moslem shrines — oh shame ! — were turn'd, Where slaves, converted by the sword, Their mean, apostate worship pour'd, And cursed the faith their sires adored. Yet has she hearts, 'mid all this ill, O'er all this wreck, high, buoyant still With hope and vengeance ; — hearts that yet, Like gems, in darkness issuing rays They've treasured from the sun that's set, Beam all the light of long-lost days ! And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow To second all such hearts can dare; As he shall know, well, dearly know, Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, Tranquil as if his spirit lay Becalm'd in heaven's approving ray .! Sleep on — for purer eyes than thine Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine. Sleep on, and be thy rest unmoved By the white moonlight's dazzling power : None but the loving and the loved Should be awake at this sweet hour. And see — where, high above those rocks That o'er the deep their shadows fling, Yon turret stands ; — where ebon locks, 1 "There is a kind of Rhododendron about Trebizond, w nose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives As glossy as a heron's wing Upon the turban of a king, 3 Hang from the lattice long and wild, — 'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child. All truth and tenderness and grace, Though born of such ungentle race;-- An image of youth's fairy fountain Springing in a desolate mountain !' Oh. what a pure and sacred thing Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight Of the gross world, illumining One only mansion with her light ! Unseen by man's disturbing eye, — The flower that blooms beneath the sea Too deep for sunbeams doth not lie Hid in more chaste obscurity ! So, Hinda, have thy face and mind, Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined. And oh, what transport for a lover To lift the veil that shades them o'er ! — Like those who all at once discover In the lone deep some fairy shore, Where mortal never trod before, And sleep and wake in scented airs No lip had ever breathed but theirs ! Beautiful are the maids that glide On summer-eves through Yemen's* dales. And bright the glancing looks they hide Behind their litters' roseate veils ; — And brides, as delicate and fair As the white jasmine flowers they wear, Hath Yemen in her blissful clime, Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower,' Before their mirrors count the time,' And grow still lovelier every hour. 3 "Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers upon the right side, as a badge of sovereignity." 3 " The Fountain of Youth, by a Mohammedan tradition, ix sitnated in some dark region of the East." * Arabia Felix. 6 " In the midst of the garden is the chioss, that is, a larg« room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst of it. It is raised nine or ten steps, and enclosed with gilded lattices, round which vines, jessamines, and honeysuckle* make a sort of green wall ; large treeB are planted round this place, which is' the scene of their greatest pleasures."— Lady M. W. Montagu. « The women of the East are never without their looking- glasses. " In Barbary." says Shaw, " they are so fond of theii looking-glasses, which they hang upon their breasts, that they wiH not lay them aside, even when, after the drudgery of the day, they are obliged to go two or three miles with a pitcher or a goat's skin to fetch water."— Travels. In other parts of Asia they wear little looking glasses ia 120 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But never yet hath bride or maid In Araby's gay Harams smiled, vVhose boasted brightness would Dot fade Before Al Hassan's blooming child. Light as the angel shapes that bless An infant's dream, yet not the less Rich in all woman's loveliness ; — With eyes so pure, that from their ray Dark Vice would turn abash'd away, Blinded like serpents, when they gaze Upon the emerald's virgin blaze! 1 Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires, Mingling the meek and vestal fires Of other worlds with all the bliss, The fond, weak tenderness of this! The soul, too, more than half divine, Where, through some shades of earthly feeling, Religion's soften'd glories shine, Like light through summer foliage stealing, Shedding a glow of such mild hue, So warm, and yet so shadowy too, As makes the very darkness there More beautiful than light elsewhere ! Snch is the maid who, at this hour, ' Hath risen from her restless sleep, And sits alone in that high bower, Watching the still and moonlight deep. Ah ! 'twas not thus, — with tearful eyes And beating heart, — she used to gaze On the magnificent earth and skies, In her own land, in happier days. Why looks she now so anxious down Among those rocks, whose rugged frown Blackens the mirror of the deep ? Whom waits she all this lonely night ? Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep For man to scale that turret's height ! So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire, When high, to catch the cool night-air their thumbs. " Hence ;and from the lotus being considered the emblem of beauty) is the meaning of the following mate i of two lovers before their parents :— "He, with salute of deference due, A lotus to his forehead prest ; She raised her mirror to his view, Then turned it inward to her breast." Asiatic Miscellany, vol. ii. After the day -beam's withering fire,' He built her bower of freshness there, And had it deck'd with costliest skill, And fondly thought it safe as fair. Think, reverend dreamer ! think so still, Nor wake to learn what love can dare- Love, all-defying Love, who sees No charm in trophies won with ease; — Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss Are pluck'd on danger's precipice ! Bolder than they who dare not dive For pearls but when the sea's at rest, Love, in the tempest most alive, Hath ever held that pearl the best He finds beneath the stormiest water ! — Yes, Araby's unrivall'd daughter, Though high that tower, that rock-way rude, There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek, Would climb the untrodden solitude Of Ararat's tremendous peak, And think its steeps, though dark and dread, Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led ! Even now thou seest the flashing spray, That lights his oar's impatient way; — Even now thou hearst the sudden shock Of his swift bark against the rock, And stretchest down thy arms of snow, As if to lift him from below ! Like her to whom, at dead of night, The bridegroom, with his locks of light, Came, in the flush of love and pride, And scaled the terrace of his bride; — When as she saw him rashly spring, And mid-way up in danger cling, She flung him down her long black hair, Exclaiming, breathless, " There, love, there !' And scarce did manlier nerve uphold The hero Zal in that fond hour, Than wings the youth who fleet and bold Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower. See — light as up their granite steeps The rock-goats of Arabia clamber,' Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, And now is at the maiden's chamber. She loves — but knows not whom she love8, Nor what his race, nor whence he came; — ' " At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus, it is sometimes M hot that the people are obliged to lie all day iu the water."— Marco Polo. > "On the lofty hills of Arabia Petrasa are rock-goata."-- NUbuhr. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 121 Like one who meets, in Indian groves, Some beauteous bird without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, From isles in the undiscover'd seas, To show his plumage for a day To wondering eyes, and wing away ! Will he thus fly — her nameless lover? Alia forbid ! 'twas by a moon As fair as this, while singing over Some ditty to her soft kanoon,' Alone, at this same witching hour She first beheld his radiant eyes Gleam through the lattice of the bower, Where nightly now they mix their sighs ; And thought some spirit of the air (For what could waft a mortal there ?) Was pausing on his moonlight way To listen to her lonely lay ! This fancy ne'er hath left her mind; And though, when terror's swoon had pass'd, She saw a youth of mortal kind Before her in obeisance cast, — Yet often since, when he has spoken Strange, awful words, and gleams have broken From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, Oh ! she hath fear'd her soul was given To some unhallow'd child of air, Some erring spirit, cast from heaven, Like those angelic youths of old, Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould, Bewilder'd left the glorious skies, And lost their heaven for woman's eyes ! Fond girl ! nor fiend nor angel he, Who woos thy young simplicity ; But one of earth's impassion'd sons, As warm in love, as fierce in ire As the best heart whose current runs Full of the Day-God's living fire ! But quench'd to-night that ardor seems, And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow ; — Never before, but in her dreams, Had she beheld him pale as now : And those were dreams of troubled sleep, Prom which 'twas joy to wake and weep ; Visions that will not be forgot, 1 "Can an, espScc de psalterion, avec des cordes de boyaux, 8 dames en touchent dans le sarail, avec des deoailles armeee : pointes de coco."— Toderini, translated by De Cournaud. But sadden every waking scene, Like warning ghosts that leave the spot All wither'd where they once have been I " How sweetly," said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that moonlight flood — " How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To-night upon yon leafy isle ! Oft, in my fancy's wanderings, I've wish'd that little isle had wings, And we, within its fairy bowers, Were wafted off to seas unknown, Where not a pulse should beat but ours, And we might live, love, die alone, Far from the cruel and the cold, — Where the bright eyes of angels only Should come around us, to behold A Paradise so pure and lonely ! Would this be world enough for thee ?" — Playful she turn'd, that he might see The passing smile her cheek put on ; But when she mark'd how mournfully His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ; And, bursting into heartfelt tears, "Yes, yes," she cried, " my hourly fears, My dreams have boded all too right — We part — forever part — to-night ! I knew, I knew it could not last — 'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past ! Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away. I never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die ! Now too — the joy most like divine Of all I ever dreamt or knew, To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine — O misery ! must I lose that too ? Yet go — on peril's brink we meet ; — Those frightful rocks — that treacherouf sea — No, never come again — though sweet, Though heaven, it may be death to thee. Farewell — and blessings on thy way, Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger 1 Better to sit and watch that ray, POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And think thee safe, though far away, Than have thee near me, and in danger I" ' Danger !— oh, tempt me not to boast," The youth exclaim'd — "thou little knowst What he can brave, who, born and nurst In danger's paths, has dared her worst! Upon whose ear the signal- word Of strife and death is hourly breaking; Who sleeps with head upon the sword His fever'd hand must grasp in waking ! " Say on — thou fearst not, then, And we may meet — oft meet again ?" "Oh! look not so, — beneath the skies I now fear nothing but those eyes. If aught on earth could charm or force My spirit from its destined course, — If aught could make this soul forget The bond to which its seal is set, 'Twould be those eyes ; — they, only they, Could melt that sacred seal away! Bub no — 'tis fix'd — my awful doom Is fix'd — on this side of the tomb We meet no more — why, why did Heaven Mingle two souls that earth has riven, Has rent asunder wide as ours? Oh, Arab maid ! as soon the powers Of light and darkness may combine, As I be link'd with thee or thine ! Thy father " " Holy Alia save His gray head from that lightning glance ! Thou knowst him not — he loves the brave : Nor lives there under heaven's expanse One who would prize, would worship thee, And thy bold spirit, more than he. Oft when, in childhood, I have play'd With the bright falchion by his side, I've heard him swear his lisping maid In time should be a warrior's bride. And still, whene'er, at Haram hours, I take him cool sherbets and flowers, He tells me, when in playful mood, A hero shall my bridegroom be, Since maids are best in battle woo'd, And won with shouts of victory ! Nay, turn not from me — thou alone Art i'orm'd to make both hearts thy own. Go — join his sacred ranks — thou knowst The unholy strife these Persians wage : — Good Heaven, that frown ! — even now thou glowst With more than mortal warrior's rage. Haste to the camp by morning's light, And, when that sword is raised in fight, Oh^ still remember love and I Beneath its shadow trembling lie ! One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire, Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire Abhors " " Hold, hold — thy words are death ! w The stranger cried, as wild he flung His mantle back, and show'd beneath The Gheber belt that round him clung.' — " Here, maiden, look — weep — blush to see All that thy sire abhors in me ! Yes — Jain of that impious race, Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even, Hail their Creator's dwelling-place Among the living lights of heaven I* Yes — I am of that outcast few To Iran and to vengeance true, Who curse the hour your Arabs came To desolate our shrines of flame, And swear, before God's burning eye, To break our country's chains, or die ! Thy bigot sire — nay, tremble not — He who gave birth to those dear eyes With* me is sacred as the spot From which our fires of worship rise ! But know — 'twas he I sought that night. 1 "They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushee or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it." "Pour se distinguer des idolatres de rinde, les Guebres se ceignent tons d'nu cordon de laine, ou de puil de chameuu " — Encyclnptdie Franqoise. D'Herbelot says this belt was generally of leather. a " They suppose the throne of the Almighty is seated in the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary." " As to fire, the Ghebers place the spring-head of it in that globe of fire, the sun, by them called Mythras, or Mihir, to which they pay the highest reverence, in gratitude for Uw manifold benefits flowiug from its ministerial omu (Science. But they are so far from confounding the subordination of tho servant with the majesty of its Creator, that they not only attribute no sort of sense or reasoning to the sun or fire ft any of its operations, but consider it as a purely passive blind instrument, directed and governed by the immediate impres- sion on it of the will of God ; but they do not even give that luminary, all-glorious as it is, more than the second rank amongst his works, reserving the first for that stupendous production of divine power, the mind of man." — Grose. The false charges brought against the religion of these people by their Mussulman tyrants is but one proof among many of the truth of this writer's remark, " that calumny is often added to oppression, if but for the sake of justifying it " POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 123 "When, from my watch-boat on the sea, I caught this turret's glimmering light, And up the rude rocks desperately Rush'd to my prey — thou knowst the rest — I climb'd the gory vulture's nest, And found a trembling dove within ; — Thins, thine the victory — thine the sin — If Love has made one thought his own, That Vengeance claims first — last — alone ! Oh ! had we never, never met, Or could this heart even now forget How link'd, how bless'd we might have been, Had fate not frown'd so dark between ! Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, In neighboring valleys had we dwelt, Through the same fields in childhood play'd, At the same kindling altar knelt, — rhen, then, while all those nameless ties, In which the charm of country lies, Had round our hearts been hourly spun, Till Iran's cause and thine were one ; — While in thy lute's awakening sigh I heard the voice of days gone by, And saw in every smile of thine Returning hours of glory shine ! — While the wrong' d spirit of our land Lived, .ook'd, and spoke her wrongs througr thee — God ! who could then this sword withstand ? Its very flash were victory ! But now, estranged, divorced forever, Far as the grasp of Fate can sever — Our only ties what love has wove — Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide ; And then, then only true to love, When false to all that's dear beside ! Thy father Iran's deadliest foe — Thyself, perhaps, even now — but no — Hate never look'd so lovely yet ! No — sacred to thy soul will be The land of him who could forget All but that bleeding land for thee ! When other eyes shall see, unmoved, Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved, And for his sake thou'lt weep for all ! But look " With sudden start he turn'd And pointed to the distant wave, Where .lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave ; And fiery darts, at intervals, 1 Flew up all sparkling from the main. As if each star that nightly falls, Were shooting back to heaven again. " My signal lights ! — I must away — Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay. Farewell, sweet life ! thou clingst in vain — Now, vengeance, I am thine again !" Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd, Nor look'd — but from the lattice dropp'd Down mid the pointed crags beneath, As if he fled from love to death. While pale and mute young Hinda stood,. Nor moved, till in the silent flood A momentary plunge below Startled her from her trance of woe ; — Shrieking she to the lattice flew, " I come — I come — if in that tide Thou sleepst to-night — I'll sleep there too,. In death's cold wedlock by thy side. Oh, I would ask no happier bed Than the chill wave my love lies under ;— Sweeter to rest together dead, Far sweeter, than to live asunder !" But no — their hour is not yet come — Again she sees his pinnace fly, - Wafting him fleetly to his home, Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie; And calm and smooth it seem'd to win Its moonlight way before the wind, As if it bore all peace within, Nor left one breaking heart behind ! The Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, could have wished that Feramorz had chosen a less melancholy story ; as it is only to the happy that tears are a luxury Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the poet's theme ; for when he spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree which grows over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein. 2 1 " The Mamelukes that were in the other boat, when it war dark, used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air, which, in some measure, resembled lightning or falling stare." * " At Gualior is a small tomb to the memory of Tan-Sein, a musician of incomparable skill, who flourished at the court of Akbar. The tomb is overshadowed by a tree, concerning which a superstitious notion prevails, that the chewing of IU leaves will give an extraordinary melody to the vj«."~ Journey from Agra to Oiizein, by W. Hunter, Esq POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country — through valleys, cov- ered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the awful signal of the bam- boo staff, 1 with the white flag at its top, reminded the traveller that in that very spot the tiger had made some human creature his victim. It was therefore with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath the shade, some pious hands had erected pillars, 2 ornamented with the most beautiful porce- lain, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens, as they adjusted their hair in descending from the palankeens. Here while, as usual, the Princess sat listen- ing anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the young poet, leaning against a branch of the tree, thus continued his story : — The morn has risen clear and calm, And o'er the Green Sea 3 palely shines, Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm, And lighting KishmaV amber vines. Fresh smell the shores of Araby, While breezes from the Indian Sea Blow round Selania's' sainted cape, And curl the shining flood beneath, — Whose waves are rich with many a grape, And cocoanut and flowery wreath, Which pious seamen, as they pass'd, Have toward that holy headland cast — Oblations to the genii there For gentle skies and breezes fair ! 1 " It is usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed to a bamboo stan' of ten or twelve feet long, at the piece where a tiger haB destroyed a man. The sight of these flags imparts a certain melancholy, not perhaps altogether void of appre- hension."— Oriental Field Sports, vo;. ii. J " The Fieus indica is called the Pagod Tree and Tree of Council ; the first from the idols placed under its shade ; the second, because meetings were held under its cool branches. In some places it is he.icved to be the haunt of spectres, as the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have been of fairies ; in others are erected beneath the shade pillars of stone, or posts, elegantly carved and ornamented with the most beautiful por- celain to supply the use of mirrors."— Pennant. ' The Persian Gulf. « Islands in the Gulf. • Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the en- trance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. The nightingale now bends ber flight* From the high trees, where all the night She sung so sweet, with none to listen; And hides her from the morning star Where thickets of-pornegranate glisten In the clear dawn, — bespangled o'er With dew, whose ntght-drops would not stain The best and brightest scimitar' That ever youthful sultan wore On the first morning of his reign ! And see — the sun himself ! — on wings Of glory up the east he springs. Angel of light ! who from the time Those heavens began their march sublime, Has first of all the starry chair Trod in his Maker's steps of fire ! Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere. When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd To meet that eye where'er it burn'd ? — When, from the banks of Bendemeer To the nut-groves of Samarcand Thy temples flamed o'er all the land ? Where are they ? ask the shades of them Who, on Cadessia's' bloody plains, Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem From Iran's broken diadem, And bind her ancient faith in chains : — Ask the poor exile, cast alone On foreign shores, unloved, unknown, Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates," Or on the snowy Mossian Mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates, Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains t Yet happier so than if he trod His own beloved but blighted sod, Beneath a despot stranger's nod ! — Oh ! he would rather houseless roam Where Freedom and his God may lead, Than be the sleekest slave at home That crouches to the conqueror's creed ! 7 In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, " The dew is of such a pure nature that, if the brightest sciml tar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the least rust." » The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed. > Derbeud.— " Les Turcs appollent cette ville Demir Capi, Porte de For; ce sont les Caspiae Port"! dcs anciens." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 125 Is Iran's pride then gone forever, Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's caves ? — No — she has sons that never — never — Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves, While heaven has light or earth has graves. Spirits of fire, that brood not long, But flash resentment back for wrong ; And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds Of vengeance ripen into deeds, Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm, 1 Whose buds fly open with a sound That shakes the pigmy forests round ! Fes, Emir ! he who scaled that tower, And, could he reach thy slumbering breast, Would teach thee, in a Gheber's power How safe even tyrant heads may rest — Is one of many, brave as he, Who loathe thy haughty race and thee ; Who, though they know the strife is vain, Who, though they know the riven chain Snaps but to enter in the heart Of him who rends its links apart, Yet dare the issue, — blest to be Even for one bleeding moment free, And die in pangs of liberty ! Thou knowst them well — 'tis some moons since Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags, Thou satrap of a bigot prince ! Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags ; Fet here, even here ; a sacred band, Ay, in the portal of that land Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own, Their spears across thy path have thrown ; Here— ere the winds half-wing'd thee o'er — Rebellion braved thee from the shore. Rebellion ! foul, dishonoring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gain'd. How many a spirit, born to bless, Has sunk beneath that withering name, 1 " The Talpot or Talipot Palm Tree. The sheath which envelops the flower is very large, and, when it hursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon." — Thutiberg. Whom but a day's, an hour's success, Had wafted to eternal fame ! As exhalations, when they burst From the warm earth, if chill'd at first, If check'd in soaring from the plain, Darken to fogs, and sink again ; — But if they once triumphant spread Their wings above the mountain-head, Become enthroned in upper air, And turn to sun-bright glories there \ And who is he that wields the might Of freedom on the Green Sea brink, Before whose sabre's dazzling light* The eyes of Yeman's warriors wink ? Who comes embower'd in the spears Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers? — Those mountaineers that truest, last, Cling to their country's ancient rites, As if that God, whose eyelids cast Their closing gleam on Iran's heights, Among her snowy mountains threw The last light of His worship too ! 'Tis Hafed — name of fear, whose sound Chills like the muttering of a charm : — Shout but that awful name around-, And palsy shakes the manliest arm. 'Tis Hafed, most accurst and dire (So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire) Of all the rebel Sons of Fire ! Of whose malign, tremendous power The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour, Such tales of fearful wonder tell, That each affrighted sentinel Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, Lest Hafed in the midst should rise ! A man, they say, of monstrous birth, A mingled race of flame and earth, Sprung from those old, enchanted kings Who in their fairy helms, of yore, A feather from the mystic wings Of the Simoorgh resistless wore ; And gifted, by the fiends of fire, Who groan'd to see their shrines expire, 2 " When the bright cimiters make the eyes c ". ur heroet wink."— The Mollakat, Poems of Amru. > Tahmuras, and other ancient kings of Persia: v> hose ad- ventures in Fairy Land, among the Peris and Dives, may be fonnd in Richardson's Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmurae, with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them afterward to hie descendants. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. With charms that, all in vain withstood, Would drown the Koran's light in blood ! Such were the tales that won belief, And such the coloring fancy gave To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief, — One who, no more than mortal brave, Fought for the land his soul adored, For happy homes and altars free, — His only talisman the sword, His only spell-word, Liberty ! One of that ancient hero line, Along whose glorious current shine Names that have sanctified their blood ; As Lebanon's small mountain-flood Is render'd holy by the ranks' Of sainted cedars on its banks !' ''Twas not for him to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny : — : 'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast In the bright mould of ages past, Whose melancholy spirit, fed With all the glories of the dead, Though framed for Iran's happiest years, Was born among her chains and tears ! — 'Twas not for him to swell the crowd Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd Before the Moslem as he pass'd, Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast ; No — far he fled — indignant fled The pageant of his country's shame ; While every tear her children shed Fell on his soul like drops of flame ; And as a lover hails the dawn Of a first smile, so welcomed he The sparkle of the first sword drawn For vengeance and for liberty ! But vain was valor— vain the flower "Of Kerman, in that deathful hour, Against Al Hassan's whelming power. In vain they met him, helm to helm, Upon the threshold of that realm He came in bigot pomp to sway, ■ In the Lettrea Ed\flantts, there is a different cause as- •igned for its name of holy. "In these are deep caverns, which formerly served as so many cells for a great number of recluses, who had chosen these retreats as the only witnesses upon the earth of the severity of their penance. The tears of these pious penitents gave the river of which we have just treated the name of the Holy River." Vide Chateaubriand's ••Beauties of Christianity." - TMs molet," says Dandini, "is called the Holy River, a' anong which It rises.' And with their corpses block'd his way ; In vain — for every lance they raised Thousands around the conqueror blazed ; For every arm that lined their shore, Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er, — A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, Before whose swarm as fast they bow'd As dates beneath the locust-cloud ! There stood — but one short league away From old Harmozia's sultry bay — A rocky mountain o'er the Sea s Of Oman beetling awfully, A last and solitary link Of those stupendous chains that reach From the broad Caspian's reedy brink Down winding to the Green Sea beach. Around its base the bare rocks stood, Like naked giants in the flood, As if to guard the gulf across ; While on its peak, that braved the sky, A ruin'd temple tower'd so high That oft the sleeping albatross' Struck the wild ruins with her winsr, And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering Started — to find man's dwelling there In her own silent fields of air ! Beneath, terrific caverns gave Dark welcome to each stormy wave That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in ; — And such the strange, mysterious din At times throughout those caverns roll'd,— And such the fearful wonders told Of restless sprites imprison'd there, That bold were Moslem who would dare, At twilight hour, to steer his skiff Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.' On the land side, those towers sublime, That seem'd above the grasp of Time, Were sever'd from the haunts of men By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, • This mountain is my own creation, as the " stupeet »«■ chain" of which I suppose it a link does not extend qcil* M far aB the shore of the Persian Gulf. • These birds sleep in the air. They are most cornmoa about the Cape of Good Hope. • "There is an extraordinary hill in the neighborhood, called Kohe Gubr, or the Guebre's mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, and on the summit of it, they eay, are the remains of Atush Kudu or Fire Temple. It is supersti- tiously held to be the residence of Deeves or Sprites, and many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and witch- craft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend ot explore it."— Pottinger'a Beloochlstan. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. So faikomless, so full of gloom, No eye could pierce the void between; It seam'd a place where ghouls might come With their foul banquets from the tomb, And # in its caverns feed unseen. Like distant thunder, from below The sound of many torrents came ; loo deep for eye or ear to know If 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow, Or floods of ever-restless flame. Eor each ravine, each rocky spire Of that vast mountain stood on fire ;' And though forever past the days When God was wo/shipp'd in the blaze That from its lofty altar shone, — Though fled the priests, the votaries gone, Still did the mighty dame burn on 2 Through chance and chaj£e, through good and ill, Like its own God's eternal *i!.l, Deep, constant, bright, unquenshable ! Thither the vanquish'd Hafed led His little army's last remains ;- " Welcome, terrific glen !" he said, " Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread, Is heaven to him who flies from oiains !" O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known To him and to his chiefs alone, They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the towers ; — "This home," he cried, "at least is ouis — Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns Of Moslem triumph o'er our head ; Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs To quiver to the Moslem's tread. Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks, Here — happy that no tyrant's eye Gloats on our torments — we may die !" 'Twas night when to those towers they came, And gloomily the fitful flame, That from the ruin'd altar broke. ■ Bubterra- ' ''aI the city of Yezd in Persia, which is distinguished hy the appellation of the DarQb Abadut, or Seat of Religion, the Uuebres are permitted to have an Atnsh Kudu or Fire Temple (which they assert has had the sacred fire in it since the days of Zoroaster) in their own compartment of the city ; bat for thiB indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the toler »nce of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty- «ve rupaes each man.''— Pattingtr's Beloochvstan. Glared on his features as he spoke : — " 'Tis o'er — what aien could do, we've done- If Iran will look tamely on, And see her priests, her warriors driven Before a sensual bigot's nod, A wretch who takes his lusts to heaven, And makes a pander of his God ! If her proud sons, her high-born souls, Men in whose veins — oh, last disgrace ! The blood of Zal and Rustatn 5 rolls, — If they will court this upstart race, And turn from Mithra's ancient ray, To kneel at shrines of yesterday ! If they icill crouch to Iran's foes, Why, let them — till the land's despair Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows Too vile for even the vile to bear ! Till shame at last, long hidden, bums Their inmost core, and conscience turns Each coward tear the slave lets fall Back on his heart in drops of gall ! But here, at least, are arms unchain'd, And souls thfvt thraldom never stain'd ; — This spot, at least, no tool of slavt-. Or satrap ever yet profaned ; And though but few — though fast the wave Of life is ebbing from our veins, Enough for vengeance still remains As panthers, after set of sun, Rush from the roots of Lebanon Across the dark sea-robber's way, We'll bound upon our startled prey ; — And when some hearts that proudest swell Have felt our falchion's last farewell ; When Hope's expiring throb is o'er, And even Despair can prompt no more, This spot shall be the sacred grave Of the last few who, vainly brave, Die for the land they cannot save \ n His chiefs stood round — each shining blade Upon the broken altar laid — And though so wild and desolate Those courts, where once the mighty sate ; Nor longer on those mouldering towers Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers, With which of old the Magi fed The wandering spirits of their dead ;' » Ancient heroeB of Persia. "Among the Ghebers then' I »re some who boast their descent from Rustam." I* "Among other ceremonies, the Magi used to place upol the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upoo 128 I 'OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Though neither priest nor rites were there, Nor charm'd leaf of pure pomegranate; 1 Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air, Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet;' Yet the same God that heard their sires Heard them, while on that altar's fires They swore' the latest, holiest deed Of the few hearts still left to bleed, Should be in Iran's injured name To die upon that mount of flame — The last of all her patriot line, Before her last untrampled shrine ! Brave, suffering souls ! they little knew How many a tear their injuries drew Prom one meek heart, one gentle foe, Whom Love first touch'd with others' woe — Whose life, as free from thought as sin, Slept like a lake, till Love threw in His talisman, and woke the tide, And spread its trembling circles wide. Once, Emir! thy unheeding child, Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smiled — Tranquil as on some battle-plain The Persian lily shines and towers/ Before the combat's reddening stain Had fallen upon her golden flowers. Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved, While Heaven but spared the sire she loved, Once at thy evening tales of blood Unlistening and aloof she stood — And oft, when thou hast paced along Thy Haram halls with furious heat, Hast thou not cursed her cheerful song, That came across thee, calm and sweet, Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear ? Far other feelings love has brought — Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their de- parted heroes regaled themselves." 1 In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their fire, as de- scribed by Lord, "The Daroo," he says, "giveth them water to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in the mouth, to cleanse them from inward uncleanness." 8 •' Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at Oulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the sun, to whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, made by magic, resembling the circles of the sun, and when the snn riBes, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in their hands, »nd offer incense to the sun." * "Nul d'entre eux oseroit se perjurer, quand il a pris a temoin cet element terrible et vengeur."— Encyclopedie Francois. * "A vivid verdure Bucceeds tit autumnal rains, and the ploughed fields are covered with the Persian lily, of aresplen- tent y»llo w color."— Busier s Aleppo. She now has but the one dear thought, And thinks that o'er, almost to madness ! Oft doth her sinking heart recall His words — " For my sake, weep for all ;" And bitterly, as day on day Of rebel carnage fast succeeds, She weeps a lover snatch'd away In every Gheber wretch that bleeds. There's not a sabre meets her eye, But with his life-blood seems to swim; There's not an arrow wings the sky But fancy turns its point to him. No more she brings with footstep light Al Hassan's falchion for the fight; And — had he look'd with clearer sight, Had not the mists, that ever rise From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes- He would have mark'd her shuddering frame, When from the field of blood he came, The faltering speech — the look estranged — Voice, step, and life, and beauty changed ; He would have mark'd all this, and known Such change is wrought by love alone ! Ah ! not the love that should have bless'd So young, so innocent a breast ; Not the pure, open, prosperous love That, pledged on earth and seal'd above, Grows in the world's approving eyes, In friendship's smile and home's caress, Collecting all the heart's sweet ties Into one knot of happiness ! No, Hinda, no — thy fatal flame Is nursed in silence, sorrow, shame. A passion, without hope or pleasure, In thy soul's darkness buried deep It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure, — Some idol, without shrine or name, O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep Unholy watch, while others sleep ! Seven nights have darken'd Oman's Sea, Since last, beneath the moonlight ray, She saw his light oar rapidly Hurry her Gheber's birk away ; And still she goes, at midnight hour, To weep alone in that high bower, And watch, and look along the deep For him whose smiles first made her weep,— But watching, weeping, all was vain, She never saw that bark again. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 129 The owlet's solitary cry, The night-hawk, flitting darkly by, And oft the hateful carrion-bird, Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing, Which reek'd with that day's banqueting — Was all she saw, was all she heard. 'Tis the eighth morn — Al Hassan's brow Is brighten'd with unusual joy — What mighty mischief glads him now, Who never smiles but to destroy ? The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea, When tost at midnight furiously, 1 Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, More surely than that smiling eye ! " Up, daughter, up — the KernaV breath Has blown a blast would waken Death, And yet thou sleepst — up, child, and see This blessed day for Heaven and me, A day more rich in Pagan blood Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood. Before another dawn shall shine, His head — heart — limbs — will all be mine ; This very night his blood shall steep These hands all over ere I sleep !" — " His blood !" she faintly scream'd — her mind Still singling one from all mankind. "Yes, spite of his ravines and towers, Hafed, my child, this night is ours. Thanks to all-conquering treachery, Without whose aid the links accurst, That bind these impious slaves, would be Too strong for Alla's self to burst ! That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread My path with piles of Moslem dead, Whose baffling spells had almost driven | Back from their course the swords of Heaven, This night, with all his band, shall know How deep an Arab's steel can go, When God and vengeance speed the blow. And — Prophet ! — by that holy wi-eath Thou worest on Ohod's field of death I swear, for every sob that parts In anguish from these heathen hearts, 1 " It is observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that when it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire." 1 A kind of trumpet ;— it " was that used by Tamerlane, the •ouvi of which is so loud as to be heard at the distance of leverol miles." • " loSammed had two helmets, an interior and exterior we, ,ne latter of which, called Al Hawashah, the wreathed I he wore at the battle of Ohoa A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines Shall glitter on thy shrine of shrines. But, ha ! — she sinks — that look so wild— Those livid lips — my child, my child, This life of blood befits not thee, And thou must back to Araby. Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex In scenes that man himself might dread, Had I not hoped our every tread Would be on prostrate Persian necks — Curst race, they offer swords instead ! But cheer thee, maid, — the wind that now Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow To-day shall waft thee from the shore ; And, ere a drop of this night's gore Hath time to chill in yonder towers, Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers !" His bloody boast was all too true — There lurk'd one wretch among the few Whom Hafed's eagle eye could count Around him on that fiery mount, — One miscreant, who for gold betray'd The pathway through the valley's shade To those high towers where Freedom stood In her last hold of flame and blood Left on the field last dreadfiu night. When, sallying from their sacred height, The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight, He lay — but died not with the brave ; That sun, which should have gilt his grave, Saw him a traitor and a slave ; — And, while the few, who thence return'd To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd For him among the matchless dead They left behind on glory's bed, He lived, and, in the face of morn, Laugh'd them and faith and heaven to scorn! Oh for a tongue to curse the slave, Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the counsels of the brave, And blasts them in their hour of might I May life's unblessed cup for him Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim, — With hopes that but allure to fly, With joys that vanish while he sips, Like Dead-Sea fruits that tempt the eye,* But turn to ashes on the lips ! POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. His country's curse, his children's shame, Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, Way he, at last, with lips of flame, On the parch'd desert thirsting die, — While lakes that shone in mockery nigh 1 Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted, Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! And, when from earth his spirit flies, Just Prophet, let the damn'd one dwell Full in the sight of Paradise, Beholding heaven, and feeling hell ! Lalla Rookh had had a dream the night "before, which, in spite of the impending fate of poor Hafed, made her heart more than usually cheerful during the morning, and gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bid-musk had just passed over. 3 She fancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies, 3 who live forever on the water, enjoy a per- petual summer in wandering from isle to isle, when she saw a small gilded bark approach- ing her. It was like one of those boats •which the Maldivian islanders annually send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odorifer- ous; wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first this little bark appeared to be empty, but on coming; nearer ashes."— Thevenot. The same is asserted of the oranges there. — Vide Witman's Travels in Asiatic Turkey. Lord Byron has a similar allusion to the fruits of the Dead Sea, in that wonderful display of genius— his Third Canto of " Cbi'de Harold" — magnificent beyond anything, perhaps, that even lie has ever written. " "'he Shuhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused oy the refraction of the atmosphere from extreme heat ; and, which augments thedelusion, it is most frequent in hollows, where water might be expected to lodge. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it, with as much acenracy as though it had been the face or a clear and still lake."— Potlinger. "As to the unbelievers, tlu'ir works are like a vapor in a plain, which the thirsty traveller thinketh to be water, until when he eometh thereto he fuideth it to be nothing." — Koran, chap. 24. * "A wind which prevails in February, called Bidmusk, from a small and odoriferous flower of that name." "The wind which blows these flowers commonly lasts till the end of the month."— Le Bruyn. 3 "The Biajus are of two races; the one is settled on Borneo, and are a rude but warlike and industrious uation, who reckon themoelves the original possessors of the island of Borneo. The ottsr is a species of sea-gipsies or itinerant fishermen, who live in small covered boats, and enjoy a per- petual summer or f .be eastern ocean, shifting to leeward from sland to island, wisn the variations of the teyo>n on I he Indo- Chinese Nations. She had proceeded thus far in relati-ng the dream to her ladies, when Feramorz appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence of course, everything else was forgotten, and the continuance of the story was in- stantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets ; — the violet sherbets* were hastily handed round, and, after a short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava, 6 which ia always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the poet thus continued : — The day is lowering — stilly black Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack, Dispersed and wild, 'twixt earth and sky Hangs like a shatter'd canopy 1 There's not a cloud in that blue plain But tells of storm to come or past ; — Here, flying loosely as the mane Of a young war-horse in the blast ; There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling, As proud to be the thunder's dwelling ! While some, already burst and riven, Seem melting down the verge of heaven ; As though the infant storm had rent The mighty womb that gave him birth, And, having swept the firmament, Was now in fierce career for earth. On earth 'twas all yet calm around, A pulseless silence, dread, profound, More awful than the tempest's sound. The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers, And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours; The sea-birds, with portentous screech, Flew fast to land ; — upon the beach The pilot oft had paused with glance Turn'd upward to that wild expanse ; And all was boding, drear, and dark As her own soul, when Hinda's bark Went slowly from the Persian shore. No music timed her parting oar,' Nor friends upon the lessening strand « " The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most es- teemed, particularly for its great use in Sorbet, which thej make of violet sugar." — Uasselguist. " The sherbet they most esteem, and which is drunk by th« Grand Signor himself, is made of violets and sugar."-* Tavernier. * "Last of all she took a guitar, and sang a pathetic air In the measure called Nava, which is always used to express lamentations of absent lovers."— Persian Tales. • "The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyvei with music." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Linger'd to wave the unseen hand, Or speak the farewell, heard no more ; But lone, unheeded, from the bay The vessel takes its mournful way, Like some ill-destined bark that steers In silence through the Gate of Tears.' And where was stern Al Hassan then ? Could not that saintly scourge of men From bloodshed and devotion spare One minute for a farewell there ? No — close within, in changeful fits Of cursing and of prayer, he sits In savage loneliness to brood Upon the coming night of blood, With that keen, second-scent of death, By which the vulture snufl's his food In the still warm and living breath ! a Whilo o'er the wave his weeping daughter Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter, — As a young bird of Babylon, Let loose to tell of victory won, Flies home, with wing, ah ! not unstain'd By the red hands that held her chain'd. And does the long-left home she seeks Light up no gladness on her cheeks ? The flowers she nursed — the well-known groves, Where oft in dreams her spirit roves — Once more to see her dear gazelles Come bounding with their silver bells; Her birds' new plumage to behold, And the gay, gleaming fishes count, She left, all filleted with gold, Shooting around their jasper fount.' Her little garden mosque to see, And once again, at evening hour, To tell her ruby rosary* In her own sweet acacia bower. — 1 " The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, called Babelmandeb. It received this name from the danger of the navigation and the number of shipwrecks by wmch it was distinguished ; which induced them to consider as dead all who had the boldness to hazard the passage thiongh it into the Ethiopic ocean." . 2 '• I have been told that, whensoever an animal falls down dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appear." 8 " The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were many years afterward known by fillets of gold which she caused to toe put round them." * Le Tespih, qui est nn chopelet, compose de 99 petites 'onles d'agathe, de jaspe, d'ambre, de corail. on d'antre mati- ire prHCicuse. J'en ai va un superbe au Seigneur Jerpos ; il ■«toit de belles et grosses perles parfaiten et ggales, estime' •-ente mille piastres."— Toderinl. Can these delights, that wait her low, Call up no sunshine on her brow ? No ; silent, from her train apart, — As if even now she felt at heart The chill of her approaching doom, — She sits, all-lovely in her gloom As a pale angel of the grave ; And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave, Looks, with a shudder, to those towers, Where, in a few short awful hours, Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run, Foul incense for to-morrow's sun ! " Where art thou, glorious stranger ! thou, So loved, so lost, where art thou now ? Foe — Gheber — infidel — whate'er The unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear„ Still glorious — still to this fond heart Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art ! Yes — Alia, dreadful Alia ! yes — If there be wrong, be crime in this, Let the black waves that round us roll Whelm me this instant, ere my soul, Forgetting faith, — home, — father, — all — Before its earthly idol fall, Nor worship even thyself above him. For oh ! so wildly do I love him, Thy Paradise itself were dim And joyless, if not shared with him !" ,Her hands were clasp'd — her eyes upturn'd, Dropping their tears like moonlight rain , And though her lip, fond raver, burn'd With words of passion, bold, profane, Yet was there light around her brow A holiness in those dark eyes, Which show'd — though wandering earth- ward now, — Her spirit's home was in the skies. Yes, — for a spirit pure as hers Is always pure, even while it errs ; As sunshine, broken in the rill, Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still I So wholly had her mind forgot All thoughts but one, she heedel not The rising storm — the wave that cast A moment's midnight, as it pass'd — Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread Of gathering tumult o'er her head — Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to TM With the rude riot of the sky. — 132 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But hark ! — that warwhoop on the deck — That crash, as if each engine there, Masts, sails, and all were gone to wreck, Mid yells and stampings of despair ! Merciful Heaven ! what can it be? Tis not the storm, though fearfully The ship has shudder'd as she rode O'er mountain waves — " Forgive me, God ! Forgive me," shriek'd the maid, and knelt, Trembling all over, — for she felt As if her judgment-hour was near; While crouching round, half dead with fea», Her handmaids clung, nor breathed, nor stirr'd — When, hark ! — a second crash — a third ; And now, as if a bolt of thunder Had riven the laboring planks asunder, The deck falls in — what horrors then ! Elood, waves, and tackle, swords and men Come mix'd together through the chasm ; — Some wretches in their dying spasm Still fighting on — and some that call "For God and Iran !" as they fall. Whose was the hand that turn'd away The perils of the infuriate fray, And snatch'd her breathless from beneath This wilderment of wreck and death ? She knew not — for a faintness came Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame Amid the ruins of that hour Lay like a pale and scorched flower, Beneath the red volcano's shower ! But oh ! the sights and sounds of dread That shock'd her, ere her senses fled ! The yawning deck — the crowd that strove Upon the tottering planks above — The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er The stragglers' heads, all dash'd with gore, Flutter'd like bloody flags — the clash Of sabres, and the lightning's flash Upon their blades, high toss'd about Like meteor brands' — as if throughout The elements one fury ran, One general rage, that left a doubt Which was the fiercer, Heaven or man ! Once, too — but no — it could not be — 'Twas fancy all — yet once she thought, While yet her fading eyes could see, i The meteors that Pliny calls " Paces." High on the ruin'd deck she caught A glimpse of that unearthly form, That glory of her soul, — even then, Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, Shining above his fellow-men, As, on some black and troublous night, The star of Egypt, 2 whose proud light Never has beam'd on those who rest In the White Islands of the West, Burns through the storm with looks of flam* That put heaven's cloudier eyes to shamo But no — 'twas but the minute's dream — A fantasy— and ere the scream Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips, A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse Of soul and sense its darkness spread Around her, and she sunk, as dead ! How calm, how beautiful comes on The stilly hour, when storms are gone ; When warring winds have died away, And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, Melt off, and leave the land and sea Sleeping in bright tranquillity, — Fresh as if day again were born, Again upon the lap of Morn ! When the light blossoms, rudely torn And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will, Hang floating in the pure air still, Filling it all with precious balm, In gratitude for this sweet calm ; — And every drop the thunder showers Have left upon the grass and flowers Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem' Whose liquid flame is born of them ! When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze^ There blow a thousand gentle airs, And each a different perfume bears, — As if the loveliest plants and trees Had vassal breezes of their own To watch and wait on them alone, And waft no other breath than theirs • When the blue waters rise and fall, In sleepy sunshine mantling all ; And even that swell the tempest leaves Is like the full and silent heaves 3 " The brilliant Cannpus, unseen in European climates." ' A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancient* cerauniura. because it was supposed to be found in places where thunder had fallen. Tertullian says it has a glittering appearance, as if there had been fire in it ; and others suppos* it to be the opal. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest, Too newly to be quite at rest ! Such was the golden hour that broke Upon the world, when Hinda woke From her long trance, and heard around No motion but the water's sound Rippling against the vessel's side, As slow it mounted o'er the tide. — But where is she ? — her eyes are dark, Are wilder'd still — is this the bark, The same, that from Harmozia's bay Bore her at morn — whose bloody way The sea-dog tracks ? — no — strange and new Is all that meets her wondering view. Upon a galliot's deck she lies, Beneath no rich pavilion's shade, No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes, Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. But the rude litter, roughly spread With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, And shawl and sash, on javelins hung, For awning o'er her head are flung. Shuddering she look'd around — there lay A group of warriors in the sun Resting their limbs, as for that day Their ministry of death were done. Some gazing on the drowsy sea, Lost in unconscious reverie ; And some, who seem'd but ill to brook That sluggish calm, with many a look To the slack sail impatient cast, As loose it flagg'd around the mast. Blest Alia ! who shall save her now ? There's not in all that warrior-band One Arab sword, one turban'd brow, From her own faithful Moslem land. Their garb — the leathern belt that wraps Each yellow vest 1 — that rebel hue — The Tartar fleece upon their caps" — Yes — yes — her fears are all too true, And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour, Abandon'd her to Hafed's power ; — Hafed, the Gheber ! — at the thought Her very heart's-blood chills within ; He, whom her soul was hourly taught To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin, i " The Ohebers are known by a dark yellow color which the men affect in their clothes." 1 " The Eolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the lkin of the sheep ofTartary." Some minister — whom hell had sent To spread its blast where'er he went, And ^ing, as o'er our earth he trod, His shadow betwixt man and God ! And she is now his captive, thrown In his fierce hands, alive, alone ; His the infuriate band she sees, All infidels— all enemies ! What was the daring hope that then Cross'd her like lightning, as again, With boldness that despair had lent, She darted through that armed crowd A look so searching, so intent, That even the sternest warrior bow'd Abash'd, when he her glances caught, As if he guess'd whose form they sought ? But no — she sees him not — 'tis gone, — The vision, that before her shone Through all the maze of blood and storm, Is fled — 'twas but a phantom form- One of those passing rainbow dreams, Half light, half shade, which Fancy's Paint on the fleeting mists that roll In trance or slumber round the soul ! But now the bark, with livelier bound, Scales the blue wave — the crew's \A motion — The oars are out, and with light sound Break the bright mirror of the ocean, Scattering its brilliant fragments round. And now she sees — with honor sees — Their course is toward that mountain hold, — Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze, Where Mecca's godless enemies Lie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'd In their last deadly, venomous fold ! Amid the illumined land and flood Sunless that mighty mountain stood, Save where, above its awful head, There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, As 'twere the flag of destiny Hung out to mark where death would be ! Had her bewilder'd mind the power Of thought in this terrific hour, She well might marvel where or how Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow; Since ne'er had Arab heard or known Of path but through the glen alone. — But every thought is lost in fear, 134 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. When, as their bounding hark drew near The craggy base, she felt the waves Hurry them toward those dismal caves That from the deep in windings pass Beneath that mount's volcanic mass — And loud a voice on deck commands To lower the mast and light the brands ! — Instantly o'er the dashing tide Within a cavern's mouth they glide, Gloomy as that eternal porch Through which departed spirits go ; — Not even the flare of brand and torch Its flickering light could further throw Than the thick flood that boil'd below. Silent they floated — as if each Sat breathless, and too awed for speech In that dark chasm, where even sound Seem'd dark, — so sullenly around The goblin echoes of the cave Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave, As 'twere some secret of the grave ! But soft — they pause — the current turns Beneath them from its onward track ; — Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns The vexed tide, all foaming, back, And scarce the oar's redoubled force : Can stem the eddy's whirling course When, hark !— some desperate foot has sprung Among the rocks — the chain is flung — The oars are up — the grapple clings) And the toss'd bark in moorings swings. Just then, a day-beam through the shade Broke tremulous — but, ere the maid Can see from whence the brightness steals, Upon her brow she shuddering feels A viewless hand, that promptly ties A bandage round her burning eyes; While the rude litter where she lies, Uplifted by the warrior throng, O'er the steep rocks is borne along. Blest power of sunshine ! genial Day, What balm, what life is in thy ray ! To feel thee is such real bliss, That had the world no joy but this, — To sit in sunshine calm and sweet, — It were a world too exquisite For man to leave it for the gloom, The deep, cold shadow of the tomb ! Even Ilinda, though she saw not where Or whither wound the perilous road, Tet knew by that awakening air, Which suddenly around her glow'd, That they had risen from darkness then, And breathed the sunny world again ! But soon this balmy freshness fled — For now the steepy labyrinth led Through damp and gloom — 'mid crash of boughs, And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse The leopard from his hungry sleep, Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey, And long is heard from steep to steep, Chasing them down their thundering way . The jackal's cry — the distant moan Of the hyaena, fierce and lone ; — And that eternal, saddening sound Of torrents in the glen beneath, As 'twere the ever-dark profound That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death I All, all is fearful — even to see, To gaze on those terrific things She now but blindly hears, would be' Relief to her imaginings ! Since never yet. was shape so dread, But fancy, thus in darkness thrown, And by su«h sounds of horror fed, Could frame more dreadful of her own. But does she dream ? has fear again Perplex'd the workings of her brain, Or did a voice, all music, then Come from the gloom, low whispering near — " Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here ?" She does not dream — all sense, all ear, She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here." 'Twas his own voice — she could not err — Throughout the breathing world's extent There was but one such voice for her, So kind, so soft, so eloquent ! Oh ! sooner shall the rose of May Mistake her own sweet, nightingale, And to some meaner minsti-el's lay Open her bosom's glowing veil, 1 Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, A breath of the beloved one ! Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think She has that one beloved near, Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink, 1 " A frequent image among the oriental po-'ts. ' Th« nighfc ingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thim velll of the rose-bud and the rose.' " POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 135- Has power to make even ruin dear, — Yet soon this gleam of rapture, cross'd By fears for him, is chill'd and lost. How shall the ruthless Hafed brook That one of Gheber blood should look, With aught but curses in his eye, On her — a maid of Araby — A Moslem maid — the child of him Whose bloody banner's dire success Has left their altars cold and dim, And their fair land a wilderness ! And, worse than all, that night of blood Which comes so fast — oh ! who shall stay The sword that once has tasted food Of Persian hearts, or turn its way ? What arm shall then the victim cover, Or from her father shield her lover? g Save him, my God !" she inly cries — ■ l Save him this night — and if thine eyes Have ever welcomed with delight The sinner's tears, the sacrifice Of sinners' hearts — guard him this night, And here, before Thy throne, I swear From my heart's inmost core to tear Love, hope, remembrance, though they be Link'd with each quivering life-string there, And give it bleeding all to Thee ! Let him but live, the burning tear, The sighs, so sinful y«fc so dear, Which have been all too much his own, Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone. Youth pass'd in penitence, and age In long and painful pilgrimage, Shall leave no traces of the flame That wastes me now — nor shall his name E'er bless my lips, but when I pray For his dear spirit, that away Casting from its angelic ray The eclipse of earth, he too may shine Redeem'd, all-glorious and all Thine ! Think — think what victory to win One radiant soul like his from sin ; — One wandering star of virtue back To its own native, heavenward track ! Let him but live, and both are Thine, Together Thine— for, blest or cross'd, Living or dead, his doom is mine, And if he perish, both are lost !" The next evening Lalla Rookh was en- treated by her ladies to continue the relation of her wonderful dream ; but the fearfiv) interest that hung round the fate of Hinda and her lover had completely removed every trace of it from her mind — much to the dis- appointment of a fair seer or two in her train, who prided themselves on their skill in interpreting visions, and who had already remarked, as an unlucky omen, that th» Princess, on the very morning after the dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blos- soms of the sorrowful tree Nilica. 1 Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than once broken out during the recital of some parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed at length to have made up his mind to the infliction ; and took bis seat this evening with all the patience of a martyr, while the poet continued his profane and seditious story thus : — To tearless eyes and hearts at ease The leafy shores and sun-bright seas That lay beneath that mountain's height Had been a fair, enchanting sight. 'Twas one of those ambrosial eves A day of storm so often leaves At its calm setting — when the West Opens her golden bowers of rest, And a moist radiance from the skies Shoots trembling down, as from "the eyes Of some meek penitent, whose last, Bright hours atone for dark ones past, And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven, Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven I 'Twas stillness all — the winds that late Had rush'd through Kerman's almond groves, And shaken from her bowers of date That cooling feast the traveller loves, 1 Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam, Limpid, as if her mines of pearl Were melted all to form the stream. And her fair islets, small and bright, With their green shores reflected there, 1 "Blossoms of the sorrowful Nyctanthes give a dnrabl* color to silk." — Remarks on. the husbandry of Bengal, p. 200. " Nilica is one of the Indian names of tbis flower."— Sir W. Jones. " The Persians call it Gul."— Carreri. 3 "In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are saaken from the trees by the wind, they leave for those who hive not any, oj for travellers." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Look like those Peri isles of light, That hang by spell-work in the air. But vainly did those glories burst On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first The bandage from her brow was taken, And pale and awed as those who waken In their dark tombs — when, scowling near, The searchers of the grave 1 appear, — She, shuddering, turn'd to read her fate In the fierce eyes that flash'd around ; And saw those towers all desolate, That o'er her head terrific frown'd, As if defying even the smile Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. In vain, with mingled hope and fear, She looks for him whose voice so dear Had come, like music, to her ear — Strange, mocking dream ! again 'tis fled. And oh ! the shoots, the pangs of dread That through her inmost bosom run, When voices from without proclaim, "Hafed, the Chief" — and, one by one, The warriors shout that fearful name ! He comes — the rock resounds his tread — How shall she dare to lift her head, Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare Not Yeman's boldest sons can bear ? In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, As in those hellish fires that light The mandrake's charnel leaves at night I" How shall she bear that voice's tone, At whose loud battle-cry alone Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, Scatter'd, like some vast caravan, When, stretch'd at evening round the well, They hear the thirsting tiger's yell ! Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, Shrinking beneath the fiery frown, Which, fancy tells her, from that brow Is flashing o'er her fiercely now ; And shuddering, as she hears the tread Of his retiring warrior band. Never was pause so full of dread ; Till Hafed, with a trembling hand, Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said, 1 " The two terrible angels, Monkir and Naklr, who i called ' The Searchers of the Grave.' " • "The Arabians call the mandrake ' The Devil'B Cand m account of its shining appearance in the night" " Hinda !" — that word was all he spoke ; And 'twas enough — the shriek that broke From her full bosom told the rest — Breathless with terror, joy, surprise, The maid but lifts her wondering eyes To hide them on her Gheber's breast I 'Tis he, 'tis he — the man of blood, The fellest of the Fire-Fiend's brood. Hafed, the demon of the fight, Whose voice unnerves, whose glanoet blight, Is her own loved Gheber, mild And glorious as when first he smiled In her lone tower, and left such beams Of his pure eye to light her dreams, That she believed her bower had given Rest to some habitant of heaven ! Moments there are, and this was one, Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun Amid the black Simoom's eclipse — Or like those verdant spots that bloom Around the crater's burning lips, Sweetening the very edge of doom I The past — the future — all that fate Can bring of dark or desperate Around such hours, but makes them cast Intenser radiance while they last ! Even he, this youth — though dimm'd and gone Each star of hope that cheer'd him on — His glories lost — his cause betray'd — Iran, his dear-loved country, made A land of carcases and slaves, One dreary waste of chains and graves — Himself but lingering, dead at heart, To see the last, long-struggling breath Of liberty's great soul depart, Then lay him down, and share her death — Even he, so sunk in wretchedness, With doom still darker gathering o'er him, Yet in this moment's pure caress, In the mild eyes that shone before him, Beaming that blest assurance, worth All other transports known on earth, That he was loved — well, warmly loved — Oh ! in this precious hour he proved How deep, how thorough-felt the glow Of rapture, kindling out of woe ; — How exquisite one single drop POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE. Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top Of misery's cup — how keenly quaff'd, Though death must follow on the draught ! She, too, while gazing on those eyes That sink into her soul so deep, Forgets all fears, all miseries, Or feels them like the wretch in sleep, Whom fancy cheats into a smile, Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while ! The mighty ruins where they stood, Upon the mount's high rocky verge, Lay open toward the ocean's flood, Where lightly o'er the illumined surge Many a fair bark that all the day Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay Now bounded on and gave their sails, Yet dripping, to the evening gales, — Like eagles, when the storm is done, Spreading their wet wings in the sun. The beauteous clouds, though daylight's star Had sunk behind the hills of Lar, Were still with lingering glories bright, — As if to grace the gorgeous west, The spirit of departing light That eve had left his sunny vest Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight. Never was scene so form'd for love! Beneath them, waves of crystal move In silent swell — heaven glows above,. And their pure hearts, to transport given, Swell like the wave, and glow like heaven ! But ah ! too soon that dream is past — Again, again her fear returns ; — Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, More faintly the horizon burns, And every rosy tint that lay On the smooth sea has died away. Hastily to the darkening skies A glance she casts — then wildly cries, "At night, he said — and, look, 'tis near — Fly, fly — if yet thou lovest me, fly — Soon will his murderous band be here, And I shall see thee bleed and die. Hush ! — heardst thou not the tramp of men Sounding from yonder fearful glen ? — Perhaps even now they climb the wood. Fly, fly — though still the west is bright, He'll come — oh ! yes — he wants thy blood — I know him — he'll not wait for night !" In terrors even to agony She clings around the wondering Chief;— " Alas, poor wilder'd maid ! to me Thou owest this raving trance of grief. Lost as I am, naught ever grew Beneath my shade but perish'd too — My doom is like the Dead Sea air, And nothing lives that enters there ! Why were our barks together driven Beneath this morning's furious heaven ? Why, when I saw the prize that chance Had thrown into my desperate arms, — When, casting but a single glance Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er Thy safety through that hour's alarms) To meet the unmanning sight no more — Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow? Why weakly, madly met thee now ? — Start not — that noise is but the shock Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd — Dread nothing here — upon this rock We stand above the jarring world, Alike beyond its hope — its dread — In gloomy safety, like the dead ! Or, could even earth and hell unite In league to storm this sacred height, Fear nothing thou — myself, to-night, And each o'erlooking star that dwells Near God will be thy sentinels ; — And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow, Back to thy sire- — " " To-morrow ! — no—-" The maiden scream'd — " thou'lt never see To-morrow's sun — death, death will be The night-cry through each reeking tower, Unless we fly — ay, fly this hour ! Thou art betray'd : some wretch who knew That dreadful glen's mysterious clew- Nay, doubt not — by yon stars, 'tis true — - Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire ; This morning, with that smile so dire He wears in joy, he told me all, And stamp'd in triumph through our hall, As though thy heart already beat Its last life-throb beneath his feet ! Good heaven, how little dream'd I then His victim was my own loved youth !— Fly. — send — let some one watch the glen— ■ By all my hopes of heaven, 'tis tr»th ! n POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Ob ! colder than the wind that freezes Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd, Is that congealing pang which seizes The trusting bosom when betray'd. He felt it — deeply felt — and stood, As if the tale had frozen his blood, So mazed and motionless was he ; — Like one whom sudden spells enchant, Or some mute marble habitant Oi the still halls of Ishmonie! 1 But soon the painful chill was o'er, And his great soul, herself once more, Look'd from his brow in all the ra3 r s Of her best, happiest, grandest days; Never, in moment most elate, Did that high spirit loftier rise; — While bright, serene, determinate, His looks are lifted to the skies, As if the signal-lights of Fate "Were shining in those awful eyes ! 'Tis come — his hour of martyrdom In Iran's sacred cause is come ; And though his life has pass'd away Like lightning on a stormy day, Yet shall Li? death-hour leave a track Of glory, permanent and bright, To which the brave of after-times, The suffering brave, shall long look back With proud regret, — and by its light Watch through the hours of slavery's night For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes ! This rock, his monument aloft, Shall speak the tale to many an age ; And hither bards and heroes oft Shall come in secret pilgrimage, And bring their warrior rons, and tell The wondering boys where Hafed full, And swear them on those lone remains Of their lost country's ancient fanes, Never — while breach of life shall live Within them — never to forgive The accursed race, whose ruthless chain Has left on Ir7n's neck a stain Blood, blood alone can cleanse again ! Such are the swelling thoughts that now Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow : 1 For an account i{ iBhmonie. the petrified city in Upper Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, &c., to be seen to this day, vide Perry's " View of the Levant. " And ne'er did saint of Issa* gaze On the red wreath, for martyrs twined, More proudly than the youth surveys That pile, which through the gloom behind, Half-lighted by the altar's fire, Glimmers, — his destined funeral pyre ! Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands, Of every wood of odorous breath, There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands, Ready to fold in radiant death The few still left of those who swore To perish there, when hope was o'er — The few to whom that couch of flame, Which rescues them from bonds and shame, Is sweet and welcome as the bed For their own infant Prophet spread, When pitying Heaven to roses turn'd The death-flames that beneath him buru'd 1* With watchfulness the maid attends His rapid glance, where'er it bends- Why shoot his eyes such awful beams ? What plans he now ? wh at thinks or drea, aa T Alas ! why stands he musing here, When every moment teems with fear ? " Hafed, my own beloved lord," She kneeling cries — " first, last adored t If in that soul thou'st ever felt Half what thy lips impassion'd swore, Here, on my knees that never knelt To any but their God before, I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly — Now, now — ere yet their blades are nigh Oh haste — the bai-k that bore me hither Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea East, west, — alas, I care not whither, So thou art safe, and I with thee ! Go where we will, this hand in thine, Those eyes before me smiling thus, Through good and ill, through storm had shine, The world's a world of love for us ! 3 Jesus. » "The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the flame turned instantly into ' a bed of rosea, where the child sweetly reposed.' " Of their other prophet Zoroa6ter, there is a story told in Dion Frvsceus, Orat. 36, that the love of wisdom and virtue leading him to a solitary life upon a mountain, he found itone day all in a flame, shining with celestial fire, out of which he came without any harm, and instituted certain sacrifices to God, who, he declared, then appeared to him. Vide " Patric > on Exodus," ii. S. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 13» On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell, Whore 'tis no crime to love too well ; — Where thus to worship tenderly An erring child of light like thee Will not be sin — or, if it be, Where we may weep our faults away, Together kneeling, night and day, Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine, And I — at any God's, for thine I" Wildly these passionate words she spoke — Then hung her head, and wept for shame ; Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke With every deep-heaved sob that came. While he, young, warm — oh ! wonder not If, for a moment, pride and fame, His oath — his cause — that shrine of flame, And Iran's self are all forgot For her whom at his feet he sees, Kneeling in speechless agonies. No, blame him not, if Hope a while Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile O'er hours to come — o'er days and nights Wing'd with those precious, pure delights Which she, who bends all-beauteous there, • Was born to kindle and to share ! A tear or two, which, as he bow'd To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud Of softness passing o'er his soul. Starting, he brush'd the drops away, Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray ; — Like one who, on the morn of fight, Shakes from his sword the dew of night, That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light. Yet though subdued the unnerving thrill, Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still So touching in each look and tone, That the fond, fearing, hoping maid Half counted on the flight she pray'd, Half thought the hero's soul was grown As soft, as yielding as her own, And smiled and bless'd him, while he said, — " Yes — if there be some happier sphere, Where fadeless truth like ours is dear ; — If there be any land of rest For those who love and ne'er forget, Oh ! comfort thee — for safe and blest We'll meet in that calm region yet !" Scarce had she time to ask her heart If good or ill these words impart, When the roused youth impatient flew To the tower-wall, where, high in view, A ponderous sea-horn 1 hung, and blew A signal, deep and dread as those The Storm-Fiend at his rising blows. — Full well his chieftains, sworn and true Through life and death, that signal knew ;, For 'twas the appointed warning-blast, The alarm to tell when hope was past, And the tremendous death-die cast ! And there, upon the mouldering tower, Has hung his sea-horn many an hour, Ready to sound o'er land and sea That dirge-note of the brave and free. They came — his chieftains at the call Came slowly round, and with them all — Alas, how few ! — the worn remains Of those who late o'er Herman's plains Went gayly prancing to the clash Of Moorish zel and tymbalon, Catching new hope from every flash Of their long lances in the sun — And as their coursers charged the wind, And the white ox-tails stream'd behind," Looking as if the steeds they rode Were wing'd, and every chief a god ! How fallen, how alter'd now ! how wan Each scarr'd and faded visage shone, As round the burning shrine they came f— How deadly was the glare it cast, As mute they paused before the flame To light their torches as they pass'd ! 'Twas silence all — the youth had plann'd The duties of his soldier-band ; And each determined brow declares His faithful chieftains well know theirs. But minutes speed — night gems the skies — And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes That look from heaven, ye may behold Sights that will turn your star-fires cold ! Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, The maiden sees the veteran group > " The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and the Mediterranean, and Btill used in many parts as a trumpet for blowing alarms or giving signals : it sends forth a deep and hollow sonnd." a " The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild oxen that are to he found in some places of the Indies." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Her Htter silently prepare, And lay it at her trembling feet ; — And now the youth, with gentle care, Has placed her in the shelter'd seat, And press'd her hand — that lingering press Of hands, that for the last time sever ; Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness, When that hold breaks, is dead forever. And yet to her this sad caress Gives hope — so fondly hope can err ! 'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess — Their happy flight's dear harbinger ; 'Twas warmth — assurance — tenderness— 'Twas anything but leaving her. " Haste, haste !" she cried, " the clouds grow dark, But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark : And by to-morrow's dawn — oh, bliss ! With thee upon the sunbright deep, Far off, I'll but remember this As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep ! And thou " But ha ! — he answers not — Good Heaven ! — and dpes she go alone ? She now has reach'd that dismal spot Where, some hours since, his voice's tone Had come to soothe her fears and ills, Sweet as the angel Israfil's 1 When every leaf on Eden's tree Is trembling to his minstrelsy — Yet now — oh now, he is not nigh — " Hafed ! my Hafed ! — if it be Thy will, thy doom this night to die, Let me but stay to die with thee, And I will bless thy loved name, Till the last life-breath leave this frame. Oh ! let our lips, our cheeks be laid But near each other while they fade; Let us but mix our parting breaths, And I can die ten thousand deaths ! You too, who hurry me away So cruelly, one moment stay — Oh ! stay — one moment is not much — He yet may come — for him I pray — Hafed ! dear Hafed ! " All the way, In wild lamentings that would touch A heart of stone, she shriek'd his name To the dark woods — no Hafed came ; — No — hapless pair — you've looked your last; Your hearts should both have broken then : The dream is o'er — your doom is cast — You'll never meet on earth again ! Alas for him, who hears her cries ! — Still half-way down the steep he stands, Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes The glimmer of those burning brands That down the rocks, with mournful ray, Light all he loves on earth away 1 Hopeless as they who, far at sea, By the cold moon have just consign'd The corse of one, loved tenderly, To the bleak flood they leave behind; And on the deck still lingering stay, And long look back, with sad delay, To watch the moonlight on the wave, That ripples o'er that cheerless grave. But see — he starts — what heard he then ? That dreadful shout ! — across the glen From the land side it comes, and loud Rings through the chasm ; as if the crowd Of fearful things that haunt that dell, Its ghouls and dives, and shapes of hell, Had all in one dread howl broke out, So loud, so terrible that shout ! " They come — the Moslems come !" — h» cries, His proud soul mounting to his eyes, — " Now, spirits of the brave, who roam Enfranchised through yon starry dome, Rejoice — for souls of kindred fire Are on the wing to join your choir !" He said — and, light as bridegrooms bound To their young loves, re-climb'd the steep And gain'd the shrine — his chiefs stood round — ■ Their swords, as with instinctive leap. Together, at that cry accurst, Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst, And hark ! — again — again it rings ; Near and more near its echoings Peal through the chasm — oh ! who that then Had seen those listening warrior-men, With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame Turn'd on their chief— could doubt the shame, The indignant shame with which they thriU To hear those shouts and jet stand still? POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. He read their thoughts — they were his own — " What ! while our arms can wield these blades, Shall we die tamely ? die alone ? Without one victim to our shades, One Moslem heart where, buried deep, The sabre from its toil may sleep ? No — God of Iran's burning skies ! Thou scornst the inglorious sacrifice. No — though of all earth's hope bereft, Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. We'll make yon valley's reeking caves Live in the awe-struck minds of men, Till tyrants shudder when their slaves Tell of the Ghebers' bloody glen. Follow, brave hearts ! — this pile remains Our refuge still from life and chains ; But his the best, the holiest bed, Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead !" Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, TV hile vigor more that human strung Each arm and heart. — The exulting foe Stid through the dark defiles oe.c ft Track'd by his torches' lurid fire, Wound slow, as through Golconda's valt The mighty serpent, in his ire, Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. No torch the Ghebers need — so well They know each mystery of the dell, So oft have, in their wanderings, Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell, The very tigers from their delves Look out, and let them pass, as things Untamed and fearless like themselves ! There was a deep ravine that lay Yet darkling in the Moslem's way ; — Fit spot to make invaders rue The many fallen before the few. The torrents from that morning's sky Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high, And, on each side, aloft and wild Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pilea. — The guards, with which young Freedom lines The pathways to her mountain shrines. Here, at this pass, the scanty band Of Iran's last avengers stand ; — Here wait, in silence like the dead, And listen for the Moslem'' *,read I So anxiously, the carrion bird j Above them flajss his wing unheard ! They come — that plunge into the water Gives signal for the work of slaughter. Now, Ghebers, now — if e'er your blades Had point or prowess, prove them now — Woe to the file that foremost wades ! They come — a falchion greets each brow. And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk, Beneath' the gory waters sunk, Still o'er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless ; Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band, So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, But listless from each crimson hand The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre. Never was horde of tyrants met With bloodier welcome — never yet To patriot vengeance hath the sword More terrible libations pour'd ! All up the dreary, long ravine, By the red, murky glimmer seen Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood Lie scxttei d lcucd sni burn in blood, What ruin glares ! what carnage swims ! Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand, In that thick pool of slaughter stand ; — Wretches who wading, half on fire From the toss'd brands that round them 'Twixt flood and flame, in shrieks expire ; — And some who, grasp'd by those that die^ Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er In their dead brethren's gushing gore ! But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, Still hundreds, thousands more succeed !— Countless as toward some flame at night The North's dark insects wing their flight, And quench or perish in its light, To this terrific spot they pour — Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er, It bears aloft their slippery tread, And o'er the dying and the dead, Tremendous causeway! on they pass.- Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas, What hope was left for you ? for you, Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice Is smoking in their vengeful eyes — POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Whose swords how keen, how fierce they knew, And burn with shame to find how few. Crush'd down by that vast multitude, Some found their graves where first they stood ; While some with harder struggle died, And still fought on by Hafed's side, Who, fronting to the foe, trod back Toward the high towers his gory track; And, as a lion, swept away By sudden swell of Jordan's pride From the wild covert where he lay, 1 Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide, So fought he back with fierce delay, And kept both foes and fate at bay ! But whither now? their track is lost, Their prey escaped — guide, torches gone — By torrent-beds and labyrinths cross'd, The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on — " Curse on those tardy lights that wind," They panting cry, "so far behind — Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent, To track the way the Gheber went !" Vain wish — confusedly along They rush, more desperate as more wrong : Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights, Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, Their footing, mazed and lost, they miss, And down the darkling precipice Are dash'd into the deep abyss ; — Or midway hang, impaled on rocks, A banquet, yet alive, for flocks Of ravening vultures, — while the dell Re-,echoes with each horrible yelL Those sounds — the last, to vengeance dear, That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear, — Now reach'd him, as aloft, alone, Upon the steep way breathless thrown, He lay beside his reeking blade, Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er, Its last blood-offering amply paid, And Iran's self could claim no more. One only thought, one lingering beam Now broke across his dizzy dream 1 "Id this thicket, upon the banks of the Jordan, wild beasts are wont to har">or. whose being washed out of the covert by the overfl-wings of the river gave occasion to that illusion of Jeremiah., ' He shall come up like a lion from IKe twtlliig of Jordan.' '—Maundrell's Aleppo Of pain and weariness — 'twas she His heart's pure planet, shining yet Above the waste of memory, When all life's other lights were set. And never to his mind before Her image such enchantment wore. It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd, Each fear that chill'd their loves was past, And not one cloud of earth remain'd Between him and her glory cast; — As if to charms, before so bright, New grace from other worlds was given, And his soul saw her by the light Now breaking o'er itself from heaven ! A voice spoke near him — 'twas the tone Of a loved friend, the only one Of all his warriors left with life From that short night's tremendous strife — " And must we then, my Chief, die here? Foes round us, and the shrine so near !" These words have roused the last remains Of life within him — " What ! not yet Beyond the reach of Moslem chains !" The thought could make even Death forget His icy bondage — with a bound He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown Even feebler, heavier than his own, And up the painful pathway leads, Death gaining on each step he treads. Speed them, thou God, who heardst their vow ! They mount — they bleed — oh save them now — The crags are red they've clamber'tl o'er, The rock-weed's dripping with their gore — Thy blade too, Hated, false at length, Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength — ■ Haste, haste — the voices, of the foe Come near and nearer from below — One effort more — thank Heaven ! 'tis past, They've gain'd the topmost steep at last. And now they touch the temple's walls, Now Hafed sees the Fire divine — When lo ! — his weak, worn comrade falh» Dead on the threshold of the shrine. "Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled ! And must I leave thee withering here, The sport of every ruflian : s tread, The mark for every coward's spear ? No, by yon altar's sacred beams !" POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 143 He cries, arid, with a strength that seems Not of this world, uplifts the frame Of the fallen chief, and toward the flame Bears him along ; — with death-damp hand The corpse upon the pyre he lays, fhen lights the consecrated brand, And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea. — " Now, Freedom's God ! I come to Thee," The youth exclaims, and with a smile Of triumph vaulting on the pile, In that last effort, ere the fires Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires ! What shriek was that on Oman's tide ? It came from yonder drifting bark, That just has caught upon her side The death-light — and again is dark. It is the boat — ah, why delay'd ? — That bears the wretched Moslem maid ; Confided to the watchful care Of a small veteran band, with whom Their generous Chieftain would not share The secret of his final doom ; But hoped when Hinda, safe and free, Was render'd to her father's eyes, Their pardon, full and prompt, would be The ransom of so dear a prize. — Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate, And proud to guard their beauteous freight, Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves That foam around those frightful caves, When the curst war-whoops, known so well, Came echoing from the distant dell. Sudden each oar, upheld and still," Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, And, driving at the current's will, They rock'd along the whispering tide. While every eye, in mute dismay, Was toward that fatal mountain turn'd, Where the dim altar's quivering ray As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd. Oh ! 'tis not, Hinda, in the power Of fancy's most terrific touch To paint thy pangs in that dread hour — Thy silent agony — 'twas such As those who feel could paint too well, But none e'er felt and lived to tell ! 'Twas not alone the dreary state Ol a lorn spirit, crush'd by late, When, though no more remains to dread, The panic chill will not depart ; — When, though the inmate Hope be dead, Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart No — pleasures, hopes, affections gone, The wretch may bear, and yet live on, Like things within the cold rock found Alive when all's congeal'd around. But there's a blank repose in this, A calm stagnation that were bliss To the keen, burning, harrowing pain Now felt through all thy breast and brain- That spasm of terror, mute, intense, That breathless, agonized suspense, From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching The heart had no relief but breaking ! Calm is the wave — heaven's brilliant lights, Reflected, dance beneath the prow ; — ►Time was when, on such lovely nights, She, who is there so desolate now, Could sit all-cheerful, though alone, And ask no happier joy than seeing That star-light o'er the waters thrown — No joy but that to make her blest, And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being That bounds in youth's yet carelesi breast, — Itself a star, not borrowing light, But in its own glad essence bright. How different now ! — but, hark, again The yell of havoc rings — brave men I In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand On the bark's edge — in vain each hand Half draws the falchion from its sheath ; All's o'er — in rust your blades may lie ;— He, at whose word they've scatter'd death, Even now, this night, himself must die ! Well may ye look to yon dim tower, And ask, and wondering guess what means The battle-cry at this dead hour — Ah ! she could tell you — she, who leana Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, With brow against the dew-cold mast — Too well she knows — her more than life, Her soul's first idol, and its last, Lies bleeding in that murderous strife. But see — what moves upon the height! Some signal ! — 'tis a torch's light. What bodes its solitary glare ? Ui POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. In gasping silence toward the shrine All eyes are turn'd — thine, Hinda, thine Fix their last failing life-beams there. Twas but a moment — fierce and high The death-pile blazed into the sky, And far away o'er rock and flood Its melancholy radiance sent ; While Hafed, like a vision, stood Reveal'd before the burning pyre, Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire Shrined in its own grand element ! " 'Tis he !" — the shuddering maid exclaims,- But while she speaks, he's seen no more; High burst in air the funeral flames, And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er ! One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave — Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, Where still she fix'd her dying gaze, And, gazing, sunk into the wave, — Deep, deep, — where never care or pain Shall reach her innocent heart aorain ! Farewell — farewell to thee, Araby's daugh- ter ! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea ;) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. Oh 1 fair as the sea-flower close to thee grow- ing, How light was thy heart till love's witch- ery came, Like the wind of the south 1 o'er a summer lute blowing, And hush'd all its music and wither'd its frame ! But long, upon Araby's green sunny high- lands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With naught but the sea-star' to light up her tomb. • " This wind (the Samoor) eo softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts." • "The star-fish. It is circular, and at night very resembling the fall moon surrounded by rays." And still, when the merry date-season is burn- ing, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime return- ing At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. The young village maid, when with flowers, she dresses Her dark-flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. ISTor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! forget thee, — Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell ! — be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the son-owing sea-bird has wept ; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber, We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept. We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian 4 are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. > " Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concre- tion of the tears of birds." < " The bay Kieselarke, which .s otherwise called the Gold- en Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Farewell ! — farewell ! — until pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave. The singular placidity with which Fadla- deen had listened, during the latter part of this obnoxious story, surprised the Princess and Feramorz exceedingly; and even in- clined toward him the hearts of these unsus- picious young persons, who little knew the source of a comp'acency so marvellous. The truth was he had been organizing for the last few days a r\iOst notable plan of persecution against the poet, in consequence of some passage, that had fallen from him on the second evening of reeital, — which appeared to this worthy Chamberlain to contain lan- guage and principles for which nothing short of the summary criticism of the chabuk 1 would be advisable. It was his intention, therefore, immediately on their arrival at Cashmere, to give information to the King of Bucharia of the very dangerous senti- ments of his minstrel : and if, unfortunately, that monarch did not act with suitable vigor on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give the chabuk to Feramorz, and a place to Fad- ladeen,) there would be an end, he feared, of all legitimate government in Bucharia. He could not help, however, auguring better both for himself and the cause of potentates in general ; and it was the pleasure arising from these mingled anticipations that diffused 6uch ununual satisfaction through his fea- tures, and made his eyes shine out, like pop- pies of the desert, over the wide and lifeless wilderness of that countenance. Having decided upon the Poet's chastise- ment in this manner, he thought it but humanity to spare him the minor tortures of criticism. Accordingly, when they as- sembled next evening in the pavilion, and Lalla Rookh expected to see all the beauties of her bard melt away, one b) 7 one, in the acidity of criticism, like pearls in the <;up oi the Egyptian Queen, — he agreeably disap- pointed her by merely saying, with an iron- ical smile, that the merits of such a poem deserved to be tried at a much higher tribu nal ; and then suddenly passing off into a panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, more particularly his august and Imperial master Aurungzebe, — the wisest and best of the descendants of Timur, — who, among other great things he had done for mankind, had given to him, Fadladeen, the very profit- able posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of the Girdle of Beautiful Forms, 3 and Grand. Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram. They were now not far from that forbidden* river, 3 beyond which no pure Hindoo can pass ; and were reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdual, which had always been a favorite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the Faith, J.ehan-Guire, wandered with his be- loved and beautiful Nourmahal ; and here would Lalla Rookh have been happy to re« mai-n forever, giving up the throne of Bucha- ria and the world for Feramorz and love in this sweet lonely valley. The time was now fast approaching when she must see him no longer, — or see him with eyes whose every look belonged to another ; and there was a melancholy preciousness in these last mo- ments, which made her heart cling to them as it would to life. During the latter part of his journey, indeed, she had sunk into a deep sadness, from which nothing but the presence of the young minstrel could awake her. Like those lamps in tombs, which only light up when the air is admitted, it was only at his approach that her eyes became smiling and animated. But here, in this dear valley, every moment was an age of ' The »pplic»tion of whips or rods.' 2 His business was, at stated periods, to measure the ladies of the Haram by a sort of regulation-girdle, whose limits it was not thought graceful to exceed. H any of them outgrew this standard of shape, they were reduced by abstinence till they came within its bounds. > The Attock. ■ '1 Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built upon the Nilab, which he called Attock, which means in the Indian, language Forbidden ; for. by the superstition of the Hindoo* it was held unlawful to cross that river ' oio's Hindortan. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. pleasure; she saw him all day, and was, therefore, all day happy, — resembling, she »ften thought, that people of Zinge, 1 who attribute the unfading cheerfulness they enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly over their heads. * The whole party, indeed, seemed in their liveliest mood during the few days they passed in this delightful solitude. The young attendants of the Princess, who were here allowed a freer range than they could 6afely be indulged with in a less sequestered place, ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows, lightly as young roes over the romantic plains of Tibet. While Fadladeen, besides the spirit- ual comfort he derived from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the saint from whom the valley . is named, had opportunities of gratifying, in 3. small way, his taste for victims, by putting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,' which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill ; — taking for granted, that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude in which the Faithful say their prayers ! About two miles from Hussun Abdual were those Royal Gardens, which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still, though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence, inter- rupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basins filled with the pure water of those hills, was to Lalla Rookh all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, cool- ness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, "It was too delicious ;"* — and here, in listening to the '•' Tlie Inhabitants of this country 'Zinge) are never affected with siSlness or melancholy: on this subject the Sheikh Abn- el-Kheir-Azhari has the following distich :— " • Who is the man without care or sorrow (tell), that I may rub my hand to him. " ' (Behold) the Zingians, without care or sorrow, frolick- eome » lit tipsiness and mirth.' " •' The philosophers have discovered that the cauBe of this cheerfulness proceeds from the influence of the Star Soheil or Oanopus, which rises over them every night."— Heft Aklim, or the Seven Climates, translated by W. Outlet/, Esq. » The star Soheil or Canopus. • "The lizard Stellio. The Arabs call it Hardun. The Turks kill it, for they imagine that by declining the head It tchnicn them when they s»y their prayers."— BastelqtHst. i"Ai you enter at that Bazar without the gate at DuaM- sweet voice of Feramorz, or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite moments of her whole life were passed. One evening when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, — the Light of the Haram,' — who had so often wan- dered among these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble basins, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond, — the youth, in order to delay the moment of separation, proposed to recite a short 8tory, or rather rhapsody, of which this adored Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' quarrel, which took place between her and the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at Cashmere ; and would remind the Princess of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid and his fair mistress Marida, which was so happily made up by the sweet strains of the musician Moussali." As the story was chiefly to be told in song, and Feramorz had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the valley, he borrowed the vina of Lalla Rookh's little Persian slave, and thu* began : — THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave, 1 Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave ? cub, you see the Green Mosque, so called became it hath a steeple, faced with green glazed bricks, which render it very resplendent ; it is •?o»»r»d at the top with a pavilion of the same stuff. The Turks say tnis Mosque was made in that place because Mohammed, being come bo far, would not enter the town, eaying it was too delicious." — TJievenot. » Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was after- ward called Nourjehan, or the Light of the World. • " Haroun Al Raschid. cinquieme Khalife des Abassides, s'fitant un jour brouille avec Maridah, qu'il aimoit cependant jusqu'a l'exces, et cette mesintelligence ayant deja dors' qnelque temps commenca a s'ennnyer. Giafar Barmaki, sou favori, qui s'en appercut, commanda a Abbas ben Ahnaf, excellent poete de ce temps-la, de composer quelqnes vers ear le snjet de cette brouillerie. Ce poete execnta l'ordre de Giafar, qui fit chanter ces vers par Monssali en presence da Khalife, et ce Prince fut tenement touchg de la tendresee dee vers du poete et de la douceur de la voix du musicien, qu'il alia ansBitOt trouver Maridah, et fit sa paix avec elle."- D'Berbelot. » " The rose of Caehmere, for its brilliancy and delicacy of odor, haa long been proverbial in the Eait. " POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE Oh ! to see it at sunset, — when warm o'er* the lake Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws, Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes ! — When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown, And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. Or to see it by moonlight, — when mellowly shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines ; When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet From the cool shining walks where the young people meet. Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes A new wonder each minute as slowly it breaks, Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one Out of darkness, as they were just born of the sun. When the spirit of fragrance is up with the day, From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away; And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like a lover The young aspen trees till they tremble all over. When the East is as warm aa the light of first hopes, And day with its banner of radiance un- furl'd. Shines in through the mountainous portal" that opes, Sublime, from that valley of bliss to tin world ! But never yet, by night or day, In dew of spring or summer's ray, Did the sweet valley shine so gay As now it shines — all love and light, Visions by day and feasts by night ! A happier smile illumes each brow, With quicker spread each heart uncloses, And all is ecstasy, — for now The valley holds its Feast of Roses.' That joyous time, when pleasures pour Profusely round, and in their shower Hearts open, like the season's rose, — The floweret of a hundred leaves, Expanding while the dew-fall flows, And every leaf its balm receives. 'Twas when the hour of evening came Upon the lake, serene and cool, When day had hid his sultry flame Behind the palms of Baramoule. When maids began to lift their heads, Refresh'd from their embroider'd beds, Where they had slept the sun away, And waked to moonlight and to play. All were abroad — the busiest hive On BelaV hills is less alive When saffron beds are full in flower, Than look'd the valley in that hour. A thousand restless torches play'd Through every grove and island shade J A thousand sparkling lamps were set On every dome and minaret ; And fields and pathways, far and near, Were lighted by a blaze so clear, That you could see, in wandering round, The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. Yet did the maids and matrons leave Their veils at home that brilliant eve ; And there were glancing eyes about, And cheeks that would not dare shine out In open day, but thought they might i " The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Moham- medans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to to* lake." * " The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their » Mentioned in the Toozek Jekangeery, or 'Memoirs »f Jehan-Gnire," where there is an ascoont of the beds ofiaaW— flowers about Cashmere. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Look lovely then, because 'twas night ! And all were free, and wandering, And all exclaim'd to all they met That never did the summer bring So gay a Feast of Roses yet ; — The moon had never shed a light So clear as that which bless'd them there ; The roses ne'er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves look'd half so fair. And what a wilderness of flowers ! It seem'd as though from all the bowers And fairest fields of all the year, The mingled spoil were scatter'd here. The lake, too, like a garden breathes, With the rich buds that o'er it lie, — As if a shower of fairy wreathes Had fallen upon it from the sky ! And then the sounds of joy, — the beat Of tabors and of dancing feet ; — The minaret-crier's chant of glee Sung from his lighted gallery, 1 And answer'd by a ziraleet From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet ; — The merry laughter, echoing From gardens where the silken swing' Wafts some delighted girl above The top leaves of the orange grove ; Or, from those infant groups at play Among the tents that line the way, Flinging, unawed by slave or mother, Handfuls of roses at each other ! And the sounds from the lake, — the low whisp'ring in boats, As they shoot through the moonlight ; — the dipping of oars, And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere floats, Through the groves, round the islands, as if all the shores Like those of Kathay utter'd music, and gave ' " It is the custom among the women to employ the Maa- zeen to chant from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which on that occasion is illuminated, and the women assembled at the house reBpond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous 2 " The swing is a favorite pastime in the East, as promot- ing a circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry climates."— Richardson. * The swings are adorned with festoons. This, pastime is accompanied Tvith music of voice's and of instruments, hired by the masters of the swings." ~ An answer in song to the kiss of each wave !* But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling, That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing, — Some lover who knows all the heart-touch- ing power Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. Oh ! best of delights, as it everywhere is, To be near the loved one, — what a rapture is his, Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide O'er the Lake of Cashmere with that one by his side ! If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, Think, think what a heaven she must make of Cashmere ! So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar,' When from power and pomp and the trophies of war He flew to that valley, forgetting them all With the Light of the Haram, his young Nourmahal. When free and uncrown'd as the conqueror roved By the banks of that lake, with his only be- loved, He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match, And preferr'd in his heart the least ringlet that curl'd Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world ! There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer- day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splen- dor. ' "■>. : » "The ancients, having remarked that a current of water made some of ihe stones near its banks send forth a sound, they detached some of them, and being charmed With the de» lightfnl sound'thcy emit^ef , constructed, King or nrasical > struments" of them.''' • Jehan-Guire, the son of the Great Acbar.. • • POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. This was not the beauty — oh ! nothing like this, That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss, But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his dreams ! When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face; And when angry — for even in the tranquil- lest climes Light breezes will ruffle the flowers some- times — The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings ! Then her mirth — oh ! 'twas sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst like the wild- bird in spring ; — Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.' While her laugh, full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul ; And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun. Such, such were the peerless enchantments, that gave Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her slave ; And though bright was his Haram, — a living parterre Of the flowers' of this planet — though treas- ures were there, For which Solomon's self might have given all the store That the navy from Ophir e'er wing'd to his shore, Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, And the Light of 1 is Haram was young Nourmahal ! But where is she now, this night of joy, When bliss is every heart's employ? — When all around her is so bright, So like the visions of a trance, That one might think, who came by chance Into the vale this happy night, He saw that City of Delight' In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers Are made of gems and light and flowers ! — Where is the loved Sultana ? where, When mirth brings out the young and fair, Does she, the fairest, hide her brow, In melancholy stillness now ? Alas — how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love ! Hearts that the world in vain has tried, And sorrow but more closely tied ; That stood the storm when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea, When heaven was all tranquillity : | A something light as air — a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken — Oh ! love that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this has shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin; 1 In the ware of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the former took the latter prisoners, " they shut them up in iron »i:es, and hung them on the highest trees." In the Malay language the e The capital of Shadukiam. r word b fenifies \ POEMS OF THOMAS MOOllE. And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said ; Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds, — or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain's brow, As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part forever Oh, you that have the charge of love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the fields of bliss above He sits, with flowerets fetter'd round ; — Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use his wings ; For even an hour, a minute's flight, Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird — whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies — Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their gWy when he flies !' Some difference, of this dangerous kind, — By which, though light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; Some shadow in love's summer heaven, Which, though a fleecy speck at first, May yet in awful thunder burst ;— Such cloud it is that now hangs over The heart of the imperial lover, And far hath banish'd from his sight His Nourinahal, his Haram's light ! Hence is it, on this happy night, When pleasure through the fields and groves Has let loose all her world of loves, And every heart has found its own, — He wanders, joyless and alone, And weary as that bird of Thrace, Whose pinion knows no resting-place. In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes This Eden of the earth supplies Come crowding round — the cheeks are pale, The eyes are dim : though rich the spot With every flower this earth hath got, What is it to the nightingale If there bis darling rose is not T In vain the valley's smiling throng Worship him, as he moves along ; He heeds them not — one smile of hers Is worth a world of worshippers. They but the star's adorers are, She is the heaven that lights the star ! Hence is it too that Nourmahal, Amid the luxuries of this hour, Far from the joyous festival, Sits in her own sequester'd bower, With no one near to soothe or aid, But that inspired and wondrous maid, Namouna, the enchantress ; — one O'er whom his race the golden sun For unremember'd years has run, Yet never saw her blooming brow Younger or fairer than 'tis now. Nay, rather, as the west-wind's sigh Freshens the flower it passes by, Time's wing but seeni'd, in stealing o'er To leave her lovelier than before. Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, And when, as oft, she spoke or sung Of other worlds, there came a light From her dark eyes so strangely bright, That all believed nor man nor earth Were conscious of Namouna's birth ! All spells, and talismans she knew, From the great Mantra," which around The air's sublimer spirits drew, To the gold gems* of Afric, bound Upon the wandering Arab's arm, To keep him from the SiltimV harm. And she had pledged her powerful art, Pledged it with all the zeal and heart Of one who knew, though high her sphere, What 'twas to lose a love so dear, To find some spell that should recall Her SelimV smile to Nourmahal ! > " Among the birds of Tonqnin is it species of goldfinch which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Iti wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beauti- lul colore, but when it flies they lose all their splendor." ' " Ton may place a hundred handfnls of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his con- stant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved rose."— Jami. » " He is said to have found the great Mantra spell or talis- man, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of all denominations." * •' The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arab* ' El Herrez,' from the supposed charm ihey contain." * "A demon supposed to haunt woods, &c, in a humus shape." * The name of Jehan-Gnire before his accession to '. he thron* POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 'Twas midnight — through the lattice, wreathed With woodbine, many a perfume breathed From plants that wake when others sleep, From timid jasmine buds that keep Their odor to themselves all day, But, when the sunlight dies away, Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about ; — When thus Naniouna : — " 'Tis the horn- That scatters spells on herb and flower ; And garlands might be gather'd now, That, twined around the sleeper's brow, Would make him dream of such delights, Such miracles and dazzling sights As genii of the sun behold, At evening, from their tents of gold Upon the horizon — where they play Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray, Their sunny mansions melt away ! Now, too, a chaplet might be wreathed Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed, Which, worn by her whose love has stray'd, Mignt bring some Peri from the skies, Some sprite, whose very soul is made Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs, And who might tell " " For me, for me," Cried Nourmahal impatiently, — " Oh ! twine that wreath for me to-night." Then, rapidly, with foot as light As the young musk-roes, out she flew To cull each shining leaf that grew Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams For this enchanted wreath of dreams. Anemones and seas of gold,' And new-blown lilies of the river, And those sweet flowerets that unfold Their buds on Camadeva's quiver ;' — The tube-rose, with her silvery light, That in the gardens of Malay Is call'd the Mistress of the Night,' So like a bride, scented and bright, She comes out when the sun's away. — Amaranths, such as crown the maids "Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold color " * " The delicious oaor of the blossoms of this tree justly tives it a place in tne auiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love." • " The Malayans style the tube-rose (Folianthe* tuberosa) Sandal Malam.' or th<; Mistress of the Night." That wander through Zamara's shades ;' And the white moon-flower, as it shows On Serendib's high crags to those Who near the isle at evening sail, Scenting her clove-trees in the gale ; — In short, all flowerets and all plants, From the divine Amrita tree, 1 That blesses heaven's inhabitants With fruits of immortality, Down to the basil* tuft, that waves Its fragrant blossom over graves,' And to the humble rosemary, Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed To scent the desert' and the dead, — All in that garden bloom, and all Are gather'd by young Nouwnahal, Who heaps her baskets with the flowers And leaves, till they can hold no more ; Then to Namouna flies, and showers Upon her lap the shining store. With what delight the enchantress views So many buds, bathed with the dews And beams of that bless'd Hour ! — tier gianc* Spoke something past all mortal pleasures, As, in a kind of holy trance, She hung above those fragrant treasures. Bending to drink their balmy airs, As if she mix'd her soul with theirs. And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed From flowers and scented flame that fed Her charmed life — for none had e % er Beheld her iaste of mortal fare, Nor ever in aught earthly dip, But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. Fill'd with the cool inspiring smell, The enchantress now begins her spell, Thus singing as she winds and weaves In mystic form the glittering leaves : — * " In Zamara (Sumatra) they lead an idle life, pasBing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flowers, among which the globe amaranthus mostly prevails." 6 " The largest and richest sort (of the ' Jambu' or Rose Apple) is called ' Amrita, 1 or immortal, az?d the mytholosists of Tibet apply the same word to the celestial tree bearing am- brosial fruit." • Sweet basil, called 'Eayhan' in Persia, and generally found in churchyards. » " The women in Egypt go, at least two days in the week, to pray and weep at the sepulchres of the dead ; and the cus- tom then is to throw upon the tombs a sort of herb, which the Arabs call rifian, and which is onr sweet basil."— MaUitt, Lett. 10. ■ " In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavendw POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. ' I know where the winged visions dwell That around the night-bed play ; I know each herb and floweret's bell, Where they hide their wings by day. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. " The image of love that nightly flies To visit the bashful maid, Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs Its soul, like her, in the shade. The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour That alights on misery's brow, Springs out of the silvery almond-flower, That blooms on a leafless bough. 1 Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. " The visions that oft to worldly eyes The glitter of mines unfold, Inhabit the mountain-herb," that dyes The tooth of the fawn like gold.' The phantom shapes — oh, touch not them — That appal the murderer's sight, Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem, That shrieks when torn at night ! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. "The dream of the injured, patient mind, That smiles at the wrongs of men, Is found in the bruised and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then ! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade." 1 "The almond-tree, with writs flowers, blossoms on the hare branches." ' An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate ft yeliow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other ani- mals that graze upon it. 3 Niebuhr thinks this may be the herb which the Eastern alchyrnists look to as a means of making gold. " Most of those alchymical enthusiasts think themselves sure of suc- cess if tksy could but find out the herb which gilds the teeth «nd gives a yellow color to the flesh of the sheep that eat it." Father Jerome Dandini, however, asserts that the teeth of Jhe goats at Mount Libanus are of a silver color ; and adds, •* this confirms me that which I observed in Candia; to wit, that the animals that live on Mount Ida eat a certain herb, vhich renders their teeth of a golden color; which, according to my judgment, cannot otherwise proceed than from the No sooner was the flowery crown Placed on her head than sleep came down, Gently as nights of summer tall, Upon the lids of Nourmahal; — And suddenly a tuneful breeze, As full of small, rich harmonies As ever wind that o'er the tents Of AzaV blew was full of scents, Steals on her ear and floats and swells, Like the first air of morning creeping Into those wreathy, Red Sea shells, Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping ;'— And now a spirit, form'd, 'twould seem, Of music and of light, so fair, So brilliantly his features beam, And such a sound is in the air Of sweetness when he waves his wings, Hovers around her, and thus sings : — " From Chindara's' warbling fount I come, Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell ; From Chindara's fount, my fairy home, Where in music, morn and night, I dwell. Where lutes in the air are heard about, And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breathes out Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song ! Hither I come From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in music's strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again. For mine is the lay that lightly floats, And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, That fall as soft as snow on the sea, And melt in the heart as instantly ! And the passionate strain that, deeply going, Refines the bosom it trembles through, As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too ! "Mine is the charm whose mystic sway The spirits of past delight obey ; — Let but the tuneful talisman sound, mines which are under gTonnd."— Dandini, Voyage to Mount Libanus. * The myrrh country. s "This idea was not unknown to the Greeks, who repre- sent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in snella on the shores of the Red Sea." « " A fabulous fonntain, where instrument! are said to tw constantly playing." POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. And they come, like genii, hovering round. And mine is the gentle song that bears From soul to soul the wishes of love, As a bird that wafts through genial airs The cinnamon seed from grove to grove. * " 'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure ;* When memory links the tone that is gone With the blissful tone that's still in the ear ; And hope from a heavenly note flies on To a note more heavenly still that is near ! " The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone — yet moves with a breath. And oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten When music has reach'd her inward soul, Like the silent stars that wink and listen While Heaven's eternal melodies roll ! So, hither I come From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in music's strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath, Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again." 'Tis dawn — at least that early dawn* Whose glimpses are again withdrawn, As if the morn had waked, and then Sftut close her lids of light again. 9 "Whenever oar pleasure , arises from a succession of Bounds, it is a perception of complicated nature, made up of s sensation of the present sound or note, and an idea or remem- brance of the foregoing, while their mixture and concurrence produce such a mysterious delight as neither could have pro- duced alone. And it is often heightened by an anticipation of the succeeding notes. Thus sense, memory, and imagina- tion are conjurctively employed."— Gerard on Taste. Madame de Stael accounts upon the same principle for the gratification we derive from r hyme :— " Bile est l'image de I'csperance et du souvenir. TJn son nous fait desirer celui qui doit lni repondre, et quand le second retentit, il nons rappelle celui que vient de nous echapper." s " The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real daybreak. They ac- count for this phenomenon in a most whimsical manner. They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of day- break. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, until the sun rises above the mountain and brings with it the Soobhi Sadig. or real morning."— Scott Waring. And Nourmahal is up, and trying The wonders of her lute, whose strings— Oh, bliss ! — now murmur like the sighing From that ambrosial spirit's wings ! And then, her voice — 'tis more than human — Never, till now, had it been given To lips of any mortal woman To utter notes so fresh from heaven ; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, When angel sighs are most divine. — " Oh ! let it last till night," she cries, " And he is more than ever mine." And hourly she renews the lay, So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness Should, ere the evening, fade away, — For things so heavenly have such fleetness ! But, far from fading, it but grows Richer, diviner as it flows ; Till rapt she dwells on every string, And pours again each sound along, Like echo lost and languishing In love with her own wondrous song. That evening (trusting that his soul Might be from haunting love released By mirth, by music, and the bowl) The imperial Selim held a feast In his magnificent Shalimar ;* — In whose saloons, when the first star Of evening o'er the waters trembled, The valley's loveliest all assembled, • All the bright creatures that, like di - eams, Glide through its foliage, and drink beams Of beauty from its founts and streams. 6 And all those wandering minstrel-maids, Who leave — how can they leave? — the Of that dear valley, and are found Singing in gardens of the Soutn Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound As from a young Cashmerian's mouth. * " In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the Delhi emperors, I believe Shah Jehan, constructed a spacious garden called the Shalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Some of the riv- ulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the hack of the garden, and, flowing through its centre, or occasionally thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the chief heau- ty of the Shalimar. To decorate this spot the Mogul princsa of India have displayed an equal magn [licence and >.«<"«: es- pecially Jehan Gheer, who, with the enchanting Noor ManL, made Kashmire his usual residence during the » " It is supposed that the Cashmerians are indebted tot their beauty to their waters.' POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. There, too, the Haram's inmates smile ; — Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, And from the Garden of the Nile, Delicate as the roses there ;' Daughters of love from Cyprus rocks, With Paphian diamonds in their locks;" Like Peri forms, such as there are On the gold meads of Candahar;' And they, before whose sleepy eyes, In their own bright Kathaian bowers, Sparkle such rainbow bittterflies,' That they might fancy the rich flowers That round them in the sun lay sighing Had been by magic all set flying ! Everything young, everything fair From East and West is blushing there, Except — except — O Nourmahal ! Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, The one, whose smile shone out alone, Amidst a world the only one ! Whose light, among so many lights, Was like that star, on starry nights, The seaman singles from the sky, To steer his bark forever by ! Thou wert not there — so Selim thought, And everything seem'd drear without thee ; But ah ! thou wert, thou wert — and brought Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. Mingling unnoticed with a band Of lutanists from many a land, And veil'd by such a mask as shades The features of young Arab maids,* — A mask that leaves but one eye free, To do its best in witchery, — She roved, with beating heart, around, And waited, trembling, for the minute When she might try if still the sound Of her loved lute had magic in it. The board was spread with fruits and wine, With grapes of gold, like those that shine * " The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile, (at- tached to the Emperor of Morocco's palace,) are nneqnalled, and mattresses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to recline upon." 3 " On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account of its brilliancy, it has been called the Paphian diamond.' 1 * '■' There is a part of Candahar called Pcria, or Fairy-Land." 4 " Butterflies, which are called, in the Chinese language, Flying Leaves.' " * " The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps, prettily ordered."— Carreri. Niebuhr mentions their showing On Casbin's hills ; — pomegranates full Of melting sweetness, and the pears And sunniest apples that Cabul In all its thousand gardens bears. Plantains, the golden and the green, Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen ;" Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts From the far groves of Samarcand, And Basra dates, and apricots, Seed of the sun,' from Iran's land ; — With rich conserve of Visna cherries,' Of orange flowers, and of those berries That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles Feed on in Erac's rocky dells. All these in richest vases smile, In baskets of pure sandal-wood, And urns of porcelain from that isle* Sunk underneath the Indian flood, Whence oft the lucky diver brings Vases to grace the halls of kings. Wines too, of every clime and hue, Around their liquid lustre threw; Amber Rosolli, — the bright dew From vineyards of the Green Sea gushing ;" And Shiraz wine, that richly ran As if that jewel, large and rare, The ruby for which Kublai-Khan Offer'd a city's wealth," was blushing, Melted within the goblets there ! And amply Selim quaffs of each, And seems, resolved the floods shall reach His inward heart, — shedding around A genial deluge as they run, That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd, For Love to rest his wings upon. He little knew how blest the boy Can float upon a goblet's streams, Lighting them with his smile of joy; — As bards have seen him in their dreams • "The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit In the world; the pride of the Malay Islands." ' "A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persian* * Tokm-ek-shems,' signifying sun's seed." • "Sweetmeats in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in conserve, with lemon or Visna cherry, orange flowers," 4c. • " Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to have b een sunk in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in China and Japan." 10 The white wine of Kishma. i> " The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby that was ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the vain* of a city for it, but the king answered he would not give it for the treasure of the world."— Marco Polo. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Down the blue Ganges laughing glide Upon a rosy lotus wreath, 1 Catching new lustre from the tide That with his image shone beneath. But what are cups without the aid Of song to speed them as they flow ? And see — a lovely Georgian maid, With all the bloom, the freshen'd glow Of her own country maidens' looks. When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks :" And with an eye whose restless ray, Full, floating, dark — oh he, who knows His heart is weak, of Heaven should pray To guard him from such eyes as those ! — With a voluptuous wildness flings Her snowy hand across the strings Of a syrinda,* and thus sings : — " Come hither, come hither — by night and? by day We linger in pleasures that never are gone ; Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, . Another as sweet and as shining comes on. And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives birth To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss ; And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this. " Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the flower of the Amra just oped by a bee; And precious their tears as that rain from the sky,* Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh ! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth, When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss ; And own, if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this. 1 "The Indiana feign that Cupid was first seen floating iown the Ganges on the Nymphcea Nelumbo." a "Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths." • " The Indian syrinda or guitar." * " The Nisan. or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce pearls if they fall into shells." " Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by love, Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, Who for wine of this earth left the fountains above, And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here. And, bless'd with the odor our goblets give forth, What spirit the sweets of this Eden wonld miss ? For oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this." ° The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound foi sound, Was caught up by another lute, And so divinely breathed around, They all stood hush'd, and wondering, And turn'd and look'd into the air, . As if they thought to see the wing Of Israfil," the angel, there ; — So powerfully on every soul That new enchanted measure stole. While now a voice, sweet as the note Of the charm'd lute was heard to float Along its chords, and so entwine Its sound with theirs, that none knew whether The voice or lute was most divine, So wondrously they went together: — " There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two that are link'd in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die ! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this." • "Around the exterior of the Dewan Khass (a building of Shah Allum's) in the cornice are the following lines in letter* of gold upon a ground of white marble—' If there be a para- dise upon earth, it is this, it is this.' "—Fi-anMin. • " The Angel of Music, who has the most melodious voit» of all God's creatures."— Sale. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, But that deep magic in the chords And in the lips that gave such power As music knew not till that hour. At once a hundred voices said, " It is the mask'd Arabian maid !" While Selim, who had felt the same Deepest of any, and had lain Some minutes rapt, as in a trance, After the fairy sounds were o'er, Too inly touch'd for utterance, Now motion'd with his hand for more : — " Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt Of tents with love or thrones without ? " Our rocks are rough, but smiling there The acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness. 41 Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gayly springs As o'er the marble courts of kings. 44 Then come — thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. 44 Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart, — As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought ; " As if the very lips and eyes Predestined to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before as then ! " So came thy every glance and tone, When first on me they breathed and shone ; New, as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if loved for years ! u Then fly with me, — if thou hast known No other flame, nor falsely thrown A gem away, that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn. " Come, if the love thou hast for me Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, — Fresh as the fountain under ground, When first 'tis by the lapwing found." " But if for me thou dost forsake Some other maid, and rudely break Her worshipp'd image from its base, To give to me the ruin'd place ; — " Then, fare-thee-well ! — I'd rather make My bower upon some icy lake When thawing suns begin to shine, Than trust to love so false as thine !" There was a pathos in this lay, That, even without enchantment's art, Would instantly have found its way Deep into Selim's burning heart ; But breathing, as it did, a tone To earthly lutes and lips unknown ; With every chord fresh from the touch Of music's spirit, — 'twas too much ! Starting, he dash'd away the cup, — Which, all the time of this sweet air, His hand bad held, untasted, up, As if 'twere fix'd by magic there, — And naming her, so long unnamed, So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd, " O Nourmahal ! O Nourmahal ! Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, I could forget — forgive thee all, And never leave those eyes again." The mask is off — the charm is wrought — And Selim to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright, His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light ! And well do vanish'd frowns enhance The charm of every brightened glance; And dearer seems each dawning smile For having lost its light a while ; And, happier now for all her sighs, As on his arm her head reposes, She whispers him, with laughing eyes, " Remember, love, the Feast of Fadladeen, at the conclusion of this light rhapsody, took occasion to sum up his opin- 1 The Hndhud, or lapwing, is supposed to have the powei of discovering water under ground. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 157 ion of the young Cashmerian's poetry, — of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets " frivolous" — " inharmonious" — "nonsensical," he proceeded to say that, ■viewing it in the most favorable light, it re- sembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the princess had alluded in the relation of her dream (p. 130) — a slight, gilded thing, 6ent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of flowers and birds which this poet had ready on all occasions,— not to mention dews, gems, from the rest of India; and, as the heati were intolerable, and the time of their en- campments limited to the few hours neces- sary for refreshment and repose, there was an end to all their delightful evenings, and Lalla Rookh saw no more of Ftvramorz. She now felt that her short dream of happiness was over, and that she had nothing but the recol- lection of its few blissful hours, like the one draught of sweet water that serves the camel across the wilderness, to be her heart's re- freshment during the dreary waste of life that was before her. The blight that had fallen upon her spirits soon found its way to her cheek ; and her ladies saw with regret — though not without some suspicion of the cause — that the beauty of their mistress, of which they were almost as proud as of their own, was fast vanishing away at the very moment of all when she had most need of it. What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, instead of the lively and beautiful Lalla Rookh, whom the poets of Delhi had de- scribed as more perfect than the divinest images in the House of Azor, 2 he should re ceive a pale and inanimate victim, upon whose cheek neither health nor pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled, — to hide himself in her heart ! If anything could have charmed away the melancholy of her spirits, it would have been the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that valley, which the Persians so justly called the " Unequalled." But neither the coolness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling up those bare and burning mountains; neither the splendor of the minarets and pagodas, that shone out from the depths of its woods, nor the grottos, hermitages, and miraculous fountains, 3 which make every spot of that region holy ground; neither the countless waterfalls that rush into the valley from all those high and romantic mountains that en- circle it, nor the fair city on the lake, whose 2 An eminent carver of idolB, said in the Koran to be father . to Abraham. " I have such a lovely idol as is not to be met . with in the house of Azor."— Eafiz. ' * " The pardonable superstition of the sequestered inhabit- ants has multiplied the places of worship of Mahadeo, of Beschan, and of Brama. All. Cashmere is holy land, and mi- raculous fountains abound."— Major RinmC's Memoirs of • , Jf*»» nf Eindostan. . < • POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. houses, roofed with flowers,' appeared at a distance like one vast and variegated par- terre : — not all these wonders and glories of the most lovely country under the sun could steal her heart for a minute from those sad thoughts, which but darkened and grew bit- terer every step she advanced. The gay pomps and processions that met her upon her entrance into the valley, and the magnificence with which the roads all along were decorated, did honor to the taste and gallantry of the young king. It was night when they approached the city, and for the last two miles they had passed under arches, thrown from hedge to hedge, festooned with only those rarest roses from which the Attar Gul, more precious than gold, is distilled, and illuminated in rich and fanciful forms with lanterns of the triple- colored tortoise-shell of Pegu." Sometimes, from a dark wood by the side of the road, a display of fire-works would break out, so sudden and so brilliant, that a Brahmin might think he saw that grove, in whose purple shade the god of battles was born, bursting into a flame at the moment of his birth. While, at other times, a quick and playful irradiation continued to brighten all the fields and gardens by which they passed, forming a line of dancing lights along the horizon ; like the meteors of the north as they are seen by those hunters who pursue the white and blue foxes on the confines of the Icy Sea. These arches and fire-works delighted the ladies of the Princess exceedingly ; and, with their usual good logic, they deduced from his taste for illuminations, that the King of Bucharia would make the most ex- emplary husband imaginable. Nor, indeed, could Lalla Rookh herself help feeling the kindness and splendor with which the young bridegroom welcomed her; — but she also i " On a standing roof of wood is laid a covering of fine earth, which shelters the building from the great quantity of snow that falls in the winter season. This fence communicates an •qual warmth in winter, as a refreshing coolness in the sum- mer season, when the tops of the houses, which are planted with a variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the spacious view of a beautifully chequered parterre."— Forster. * " Two hundred slaves there are who have no other office than to hunt the woods and marshes for triple-colored tortoises lor the King's Vivary. Of the shells of these also lanterns an Bade."— YinamiU Blanc'i Travel*. felt how painful is the gratitude which kind- ness from those we cannot love excites ; and that their best blandishments come over the heart with all that chilling and deadly sweetness which we can fancy in the cold, odoriferous wind' that is to blow over this earth in the last days. The marriage was fixed for the morning after her arrival, when she was, for the first time, to be presented to the monarch in that imperial palace beyond the lake, called the Shalimar. Though a night of more wakeful and anxious thought had never been passed in the Happy Valley, yet, when she rose in the morning, and her ladies came round her, to assist in the adjustment of the bridal or- naments, they thought they had never seen her look half so beautiful. What she had lost of the bloom and radiancy of her charms was more than made up by that intellectual expression — that soul in the eyes — which is worth all the rest of loveliness. When they had tinged her fingers with the henna leaf, and placed upon her brow a small coronel of jewels, of the shape worn by the ancient Queens of Bucharia, they flung over her head the rose-colored bridal veil, and she proceeded to the barge that was to convey her across the lake; — first kissing, with a mournful look, the little amulet of cornelian which her father had hung about her neck at parting. The morning was as fair as the maid upon whose nuptials it rose, and the shining lake, all covered with boats, the minstrels playing upon the shores of the islands, and the crowded summer-houses on the green hills around, with shawls and banners waving from their roofs, presented such a picture of animated rejoicing, as only she who was the object of it all did not feel with transport. To Lalla Rookh alone it was a melancholy pageant ; nor could she have even borne to look upon the scene, were it not for a hope that, among the crowds around she might once more perhaps catch a glimpse of Fera- • This wind, which is to blow from Syria Damascene is, ac- cording to the Mohammedans, one of the signs of the Last Day's approach. Another of the signs is, " Great distress in the world, so that a man when he passes by another's grave shall say. Would to God I were In his place."— Salt') Preliminary DU- POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. morz. So much was her imagination haunted by this thought, that there was scarcely an islet or boat she passed, at which her heart did not flutter with a momentary fancy that he was there. Happy, in her eyes, the hum- blest slave upon whom the light of his dear looks fell ! In the barge immediately after the Princess was Fadladeen, with his silken curtains thrown widely apart, that all might iave the benefit of his august presence, and mth his head full of the speech he was to deliver to the king, "concerning Feramorz, and literature, and the chabuk, as connected therewith." They had now entered the canal which leads from the Lake to the splendid domes and saloons of the Shalimar, and glided on through gardens ascendhag from each bank, full of flowering shrubs that made the air all perfume ; while from the middle of the canal rose jets of water, smooth and unbroken, to such a dazzling height, that they stood like pillars of diamond in the sunshine. After sailing under the arches of various saloons, they at length arrived at the last and most magnificent, where the monarch awaited the coming of his bride ; and such was the agita- tion of her heart and frame, that it was with difficulty she walked up the marble steps, which were covered with cloth of gold for her ascent from the barge. At the end of the hall stood two thrones, as precious as the cerulean throne of Koolburga, 1 on one of ■ " On Mohammed Shaw's return to Koolburga, (the capital of Dekkau,) he made a great festival, and mounted this throne with much pomp and magnificence, calling it Firozeh or Ce- rulean. I have heard some old persons, who saw the throne Firozeh in the reign of Sultan Mamood Bhamenee, describe it. They say that it was in length nine feet, and three in breadth ; made of ebony, covered with plates of pure gold, and Bet with precious stones of immense value. Every prince of the house of Bhamenee, who possessed this throne, made a point of adding to it some rich stones, so that when in the reign of Saltan Hamocd it was taken to pieces, to remove ■one of the levels to be »et in vaaea and cups, the jewellers which sat Aliris, the youthful King of Bucharia, and on the other was, in a few minutes, to be placed the most beautiful Princess in the world. Immediately upon the entrance of Lalla Rookh into the saloon, the monarch descended from his throne to meet her ; but scarcely had he time to take her hand in his, when she screamed with surprise, and fainted at his feet. It was Feramorz himself that stood before her! Feramorz was, himself, the sovereign of Bucharia, who in this disguise had accom- panied his young bride from Delhi, and hav- ing won her love as an humble minstrel, now amply deserved to enjoy it as a king. The consternation of Fadladeen at this discovery was, for the moment, almost piti- able. But change of opinion is a resource too convenient in courts for this experienced courtier not to have learned to avail himself of it. His criticisms were all, of course, re- canted, instantly : he was seized with an admiration of the king's verses, as unbounded as, he begged him to believe, it was disinter ested ; and the following week saw him in possession of an additional place, swearing by all the saints of Islam that never had there existed so great a poet as the monarch Aliris, and ready to prescribe his favorite regimen of the chabuk for every man, woman, and child that dared to think otherwise. Of the happiness of the King and Queen of Bucharia, after such a beginning, there can be but little doubt; and, among the lesser symptoms, it is recorded of Lalla Rookh, that, to the day of her death, in memory of their delightful journey, she never called the king by any other name than Feramorz. valued it at one corore of oons, (nearly four millions sterli ng. ) I learned also that it was called Firozeh from being partly enamelled of a sky-bine color, which w»s in time totally con- cealed by the number of jewels."— Firiehta ^iMtlfoutoixfi §ttm$, FRAGMENT OF COLLEGE EXER- CISES. " Nobilitae eola eBt atque nnica virtus." — Juv. Makk those proud boasters of a splendid line, Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine, How heavy sits that weight of alien show, Like martial helm upon an infant's brow ; Those borrow'd splendors, whose contrasting light Throws back the native shades in deeper night. Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue, Where are the arts by which that glory grew ? The genuine virtues that with eagle gaze Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze ! Where is the heart hy chemic truth refined, The exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind ? Where are the links that twined with heav- enly art His country's interest round the patriot's heart? Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of fire? The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre ? Do these descend with all that tide of fame Which vainly waters an unfruitful name ? THE SAME. * Jnstum belJutn quibns a eceesariti m, et pia arms quitrae nulls nisi in armis relinqnitnr spes."— Livy. Is there no call, no consecrating cause, Approved by Heaven, ordain'd by nature's laws, Where justice flies the herald of our way, And truth's pure beams upon the banner* play? Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath To slumbering babes, or innocence in death ; And urgent as the tongue of heaven within. When the mind's balance trembles upon sin. Oh ! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet An echo in the soul's most deep retreat ; Along the heart's responding string should run, Nor let a tone there vibrate — but the one ! SONG.' Mart, I believed thee true, And I was blest in thus believing ; But now I mourn that e'er I knew A girl so fair and so deceiving ! Fare thee we'u I Few have ever loved like me, — Oh ! I have loved thee too sincerely ! And few have e'er deceived like thee, — Alas ! deceived me too severely ! Fare thee well ! Fare thee well ! yet think a while On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee ; Who now would rather trust that smile, And die with thee than live without thee t Fare thee well I Fare thee well ! I'll think of thee, Thou leav'st me many a bitter token ; For see, distracting woman ! sec, My peace is gone, my heart is broken ! Fare thee well ! > To the Scotch air, " Gala Water.' POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 161 TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL MISS . In wedlock a species of lottery lies, Where in blanks and in prizes we deal But how conies it that you, such a capital prize Should so long have remained on the wheel ! If ever, by fortune's indulgent decree, To me such a ticket should roll, A sixteenth, Heaven knows ! were sufficient for me ; For what could I do with the whole ? INCONSTANCY. And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, When surely there's nothing in nature more common ? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me — But ro aid I expect any more from a woman ? O woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ; And Mohammed's doctrine was not too severe, When he thought you were only materials of pleasure, And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it, He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ; But, oh ! while he's blest, let him die on the minute — If he live but a day, he'll be surely be- tray'd. TO JULIA. Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part, Our souls it cannot, shall not sever The heart will seek its kindred heart, And cling to it as close as ever. But must we, must we part indeed ? Is all our dream of rapture over ? And does not Julia's bosom bleed To leave so dear, so fond a lover ? Does she too mourn ? — Perhaps she may ; Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting ; But why is Julia's eye so gay, If Julia's heart like mine is beating ? I oft have loved the brilliant glow Of rapture in her blue eye streaming — But can the bosom bleed with woe, While joy is in the glances beaming ? No, no ! — Yet, love, I will not chide, Although your heart were fond of roving : Nor that, nor all the world beside, Could keep your faithful boy from loving. You'll soon be distant from his eye, And, with you, all that's worth possessing. Oh ! then it will be sweet to die, When life has lost its only blessing ! TO ROSA. Does the harp of Rosa slumber? Once it breathed the sweetest number 1 Never does a wilder song Steal the breezy lyre along, When the wind, in odors dying, Woos it with enamor'd sighing. Does the harp of Rosa cease ? Once it told a tale of peace To her lover's throbbing breast — Then he was divinely blest ! Ah ! but Rosa loves no more, Therefore Rosa's song is o'er ; And her harp neglected lies ; And her boy forgotten sigk«. Silent harp— forgotten lover — Rosa's love and song are over! POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK Heee is one leaf reserved for me, From all thy sweet memorials free ; And here my simple song might tell The feelings thou must guess so well. But could I thus, within thy mind, One little vacant corner find, Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet has been, Oh 1 it should be my sweetest care To write my name forever there I ANACREONTIC. " In lachrymal verterat omne meram."— Tib., lib. L, eleg. 8. Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple shower : And while the drops my goblet steep, I'll think — in woe the clusters weep. Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine : Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine. Weep on : and, as thy sorrows flow, I'll tv!.e the hixury of woe. ANACREONTIC. Fkiend of my soul ! this goblet sip, 'Twill chase that pensive tear ; Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh ! 'tis more sincere. Like her delusive beam, 'Twill steal away thy mind : But, like affection's dream, It leaves no sting behind 1 Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade ; These flowers were cull'd at noon ; — like woman's love the rose will fade, But, ah ! not half so soon ! For though the flower's decay'd, Its fragraHce is not o'er ; But once when love's betray'd, The heart can bloom no more 1 ELEGIAC STANZAS. How sweetly could I lay my head Within the cold grave's silent breast ; Where sorrow's tears no more are shed, No more the ills of life molest. For, ah ! my heart, how very soon The glittering dreams of youth are past And long before it reach its noon, The sun of life is overcast. woman ! if by simple wile Thy soul has stray'd from honor's track, Tis mercy only can beguile, By gentle ways, the wanderer back. The stain that on thy virtue lies, Wash'd by thy tears, may yet decay ; As clouds that sully morning skies May all be wept in showers away. Go, go — be innocent, and live — The tongues of men may wound thee sore But Heaven in pity can forgive, And bids thee " go, and sin no more I" TO ROSA. And are you then a thing of art, Enslaving all, and loving none ; And have I strove to gain a heart Which every coxcomb thinks his own I Do you thus seek to flirt a number, And through a round of danglers run, Because your heart's insipid slumber Could never wake to fed tor one t Tell me at once if this be true, And I shall calm my jealous breast ; Shall learn to join the dangling crew, And share your simpers with the rest POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But if your heart be not so free, — Oh ! if another share that heart, Tell not the saddening tale to me, But mingle mercy with your art. THE SURPRISE. Chlobis, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more. — " What ! love no more ? Oh ! why this alter'd vow ?" Because I cannot love thee more than now I A DREAM I thought this heart consuming lay On Cupid's burning shrine : I thought he stole thy heart away, And placed it near to mine. I saw thy heart begin to melt, Like ice before the sun ; Till both a glow congenial felt, And mingkd into one ! WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" To which every one that opened it slumld contribute tomething. TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. This tribute's from a wretched elf, Who hails thee, emblem of himself ! The book of life, which I have traced, Has been, like thee, a motley waste ■Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, One folly bringing hundreds more. Some have indeed been writ so neat, In characters, so fair, so sweet, That those who judge not too severely, Have said they loved such follies dearly ! Yet still, O book ! the allusion stands : For these were penn'd by female hands ; The rest, — alas ! I own the truth, — Have all been scribbled so uncouth, That Prudence, with a withering look, Disdainful flings away the book. Like thine, its pages here and there Have oft been stain'd with blots of care ; And sometimes hours of peace, I own, Upon some fairer leaves have shown, White as the snowings of that heaven By which those hours of peace were given. But now no longer — such, oh ! such The blast of Disappointment's touch ! — No longer now those hours appear ; Each leaf is sullied by a tear : Blank, blank is every page with care, Not even a folly brightens there. Will they yet brighten ? — Never, never ! Then shut the book, alas ! forever 1 THE BALLAD. Thou hast sent me a flowery band, And told me 'twas fresh from the field ; That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand, And the purest of odors would yield. And indeed it was fragrant and fair ; But, if it were handled by thee, It would bloom with a livelier air, And would surely be sweeter to me ! Then take it, and let it entwine Thy tresses, so flowing and bright ; And each little floweret will shine ■ More rich than a gem to my sight. Let the odorous gale of thy breath Embalm it with many a sigh ; Nay, let it be withor'd to death, Beneath the warm noon of thine eye. And, instead of the dew that it bears, The dew dropping fresh from the tree ; On its leaves let me number the tears That affection has stolen from thee ! POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. THE TEAR. Ok beds of snow the moonbeam slept, And chilly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept — Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb ! A warm tear gush'd, the wintry air Congeal'd it as it flow'd away : All night it lay an ice-drop there, At morn it glitter'd in the ray ! An angel wandering from her sphere, Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear, And hung it on her diadem ! SONG. Have you not seen the timid tear Steal trembling from mine eye ? Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, Or caught the murmur'd sigh ? And can you think my love is chill, Nor fix'd on you alone ? And can you rend, by doubting still, A heart so much your own ? To you my soul's affections move Devoutly, warmly, true ; My life has been a task of love, One long, long thought of you. If all your tender faith is o'er, If still my truth you'll try ; Alas ! I know but one proof more — I'll bless your name, and die ! ELEGIAC STANZAS. " Sic jnvat perire." When wearied wretches sink to sleep, How heavenly soft their slumbers lie ! How sweet is death to those who weep, To those who weep and long to die ! Saw you the soft and grassy bed, Where flowerets deck the green earth'i breast ? 'Tis there I wish to lay my head, 'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest ! Oh ! let not tears emoalm my tomb — None but the dews by twilight given ! Oh ! let not sighs disturb the gloom — None but the whispering winds of heaven! A NIGHT THOUGHT. How oft a cloud, with envious veil, Obscures yon bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal Along the waste of night ! "Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs Obscure with malice keen Some timid heart, which only longs To live and die unseen ! SONG. Sweetest love ! I'll not forget thee ; Time shall only teach my heart, Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, Lovely, gentle as thou art ! Farewell, Bessy ! Yet, oh ! yet again we'll meet, love, And repose our hearts at last : Oh ! sure 'twill then be sweet, love, Calm to think on sorrows past. Fareweil, Bessy ' Still I feel my heart is breaking, When I think I stray from thee, Round the world that quiet seeking, Which I fear is not for me ! Farewell, Bessy ! Calm to peace thy lover's bosom — Can it, dearest ! must it be ? Thou within an hour shalt lose him, He forever loses thee ! Farewell, Bessy ! POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 165 THE GENIUS OF HARMONY. AN IRREGULAR ODE. -Cicero, DeNat. There lies a shell beneath the waves, In many a hollow winding wreathed, Such as of old Echo'd the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed : This magic shell From the white bosom of a syren fell, As once she wander'd by the tide that laves Sicilia's sands of gold. It bears Upon its shining side, the mystic notes Of those entrancing airs The genii of the deep were wont to swell When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music roll'd ! Oh ! seek it wheresoe'er it floats ; And if the power Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear, Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, And I will fold thee in such downy dreams As lap the spirit of the seventh sphere When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear, And thou shalt own That, through the circle of creation's zone, Where matter darkles or where, spirit beams ; From the pellucid tides that whirl The planets through their maze of song, To the small rill that weeps along, Murmuring o'er beds of pearl; From the rich sigh Of the sun's arrow through an evening To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields On Afric's burning fields ; a Oh ! thou shalt own this universe divine Is mine ! That I respire in all and all in me, One mighty mingled soul of boundless har- mony ! 1 Heraclides, uporUhe allegories of Homer, conjectures thai the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, -who, in representing the solar heams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air. ■ In the account of Africa which d' Ablancourt has translated, there is mention of a tree in that country whose hranches, when shaken by the hand, produce very sweet, sounds. Welcome, welcome, mystic shell ! Many a star has ceased to burn," Many a tear has Saturn's urn O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, Since thy aerial spell Hath in the waters slept ! I fly With the bright treasure to my choral sky, Where she, who waked its early swell, The syren with a foot of fire, Walks o'er the great string of my Orphie Lyre,' Or guides around the burning pole The winged chariot of some blissful soul ! While thou, O son of earth ! what dreams shall rise for thee! Beneath Hispania's sun Thou'lt see a streamlet run, Which I have warm'd with dews of melody. Listen ! — when the night wind dies Down the still current, like a harp it sighs ! A liquid chord is every wave that flows, An airy plectrum every breeze that blows ! There, by that wondrous stream, Go lay thy languid brow, And I will send thee such a godlike dream, Such — mortal ! mortal ! hast thou heard of him,' Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre, Sate on the chill Pangsean mount, And looking to the orient dim, Watch'd the first flowing of that sacred fount, From which his soul had drunk its fire ! Oh ! think what visions, in that lonely hour, Stole o'er his musing breast ! What pious ecstasy Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power, Whose seal upon this world imprest' The various forms of bright divinity ! * Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of those fixed stars which we are taught to consider as suns attended each by its system. « Porphyry says that Pythagoras held the sea to be a tear. 6 The syBtem of the harmonized orbs was styled by the an- cients " The Great Lyre of Orpheus." • Orpheus. T In one of the Hymns of Orpheus, he attributes a figured seal to Apollo, with which he imagines that deity to have stamped a variety of forms upon the universe. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, 'Mid the deep horror of that silent bower, 1 Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber ! When, free From every earthly chain, From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain, His spirit flew through fields above, Drank at the source of nature's fontal number,' And saw, in mystic choir, around him move The stars of song, Heaven's burning min- strelsy ! Such dreams, so heavenly bright, I swear By the great diadem that twines my hair, And by the seven gems that sparkle there,' Mingling their beams In a soft iris of harmonious light, O mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams ! SONG. When Time, who steals our years away, Shall steal our pleasures too, The memory of the past will stay, And half our joys renew. Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower Shall feel the wintry air, Remembrance will recall the hour When thou alone wert fair ! Then talk no more of future gloom ; Our joys shall always last; For hope shall brighten days to come, And memory gild the past ! Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, I drink to love and thee : 1 Alluding to the cave near Samoa, where Pythagoras de- rated the greater part of his days and nights to meditation, and the mysteries of his philosophy. » The Tetractys, or Sacred Nnmber of the Pythagoreans, on which they solemnly swore, and which they called ■Kecyav aevaov $v(5eqoS, "The Fountain of Perennial Nature." ' This diadem is intended to represent the analogy between the notes of music and the prismatic colors. Thou never canst decay in soul, Thou'lt still be young for me. And as thy lips the tear-drop chase, Which on thy cheek they find, So hope shall steal away the trace Which sorrow leaves behind ! Then fill the bowl — away with gloom I Our joys shall always last ; For hope shall brighten days to come, And memory gild the past ! But mark, at thought of future years When love shall lose its soul, My Chloe drops her timid tears, They mingle with my bowl ! How like the bowl of wine, my fair, Our loving life shall fleet ; Though tears may sometimes mingle there, The draught will still be sweet ! Then fill the bowl ! — away with gloom f Our joys shall always last; For hope will brighten days to come, And memory gild the past ! PEACE AND GLORY. Where is now the smile that lighten'd Every hero's couch of rest ? Where is now the hope that brighten'd Honor's eye and pity's breast ? Have we lost the wreath we braided For our weary warrior men ? Is the faithless olive faded, Must the bay be pluck'd again ? Passing hour of sunny weather, Lovely in your light a while, Peace and Glory, wed together, Wander' d through the blessed isle; And the eyes of peace would glisten, Dewy as a morning sun, When the timid maid would listen To the deeds her chief had done. Is the hour of meeting over ? Must the maiden's trembling feet POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Waft her from her warlike lover To the desert's still retreat ? Fare you well ! with sighs we banish Nymph so fair and guest so bright ; 5Tet the smile with which you vanish Leaves behind a soothing light ! Soothing light ! that long shall sparkle O'er your warrior's sanguine way Through the field where horrors darkle, Shedding Hope's consoling ray ! Long the smile his heart will cherish, To its absent idol true ; While around him myriads perish, Glory still will sigh for you ! TO CLOE. IMITATED FROM MAKTIAL. I could resign that eye of blue, Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me; And though your lip be rich with dew, To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, .However oft I've raved about it ; And though your heart can beat with bliss, I think my soul could live without it. In short, I've learn'd so well to fast, That, sooth my love, I know not whither I might not bring myself at last To — do without you altogether ! LYING. L do confess, in many a sigh My lips have breathed you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two ? Nay, look not thus, with brow reproving; Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving ! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion ! If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers' swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes ! Oh, no ! — believe me, lovely girl, When Nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fii - e, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can Heaven decree, That you should live for only me. And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear ! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes yoa, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures ; And while he lies, his heart is yours ; But, oh ! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth ! WOMAN. Away, away, you're all the same, A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng ! Oh ! by my soul, I burn with shame, To think I've been your slave so long I Still panting o'er a crowd to reign, More joy it gives to woman's breast To make ten frigid coxcombs vain, Than one true manly lover blest ! Away, away — your smile's a curse — Oh ! blot me from the race of men, Kind, pitying Heaven ! by death or worse, Before I love such things again J A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY. coast, at morn, we met , virgin bloom 'Twas on the Red £ The venerable man Of softness mingled with the vigorous thought That tower'd upon his brow ; as when we f The gentle moon and the full radiant sun ' POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Shining in heaven together. When he spoke, 'Twas language sweeten'd into song — such holy sounds As oft the spirit of the good man hears Prelusive to the harmony of heaven When death is nigh ! and still, as he unclobed His sacred lips, an odor all as bland As ocean breezes gather from the flowers "That blossom in Elysium, breathed around ! With silent awe we listen'd, while he told Of the dark veil which many an age had hung O'er Nature's form, till by the touch of time The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, And half the goddess beam'd in glimpses through it ! Of magic wonders that were known and taught By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named) Who mused, amid the mighty cataclysm, O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore, 1 Nor let the living star of science sink Beneath the waters which ingulf'd the world ! — Of visions, by Calliope reveal'd To him, 3 who traced u.pon his typic lyre The diapason of man's mingled frame, And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven! With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, Which the grave sons of Mochus many a night Told to the young and bright-hair'd visitant Of Carmel's sacred mount ! 3 — Then, in a flow Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on Through many a maze of garden and of porch, Through many a system where the scatter'd light Of heavenly truth lay like a broken beam From the pure sun, which, though refracted all Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still. ' Cham, the son of Noah, is supposed to have taken with him into the ark the principal doctriueB of magical, or rather of natural science, which he had inscribed npon some very durable substances, in order that they might resist the ravageB of the deluge, and transmit the secrets of antediluvian knowl- edge to his posterity. 2 Orpheus. 3 Pythagoras is represented in Jamblichus as descending with great solemnity from Mount Carmel, for which reason the Carmeiitcs have claimed him as one of their frateruity. This Mochus or Moschus, with the descendants of whom Pythagoras conversed in Phoenicia, and from whom he derived the doctrines of atomic philosophy, is supposed by some to be the same with Moses. And bright through every change !— he spoke of Him, The lone, eternal One, who dwells above, And of the soul's untraceable descent From that high fount of spirit, through the grades Of intellectual being, till it mix With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark : Nor even then, though sunk in earthly dross, Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still ! As some bright river, which has roll'd along Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold, When pour'd at length into the dusky deep, Disdains to mingle with its briny taint, But keeps a while the pure and golden tinge, The balmy freshness of the fields it left ! And here the old man ceased — a winged train Of nymphs and genii led him from our eyes. The fair illusion fled ! and, as I waked, I knew my visionary soul had been Among that people of aerial dreams Who live upon the burning galaxy !' A BALLAD. THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. WEITTBN AT NORFOLK, IN VTRGLNIA. " They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from hia friends, was never afterward heard of. As he had frequently said in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, It is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses."— minora. " La poesie a ses monstres comme la nature."— V Alemberi. " They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true ; And she's gone to the Lake of the '. Swamp,' Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, She paddles her white canoe. " And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear ; « According to Pythagoras, the people of dreams are souls collected together in the galaxy. 6 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distan, from Norfolk, and the lake in the middle of it (about seven mileB long) is called Drummond's Pond. POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near !" Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before ! And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, *' Oh ! when shall I see the dusky Lake, And the white canoe of my dear ?" He saw th e Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface play'd — " Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light !" And the dim shore echo'd for many a night The name of the death-cold maid ! Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from the shore ; Far he follow'd the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat return'd no more. But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, And paddle their white canoe ! AT NIGHT. These lines allude to a carious lamp, which has for its de Ticea Cupid, with the words " At Night" written oiser him. At night, when all is still around, How sweet to hear the distant sound Of footstep, coming soft and light ! What pleasure in the anxious beat With which the bosom flies to meet That foot that comes so soft at night ! And then, at night, how sweet to say " 'Tis late, my love !" and chide delay, Though still the western clouds are bright ; Oh ! happy, too, the silent press, The eloquence of mute caress, With those we love exchanged at night ! ODES TO NBA. WRITTEN AT BERMUDA. THE SNOW-SPIRIT. No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep An island of lovelier charms ; It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, Like Hebe in Hercules' arms ! The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye, Their melody balm to the ear ; But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, And the Snow-Spirit never comes here ! The down from his wing is as white as the pearl Thy lips for their cabinet stole, And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the soul ! Oh ! fly to the clime where he pillows the death As he cradles the birth of the year ; Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale, And brightening the bosom of morn, He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil O'er the brow of each virginal thorn ! Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts, Is the veil of a vestal severe; No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasis, Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But fly to his region — lay open thy zone, And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim, To think that a bosom as white as his own Should not melt in the day-beam like him ' Oh ! lovely the print of those delicate feet O'er his luminous path will appear — Ply ! my beloved ! this island is sweet, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! There's not a look, a word of thine My soul has e'er forgot ; Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, Nor given thy locks one graceful twine Which I remember not ! There never yet a murmur fell From that beguiling tongue, Which did not, with a lingering spell, Upon my charmed senses dwell, Like something heaven had sung. Ah ! that I could, at once, forget All, all that haunts me so — And yet, thou witching girl ! — and yet To die were sweeter than to let The loved remembrance go ! No ; if this slighted heart must see Its faithful pulse decay, Oh ! let it die, remembering thee, And, like the burnt aroma, be Consumed in sweets away ! LINES, WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA. Oh ! there's a holy calm profound In awe like this, that ne'er was given To rapture's thrill ; Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, And the soul, listening to the sound, Lies mute and still ! 'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow In the cold deep, Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow No more shall wake the heart or eye, But all must sleep ! Well ! — there are some, thou stormy bed, To whom thy sleep would be a treasure ; Oh ! most to him Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure, Nor left one honey-drop to shed Round misery's brim. Yes — he can smile serene at death : Kind Heaven ! do thou but chase the weeping Of friends who love him ; Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath No more shall move him. THE STEERSMAN'S SONG. When freshly blows the northern gale, And under courses snug we fly ; When lighter breezes swell the sail, And royals proudly sweep the sky ; 'Longside the wheel, unwearied still I stand, and as my watchful eye Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, I think of her I love, and cry, Port, my boy ! port. When calms delay, or breezes blow Right from the point we wish to steer , When by the wind close-haul'd we go, And strive in vain the port to near; I think 'tis thus the fates defer My bliss with one that's far away, And while remembrance springs to her, I watch the sails, and sighing say, Thus, my boy ! thus. But see, the wind draws kindly aft ; All hands are up the yards to square, And now the floating stu'n-sails waft Our stately ship through waves and air. rOEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 171 Oh ! then I think that yet for me Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee ! And in that hope I smiling sing, Steady, boy ! so. LINES, LEAVING PHILADELPHIA. Axons by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very far were the friends that he loved, And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh! O Nature ! though blessed and bright are thy rays, O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays In a smile from the heart that is dearly our own ! ft or long did the soul of the stranger remain Unblest by the smile he had languish'd to meet; Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, Till the threshold of home had been kiss'd by his feet ! But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear, And they loved what they knew of so humble a name, And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, That they found in his heart something sweeter than fame. Nor did woman — O woman ! whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue ; Whether sunn'd , in the tropics or chill'd at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too J Nor did she her enamoring magic deny, That magic his heart had relinquish'd so long, Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye Like them did it soften and weep at his song! Oh ! blest be the tear, and in memory oft May its sparkle be shed o'er his wandering dream ! Oh ! blest be that eye, and may passion as soft, As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam ! The stranger is gone — but he will not forget, When at home he shall talk of the toil he has known, To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuyl- kill alone ! LINES, WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OK FALL OP THE MOHAWK RIVER. From rise of morn till set of sun I've seen the mighty Mohawk run, And as I mark'd the woods of pine Along his mirror darkly shine, Like tall and gloomy forms that pass Before the wizard's midnight glass ; And as I view'd the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Rushing, alike untired and wild, Through shades that frown'd and flower* that smiled, Flying by every green recess That woo'd him to its calm caress, Yet sometimes turning with the wiu-J. As if to leave one look behind ! Oh ! I have thought, and thinking sigh'd— How like to thee, thou heartless tide, May be the lot, the life of him, Who roams along thy water's brim ! 172 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Through what alternate shades of woe And flowers of joy my path may go ; How many an humble, still retreat May rise to court my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on, nor dare to rest ! But urgent as the doom that calls Thy water to its destined falls, I see the world's bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the lost current cease to run ! May heaven's forgiving rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft as now it hangs o'er thee ! BALLAD STANZAS. I Efiw by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, " If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here !" It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. And " Here in this lone little wood," I ex- claim'd, " With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline. And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine !" A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore lock dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl! But when the wind blows off the shore, Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! Utawas tide ! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers, Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past f BLACK AND BLUE EYES. The brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; But the soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em ' Dear Fanny ! The soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em. The black eye may say, " Come and worship my ray — " By adoring, perhaps, you may move me 1* POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. But the blue eye, half hid, So well she checks their wanderings, Says, from under its lid — So peacefully she pairs 'em, " I love, and am yours, if you love me 1" That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings, Dear Fanny ! And Time forever wears 'em. The blue eye, half hid, This is Time's holiday ; Says, from under its lid — Oh, how he flies away ! " I love, and am yours, if you love me !" Then tell me, oh, why, In that lovely blue eye, Not a charm of its tint I discover ; DEAR FANNY. Or why should you wear The only blue pair " She has beauty, but still you must keep That ever said " No" to a lover ? your heart cool ; Dear Fanny ! She has wit, but you mustn't be caught Oh, why should you wear so:" The only blue pair Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, That ever said " No" to a lover ? And 'tis not the first time I have thought so; Dear Fanny, 'Tis not the first time I have thought so. " She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the LOVE AND TIME. bliss fly ; 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing sea- Tis said — but whether true or not son :" Let bards declare who've seen 'em — Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Rea- That Love and Time have only got One pair of wings between 'em. son ? In courtship's first delicious hour, Dear Fanny, The boy full well can spare 'em ; Love reasons much better than Reason. So, loitering in his lady's bower, He lets the gray-beard wear 'em. Then is Time's hour of play; Oh, how he flies away ! FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. But short the moments, short as bright, When he the wings can borrow ; Feom life without freedom, oh, who would If Time to-day has had its flight, not fly 1 Love takes his turn to-morrow. For one day of freedom, oh ! who would not Ah ! Time and Love, your change is then die? The saddest and most trying, Hark ! hark ! 'tis the trumpet ! the call of When one begins to limp again, the brave, And t'other takes to flying. The death-song of tyrants, and dirge of the Then is Love's hour to stray ; slave. Oh, how he flies away ! Our eountry lies bleeding — oh, fly to her aid ; One arm that defends is worth hosts that But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel invade. And bless the silken fetter, Who knows, the dear one, how to deal In death's kindly bosom our last hope re- With Love and Time much better. mains — 174 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no Every flower of life declineth, chains. Wearily, oh ! wearily, oh ! On, on to the combat ; the heroes that bleed For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. Cheerily then from hill and valley, And oh, even if freedom from this world be Cheerily, oh ! driven, Like your native fountains sally, Despair not — at least we shall find her in Cheerily, oh ! heaven. If a glorious death, Won by bravery, Sweeter be than breath Sigh'd in slavery, Round the flag of freedom rally, MERRILY EVERT BOSOM BOHNDETH. Cheerily, oh ! cheerily, oh ! THE TTROLHSB SONG OP LIBERTY. Merrily every bosom boundeth, Merrily, oh ! Where the song of freedom soundeth, SIGH NOT THUS. Merrily, oh ! There the warrior's arms Sigh not thus, oh, simple boy, Shed more splendor ; Nor for woman languish ; There the maiden's charms Loving cannot boast a joy Shine more tender ; Worth one hour of anguish. Every joy the land surroundeth, Moons have faded fast away, Merrily, oh ! merrily, oh ! Stars have ceased their shining j Woman's love, as bright as they, Wearily every bosom pineth, Feels as quick declining. Wearily, oh ! Where the bond of slavery twineth, Then, love, vanish hence, Wearily, oh ! Fye, boy, banish hence There the wai-rior's dart Melancholy thoughts of Cupid's lore, Hath no fleetuess ; Hours soon fly away, There the maiden's heart Charms soon die away, Hath no sweetness — Then the silly dream of the heart is o'er. gntxtft £0wg0 THOU AKT, O GOD. "The day is thine, the night also is thine: thon hast pre- pared tne light and the sun. Thon hast set all the borders ol the earth: thou hast made summer and winter."— Psalm lxxiv. 16, H. Thou art, O God, the life and light Of all this wondrous world we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where'er we turn thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine ! When day, with farewell beam, delays Among the op'ning clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven — Those hues that made the sun's decline So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine ! When night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes — That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine. When youthful spring around us breathes, Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; And every flower the summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine 1 THE BIRD LET LOOSE. The bird let loose' in eastern skies,* When hast'ning fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam. 1 The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined. But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way. So grant me, God, from every care And stain of passion free, Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, To hold my course to Thee ! No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs; — Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings. FALLEN IS THY THRONE. Fallen is thy throne, O Israel ! Silence is o'er thy plains ; Thy dwellings all lie desolate, Thy children weep in chains ! Where are the dews that fed thee On Etham's barren shore ? That fire from heaven which led thee, Now lights thy path no more. Lord ! thou didst love Jerusalem — Once she was all Thy own ; Her love Thy fairest heritage,' Her power Tby glory's throne,* Till evil came and blighted Thy long-loved olive-tree ;' — And Salem's shrines were lighted For other gods than Thee. Then sunk the star of Solyma — Then pass'd her glory's day, I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly be- loved of my soul into the hand of her enemies."— Jer. xli. 7. Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."— Jer. xiv. SI The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree ; lair and "> goodly fruit,-' &c.—Jer. zi. 16 I'OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Like heath that in the wilderness' The wild wind whirls away. Silent and waste her bowers, Where once the mighty trod, And sunk those guilty towers, Where Baal reign'd as God. 1 Go" — said the Lord — " ye conquerors ! Steep in her blood your swords, And raze to earth her battlements," For they are not the Lord's. Till Zion's mournful daughter O'er kindred bones shall tread, And Hinnom's vale of slaughter' Shall hide but half her dead !" O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURN- ER'S TEAR O Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could' not fly to Thee ! The friends who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone. But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe. When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And even the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears Is dimm'd and vanish'd too, Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not Thy wing of love Come, brightly wafting through the gloom Our Peace-branch from i "For he shall be like the heath in the desert."— Jer. xvii. 6. 2 " Take away her battlements ; for they are not the Lord's." -Jer. v. 10. » " Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it ihall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Himioro. hut the Valley of Slaughter ; for they shall bury in Tophet till *.herc be no place."— Jer. vii. 32. Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows With more than rapture's ray ; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day ! bright BUT WHO SHALL SEE. But who shall see the glorious day When, throned on Zion's brow, The Lord shall rend that veil away Which hides the nations now ?' When earth no more beneath the fear Of His rebuke shall lie ! 6 When pain shall cease, and every tear Be wiped from every eye. c Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn Beneath the heathen's chain ; Thy days of splendor shall return, And all be new again. 7 The fount of life shall then be quaff'd In peace by all who come ; 8 And every wind that blows shall waft Some long-lost exile home. THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given ; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — There's nothing true but Heaven ! And false the light on glory's plume, As fading hues of even ! And love and hope and beauty's bloom Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — There's nothing bright but Heaven ! • " And he will destroy in this mountain the face of the cov- ering cast over all people, and the veil that is spread over all nations."— Isa. xxv. 7. » " The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth/Vita- xxv. 8. -i • "And God shall wipe away air tears from their eyes; neither shall there be any more pain."— Bev. xxi. 4. ' " And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new."— Rev. xxi. 5. • "And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."— Rev. xxii. 17. , , POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. Poor wand'rers of a stormy day ! From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way- There's nothing calm but Heaven ! ALMIGHTY GOD! CHORUS OF PRIESTS. Almighty God ! when round Thy shrme The palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine, 1 (Emblem of life's eternal ray, And love that " fadeth not away,") We bless the flowers, expanded all," We bless the leaves that never fall, And trembling say — " In Eden thus The tree of life may flower for us !" When round Thy cherubs — smiling calm, Without their flames 3 — we wreathe the palm, O God ! we feel the emblem true — Thy mercy is eternal too. Those cherubs, with their smiling eyes, That crown of palm which never dies, Are but t-he types of Thee above — Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love ! SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. MIRIAM'S SONG. "Ana Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand ; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances."— Exod. XT. 20. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd — His people are free ! Sing — for the pride of the tyrant is broken, His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave — 1 "The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jeru- salem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that the Palms, which made so conspicuous a figure in that struc- ture, represented that Life and Immortality which were Drought to light by the Gospel."— Observations on the Palm, as a sacred Emblem, by W. Ticjhe. s " And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved figures of cherubims, and palm-trees, and open towers''— 1 Kings, vi. 29. , ' "When the passover of the tabernacles was revealed to the great lawgiver on the mount, then the cherubic images which appeared in that structure were no longer surrounded by flames ; for the tabernacle was a type of the dispensation of mercy, by which Jehovah confirmed His graci *o redeem mankind." — Observations on Hie Palm How vain was their boasting, the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; Jehovah has triumph'd — His people are free ! Praise to the conqueror, praise to the Lord ! His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword. Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory,* And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! Jehovah has triumph'd — His people are free ! O FAIR ! O PUREST ! SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.* O fair ! O purest ! be thou the dove That flies alone to some sunny grove, And lives unseen, and bathes her wing, All vestal white, in the limpid spring : There, if the hovering hawk be near, That limpid spring in its mirror clear Reflects him, ere he can reach his prey, And warns the timorous bird away. Oh, be like this dove ; O fair ! O purest ! be like this dove. The sacred pages of God's own Book Shall be the spring, the eternal brook, In whose holy mirror, night and day, Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray ; — And should the foes of virtue dare, With gloomy wing, to seek \ee there, ' Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly ! Oh, be like this dove ; O fair ! O purest ! be like this dove. * "And it came to pass, that in the morning watch the Lor* looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fin and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians."— Esrod. xiv. 24. » In St. Augustine's Treatise upon the Advantages of a Soli- tary Life, addressed to his sister, there is a passage from whick the thought of this song waB taken. THE POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.' [A smpers titlon of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that wnen • child smiles in its sleep, it is " talking with angels."] A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling, And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come back to me !" Her beads while she number'd, The baby still slumber'd, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; " Oh blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with th^e. " And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 1 The beautiful superstition on which this song has been , has an Oriental as well as a Western prevalence ; and, probability reached the Irish by being borrowed from Amongst the Babbinical traditions which r the Jews, is the belief, that before the crea- tion of Eve, another companion was assigned to Adam in Para- dise, who bore the name of Lilith. But proving arrogant and disposed to contend for superiority, a quarrel ensued ; Lilith pronounced the name of Jehovih, which it is forbidden to utter, and fled to conceal herself in tne sea. Three angels, Sennoi, Sansennoi, and SammangeJojth, were despatched by the Lord of the Universe toonmpelher to return ; but on her obstinate refusal, she was transformed into a demon, whose delight is in debilitating and destroying infants. On condition that she was not to be forced to go back to Paradise, she bound herself by an oath to retrain from in,tnring such children as might be pro- tected by having iasoubrd on them the name of the mediating angels— hence the svac'ice of the Eastern Jews to write the names of Sennoi, baosennoi, and Sammangeloph, on slips of paper and bind Jiern on their infants to protect them from Lilith. The r.eory will be fonnd in Buitokf's Synagoga JudaUa. en. iv. p. 81 ; and in Bkh Sou, as edited by Babto- iaoci, In tUe first volume of his, BWictfupuBaMnua, p. 69. Ba«4 Harjraelech, a Rabbinical writer, quoted by Stehk- ux, says, " when a esffld laugh) in if *Uep, in the night of the noon, that Lilith laughs and toys with It, Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with mei And say thou wouldst rather They'd wat«h o'er thy father ! — For I know that the angels are whispering with thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And closely caressing Her child, with a blessing, Said, " I knew that the angels where whis- pering with thee." THE FAIRY BOY. [When a beautiful child pines and diet, the Irish lieves the healthy infant has been stolen by the fa sickly elf left in its place.] A mother came when stars were paling, "Wailing round a lonely spring ; Thus she cried, while tears were falling, Calling on the Fairy King : " Why, with spells my child caressing, Courting him with fairy joy, Why destroy a mother's blessing, — Wherefore steal my baby-boy ? " O'er the mountain, through the wild-wood, Where his childhood loved to play, Where the flowers are freshly springing, There I wander day by day ; and that it is proper for the mother, or any one that sees the infant laugh, to tap it on the nose, and say ' Lilith, begone t thy abode is not here.' This shonld be said three times, sad each repetition accompanied by a gentle tap." See ASat'i At- count ofthi Traditions, Bitot, and CtrmenUt tfOu Jtm, eh. x. p. 16S-«— ch. xvi. p. 391. 180 "OExMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. There I wander, growing fonder Of the child that made my joy, On the echoes wildly calling To restore my fairy boy. "But in vain my plaintive calling, — Tears are falling all in vain, — He now sports with fairy pleasure, He's the treasure of their train ! Fare thee well ! my child, forever, In this world I've lost my joy, But in the next we ne'er shall sever, There I'll find my angel boy." TRUE LOVE CAN NE'ER FORGET. [It Is related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight, and after a lapse of twenty years, he recognised hie first love by the touch of her hand. The lady's name was Bridget Cruise ; and though not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire inch a passion.] " True love can ne'er forget ; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one !" Thus sung a minstrel gray His sweet impassion'd lay, Down by the Ocean's spray, At set of sun. But wither'd was the minstrel's sight, Morn to him was dark as night, Yet his heart was full of light, As thus the lay begun : " True love can ne'er forget ; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one !" " Long years are past and o'er, Since from this fatal shore Cold hearts and cold winds bore My love from me." Scarcely the minstrel spoke, When forth, with flashing stroke, A boat's light oar the silence broke, . . . . Oyer the sea. Soon upon her native strand Doth a lovely lady land, While the minstrel's love-taught hand Did o'er his wild harp run : " True love can ne'er forget ; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one !" "Where the minstrel sat alone, There that lady fair had gone, Within his hand she placed her own. The bard dropp'd on his knee ; From his lips soft blessings came, He kiss'd her hand with truest flame, In trembling tones he named — her name, Though her he could not see ; But oh ! — the touch the bard could tell Of that dear hand, remember'd well. Ah ! — by many a secret spell Can true love find his own ; For true love can ne'er forget ; Fondly as when they met, He loved his lady yet, His darling one ! NYMPH OF NIAGARA. Nymph of Niagara ! Sprite of the mist ! With a wild magic my brow thou hast kiss'd j I am thy slave, and my mistress art thou, For thy wild kiss of magic is yet on my brow. 1 I feel it as first when I knelt before thee, With thy emerald robe flowing brightly and free, 3 Fringed with the spray-pearls, and floating in mist — Thus 'twas my brow with wild magic you kiss'd. Thine am I still ; — and I'll never forget The moment the spell on my spirit was set ; — Thy chain but a foam-wreath — yet stronger by far Than the manacle, steel- wrought, for captive of war ; • Written immediately after leaving the Falls. • The water in. the centre of the great fall in intensely green and of gem- like brilliancy. POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. For the steel it will rust, and the war will be o'er, And the manacled captive be free as before ; While the foam-wreath will bind me forever to thee ! — I love the enslavement — and would not be free! Nymph of Niagara ! play with the breeze, Sport with the fauns 'mid the old forest trees ; Blush into rainbows at kiss of the sun, From the gleam of his dawn till his bright course be run ; I'll not be jealous — for pure is thy sporting, Heaven-born is all that around thee is court- ing— Still will I love thee, sweet Sprite of the mist, As first when my brow with wild magic you kiss'd ! HOW TO ASK AND HAVE. * Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, Sweet Mary," says I ; " Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, Beginning to cry : "For my mother says men are deceivers, And never, I know, will consent ; She says girls in a hurry who marry At leisure repent." " Then, suppose I would talk to your father, Sweet Mary," says I ; " Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, Beginning to cry : " For my father, he loves me so dearly, He'll never consent I should go — If -you talk to my father," says Mary, " He'll surely say ' No.' " " Then how .ihall I get you, my jewel ? Sweet Mary," says I ; "If your father and mother's so cruel, Most surely I'll die !" " Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary ; "A way now to save you, I see : Since my parents are both so contrary — Vou'd better ask me." THE LAND OF THE WEST. Oh ! come to the West, love, — oh, come there with me ; 'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea, Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald throne ; Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee my own ! I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best, And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West. The South has its roses and bright skies of blue, But ours are more sweet with love's own changeful hue — Half sunshine, half tears, — like the girl I love best, Oh ! what is the South tq the beautiful West ! Then come to the West, and the rose on thy mouth Will be sweeter to me than the flowers of the South ! The North has its snow-towers of dazzling array, All sparkling with gems in the ne'er-setting day ; There the Storm-King may dwell in the halls he loves best, But the soft-breathing Zephyr he plays in the West. Then come there with me, where no cold wind doth blow, And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow! The Sun in the gorgeous East chaseth the night When he riseth, refresh'd, in his glory and might. But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest ? Oh ! doth he not haste to the beautiful West ? Then come there with me : 'tis the land I love best, 'Tis the land of my sires ! — 'tis my own dar ling West ! 182 POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. SWEET HARP OF THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE. TO THE IRISH HARP. Oh, give me one strain Of that wild harp again, In melody proudly its own ! Sweet harp of the days that are gone 1 Time's wide-wasting wing Its cold shadow may fling Where the light of the soul hath no part; The sceptre and sword Both decay with their lord — But the throne of the bard, is the heart. And hearts, while they beat To thy music so sweet, Thy glories will ever prolong, Land of honor and beauty and song ! The beauty, whose sway Woke the bard's votive lay, Hath gone to eternity's shade, While, fresh in its fame, Lives the song to her name, Which the minstrel immortal hath made! YIELD NOT, THOU SAD ONE, TO SIGHS. Oh yield not, thou sad one, to sighs, Nor murmur at Destiny's will. Behold, for each pleasure that flies, Another replacing it still. Time's wing, were it all of one feather, Far slower would be in its flight ; The storm gives a charm to fine weather, And day would seem dark without night. Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs. When we look on some lake that repeats The loveliness bounding its shore, A breese o'er the soft surface fleets, And the mirror-like beauty is o'er : — But the breeze, ere it ruffled the deep, Pervading the odorous bowers, Awaken'd the flowers from their sleep, And wafted their sweets to be ours. Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs. Oh, blame not the change nor the flight Of our joys as they're passing away, 'Tis the swiftness and change give delight — They would pall if permitted to stay. More gayly they glitter in flying, They perish in lustre still bright, Like the hues of the dolphin, in dying, Or humming-bird 8 wing in its flight. Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs. WIDOW MACHREE. Widow Machree, it's no wonder you frown, Och hone ! Widow Machree; Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, Och hone ! Widow Machree; How alter'd your air, With that close cap you wear — 'Tis destroying your hair, Which should be flowing free ; Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl, Och hone ! Widow Machree ! Widow Machree, now the summer is come, Och hone ! Widow Machree : When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum ? Och hone ! Widow Machree. See the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares — Why even the bears Now in couples agree ; And the mute little fish, Though they can't spake, they wish, Och hone ! Widow Machree. Widow Machree, and when winter comes in, Och hone ! Widow Machree, To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, Och hone ! Widow Machree ; Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs, And the kettle sings songs ! r POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. Full of family glee ; While alone with your cup, Like a hermit, you sup, Och hone ! Widow Machree. And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld, Och hone ! Widow Machree, But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld ? Och hone ! Widow Machree. With such sins on your head Sure your peace would be fled ; Could you sleep in your bed Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night, Crying, " Och hone ! Widow Machree ?" Then take my advice, darling Widow Ma- chree, Och hone ! Widow Machree. And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take me, Och hone ! Widow Machree. You'd have me to desire, Then to sit by the fire, And sure Hope is no liar In whispering to me, That the ghosts would depart, When you'd me near your heart, Och hone ! Widow Machree. MOLLY BAWN. O I Molly Bawn, why leave me pining, All lonely waiting here for you ? The stars above are brightly shining Because — they've nothing else to do. The flowers, late, were open keeping, To try a rival blush with you, But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping, With their rosy faces wash'd — with dew. ! Molly, &c. Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear, > And the pretty stars were made to shine, And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear, And maybe you were made for mine ! The wicked watch-dog here is snarling — He takes me for a thief, you see ; For he knows I'd steal you, Molly darling- And then transported I sbould be. O ! Molly, Arthur, Field-Marshal the Dnke of Wellington, died on Dm 14th of September, 1852, at Walmer Castle, where hit body lay In state tinder a guard of honor. • This incident, which occurred in the Pyrenees, is related In Napier's •' History of the Peninsular War." He beat retreat, while we did beat advance, and made him fly Before the conquering flag — that now i* drooping half-mast high 1' And truly might the soldier say his presence ever gave Assurance to the most assured, and bravery to the brave ; His prudence-tempered valor — his eagle- sighted skill, And calm resolves, the measure of a hero went to fill. Fair Fortune flew before him; 'twas conquest where he came — For Victory wove her chaplet in the magic of his name, But while his name thus gilds the past, the present wakes a sigh, To see his flag of glory now — but drooping half-mast high ! In many a bygone battle, beneath an Indian sun, That flag was borne in triumph o'er the sanguine plains he won ; Where'er that flag he planted, impregnable became, As Torres Vedras' heights have told in glit- tering steel and flame. 'Twas then to wild Ambition's Chief he flung the gauntlet down, And from his iron grasp retrieved the ancient Spanish crown ; He drove him o'er the Pyrenees with Victory's swelling cry, Before the red-cross flag — that now is droop- ing half-mast high ! And when once more from Elba's shore the Giant Chief broke loose, And startled nations waken'd from the calm of hollow truce, In foremost post the British host soon sprang to arms again, And Fate in final balance held the world's two foremost men. The Chieftains twain might ne'er again have need for aught to do, So, once for all, we won the fall at glo Waterloo ; — POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 195 The work was done, -ind Wellington his In vain may tropic climes display savior-sword laid by, Their glittering shores — their gorgeooa And now, in grief, to mourn our Chief— the shells ; flag is half-mast high I Though bright birds wing their dazzling way, And glorious flowers adorn the dells, Though Nature, there prolific, pours The treasures of her magic hand, The eye, but not the heart, adores : I CAN NE'ER FORGET THEE. The heart still beats for native land. It is the chime ; the hour draws near When you and I must sever ; Alas ! it must be many a year, And it may be forever. MEMORY AND HOPE. How long till we shall meet again ; How short since first I met thee ; Opt have I mark'd, as o'er the sea How brief the bliss — how long the pain — We've swept before the wind, For I can ne'er forget thee ! That those whose hearts were on the shore Cast longing looks behind ; You said my heart was cold and stern, While they whose hopes have elsewhere been, You doubted love when strongest ; Have watch'd with anxious eyes In future years you'll live to learn To see the hills that lay before Proud hearts can love the longest. Faint o'er the waters rise Oh ! sometimes think when press'd to hear, When flippant tongues beset thee, "Rs thus as o'er the sea of life That all must love thee when thou'rt near ; Our onward course we track, But one will ne'er forget thee ! That anxious sadness looks before, The happy still look back ; The changeful sand doth only know Still smiling on the course they've pass'd, The shallow tide and latest ; As earnest of the rest : — • The rocks have mark'd its highest flow 'Tis Hope's the charm of wretchedness, The deepest and the greatest : While Mem'ry woos the blest. And deeper still the flood-marks grow ; — So since the hour I met thee, The more the tide of time doth flow The less can I forget thee ! MOLLY CAREW. Och hone ! and what will I do ? Sure my love is all crost LOVE AND HOME AND NATIVE Like a bud in the frost ; LAND. And there's no use at all in my going to bed, For 'tis dhrames and not sleep comes into When o'er the silent deep we rove, my head, More fondly then our thoughts will stray And 'tis all about you, To those we leave — to those we love, My sweet Molly Carew — Whose prayers pursue our watery way. And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame ; When in the lonely midnight hour You're complater than Nature The sailor takes his watchful stand, In every feature, His heart then feels the holiest power The snow can't compare Of love and home and native land. With your forehead so fair, J 196 POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. And I rather would see just one blink of your eye Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky; And by this and by that, For the matter o' that, You're more distant by far than that same ! Och hone ! weirasthru I I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone ! but why should I spake Of your forehead and eyes When your nose it defies Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme ? Though there's one Burke, he says, that would call it s?iub\\me. And then for your cheek ! Throth, 'twould take him a week Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather. Then your lips ! oh, machree! In their beautiful glow, They a patthern might be For the cherries to grow. 'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know, For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago ; But at this time o' day, 'Pon my conscience I'll say Such cherries might tempt a man's father ! Och hone ! weirasthru I I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone ! by the man in the moon, You tase me always That a woman can plaze, For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee, As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me, Though the piper I bate, For fear the owld chate Wouldn't play you your favorite tune ; And when you're at mass My devotion you crass, For 'tis thinking of you I am, Molly Carew, While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep, That I can't at your sweet purty face get t peep : — Oh, lave off that bonnet, Or else I'll lave on it The loss of my wandherin' sow] ! Och hone ! weirasthru ! Och hone ! like an owl, Day is night, dear, to me, without you 1 Och hone ! don't provoke me to do it ; For there's girls by the score That love me — and more, And you'd look very quare if some mo-ruing you'd meet My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the sthreet ; Throth, you'd open your eyes, And you'd die with surprise, To think 'twasn't you was come to it ! And faith Katty Naile, And her cow, I go bail, Would jump if I'd say, " Katty Naile, name the day." And though you're fair and fresh as a morn ing in May, While she's short and dark like a cowld winther's day, Yet if you don't repent Before Easther, when Lent Is over I'll marry for spite ! Och hone ! weirasthru ! And when I die for you, My ghost will haunt you every night. MY DARK-HAIRED GIRL My dark-hair'd girl, thy ringlets deck, In silken curl, thy graceful neck ; Thy neck is like the swan, and fair as the pearl, And light as air the step is of my dark- haired girl. My dark-haired girl, upon thy lip The dainty bee might wish to sip ; For thy lip it is the rose, and thy teeth they are pearl, And diamond is the eye of my dark-hairefl girl! POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 197 My dark-haired girl, I've promised thee, And thou thy faith hast given to me, And oh, I would not change for the crown of an earl The pride of being loved by my dark-hair' d girl! NORAH'S LAMENT. Oh, I think I must follow my Cushla-ma- ehree, For I can't break the spell of his words so enthralling : Closer the tendrils around my heart creep — I dream all the day, and at night I can't sleep, For I hear a sad voice that is calling me — calling — *' Oh Nor&h, my darling, come over the sea !" For my buve and my fond one is over the sea, He fought for "the cause" and the troubles came o'er him ; He fled for his life when the king lost the day, He fled for his life — and he took mine away ; For 'tis death here without him : I, dying, deplore him, Ob ! life of my bosom ! — my Cushla-ma- chree ! THE SILENT FAREWELL. In silence we parted, for neither could speak, But the tremulous lip and the fast-fading cheek To both were betraying what neither could tell- How deep was the pang of that silent fare- well ! There are signs— ah ! the slightest — that love understands, In the meeting of eyes— in the parting of hands — In the quick-breathing sighs that of deep passion tell : Oh, such were the signs of our silent famwcll ! There's a language more glowing love teaches the tongue Than poet e'er dream'd, or than minstrel e'er sung, But oh, far beyond all such language could tell, The love that was told in that silent farewell 1 'TWAS THE DAT OF THE FEAST. [When the annual tribute of the flag of Waterloo to tha crown of England was made to William the Fourth, a few hourB before his Majesty's lamented death, the King on re- ceiving the banner, pressed it to his heart, saying, " It was a glorious day for England ;'? and expressed a wish he might survive the day, that the Duke of Wellington's commemoration fete of the victory of Waterloo might take place. A dying monarch receiving the banner commemorative of a national conquest, and wishing at the same time that his death might not disturb the triumphal banquet, is at once so heroic and poetic, that it naturally suggests a poem.] 'Twas the day of the feast in the chieftain's hall, 'Twas the day he had seen the foeman fall, 'Twas the day that his country's valor stood 'Gainst steel and fire and the tide of blood : And the day was mark'd by his country well — For they gave him broad valleys, the hill and the dell, And they ask'd, as a tribute, the hero should bring The flag of the foe to the foot of the king. 'Twas the day of the feast in the chieftain's hall, And the banner was brought at the chief- tain's call, And he went in his glory the tribute to bring, To lay at the foot of the brave old king : But the hall of the king was in silence and grief, And smiles, as of old, did not greet the chief; For he came on the angel of victory's wing, While the angel of death was awaiting the king. 198 POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVElt. The chieftain he knelt by the couch of the king ; "I know," said the monarch, "the tribute you bring, Give me the banner, ere life depart ;" And he press'd the flag to his fainting heart. " It is joy, e'en in death," cried the monarch, " to say That my country hath known such a glorious day! Heaven grant I may live till the midnight's fall, That my chieftain may feast in his warrior hall !" WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE? " What will you do, love, when I am going, With white sail flowing, The seas beyoud ? — What will you do, love, when waves divide us, And friends may chide us For being fond ?" "Though waves divide us, and friends be chiding, In faith abiding, I'll still be true ! And I'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean, In deep devotion — That's what I'll do !" " What would you do, love, if distant tidings Thy fond confidings Should undermine ? — And I, abiding 'neath sultry skies, Should think other eyes Were as bright as thine?" " Oh, name it not ! — though guilt and shame Were on thy name, I'd still be true : But that heart of thine — should another share it — I could not bear it ! What would I do ?" " What would you do, love, when home re- turning, With hopes high-burning, With wealth for you, If my bark, which bounded o'er foreign foam, Should be lost near home — Ah ! what would you do ?" " So thou wert spared — I'd bless the mornm In want and sorrow, That left me you ; And I'd welcome thee from the wasting bil low, This heart thy pillow — That's what I'd do !" WHO ARE YOU? ["There are very Impudent people in London," said a country cousin of mine m 1837. "As I walked down tbe Strand, a fellow stared at me and shouted, ' Who are you ?• Five minutes after another passing me, cried. ' Flare up'— but a civil gentleman, close to his heels, politely asked, -How is your mother ?' • This mere trifle is almost unintelligible now, but when first published was so effective and popular, as illustrating genieeilp the slang cries of the street, that it was honored by French and Italian versions from the sparkling pen of the renowned "Father Prout," in Bentley's Miscellany.] " Who are you ? who are you ? Little boy that's running after Everybody, up and down, Mingling sighing with your laughter V* " I a,m Cupid, lady Belle ; I am Cupid,, and no other." " Little boy, then prythee tell How is Venus ? — Solo's your mother t Little boy, little boy, I desire you tell me true, Cupid — oh, you're altered so, No wonder I cry, Who are you t " Who are you ? who are you ? Little boy, where is your bow ? You had a bow, my little boy " " So had you, ma'am — long ago." " Little boy, where is your torch ?" " Madam, I have given it up : Torches are no use at all — Hearts will never now flare up." " Naughty boy, naughty boy, Such words as these I never knew ; Cupid — oh, you're altered so, No wonder I say, Who are you .*'* THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. THE BRIDAL OF MALAHDDE. The joy-bells are ringing In gay Malahide, The fresh wind is singing Along the sea-side; The maids aie assembling With garlands of flowers, And the harpstrings are trembling In all the glad bowers. Swell, swell the gay measure ! Roll trumpet and drum ! 'Mid greetings of pleasure In splendor they come ! The chancel is ready, The portal stands wide For the lord and the lady, The bridegroom and bride. What years, ere the latter, Of earthly delight The future shall scatter O'er them in its flight ! What blissful caresses Shall Fortune bestow, Ere those dark-flowing tresses Fall white as the snow 1 Before the high altar Young Maud stands array'd; With accents that falter Her promise is made — From father and mother Forever to part, For him and no other To treasure her heart. The words are repeated, The bridal is done, The rite is completed — The two, they are one ; The vow, it is spoken All pure from the heart, That must not be broken Till life shall depart. Hark ! 'mid the gay clangor That compass'd their car, Loud accents, in anger Come mingling afar ! The foe's on the border, His weapons resound Where the lines in disorder Unguarded are found. As wakes the good shepherd, The watchful and bold, When the ounce or the leopard Is seen in the fold ; So rises already The chief in his mail, While the new-married lady Looks fainting and pale. " Son, husband, and brother, Arise to the strife, For sister and mother, For children and wife ! O'er hill and o'er hollow, O'er mountain and plain, Up, true men, and follow ! — Let dastards remain 1" Farrah ! to the battle ! They form into line — The shields, how they rattle ! The spears, how they shine I 200 THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. Soon, soon shall the foeman His treachery rue — On, burgher and yeoman, To die, or to do ! The eve is declining In ione Malahide, The maidens are twining Gay wreaths for the bride ; She marks them unheeding — Her heart is afar, Where the clansmen are bleeding For her in the war. Hark ! loud from the mountain, 'Tis Victory's cry ! O'er woodland and fountain It rings to the sky ! The foe has retreated ! He flies to the shore ; The spoiler's defeated — The combat is o'er ! With foreheads unruflied The conquerors come — But why have they muffled The lance and the drum ? What form do they carry Aloft on his shield ? And where does he tarry, The lord of the field? Ye saw him at morning, How gallant and gay 1 In bridal adorning, The star of the day : Now weep for the lover — His triumph is sped, His hope, it is over ! The chieftain is dead ! But, oh for the maiden Who mourns for that chief, With heart overladen And rending with grief! She sinks on the meadow — In one morning-tide, A wife and a widow, A maid and a bride ! Ye maidens attending, Forbear to condole ! Your comfort is rending The depths of her soul. True — true, 'twas a story For ages of pride ; He died in hia glory — But, oh, he has died ! The war-cloak she raises All mournfully now, And steadfastly gazes Upon the cold brow. That glance may forever Unalter'd remain, But the bridegroom will never Return it again. The dead-bells are tolling In sad Malahide, The death-wail is rolling Along the sea-side ; The crowds, heavy hearted, Withdraw from the green, For the sun had departed That brighten'd the scene ! Even yet iu that valley, Though years have roll'd by, When through the wild sally The sea-breezes sigh, The peasant, with sorrow, Beholds in the shade, The tomb where the morrow Saw Hussy convey'd. How scant was the warning, How briefly reveal'd, Before on that morning Death's chalice was fill'd ! The hero who drunk it There moulders in gloom, And the form of Maud Plunket Weeps over his tomb. The stranger who wanders Along the lone vale, Still sighs while he ponders On that heavy tale : "Thus passes each pleasure That earth can supply — Thus joy has its measure — We live but to die I" THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. HARK ! HARK 1 THE SOFT BUGLE. ! hark ! the soft bugle sounds over the wood, And thrills in the silence of even, Till faint, and more faint, in the far solitude, It dies on the portals of heaven ! But echo springs up, from her home in the rock, And seizes the perishing strain ; And sends the gay challenge, with shadowy mock, From mountain to mountain again ! And again ! From mountain to mountain again. Oh, thus let my love, like a sound of delight, Be around thee while shines the glad day, And leave thee, unpain'd, in the silence of night, And die like sweet music away. While hope, with her warm light, thy glan- cing eye fills, Oh, say — " Like that echoing strain, Though the sound of his love has died over the hills, It will waken in heaven again." And again ! It will waken in heaven again. A SOLDIER— A SOLDD3R TO-NIGHT IS OUR GUEST. Fait, fan the gay hearth, and fling back the barr'd door, Strew, strew the fresh rushes around on our floor, &nd blithe be the welcome in every breast — For a soldier — a soldier to-night is our guest. All honor to him who, when danger afar Had lighted for ruin his ominous star, Left pleasure, and country, and kindred behind, And sped to the shock on the wings of the wind. If you value the blessings that shine at our hearth — The wife's smiling welcome, the infant's sweet mirth — While they charm us at eve, let us think upon those Who have bought with their blood oui domestic repose. Then share with the soldier your hearth and your home, And warm be your greeting whene'er he shall come ; Let love light a welcome in every breast — For a soldier — a soldier to-night is our guest AILEEN AROON. When like the early rose, Aileen aroon ! Beauty in childhood blows, Aileen aroon ! When like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem ? Aileen aioon! Is it the laughing eye ? Aileen aroon ! Is it the timid sigh ? Aileen aroon ! Is it the tender tone, Soft as the string'd harp's moan P Oh, it is truth alone, Aileen aroon ! When, like the rising day, Aileen aroon ! Love sends his early ray, Aileen aroon ! What makes his dawning glow Changeless through joy or woe ? Only the constant know, Aileen aroon ! I know a valley fair, Aileen aroon ! I knew a cottage there, Aileen aroon I 202 TIIE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. Far in that valley's shade I knew a gentle maid, Flower of the hazel glade, Aileen aroon ! Who in the song so sweet, Aileen aroon ! "Who in the dance so sweet, Aileen aroon ! Dear were her charms to me, Dearer her laughter free, Dearest her constancy, Aileen aroon ! Were she no longer true, Aileen aroon ! What should her lover do ? Aileen aroon ! Fly with his broken chain Far o'er the sounding main, Never to love again, Aileen aroon ! Youth must with time decay, Aileen aroon ! Beauty must fade away, Aileen aroon ! ©astles are sack'd in war, Chieftains are scatter'd far, Truth is a fixed star, Aileen aroon ! KNOW YE NOT THAT LOVELY RIVER. 1 Air— "Xoy't wife of Aldivalloch." Know ye not that lovely river? Know ye not that smiling river ? Whose gentle flood, By cliff and wood, With wildering sound goes winding ever. Oh ! often yet with feeling strong, On that dear stream my memory ponders, And still I prize its murmuring song, For by my childhood's home it wanders. Know ye not, &c. 1 These verses were written at the request of his sister, who wrote to him from America for new words for the old Scotch ■fr of Roy'8 wifo of Aldivalloch. There's music in each wind that flows Within our native woodland breathing ; There's beauty in each flower that blows Around our native woodland wreathing. The memory of the brightest joys In childhood's happy morn that found us, Is dearer than the richest toys The present vainly sheds around us. Know ye not, &c. Oh, sister ! when 'mid doubts and fears, That haunt life's onward journey ever, I turn to those departed years, And that beloved and lonely river ; With sinking mind and bosom riven, And heart with lonely anguish aching ; It needs my long-taught hope in heaven To keep this weary heart from breaking ! Know ye not, &c. 'TIS, IT IS THE SHANNON'S STREAM. 'Tis, it is the Shannon's stream Brightly glancing, brightly glancis? See, oh, see the ruddy beam Upon its waters dancing '. Thus return'd from travel vain, Years of exile, years of pain, To see old Shannon's face again, Oh, the bliss entrancing ! Hail our own majestic stream, Flowing ever, flowing ever, Silent in the morning beam, Our own beloved river ! Fling thy rocky portals wide, Western ocean, western ocean; Bend ye hills, on either side, In solemn, deep devotion ; While before the rising gales On his heaving surface sails Half the wealth of Erin's vales, With undulating motion. Hail, our own beloved stream, Flowing ever, flowing ever, Silent in the morning beam, Our own majestic river ! THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 203 On thy bosom deep and wide, Noble river, lordly river, Royal navies safe might ride, Green Erin's lovely river. Prond upon thy banks to dwell, Let me ring Ambition's knell, Lured by hope's illusive spell Again to wander, never. Hail, our own romantic stream, Plowing ever, flowing ever, Silent in the morning beam, Our own majestic river 1 Let me from thy plaoid course, Gentle river, mighty river, Draw such truth of silent force As sophist uttered never. Thus, like thee, unchanging still, With tranquil breast and order'd will, My heaven-appointed course fulfil, Undeviating ever ! Hail, our own majestic stream, Flowing ever, flowing ever, Silent in the morning beam, Our own delightful river ! LOVE MY LOVE IN THE MORNING. I iove my love in the morning, For she like morn is fair — Her blushing cheek, its crimson streak, Its clouds her golden hair. Her glance, its beam, so soft and kind ; Her tears, its dewy showers ; And her voice, the tender whispering wind That stirs the early bowers. x love my love in the morning, I love my love at noon, For she is bright as the lord of light, Yet mild as autumn's moon : Her beauty is my bosom's sun, Her faith my fostering shade, And I will love my darling one, Till even the sun shall fade. I love my love in the morning, I love my love at even ; Her smile's soft play is like the ray That lights the western heaven : I loved her when the sun was high, I loved her when he rose ; But best of all when evening's sigh Was murmuring at its close. ORANGE AND GREEN. 1 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 1" Thomas Moon The night was falling dreary In merry Bandon town, When in his cottage, weary, An Orangeman lay down. The summer sun in splendor Had set upon the vale, And shouts of " No surrender !" Arose upon the gale. Beside the waters, laving The feet of aged trees. The Orange banners waving, Flew boldly in the breeze — In mighty chorus meeting, A hundred voices join, And fife and drum were beating The Battle of the Boyne. Ha ! toward his cottage meing, What form is speedy now, From yonder thicket flying, With blood upon his brow ! "Hide — hide me, worthy stranger! Tho-igh green my color be, And in the day of danger May Heaven remember theo ! " In yonder vale contending, Alone against that crew, My life and limbs defending, An Orangeman I slew. Hark ! hear that, fearful warning There's death in every tone — 204 THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. Oh, save my life to morning, And Heaven prolong your own 1" The Orange heart was melted, In pity to the Green ; He heard the tale, and felt it, His very soul within. "Dread not that angry warning, Though death be in its tone — I'll save your life till morning, Or I will lose my own." Now, round his lowly dwelling The angry torrent press'd, A hundred voices swelling, The Orangeman address'd — "Arise, arise, and follow The chase along the plain 1 In yonder stony hollow Your only son is slain !" With rising shouts they gather Upon the track amain, And leave the childless father Aghast with sudden pain. He seeks the righted stranger In covert where he lay — "Arise !" he said, " all danger Is gone and past away ! "I had a son — one only, One loved as my life, Thy hand has left me lonely In that accursed strife. I pledged my word to save thee, Until the storm should cease ; I keep the pledge I gave thee — Arise, and go in peace !" The stranger soon departed From that unhappy vale ; The father, broken-hearted, Lay brooding o'er that tale. Full twenty summers after To silver turn'd his beard ; And yet the sound of laughtei From him was never heard. The night was falling dreary, In merry Wexford town, When in his cabin, weary, A peasant laid him down. And many a voice was singing Aiong the summer vale, And Wexford town was ringing With shouts of " Granua Uile." Beside the waters laving The feet of aged trees, The green flag, gayly waving, Was spread against the breeze; In mighty chorus meeting, Loud voices fill'd the town, And fife and drum were beating, " Down, Orangemen, lie down f Hark ! 'mid the stirring clangor, That woke the echoes there, Loud voices, high in anger, Rise on the evening air. Like billows of the ocean, He sees them hurry on — And, 'mid the wild commotion, An Orangeman alone. " My hair," he said, " is hoary, And feeble is my hand, And I could tell a story Would shame your cruel band. Full twenty years and over Have changed my heart and brow, And I am grown a lover Of peace and concord now. " It was not thus I greeted Tour brother of the Green, When, fainting and debated, I freely took him in. I pledged my word io save hinv From y engeance /ashing on ; I kept the pledge I gave him, Though he had kill'd my son." That aged peasant beard him, And knew him as he stood ; Remembrance kindly stirr'd him, And tender gratitude. With gushing *ears of pleasure He pierced the listening train— I'm here to pay the measure Of kindness back a^ain !" THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. Upon his bosom falling, That old man's tears came down, Deep memory recalling That cot and fatal town. " The hand that would offend thee My being first shall end — I'm living to defend thee, My savior and my friend !" He said, and, slowly turning, Address'd the wondering crowd ; With fervent spirit burning, He told the tale aloud. Now press'd the warm beholders, Their aged foe to greet ; They raised him on their shoulders, And chair'd him through the street. As he had saved that stranger From peril scowling dim, So in his day of danger Did Heaven remember him. By joyous crowds attended, The worthy pair were seen, And their flags that day were blended Of Orange and of Green. SLEEP THAT LIKE THE COUCHED DOVE. Sleep, that like the couched dove, Broods o'er the weary eye, Dreams that with soft heavings move The heart of memory — Labor's guerdon, golden rest, Wrap thee in its downy vest ; Fall like comfort on thy brain, And sing the hush-song to thy pain ! Far from thee be startling fears, And dreams the guilty dream ; No banshee scare thy drowsy ears With her ill-omen'd scream. But tones of fairy minstrelsy Float like the ghosts of sound o'er thee, Soft as the chapel's distant bell, And lull thee to a sweet farewell. Ye, for whom the ashy hearth The fearful housewife clears — Ye, whose tiny sounds of mirth The nighted carman hears — Ye, whose pigmy hammers make The wonderers of the cottage wake — Noiseless be your airy flight, Silent as the still moonlight. Silent go and harmless come, Fairies of the stream — Ye, who love the winter gloom, Or the gay moonbeam — Hither bring your drowsy store, Gather'd from the bright lusmore, Shake o'er temples — soft and deep— The comfort of the poor man's sleep. GILLI MA CHREE. Gilli ma ehree, Sit down by me, We now are join'd, and ne'er shall sever This hearth's our own, Our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever ! When I was poor, Your father's door Was closed against your constant lover ; With care and pain I tried in vain My fortunes to recover. I said, " To other lands I'll roam, Where Fate may smile on me, love ;" I said, " Farewell, my own old home !" And I said, " Farewell to thee, love !" I might have said, My mountain maid, " Come, live with me, your own true lover; I know a spot, A silent cot, Your friends can ne'er discover. Where gently flows the waveless tide, By one small garden only ; Where the heron waves his wings so wide. And the innet sings so lonely 1" I 206 THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. I might have said, My mountain maid, " A father's right was never given True hearts to curse With tyrant force That have been blest in heaven." But then, I said, " In after-years, When thoughts of home shall find her, My love may mourn with secret tears Her friends thus left behind her." Oh ! no, I said, My own dear maid, For me, though all forlorn, forever That heart of thine Shall ne'er repine O'er slighted duty — never. From home and thee, though wandering far, A dreary fate be mine, love ; I'd rather live in endless war, Than buy my peace with thine, love. Far, far away, By night and day, I toil'd to win a golden treasure ; And golden gains Repaid my pains In fair and shining measure. I sought again my native land, Thy father welcom'd me, love ; I pour'd my gold into his hand, And my guerdon found in thee, love ? Sing Gilli ma chree, Sit down by me, We now are join'd, and ne'er shall sever; This hearth's our own, Our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever. OLD TIMES ! OLD TIMES I Old times ! old times ! the gay old times ! When I was young and free, And heard the merry Easter chimes Under the sally tree. My Sunday palm beside me placed — My cross upon my hand — A heart at rest within my breast, And sunshine on the land ! Old times ! Old times ! It is not that my fortunes flee, Nor that my cheek is pale — I mourn whene'er I think of thee, My darling, native vale ! — A wiser head I have, I know, Than when I loiter'd there ;" But in my wisdom there is woe, And in my knowledge care. Old times ! Old times ! I've lived to know my share of joy, To feel my share of pain — To learn that friendship's self can cloy, To love, and love in vain — To feel a pang and wear a smile, To tire of other climes — To like my own unhappy isle, And sing the gay old times ! Old times ! Old times ! And sure the land is nothing changed, The birds are singing still ; The flowers are springing where we ranged, There's sunshine on the hill ! The sally, waving o'er my head, Still sweetly shades my frame — But, ah, those happy days are fled, And I am not the same ! Old times ! Old times '. Oh, come again, ye merry times ! Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm — And let me hear those Easter chimes, And wear my Sunday palm. If I could cry away mine eyes, My tears would flow in vain — If I could waste my heart in sighs, ' They'll never come again ! Old times ! Old times I A PLACE IN THY MEMORY, DEAREST. A place in thy memory, dearest, Is all that I claim, To pause and look back when thou nearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee, nearer, Another may win and wear; THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. I care not though he be dearer, If I am remember'd there. Remember me — not as a lover Whose hope was cross'd, Whose bosom can never recover The light it hath lost; As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, though she never may see ; As a sister remembers a brother, O dearest ! remember me. Could I be thy true lover, dearest, Couldst thou smile on me, I would be the fondest and nearest That ever loved thee ! But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, That never must burst upon thine ; And Heaven, that made thee all-blooming, Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. Remember me, then ! — Oh, remember, My calm, light love ; Though bleak as the blasts of November My life may prove, That life will, though lonely, be sweet, If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind word when we meet, And a place in thy memory. FOR I AM DESOLATE. The Christmas light 1 is burning bright In many a village pane, And many a cottage rings to-night With many a merry strain. Young boys and girls run laughing by, Their hearts and eyes elate — I can but think on mine, and sigh, For I am desolate. There's none to watch in our old cot, Beside the holy light, No tongue to bless the silent spot Against the parting night.* i The Christmas— a light blessed by the priest, and lighted It sunset, on Christmas eve, in Irish houses. It is a kind of jnpiety to snuff, touch, or use it for any profane purposes -after. 1 It la the custom, in Irish Catholic families, to alt up till I've closed the door, and hither come To mourn my lonely fate ; I cannot bear my own old home, It is so desolate. I saw my father's eyes grow dim, And clasp'd my mother's knee; I saw my mother follow him — My husband wept with me. My husband did not long remain — His child was left me yet, But now my heart's last love is slain, And I am desolate ! THE BRIDAL WAKE. The priest stood at the marriage board The marriage cake was made, With meat the marriage chest was stored, Deck'd was the marriage bed. The old man sat beside the fire, The mother sat by him, The white bride was in gay attire ; But her dark eye was dim. Ululah! Ululahl The night falls quick — the sun is set ; Her love is on the water yet. I saw a red cloud in the west, Against the morning light — Heaven shield the youth that she loves best From evil chance to-night. The door flings wide ! Loud moans the gale J Wild fear her bosom fills — It is, it is the banshee's wail ! Over the darken'd hills. Ululah ! Ululah ! The day is past ! the night is dark ! The waves are mounting round his bark. The guests sit, round the bridal bed, And break the bridal cake ; But they sit by the dead man's head, And hold his weddins: wake. midnight on Christmas eve, in order to join in devotion at that hour. Few ceremonies of religion have a more splra- did and imposing effect than the morning mass, which, la cities, is celebrated sooa after the hour alluded to, and long before daybreak. THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. The bride is praying in her room, The place is silent all ! A fearful call ! a sudden doom ! Bridal and funeral. Ululah! Ululah! A youth to Kilfieheras" ta'en That never will return again. AD ARE. O sweet Adare, O lovely vale, O soft retreat of sylvan splendor ! Nor summer sun nor morning gale E'er hail'd a scene more softly tender. How shall I tell the thousand charms, Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, When lull'd in Nature's fostering arms, Soft peace abides and joy excelling ! Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn The slumbering boughs your song awaken, Or linger o'er the silent lawn, With odor of the harebell taken ! Thou rising sun, how richly gleams Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, O'er waving woods and bounding streams, And many a grove and glancing fountain ! Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there, When summer heats the open meadows, O'er parched hill and valley fair, All coolly lie your veiling shadows ! Ye rolling shades and vapors gray, Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven, How soft ye seal the eye of day, And wreathe the dusky brow of even ! In sweet Adare the jocund Spring His notes of odorous joy is breathing, The wild-birds in the woodland sing, The wild-flowers in the vale are breathing. There winds the Mague, as silver clear, Among the elms so sweetly flowing ; There fragrant in the early year Wild roses on the banks are blowing. The wild-duck seeks the sedgy bank Or dives beneath the glistening billow i of a churchyard near Kilkee. Where graceful droop and clustering danli The osier bright and rustling willow ; The hawthorn scents the leafy dale, In thicket lone the stag is belling, And sweet along the echoing vale The sound of vernal joy is swelling. THE POET'S PROPHECY. In the time of my boyhood I had a strange feeling, That I was to die in the noon of my day ; Not quietly into the silent grave stealing, But torn, like a blasted oak, sudden away. That, e'en in the hour when enjoyment was keenest, My lamp should quench suddenly hissing in gloom, That e'en when mine honors were freshest and greenest, A blight should rush over and scatter their bloom. It might be a fancy — it might be the gloom- ing Of dark visions taking the semblance of truth, And it might be the shade of the storm that is coming, Cast thus in its morn through the sunshine of youth. But be it a dream or a mystic revealing, The bodement has haunted me year after year, And whenever my bosom with rapture was filling, I paused for the footfall of fate at mine ear. With this feeling upon me all feverish and glowing, I rush'd up the rugged way panting to Fame, I snatch'd at my laurels while yet they were growing, And won for my guerdon the half of a name. THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. My triumphs I view'd from the least to the brightest, As gay flowers pluck'd from the fingers of Death, And whenever Joy's garments flow'd richest and lightest, I look'd for the skeleton lurking beneath. Oh, friend of my 'heart ! if that doom should fall on me, And thou shouldst live on to remember my love — Come oft to the tomb when the turf lies upon me, And list to the even wind mourning above. Lie down by that bank where the river is creeping All fearfully under the still autumn tree, "When each leaf in the sunset is silently And sigh for departed days — thinking of But when, o'er the minstrel, thou'rt lonelily sighing, Forgive, if his failings should flash on thy brain, Remember the heart that beneath thee is lying Can never awake to offend thee again. Remember how freely that heart that to others Was dark as the tempest-dawn frowning above, Burst open to thine with the zeal of a broth- er's, And show'd all its hues in the light of thy love. TWILIGHT SONG. Dewy twilight ! silent hour! Welcome to our cottage bower ! See, along the lonely meadow, Gl.ost-like, falls the lengthen'd shadow, While the sun, with level shine, Turns the stream to rosy wine ; And from yonder busy town Homeward hies the lazy clown. Hark ! along the dewy ground Steals the sheep-bell's drowsy sound ; While the ploughman, late returning, Sees his cheerful fagot burning, And his dame, with kindly smile, Meets him by the rustic stile ; While beneath the hawthorn mut« Swells the peasant's merry flute. Lass, from market homeward speed ; Traveller, urge thy lagging steed — Fly the dark wood's lurking danger; Churl, receive the 'nighted stranger — He with merry song and jest Will repay thy niggard feast, And the eye of Heaven above Smile upon the deed of love. Hour of beauty ! hour of peace ! Hour when care and labor cease ; When around her hush'd dominion Nature spreads her brooding pinion, While a thousand angel eyes Wake to watch us from the skies, Till the reason centres there, And the heart is moved to prayer. THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. My darling, my darling, while silence is on the moor, And lone in the sunshine, I sit by our cabin door; When evening falls quiet, and calm overland and sea, My darling, my darling, I think of past times and thee ! Here, while on this cold shore, I wear out my lonely hours, My child in the heavens is spreading my bed with flowers; All weary my bosom is grown of this friend- less clime — But I long not to leave it ; for that were a shame and crime. THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. They boar to the churchyard the youth in The fancy that ranges, their health away — Ends where it began ; 1 know where a fruit hangs more ripe for the But the mind that ne'er changes grave than they — Brings glory to man. But I wish not for death, for my spirit is all resign'd, And the hope that stays with me gives peace to my ag6d mind. THE PHANTOM CITY. My darling, my darling, God gave to my feeble age A story I heard on the cliffs of the west, A prop for my faint heart, a stay in my pil- That oft, through the breakers dividing, grimage ; A city is seen on the ocean's wild breast .M7 darling, my darling, God takes back his In turreted majesty riding. gift again — But brief is the glimpse of that phantom so And my heart may be broken, but ne'er shall bright, my will complain. Soon close the white waters to screen it, And the bodement, they say, of the wonder- ful sight, Is death to the eyes that have seen it. YOU NEVER BADE ME HOPE, 'TIS I said, when they told me the wonderful tale, TRUE. My country, is this not thy story ? You never bade me hope, 'tis true — Thus oft, through the breakers of discord, I ask'd you not to swear ; we hail But I look'd in those eyes of blue, And read a promise there. A promise of peace and of glory. Soon gulphed in those waters of hatred again No longer our fancy can find it, The vow should bind with maiden sighs That maiden's lips have spoken — And woe to our hearts for the vision so vain ; For ruin and death come behind it. But that which looks from maiden's eyes Should last of all be broken ! WAR! WAR! HORRID WAR! f JKE THE OAK BY THE FOUNTAIN. War ! War ! Horrid war ! Fly our lovely plain, Like the oak by the fountain, Guide fleet and far In sunshine and storm ; Thy fiery car, Like the rock on the mountain, And never come again, Unchanging in form ; And never, Like the course of the river, Never come again ! Through ages the same ; Like the mist, mounting ever Peace ! Peace ! smiling Peace ! To heaven, whence it came. Bless our lonely plain, Guide swiftly here So firm be thy merit, Thy mild career, So changeless thy soul ; And never go again ! So constant thy spirit, And never, While seasons shall roll ; Never go again 1 THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 211 GONE ! GONE ! FOREVER GONE. Gone, gone, forever gone Are the hopes I cherish'd, Changed like the sunny dawn, In Sudden showers perish'd. Wither'd is the early flower, Like a bright lake broken, Faded like a happy hour, Or Love's secret spoken. Life ! what a cheat art thou ! On youthful fancy stealing, A prodigal in promise now; A miser in fulfilling ! SONNETS. ADDRESSED TO FRIENDS IN AMERICA, AND PRE- FIXED TO " CARD-DRAWING," ONE OF THE TALES OF THE MTJNSTER FESTIVALS. Friends far away — and late in life exiled — Whene'er these scatter'd pages meet your gaze, Think of the scenes where early fortune smiled — The land that was your home in happier days — The sloping lawn, to which the tired rays Of evening stole o'er Shannon's sheeted flood— The hills of Clare, that in its softening haze Look'd vapor-like and dim— the lonely wood — The cliff-bound Inch — the chapel in the glen, Where oft, with bare and reverent locks, we stood, To hear the Eternal truths — the small dark maze Of the wild stream that clipp'd the blossom'd plain, And toiling through the varied solitude, Upraised its hundred silver tongues and babbled praise. That home is desolate ! our quiet hearth Is ruinous and cold — and many a sight And many a sound are met of vulgar mirth, Where once your gentle laughter cheer'd the night. It is as with your country. The calm light Of social peace for her is quenched too — Rude Discord blots her scenes of old de- light, Her gentle virtues scared away — like you. Remember her when in this tale you meet The story of a straggling right — of ties Fast bound and swiftly rent — of joy — of pain — Legends which by the cottage fire sound sweet ; Nor let the hand that wakes those memo- ries (In faint but fond essay) be unrem-ember'd then. WAR SONG OF O'DRISCOL. From the shieling that stands by the lone mountain river, Hurry, hurry down with the axe and the quiver ; From the deep-seated Coom, from the storm- , beaten highland, Hurry, hurry down to the shores of your island. Hurry down, hurry down t Hurry, hurry, &c. Galloglach and Kern, hurry down to the sea — There the hungry Raven's beak is gaping for a prey ; Farrah ! to the onset ! Farrah ! to the shore ! Feast him with the pirate's flesh, the bird of gloom and gore ! Hurry down, hurry down ! Hurry down, &c. Hurry, for the slaves of Bel are mustering to meet ye ; Hurry by the beaten cliff, the Nordman longs to greet ye ; POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. Hurry nom the mountain ! hurry, hurry from the plain ! Weioome him, and never let him leave our lftod again ! Hurry down, hurry down ! Hurry down, &c. On the land a sulky wolf, and in the sea a shark, Hew the ruffian spoiler down, and burn his gory bark ! Slayer of the unresisting ! ravager profane ! Leave the White sea-tyrant's limbs to moulder on the plain. Hurry down, hurry down ! Hurry down, &c. MY SPIRIT IS OF PENSIVE MOULD. My spirit is of pensive mould, I cannot laugh as once of old, When sporting o'er some woodland scene, A child I trod the dewy green. I cannot sing my merry lay, As in that past unconscious day ; For time has laid existence bare, And shown me sorrow lurking there. I would I were the lonely breeze That mourns among the leafless trees, That I might sigh from morn till night O'er vanish'd peace and lost delight. I would I were the heavy shower That falls in spring on leaf and bower, That I might weep the livelong day For erring man and hope's d^.cay : For all the woe beneath the sun, For all the wrong to virtue done, For every soul to falsehood gain'd, For every heart by evil Ptain'd : For man by man in durance held, For early dreams of joy dispell'd, For all the hope the world awakes In youthful hearts, and after breaks. But still, though hate, and fraud, and stritfc Have stain'd the shining web of life, Sweet Hope the glowing woof renews, In all its old, enchanting hues. Flow on, flow on, thou shining stream ! Beyond life's dark and changeful dream. There is a hope, there is a joy, This faithless world can ne'er destroy. Sigh on, sigh on, ye gentle winds . For stainless hearts and faithful mindf* There is a bliss abiding true, That shall not pass and die like you. Shine on, shine on, thou glorious sun i When Day his latest course has run, On sinless hearts shall rise a light That ne'er shall set in gloomy night IMPROMPTU. ON SEEING AN IRIS FORMED BY THE SPRAY 0» THE OCEAN AT MILTOWN MALBAY. Oh, sun-color'd breaker! when gazing on thee I think of the Eastern story, How beauty arose from the foam of the sea — A creature of light and of glory. But, hark ! a hoarse answer is sect from the wave, " No — Venus was never my daughter — To golden-hair'd Iris her being I gave, Behold where she shines o'er the water." FRIENDSHIP. A weary time hath pass'd since last we parted ; Thy gentle eye was fill'd with sorrow, and I did not speak, but press'd thy trembling hand, Even in that hour of rapture, broken hearted. I have not seen thee since — for thou art changed ; There sits a coldness on thy lip and brow — POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 213 The look, the tone, the smile, are alter'd now, And all about, within thee, quite estranged. I have not seen thee since — although per- chance, Among the heartless and the vain, on me All coldly courteous lights thy lovely glance. Yet art thou happier ? Oh, if such may be Tbe love that Friendship vows — give me again My heart, my days of peace, my lute, and listening plain. FAME. Why hast thou lured me on, fond muse, to quit The path of plain dull worldly sense, and be A wanderer through the realms of thought with thee ; While hearts that never knew thy visitings sweet, Cold souls that mock thy quiet melancholy, Win their bright way up Fortune's glitter- ing wheel ; And we sit lingering here in darkness still, Scorn'd by the bustling sons of wealth and folly? Tet still thou whisperest in mine ear, " The day — The day may be at hand when thou and I (The season of expectant pain gone by) Shall tread to Joy's bright porch a smiling way, And rising, not as once with hurried wing, To purer skies aspire, and hail a lovelier spring." WRITTEN IN AD ARE IN 1820. I look'd upon a dark and sullen sea Over whose slumbering wave the night's mists hung, Till from the morn's gray breast a fresh wind sprung And sought its brightening bosom joyously ; Then fled the mists its quickening breath before ; The glad sea rose to meet it — and each wave, Retiring from the sweet caress it gave, Made summer music to the listening shore. So slept my soul, unmindful of thy reign ; But the sweet breath of thy celestial grace, Hath risen — oh, let its quickening spirit chase From that dark seat, each mist and secret stain, Till, as yon clear water, mirror' d fair, Heaven sees its own calm hues reflected there. THE WAKE OF THE ABSENT. 1 The dismal yew and cypress tall, Wave o'er the churchyard lone, Where rest our friends and fathers all, Beneath the funeral stone. Unvex'd in holy ground they sleep : Oh, early lost ! o'er thee No sorrowing friend shall ever weep, Nor stranger bend the knee. Mo chuma ! lorn am I ! Hoarse dashing rolls the salt-sea wave Over our perish'd darling's grave. The winds the sullen deep that tore His death-song chanted loud, The weeds that line the clifted shore Were all his burial-shroud ; For friendly wail and holy dirge And long lament of love, Around him roar'd the angry surge, The curlew scream'd above. Mo chuma ! lorn am I, My grief would turn to rapture now, Might I but touch that pallid brow. The stream-born bubbles soonest burst, That earliest left the source : 1 It Is the custom among the peasantry in some parts of Ireland, when any member of a family has been lost at sea (or in any other way which renders the performance of the cus- tomary funeral rite impossible), to celebrate the " wake," tly in the same way as if the corpse was actually present POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. Buds earliest blown are faded first, In Nature's wonted course ; With guarded pace her seasons creep, By slow decay expire, The young above the aged weep, The son above the sire : Mo chuma ! lorn am I, That death a backward course should hold, To smite the young and spare the old. ON PULLING SOME CAMPANULAS IN A LADY'S GARDEN. Oh, weeds will haunt the loveliest scene The summer sun can see, And clouds will sometimes come between The truest friends that be. And thoughts unkind will come perchance, And haply words of blame, For pride is man's inheritance, And frailty is his name. Yet while I pace this leafy vale, That nursed thine infancy — And hear in every passing gale A whisper'd sound of thee, My 'nighted bosom wakes anew To Feeling's genial ray, And each dark mist on Memory's view Melts into light away. The flowers that grace this shaded spot — Low, lovely, and obscure — Are like the joys thy friendship brought — Unboasted, sweet, and pure. Now wither'd is their autumn blow, And changed their simple hue, Ah ! must it e'er be mine to know Their type is faded too ? Yet should those well-remember'd hours Return to me no more, And, like those cull'd and faded flowers, Their day of life be o'er — In memory's fragrant shrine conceal'd, A sweeter joy they give, Than aught the world again can yield Or I again receive. THEY SPEAK OF SCOTLAND'S HEROES OLD. They speak of Scotland's heroes old, Struggling to make their country free, And in that hour my heart grows cold, For, Erin, then I think of thee ! They boast their Bruce of Bannockburn, Their noble Knight of Ellerslie ; To Erin's sons I proudly turn — My country, then I smile for thee. They boast, though joiu'd to England'! power, Scotland ne'er bow'd to slavery ; An equal league in danger's hour — My country, then I weep for thee. And when they point to our fair Isle, And say no patriot hearts have we, That party stains the work defile — My country, then I blush for thee. But Hope says, " Blush or tear shall never Sully approving Fame's decree." When Freedom's word her bond shall sever — My country, then I'll joy in thee. But oh ! be Scotland honor'd long, Be envy ever far from me, My simple lay meant her no wrong — My country, it was but for thee ! O'BRAZIL, THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. A SPECTRE ISLAND, SAID TO BE SOMETIMES VISD3LK ON THE VERGE OF THE WESTERN HORI- ZON, IN THE ATLANTIC, FROM THE ISLES ON ARRAN. On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appear'd, as they tell ; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, And they call'd it O'Brazil, the Isle of the Blest. From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim, The beautiful spectre show'd lovely and dim ; POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 215 The golden clouds curtain'd the deep where it lay, And it look'd like an Eden, away, far away ! A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, In the breeze of the Orient loosen'd his sail ; From Ara, the holy, he turn'd to the west, For though Ara was holy, O'Brazil was blest. He heard not the voices that call'd from the shore — He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar ; Home, kindred, and safety he left on that day, And he sped to O'Brazil, away, far away ! Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy Isle, O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its smile ; Noon burn'd on the wave, and that shadowy shore Seem'd lovelily distant, and faint as before : Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he look'd timidly back ; Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the Isle of the Blest was away, far away ! Rash dreamer, return ! O ye winds of the main, Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again ; Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss, To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. The warning of reason was spoken in vain, He never revisited Ara again ; Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters, away, far away ! To you, gentle friends, need I pause to reveal The lessons of prudence my verses conceal ; How the phantom of pleasure seen distant in youth, Oft lures a weak heart from the circle of truth. All lovely it seems like that shadowy Isle, And the eye of the wisest is caught by its smile ; But, ah ! for the heart it has tempted to stray From the sweet home of duty, away, far awayl Poor friendless adventurer ! vainly might he Look back to green Ara, along the wild sea ; But the wandering heart has a guardian above, Who, though erring, remembers the child of his love. Oh, who at the proffer of safety would spurn, When all that he asks is the will to return ; To follow a phantom, from day unto day, And die in the tempest, away, far away ! LINES ADDRESSED TO A SEAGULL, SEEN OFF THE CLIFFS OF MOHEH, IN THE COUNTY OF CLAEE. White bird of the tempest ! oh, beautiful thing, With the bosom of snow, and the motionless wing ; Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high, Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the sky; Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form, Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm; Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn, Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn ; Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtain'd dome, Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam ; Now silently poised o'er the war of the main, Like the spirit of charity brooding o'er pain ; Now gliding with pinion, all silently furl'd, Like an Angel descending to comfort the world ! Thou seem'st to my spirit — as upward I gaze, And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays, Now lost in the storm-driven vapors that fly Like hosts that are routed across the broad sky — Like a pure spirit, true to its virtue and faith 'Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and death ! Rise ! beautiful emblem of purity ! rise On the sweet winds of heaven, to thine own brilliant skies, THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. Still higher ! still higher ! till lost to our sight, Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light ; And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee Must long for the moment — the joyous and free — When the soul, disembodied from nature, shall spring, Unfetter'd, at once to her Maker and King ; When the bright day of service and suffer- ing past, Shapes fairer than thine shall shine round her at last, While the standard of battle triumphantly furl'd, She smiles like a victor, serene on the world ! THE SISTER OF CHARITY. She once was a lady of honor and wealth, Bright glow'd on her features the roses of health ; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold : Joy revell'd around her — love shone at her side, And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride ; And light was her step, in the mirth-sound- ing hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, That call'd her to live for the suffering race ; And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Rose quickly, like Mary, and answer'd, " I come !" She put from her person the trappings of pride, And pass'd from her home with the joy of a bride ; Nor wept at the threshold, as onward she moved, For her heai-t was on fire, in the cause it approved. Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost, That beauty that once was the song and the toast, No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for Heaven the glory of earth. Those feetthatto music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on the mission of love ; Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem, Are tending the helpless or lifted for them ; That voice that once echo'd the song of the vain, Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. Her down-bed a pallet ; her trinkets a bead ; Her lustre — one taper that serves her to read ; Her sculpture — the crucifix nail'd by her bed ; Her paintings — one print of the thora- crown'd head; Her cushion — the pavement that wearies her knees ; Her music — the psalm, or the sigh of disease ; The delicate lacly lives mortified there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined ; Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary — she comforts the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; Where want and affliction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity there is a friend. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapor of death ; POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 217 Where rings the loud musket, and the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague- tainted face With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ! How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him! Behold her, ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ; Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers — self-seeking men — Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen, How stands in the balance your eloquence weigh'd, With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid? TO MEMORY. Oh, come ! thou sadly pleasing power, Companion of the twilight hour — Come, with thy sable garments flowing, Thy tearful smile, ail-brightly glowing— Come,with thy light and noiseless tread As one belonging to the dead ! Come, with thy bright, yet clouded eye, Grant me thine aid, sweet Memory ! s, and pictures all again, The " wood-fringed" lake — the r plain — The mountain flower — the valley's sm And lovely Inisfallen's isle. The rushing waters roaring by — Our ringing laugh — our raptured sigh The waveless sea — the varied shore — The dancing boat — the measured oar- The lofty bugle's rousing cry — The awaken'd mountains deep reply. Silence resuming then her reign, In awful p< wer, o'er hill and plain. i'ged She paints, and her unclouded dyes Can never fade, in feeling's eyes, For dipp'd in love's immortal stream, Through future years they'll brightly beam. Oh, prized and loved, though lately known, Forget not all, when we are gone — Think how our friendship's well-knit band Waited not time's confirming hand. Think how despising forms control, Heart sprung to heart, and soul to soul — And let tis greet thee, far or near, As cherish'd friend — as brother dear. THE SONG OF THE OLD MEN- DICANT. A matt of threescore, with the snow on hia brow, And the light of his aged eye dim, Oh, valley of sorrow ! what lure hast thou now, In thy changes of promise for him ? Gay Nature may smile, but his sight has grown old — Joy sound, but his hearing is dull ; And pleasure may feign, but his bosom is cold, And the cup of his weariness full. Once warm with the pulses of young twenty- three, With plenty and ease in thy train, Thy fair visions wore an enchantment for me That never can gild them again. For changed are my fortunes, and early and late • From dwelling to dwelling I go : And I knock with my staff at our first mother's gate, And I ask for a lodging below. 1 Farewell to thee, Time ! in thy passage with me, One truth thou hast taught me to know, Though lovely the past and the future may be, The present is little but woe ; 1 This beautiml sentiment occurs in Chancer. 218 POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. For the sum of those joys that we find in life's way, "Where thy silent wing still wafts us on, Is a hope for to-morrow — a want for to-day, And a sigh for the times that are gone. WOULD YOU CHOOSE A FRIEND ? Would you choose a friend? Attend! attend! I'll teach you how to attain your end. He on whose lean and bloodless cheek The red grape leaves no laughing streak; On whose dull white brow and clouded eye Cold thought and care sit heavily ; Him you must flee : 'Tween you and me, That man is very bad company. And he around whose jewell'd nose The blood of the red grape freely flows; Whose pursy frame as he fronts the board Shakes like a wine-sack newly stored, In whose half-shut, moist, and sparkling eye The wine-god revels cloudily Him you must flee : 'Tween you and me, That man is very bad company. But he who takes his wine in measure, Mingling wit and sense with pleasure, Who likes good wine for the joy it brings, And merrily laughs and gayly sings : With heart and bumper always full, Never maudlin, never dull, Tour friend let him be : 'Tween you and me, That man is excellent company. POEMS OF DEAN SWIFT. CORINNA. This day (the year I dare not tell) Apollo play'd the midwife's part ; Into the world Corinna fell, And he endow'd her with his art. But Cupid with a Satyr comes : Both softly to the cradle creep ; Both stroke her hands and rub her gums, "While the poor child lay fast asleep. Then Cupid thus : " This little maid Of love shall always speak and write." " And I pronounce" (the Satyr said) " The world shall feel her scratch and bite.' EPIGRAM. As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his wife, He took to the streets and fled for his life : Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble ; Then ventured to give him some sober ad- vice. But Tom is a person of honor so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning ; Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life ; Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his wife. LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW- PANE AT CHESTER. The Dean seems to have been roused to anger at Chester by the extortion of his landlord, if we may jadge by some linei beginning— My landlord is civil, But dear as the d 1 ; Your pockets grow empty, With nothing to tempt ye. And his rage seems to have been inflated to the degree of cob- signing the whole population to destruction as follows :— The walls of this town Are full of renown, And strangers delight to walk round 'em ; But as for the dwellers, Both buyers and sellers, For me, you may hang 'em or drown 'em. ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; OR THB EBCBIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY." When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat To form some beauty by a new receipt, Jove seat, and found, far in a country scene, Truth, innocence, good-nature, look serene : From which ingredients first the dexterous boy Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. The Graces from the Court did next provide Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride : These Venus clears from every spurious grain Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain : Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employ'd • Then call'd the happy composition Floyd. POEMS OF DEAN SWIFT. EPIGRAM III. When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you. ON THE BUSTS IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 1732. IV. When I talk and you are heedless, I will show no anger needless. Lewis the living learned fed, And raised the scientific head : Our frugal Queen, 1 to save her meat, V. When your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word. Exalts the head that cannot eat. VI. When you, furious, argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue. LESBIA. vn. Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye : Lesbia forever on me rails ; To be chidden for explaining, To talk of me she never fails : When you quite mistake the meaning Now, hang me, but, for all her art, I find that I have gain'd her heart. VIII. Never more will I suppose You can taste my verse or prose. My proof is thus : I plainly see ; The case is just the sam6 with me ; IX You no more at me shall fret, I curse her every hour sincerely, While I teach and you forget. Yet, hang me, but I love her dearly. X. You shall never hear me thunder When you blunder on, and blunder. XI. Show your poverty of spirit, TWELVE ARTICLES. And in dress place all your merit ; Give yourself ten thousand airs ; I. Lest it may more quarrels breed, That with me shall break no squares. I will never hear you read. XII Never will I erive advice IL By disputing I will never, Till you please to ask me thrice : To convince you, once endeavor. Which if you in scorn reject, ' Qnt^n 4jU)« 'Twill be just as I expect. p .3 r xg»pjniaji JgJ ia AiuJLl* J "T1IM t! LEfienaR proug.) # : «t- THE POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. BETTER KNOWN AS "FATHER PROUT." VERT-VERT, THE PARROT. FROM THE FRENCH OF THE JESUIT GRE8SET. ffijs otfgfnal fiiinocencc. ^Alas ! what evils I discern in Too great an aptitude for learning! And fain would all the ills unravel That aye ensue from foreign travel ; Far happier is the man who tarries Quiet withiu his household "Lares :" Read, and you'll find how virtue vanishes, How foreign vice all goodness banishes, And how abroad young heads will grow dizzy, Proved in the underwritten Odyssey. In old Nevers, so famous for its Dark narrow streets and Gothic turrets, Close on the brink of Loire's young flood, Flourished a convent sisterhood Of Ursulines. Now in this order A parrot lived as parlor-boarder ; Brought in his childhood from the Antilles, And sheltered under convent mantles : Green were his feathers, green his pinions, And greener still were his opinions ; For vice had not yet sought to pervert This bird, who had been christened Vert-Vert, Nor could the wicked world defile him, Sate from its snares in this asylum. Fresh, in his teens, frank, gay, and gracious, At.d, to crown all, somewhat loquacious ; f we examine close, not one, or he, Had a vocation for a nunnery. 1 The convent's kindness need I mention ? Need I detail each fond attention, ' " P»r son caqnet digne d'etre en convent' Or count the tit-bits which in Lent he Swallowed remorseless and in plenty ! Plump was his carcass ; no, not higher Fed was their confessor, the friar ; And some even say that our young Hector Was far more loved than the " Director." ' Dear to each novice and each nun — He was the life and sou! of fun ; Though, to be sure, some hags censorious Would sometimes find him too uproarious. What did the parrot care for those old Dames, while he had for him the household! He had not yet made his " profession," Nor come to years called " of discretion ;" Therefore, unblamed, he ogled, flirted, And romped like any unconverted ; Nay sometimes, too, by the Lord Harry ! He'd pull their caps and " scapulary." But what in all his tricks seemed oddest, Was that at times he'd turn so modest, That to all bystanders the wight Appeared a finished hypocrite. In accent he did not resemble Kean, though he had the tones of Kemble ; But fain to do the sisters' biddings, He left the stage to Mrs. Siddons. Poet, historian, judge, financier, Four problems at a time he'd answer He had a faculty like Ca>sar's. Lord Althorp, baffling all his teazers, Could not surpass Vert- Vert in puzzling, "Goodrich" to him was but a gosling. 1 « " Sonvent 1'oisem J'emporta sor Ie Pere." 1 At this remote period it is forgotten that "Prosperity Eobin- Bon " was also known as " Goose Goodrich," when subsequently oh»necllor of the exchequer.— O. T 222 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Placed when at table near some vestal, His fare, be sure, was of the best all, — For every sister would endeavor To keep for him some sweet kors d'ceuvre. Kindly at heart, iu spite of vows and Cloisters, a nun is worth a thousand ! And aye, if Heaven would only lend her, I'd have a nun for a nurse tender! ' Then, when the shades of night would come on, And to their cells the sisters summon, ELippy the favored one whose grotto This sultan of a bird would trot to : Mostly the young ones' cells he toyed in (The aged sisterhood avoiding), Sure among all to find kind offices, — Still he was partial to the novices, And in their cells our anchorite Mostly cast author for the night ; Perched on the box that held the relics, he Slept without notion of indelicacy. Rare was his luck ; nor did he spoil it By flying from the morning toilet; Not that I can admit the fitness Of (at the toilet) a male witness ; But that I scruple in this history To shroud a single fact in mystery. Quick at all arts, our bird was rich at That best accomplishment, called chit-chat; For, though brought up within the cloister, His beak was not closed like an oyster, But, trippingly, without a stutter, The longest sentences would utter ; Pious withal, and moralizing His conversation was surprising ; None of your equivoques, no slander — To such vile tastes he scorned to pander ; But his tongue ran most smooth and nice on "Deo sit laus" and ''Kyrie eleison ;" The maxims he gave with best emphasis Were Suarez's or Thomas it Kempis's ; In Christmas carols he was famous, " Orate, fratres," and " Oremos ;" If in good humor, he was wont To give a stave from "■Think well on'tj"* Or, by particular desire, he Would chant the hymn of " Dies ira." 1 **Les petlts 8oins, lea attentions fines, Sont nes, dit on, chez les Ursulines." t "Pensez-y-bten." or " Tliinlc well on't" as translated by tht titular bishop, Richard Challoner, is the most generally adopted devotional tract among the Catholics of these islands. — Pbot/t, Then in the choir he would amaze all By copying the tone so nasal In which the sainted sisters chanted— (At least that pious nun inv aunt did) fflns fatall JUnotont. The public soon began to ferret The hidden nest of so much merit, And, spite of all the nuns' endeavors, The fame of Vert- Vert filled all Nevers; Nay, from Moulines folks came to stare at The wondrous talent of this parrot; And to fresh visitors ad libitum Sister Sophie had to exhibit him. Drest in her tidiest robes, the virgin, Forth from the convent cells emerging, Brings the bright bird, and for his plumage First challenges unstinted homage ; Then to his eloquence adverts, — " "What preacher's can surpass Vert- Vert's ! Truly in oratory few men, Equal this learned catechumen; Fraught with the convent's choicest lessons, And stuffed with piety's quintessence ; A bird most quick of apprehension, With gifts and graces hard to mention : Say in what pulpit can you meet A Chrysostom half so discreet, Who'd follow in his ghostly mission So close the ' fathers and tradition ? ' " Silent meantime, the feathered hermit Waits for the sister's gracious permit, When, at a signal from his mentor, Quick on a course of speech he'll enter ; Not that he cares for human glory, Bent but to save his auditory ; Hence he pours forth with so much nnctiov That all his hearers feel compunction. Thus for a time did Vert-Vert dwell Safe in his holy citadelle ; Scholared like any well-bred abbe, And loved by many a cloistered Hebe ; You'd swear that he had crossed the same brk 1 As any youth brought up in Cambridge.' Other monks starve themselves ; but his skin Was sleek like that of a Franciscan, And far more clean ; for this grave Solon Bathed every day in eau de Cologne. * Quart — Pont Attnomm t POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Thus he indulged each guiltless gambol, Blessed had he ne'er been doomed to ramble ! For in his life there came a crisis Such as for all great men arises, — Such as what Nap to Russia led, Such as the " flight" of Mahomed ; O town of Nantz ! yes, to thy bosom We let him go, alas ! to lose him ! Edicts, O town famed for revoking, Still was Vert-Vert's loss more provoking! Dark be the day when our bright Don went From this to a far-distant convent ! Two words comprise that awful era — Words big with fate and woe — "II ira!" Yes, " he shall go ;" but, sisters ! mourn ye The dismal fruits of that sad journey, — Ills on which Nantz's nuns ne'er reckoned, When for the beauteous bird they beckoned. Fame, O Vert- Vert ! in evil humor, One day to Nantz had brought the rumor Of thy accomplishments, — '' acumen," " Novf," and " esprit," quite superhuman : All these reports but served to enhance Thy merits with the nuns of Nantz. How did a matter so unsuited For convent ears get hither bruited ! • Some may inquire. But " nuns are knowing,' "■And first to hear what gossip's going." l Forthwith they taxed their wits to elicit From the famed bird a friendly visit. Girls' wishes run in a brisk current, But a nun's fancy is a torrent ; s To get this bird they'd pawn the missal : Quick they indite a long epistle, Careful with softest things to fill it, And then with musk perfume the billet; Thus, to obtain their darling purpose, They send a writ of habeas corpus. Off goes the post. When will the answer Free them from doubt's corroding cancer t Nothing can equal their anxiety, Except, of course, their well-known piety. Things at Nevers meantime went harder Than well would suit such pious ardor ; It was no easy job to coax This parrot from the Nevers folks. ; un feu qui devore, est cent Ibis pis enco What, take their toy from convent belles t Make Russia yield the Dardanelles ! Filch his good rifle from a " Suliote," Or drag her " Romeo" from a " Juliet ! " Make an attempt to take Gibraltar, Or try the old corn laws to alter ! This seemed to them, and eke to us, " Most wasteful and ridiculous." Long did the " chapter " sit in state, And on this point deliberate ; The junior members of the senate Set their fair faces quite again' it ; Refuse to yield a point so tender, And urge the motto — No surrender. The elder nuns feel no great scruple In parting with the charming pupil ; And as each grave affair of state runs Most on the verdict of the matrons, Small odds, I ween, and poor the chance Of keeping the dear bird from Nantz. Nor in my surmise am I far out — For by their vote off goes the parrot. En, ce terns la, a small canal-boai, Called by most chroniclers the " Talbot," (Talbot, a name well known in France !) Travelled between Nevers and Nantz. Vert-Vert took shipping in this craft, 'Tis not said whether fore or aft ; But in a book as old as Massinger's We find a statement of the passengers ; These were — two Gascons and a piper, A sexton (a notorious swiper), A brace of children, and a nurse ; But what was infinitely worse, A dashing Cyprian ; while by her Sat a most jolly-looking friar.' For a poor bird brought up in purity 'Twas a sad augur for futurity To meet, just free from his indentures, And in the first of his adventures, Such company as formed his hansel, — Two rogues ! a friar ! ! and a damsel 1 1 ! Birds the above were of a feather ; But to Vert-Vert 'twas altogether Such a strange aggregate of scandals As to be met but among Vandals ; ' Une uourrice, un mo Pour un enfant qui i C'etait eehoir en dig: 224 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY Rude was their talk, bereft of polish, And calculated to demolish All the fine notions and good-breeding Tauffht by the nuns in their sweet Eden. No Billingsgate surpassed the nurse's, Am! all the rest indulged in curses; Ear hath not heard sui'h vulgar gab in The nautie cell of any cabin. Silent and sad, the pensive bird, Shocked at their guilt, said not a word. 1 Now he "of orders gray," accosting The parrot green, who seemed quite lost in The contemplation of man's wickedness. And the bright river's gliding liquidness, "Tip us a stave (quoth Tuck), my darling, Ain't you a parrot or a starling? 1 f you don't talk, by the holy poker, I'll give that neck of yours a choker!" Scared by this threat from his propriety, Our pilgrim thinking with sobriety, That if he did not speak they'd make him, Answered the friar, Pax sit tecum! Here our reporter marks down after Poll's maiden-speech — "loud roars of laughter; And sure enough the bird so affable Conld hardly use a phrase more laughable. Talking of such, there are some rum ones That oft amuse the House of Commons : And since we lost " Sir Joseph Yorke," We've got great " Feargus" fresh from Cork,— A fellow honest, droll, and funny, Who would not sell for love or money His native land : nor, like vile Daniel, Fawn on Lord Althorp like a spaniel ; Flatter the mob, while the old fox Keeps an eye to the begging-box. Now 'tis a shame that such brave fellows, When they blow " agitation's " bellows, Should only meet with heartless scoffers, While cunning Daniel fills his coffers. But Kerrymen will e'er be apter At the conclusion of the chapter, While others bear the battle's brunt, To reap the spoil and fob the blunt. » This canal-boat, it would seem, was not a very refined or fashionable conveyance; it rather remindeth of Horace's voyage to Brundusiuin, anil of that line so applicable to the parrot's com- pany— "Repleiuin nantis, oauponthus, stquo maliirnis." O. T. This is an ephode concerning The parrot's want of worldly learning, In squandering his tropes and figures On a vile crew of heartless niggers. The " house'' heard once with more decorum Phil. Howard on "the Eoman forum."* Poll's brief address met lots of cavillers; Badgered by all his fellow-travellers, He tried to mend a speech so ominous By striking up with 'Dixit Dominus ! " But louder shouts of laughter follow, — This last roar beats the former hollow, And shows that it was bad economy To give a stave from Deuteronomy. Posed, not abashed, the bird refused to Indulge a scene he was not used to ; And, pondering on this strange reception, " There must," he thought, " be some decepti Iu the nuns' views of things rhetorical, And sister Rose is not an oracle. True wit, perhaps, lies not in ' matins? Nor is their school a school of Athens." Thus in this villanous receptacle The simple bird at once grew skeptical. Doubts lead to hell. The arch-deceiver Soon made of Poll an unbeliever ; And mixing thus in bad society, He took French leave of all his piety. His austere maxims soon he mollified, And all his old opinions qualified ; For he had learned to substitute For pious lore things more astute ; Nor was his conduct unimpeachable, For youth, alas ! is but too teachable ; And in the progress of his madness Soon he had reached the depths of badness. Such were his curses, such his evil Practices, that no ancient devil, * Plunged to the chiu when burning hot Into a holy water-pot, Could so blaspheme, or fire a volley Of oaths so drear and melancholy. ' See "Mirror of Parliament" for this ingenious person's mae cent tristes paternites, Qui, manquant du talent de plaira, Et de toute legerete, Pour dissimuler la nrlscre D'un esprit sans amenite, Afflcbent la severite ; Et ne sortant de leur taniere Que sous la lugubre banniere De la grave lormalite, Heritlora do la trlste enclumo De quelque pedant Ignore, Beforgent quelque lourd voluma, Aux antres Latins en wire. THE SILKWORM. A POEM. From tha Latin or Jekohb Vida. CANTO FIRST. List to my lay, daughter of Lombardy, Hope of Gonzaga's house, fair Isabelle ! Graced with thy name, the simplest melody, Albeit from rural pipe or rustic shell, Might all the music of a court excel ; Light though the subject of my song may seem, 'Tis one on which thy spirit loves to dwell ; Nor on a tiny insect dost thou deem Thy poet's labor lost, nor frivolous my theme. For thou dost often meditate how hence Commerce deriveth aliment ; how Art May minister to native opulence, The wealth of foreign lands to home impart, And make of Italy the general mart. These are thy goodly thoughts — how best to rais.e, Thy country's industry. A patriot heart Beat in thy gentle breast — no vulgar praise! Be then this spinner-worm the hero of my lay» Full many a century it crept, the child Of distant China or the torrid zone ; Wasted its web upon the woodlands wild, And spun its golden tissue all alone, Clothing no reptile's body but its own.* So crawled a brother-worm o'er mount and glen, Uncivilized, uncouth ; till, social grown, He sought the cities and the haunts of men- Science and Art soon tamed the forest denizen. Rescued from woods, now under friendly roof Fostered and fed, and sheltered from the blast, Full soon the wondrous wealth of warp and woof — Wealth by these puny laborers amassed, Repaid the hand that spread their green re- past: Right merrily they plied their jocund toil, 1 Tenui noc honos nee gloria fll» 1 PdEMS OF FhANCIS MAHONY. And from their mouths the silken treasures* CSISt, Twisting their canny thread in many a coil, While men looked on arid smiled, and hailed the shining spoil. Sweet is the poet's ministry to teach How the wee operatives should be fed ; Their wants and chauges ; what befitteth each ; What mysteries attend the genial bed, And how successive progenies are bred. Happy if he his countrymen engage In paths of peace and industry to tread ; Happier the poet still, if o'er his page Fair Isabella's een shed radiant patronage ! Thou, then, who wouldst possess a creeping flock Of silken sheep, their glossy fleece to shear, Learn of their days how scanty is the stock : Barely two months of each recurring year Make up the measure of their brief career ; They spin their little hour, they weave their ball, And, when their task is done, then disap- pear Within that silken dome's sepulchral hall ; And the third moon looks out upon their funeral. Theirs is, in truth, a melancholy lot, Never the offspring of their loves to see ! The parent of a thousand sons may not Spectator of his children's gambols be, Or hail the birth of his young family. From orphan-eggs, fruit of a fond embrac*, Spontaneous hatched, an insect tenantry Creep forth, their sires departed to replace : Thus, posthumously born, springs up an annual Still watchful lest their birth be premature, From the sun's wistful eye remove the seed, While yet the season wavers insecure, While yet no leaves have budded forth to feed With juicy provender the tender breed ; Nor usher beings into life so new Without provision — 'twere a cruel deed ! Ah, such improvidence men often rue ! 'Tis a sad, wicked thing, — if Malthus telleth true But when the vernal equinox is passed, And the gay mulberry in gallant trim Hath robed himself in verdant vest at last (Tis well to wait until thou seest him With summer-garb of green on every limb), Then is thy time. Be cautious still, nor risk Thine enterprise while the moon is dim, But tarry till she hangeth out her disk, with full light, then breed thy spin- ners brisk. Methinks that here some gentle maiden begs To know how best this genial deed is done : — Some on a napkin strew the little eggs, And simply hatch their silkworms in the sun ; But there's a better plan to fix upon. Wrapt in a muslin kerchief, pure and warm, Lay them within thy bosom safe ;' nor shun Nature's kind office till the tiny swarm Begins to creep. Fear not ; they cannot do thee harm. Meantime a fitting residence prepare, Wherein thy pigmy artisans may dwell, And furnish forth their factory with care : Of seasoned timber build the spinner's celL And be it lit and ventilated well ; And range them upon insulated shelves, Rising above each other parallel : There let them crawl — there let the little elve» On carpeting of leaf gayly disport themselves. And be their house impervious both to rain And to th' inclemency of sudden cold : See that no hungry sparrow entrance gain, To glut his maw and desolate the fold, Ranging among his victims uncontrolled. Nay, I have heard that once a wicked hen Obtained admittance by manoeuvre bold, POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Slaughtering the insects in th&r little den ; If I had caught her there, — she had not come again. XIII. Stop up each crevice in the silkworm house, Each gaping orifice be snre to fill ; For oftentimes a sacrilegious mouse Will fatal iuroad make, intent on ill, And in cold blood the gentle spinners kill. 1 Ah, cruel wretch ! whose idol is thy belly, The blood of innocence why dost thou spill ? Dost thou not know that silk is in that jelly ? Go forth, and seek elsewhere a dish of vermicelli. When thy young caterpillars 'gin to creep, Spread them with care upon the oaken planks ; And let them learn from infancy to keep Their proper station, and preserve their ranks — Not crawl at random, playing giddy pranks. Let them be taught their dignity, nor seek, Dressed in silk gown, to act like mounte- banks : Thus careful to eschew each vulgar freak, Sober they maun grow up, industrious and meek. Their minds kind Nature wisely pre-arranged, And of domestic habits made them fond ; Rarely they roam, or wish their dwelling changed, Or from their keeper's vigilance abscond : Pleased with their home, they travel not be- yond. Else, woe is me ! it were a bitter potion To hunt each truant and each vagabond : Haply of such attempts they have no notion, Jor on their heads is seen " the bump of loco- motion." The same kind Nature (who doth all things right) Their stomachs hath from infancy imbued Straight with a most tremendous appetite ; And till the leaf they love is o'er them strewed, Their little mouths wax clamorous for food. For their first banquetings this plan adopt — Cull the most tender leaves in all the wood, And let them, ere upon the worms they're dropped, Be minced for their young teeth, and diligently chopped. Passed the first week, an epoch will begin, A crisis which maun all thy care engage ; For then the little asp will cast his skin. Such change of raiment marks each separata stage Of childhood, youthhood, manhood, and old age : A gentle sleep gives token when he means To doff his coat for seemlier equipage ; Another and another supervenes, And then he is, I trow, no longer in his teens. Until that period, it importeth much, That no ungentle hand, with contact rude, Visit the shelves. Let the delightful touch Of Italy's fair daughters — fair and good! — Administer alone to that young brood. Mark how yon maiden's breast with pity yearns, Tending her charge with fond solicitude, — Hers be the blessing she so richly earns ! Soon may she see her own wee brood of bonny bairns ! Foliage, fresh gathered for immediate use, Be the green pasture of thy silken sheep, For when ferments the vegetable juice, They loathe the leaves, and from th' un. tasted heap With disappointment languishingly creep. Hie to the forest, evening, noon, ar^l morn ; Of brimming baskets quick succession keep Let the green grove for them be freely shorn, And smiling Plenty void her well-replenished horn. Pleasant the murmurs of their mouths to hear, While as they ply the plentiful repast, The dainty leaves demolished, disappear One after one. A fresh supply is cast — That, like the former, vanisheth as fast. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. But, cautious of repletion (well yclept The fatal fount of sickness), cease at last ; Fling no more food, their fodder intercept, ADd be it laid aside, and for their supper kept. To gaze upon the dew-drop's glittering gem, T' inhale the moisture of the morning air, Is pleasantness to us; — 'tis death to them. Shepherd, of dank humidity beware, Moisture maun vitiate the freshest fare ;' Cull not the leaves at the first hour of prime, While yet the sun his arrows through the air Shoots horizontal. Tarry till he climb Half his meridian height: then is thy harvest- There be two sisters of the mulberry race,' One of complexion dark and olive hue; — Of taller figure and of fairer face, The other wins and captivates the view; And to maturity grows quicker too. Oft characters with color correspond ; Nathless the silkworm neither will eschew, He is of both immoderately fond — Still he doth dearly love the gently blooming blonde. xxm. With milder juice and more nutritious milk She feedeth him, though delicate and pale ; Nurtured by her he spins a finer silk, And her young sucklings, vigorous and hale, Aye o'er her sister's progeny prevail. Her paler charms more appetite beget, On which the creepers greedily regale : She bears the bell in foreign lands; and yet Our brown Italian maids prefer the dark bru- nette.' xxiv. The dark brunette, more bountiful of leaves, With less refinement more profusion shows; But often such redundance deceives. 1 Pabula semper 8icoa legant, nullaque flnant asperglne sylvat. 1 Eat bicolor morns, bombyx voscetnr utraque Nigra fllbeneve fast etc., etc. The worm will always prefer to nibble the white mulberry-tree, •ad will quit the black for it readily. * Qttamvla Ausonlia laudetur nigra puellia. What though the ripened berry ruddier glows Upon these tufted branches than on those! Due is the preference to the paler plant : Then her to rear thy tender nurslings choose, Her to thy little orphans' wishes grant, Nor use the darker leaves unless the white be scant. Ovid has told a tender tale of Thisbe, Who found her lifeless lover lying pale Under a spreading mulberry. Let this be The merit and the moral of that tale. Sweet is thy song, in sooth, love's nightin- gale ! But hadst thou known that, nourished from that tree, Love's artisans would spin their tissue frail, Thou never wouldst of so much misery Have laid the scene beneath a spreading mu) berry. XXVI. Now should a failure of the mulberry crop Send famine to the threshold of thy door Do not despair : but, climbing to the top Of the tall elm, or kindred sycamore, Youug budding germs with searching ey« explore. Practise a pious fraud upon thy flock, With false supplies and counterfeited store : Thus for a while their little stomachs mock, Until thou canst provide of leaves a genuinestock. XXVII . But ne'er a simple village maiden ask To climb on trees,* — for her was never meant The rude exposure of such uncouth task ; Lest while she tries the perilous ascent, On pure and hospitable thoughts intent, A wicked faun, that lurks behind some bush. Peep out with upward eye — rude, insolent ! Oh, vile and desperate hardihood ! But, h ush J Nor let such matters move the bashful Muse to blush. * The good bishop's gallantry is herein displayed to fttfvt*. Nee rohora dnr* Ascendat permltte in sylvls innnba virgo; Aat operum patiens anus, et cui durior annis Sit cutis (Ingram facilis jactura aenectoBl), POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 231 XXVIII. The maiden's ministry it is to keep Incessant vigil o'er the silkworm fold, Supply fresh fodder to the nibbling sheep, Cleanse and remove the remnants of the old, Guard against influence of damp or cold, And ever and anon collect them all In close divan : and ere their food is doled, Wash out with wine each stable and each stall, Lest foul disease the flock through feculence be- fall. XXIX. Changes will oft eome o'er their outward form, And each transition needs thy anxious cares : Four times they cast their skin. The spinner- worm Four soft successive suits of velvet wears; Nature each pliant envelope prepares. But how can they, in previous clothing pent, Get riddance of that shaggy robe of theirs ? They keep a three-days' fast. When by that Lent Grown lean, they doff with ease their old accou- trement. Nor are the last important days at hand — The liquid gold within its living mine Brightens. Nor nourishment they now de- mand, Nor care for life ; impatient to resign The wealth with which diaphanous they shine ! Eager they look around — imploring look, For branch or bush, their tissue to entwine; Some rudimental threads they seek to hook, And dearly love to find some hospitable nook. Anticipate their wishes, gentle maid I Hie to their help ; the fleeting moment catch. Quick be the shelves with wicker-work o'er- laid: Let osier, broom, and furze, their workshop thatch, With fond solicitude and blithe dispatch. So may they quickly, mid the thicket dense, Find out a spot their purposes to match ; So may they soon their industry commence, And of the round cocoon plan the circumference. Their hour is come. See how the yellow flood Swells in yon creeping cylinder ! how teems Exuberant the tide of amber blood ! How the recondite gold transparent gleams, And how pellucid the bright fluid seems ! Proud of such pregnancy, and duly skilled In Dsedalean craft, each insect deems The glorious purposes of life fulfilled, If into shining silk his substance be distilled ! Say, hast thou ever marked the clustering grape Swollen to maturity with ripe prodiice, When the imprisoned pulp pants to escape, And longs to joy " emancipated" juice In the full freedom of the bowl profuse ? So doth the silk that swells their skinny coat Loathe its confinement, panting to get loose : Such longing for relief their looks denote — Soon in their web they'll find a " bane and anti- dote." XXXIV: See! round and round, in many a mirthful maze, The wily workman weaves his golden gauze ; And while his throat the twisted thread pur- veys, New lines with labyrinthine labor draws, Plying his pair of operative jaws. From morn to noon, from noon to silent eve, He toileth without interval or pause, ' His monumental trophy to achieve, And his sepulchral sheet of silk resplendent Approach, and view thy artisans at work ; At thy wee spinners take a parting glance ; For soon each puny laborer will lurk Under his silken canopy's expanse — Tasteful alcove ! boudoir of elegance ! There will the weary worm in peace repose, And languid lethargy his limbs entrance ; There his career of usefulness will close ; Who would not live the life and die the death of those ! * 1 Query, without paws t — P. Deoil. 1 Mille legun t releguntqne vias, atquo orbibus orbM Agglomerant, donee coeco se carcere condant Bponto sol Tanta est edondt gloria flli 1 232 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. XXXVI. Mostly they spin their solitary shroud Single, apart, like ancient anchoret ; Yet oft a loving pair will, 1 if allowed, In the same sepulchre of silk well met, Nestle like Romeo and Juliet. From such communing be they not debarred, Mindful of her who hallowed Paraclet; Even in r heir silken cenotaph 'twere hard To part a Hkloise from her loved Abelard. XXXVII. The task is done, the work is now complete; A stilly silence reigns throughout the room! Sleep on, blest beings ! be your slumbers sweet, And calmly rest within your golden tomb — Rest, till restored to renovated bloom. Bursting the trammels of that dark sojourn, Forth ye shall issue, and rejoiced, resume, A glorified appearance, and return To life a winged thing from monumental urn. XXXVIII. Fain would I pause, and of my tuneful text Reserve the remnant for a fitter time : Another song remains. The summit next Of double-peaked Parnassus when I climb, Grant me, ye gods ! the radiant wings of rhyme ! Thus may I bear me up th' adventurous road That winds aloft — an argument sublime! But of didactic poems 'tis the mode, No canto should conclude without an episode. xxxix. Venus it was who first invented silk — Linen had long, by Ceres patronized, Supplied Olympus : ladies of that ilk No better sort of clothing had devised — Linen alone their garde de robe comprised. Hence at her cambric loom the "suitors" found Penelope, whom hath immortalized The blind man eloquent: nor less renowned Were "Troy's proud dames," whose robes of lin- en "swept the ground." Thus the first female fashion was for flax ; A linen tunic was the garb that graced Exclusively the primitive "AlmackV Simplicity's costume I too soon effaced By vain inventions of more modern taste. Then was the reign of modesty and sense. Fair ones were not, I ween, more prudo and chaste, Girt in hoop-petticoats' circumference Or stays — Honi soi the rogue qui mal y pense. Wool, by Minerva manufactured, met With blithe encouragement and brisk de- mand; Her loom by constant buyers was beset, " Orders from foreign houses" kept her hand Busy supplying many a distant land. She was of woolleu stuffs the sole provider, Till some were introduced by contraband : A female called Arachne thus defied her, But soon gave up the trade, being turned into a spider. Thus a complete monopoly in wool, "Almost amounting to a prohibition," Enabled her to satisfy in full The darling object of her life's ambition, And gratify her spiteful disposition. Venus' she had determined should not be Suffered to purchase stuffs on no condition; While every naked Naiad nymph was free To buy her serge, moreen, and woollen drapperie. Albeit " when unadorned adorned the most," The goddess could not brook to be outwitted How could she bear her rival's bitter boast, If to this taunt she quietly submitted ! Olympus (robeless as she was) she quitted, Fully determined to bring back as fine a Dress as was ever woven, spun, or knitted ; Europe she searched, consulted the Czarina, And, taking good advice, crossed o'er "the wall" to China. Long before Europeans, the Chinese Possessed the compass, silkworms, and gun* powder, * Tantiim nu The spire of Shandon, built on the ruins of old Shandon Castla (for which see the plates in '• Pacata Hybernia"), is a prominent object, from whatever side the traveller approaches our beautiful 1 Kettulit insignes tunicas, nihil indtga lan». city. In a vault at its foot sleep Borne generation" of the writer'! * Gratiair. opus Ausoniis duin volvunt fila puellis. kith and kin. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Flings o'er the Tiber, He warmeth And the wood-block blaze Pealing solemnly ; — shins at a Fed his vacant gaze Oh ! the bells of Sliandon wooden fire Good b'ye U As we trod the maze Sound far more grand on him. Of the river down. The pleasant waters Soon we left behind Of the river Lee. On the frozen wind All farther mind There's a bell in Moscow, Of that vacant clown. While on tower and kiosk ol In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets, To Father meeteth a in n small But there came anon, As we journeyed on And loud in air Down the deep Garonne, Calls men to prayer bird. An acquaintancy, From the tapering summit Which we deemed, I count, Of tall minarets. Of more high amount, Such empty phantom For it oped the fount I freely giant them ; Of sweet sympathy. But there is an anthem More dear to me, — Wot ye fantbus alba trosa of that 'Twas a stranger dressed 'Tis the bells of Sbandon In a downy vest, That sound so graud on riner olde 'Twas a wee Red-breast The pleasant waters Coleridge, but a poore (Not an "Albatross"), Of the river Lee. But a wanderer meek, Who fain would seek O'er the bosom bleak Of that flood t© cross. THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA. Ye sparrow And we watched him oft A HUMBLE BALLAD. crossing ye river maketl As he soared aloft " Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing t yet not one of them shall fall to the ground without your Father."— St. Mat- hys half-waj bouse of the fire-ship. On his pinions soft, Poor wee weak thing, TUF.W, X. 29 And we soon could mark "Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna fluuien.— Juiir/s Ossab. That he sought our bark, As a resting ark "Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." — Siiaebspbabb. "Genius, left to shiver On the bank, 'tis said, For his weary wing. D*ed of that cold river." — Toil Moobb. River trip Oh, 'twas bitter cold Delusive But the bark, fire-fed, from Ton- As our steamboat rolled hope. Ye fire-ship runneth 10 knots an On her pathway sped, Bordeaux. Down the pathway old And shot far ahead tir at -0. Snow 1 foo Of the deep Garonne, — hour: 'tis no go for ye Of the tiny bird, and a half deep. Use And the peasant lank, sparrow. And quicker in the van I of wooden While his sabot sank Her swift wheels ran, •hoes. In the snow-clad bank, As the quickening fan Saw it roll on, on. Of his winglets stirred. reGweon ^nd he hied him home farmer hieth to his cot- To his toit de chaume ; Ye byrde Is led a wilde goose chao* Vain, vain pursuit! Toil without fruit ! t»ge, and drinketb a And for those who roam sdown ye For his forked foot liffgonne. On the broad bleak flood Shall not anchor there, Cared he ? Not a thought ; Though the boat meanwhile For his beldame brought Down the stream beguile His wine-flask fraught For a bootless mile With the grape's red blood. The poor child of air ! I POEMS OF FRaNCIS MAHONY 3ymptomes of fatigue. Tis melan- And 'twas plain at last He was flagging fast, Hys earlie flyght aero ye streams And I saw him soar From the morning shore, between M1 That his hour had past While his fresh wings bore 2 stools. In that effort vain ; Him athwart the tide, Far from either bank. Soon with powers unspent Sans a saving plank, As he forward went, Slow, slow he sank, His wings he had bent Nor uprose again. On the sought-for side Hart of t* bird*. And the cheerless wave Just one ripple gave a newe ob- But while thus he flew, lectcalleth » his eye from Lo ! a vision new As it oped him a grave ye main* chaunce. Caught his wayward view In its bosom cold, With a semblance fair, And he sank alone, And that new-found wooer "With a feeble moan, Could, alas ! allure In that deep Garonne, From his pathway sure And then all was told. The bright child of air. T* old man But our pilot gray Wiped a tear away — In the broad Biscaye He had lost his boy ! M ye helrr. weepetb lor In ye bay ol BlMayv. Instability of purpose a fotall evyll In lyfe. For he turned aside, And adown the tide For a brief hour plied That sight brought back His yet unspent force. On its furrowed track And to gain that goal The remembered wreck Gave the powers of soul Of long-perished joy Which, unwasted, whole, Had achieved his course. Condole- nce of ye ladyea; eke And the tear half hid In soft Beauty's lid This Is ye morall of A bright Spirit, young, cFinkinterii Ugire. Stole forth unbid Father Unwept, unsung, For that red-breast bird ; — hnmble Sank thus among And the feeling crept, — ballade. The drifts of the stream; For a Warrior wept ; Not a record left, — And the silence kept Of renown bereft, Found no fitting word. By thy cruel theft, DELUSIVE DREAM ! Olde Father Proutte But / mused alone, sadly mo- For I thought of one .nentye Whom I well had known birde. In my earlier days, L'ENVOT TO W. H. AINSWOKTH, ESQ. Of a gentle mind, WHTLOMB, AUTHOR OP THE ADHIBABLE "OMOHTOK," 8r/SMO,0»W ) Of a soul refined, OHBOKIOLEB OP "JACK 8HBPPAED," Of deserts designed which he Thus sadly I thought For the Palm of Praiso. wrotte by waxlight In As that bird unsought TJ^J* The remembrance brought Ye gtreav* ofLyfe. A And well would it seem at Bordeaux 6 Jan., 1841. Of thy bright day ; of fayre pro- That o'er Life's dark stream, And I penned full soon UiM. Easy task for him This Dirge, while the moon In his flight of Fame, On the broad Garonne Was the Skyward Path Shed a wintry ray. O'er the billow's wrath, That for Genius hath Ever been the same. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. THE LEGEND OF ARETHUSA. To the Right Honorable Arethusa M — r G — n. A shepherdess of Arcadie, In ilie days hight olden, Fed her white flock close to the sea ; 'Twas the age called golden. That age of gold ! yet naught availed To save from rudeness, To keep unsullied — unassailed Such gentle goodness. The calm composure of a life Till then uncheckered, What rude attempt befell ? 'tis rife In Ovid's record. Poor shrinking maid — despairing, left Without reliance ; Of brother's, father's aid bereft, She called on Dian's. " Queen of the spotless ! quick, decree The boon I ask you 1 To die — ere I dishonored be 1 Speed to my rescue." Sudden beneath her footsteps oped The daisied meadow ; The passionate arms that wildly groped, Grasped but a shadow. Forth from the soil where sank absorbed That crystal virgin, Gushed a bright brook — pure, undisturbed — With pebbly margin. And onward to the sea-shore sped, Its course fulfilling ; Till the ^Egean's briny bed Took the bright rill in. When lo ! was wrought for aye a theme Of special wonder ; Fresh and untainted ran that stream The salt seas under. Proof against every wave's attempt To interfuse it ; From briny mixture still exempt, It flowed pellucid. And thus it kept for many a mile Its pathway single ; Current, in which nor gall nor guile Could ever mingle. And all day long with onward march The streamlet glided ; And when night came, Diana's torch The wanderer guided ; Till unto thee, sweet Sicily, From doubt and danger, From land and ocean's terrors free, She led the stranger ; And there gushed forth, the pride and vaunt Of Syracusa, The bright, time-honored, glorious fount Of Arethusa. ladye, such be thy career, Such be thy guidance ; From every earthly foe and fear Such be thy riddance! Safe from the tainted evil tongue Of foes insidious ; Brineless the bitter waves among Of "friends" perfidious. Such be thy life — live on, live on ! Nor couldst thou choose a Name more appropriate than thine own, Fair Arethusa ! THE LADYE OF LEE. There's a being bright, whose beams Light my days and gild my dreams, Till my life all sunshine seems — 'tis the ladye of Lee. Oh ! the joy that Beauty brings, While her merry laughter rings, And her voice of silver sings — how she loves but There's a grace in every limb, There's a charm in every whim, And the diamond cannot dim — the dazzling of her e'e. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 237 Uut there's a light amid Ail the lustre of her lid, That from the crowd is hid — and only I can see. Tis the glance by which is shown That she loves but me alone ; That she is all mine own — this ladye of Lee. Then say, can it be wrong, [f the burden of my song Be, how fondly I'll belong to this ladye of Lee f LIFE, A BUBBLE. a bird's-ste view thereof. Down comes rain drop, bubble follows ; On the house-top one by one Flock the synagogue of swallows, Met to vote that autumn's gone. There are hundreds of them sitting, Met to vote in unison ; They resolve on general flitting. " Fin for Athens off," says one. " Every year my place is filled in Plinth of pillared Parthenon, Where a ball has struck the building, Shot from Turk's besieging gun." "As for me, I've got my chamber O'er a Smyrna coffee-shop, Where his beadroll, made of amber, Hadji counts, and sips a drop." "I prefer Palmyra's scantlings, Architraves of lone Baalbec, Perched on which I feed my bantlings As they ope their bonnie beak." While the last, to tell her plan, says, " On the second cataract Fve a statue of old Ramses, And his neck is nicely cracked." With ISlartterj Songs. I. JACK BELLEW'S SONG Am — " Oh, weep for the hour /" Oh! the muse shed a tear When the cruel auctioneer, hammer in his hand, to sweet Blarney Lncly Jeffery's ghost Left the Stygian coast, And shrieked the live-long night for her grand- son's shame. The Vandal's hammer fell, And we know full well Who bought the castle furniture and fixtures, 01 Aud took off in a cart (Twas enough to break one's heart!) All the statues made of lead, and the pictures, 0! You're the man I mean, hight Sir Thomas Deane, knight, Whom the people have no reason to thank at all ; But for you those things so old Sure would never have been sold, Nor the fox be looking out from the banquet-hall. Oh, ye pulled at such a rate At every wainscoting and grate, Determined the old house to sack and garble, 0! That you didn't leave a splinter, To keep out the could winter, Except a limestone chimney-piece of marble, ! And there the place was left Where bold King Charles the Twelfth Hung, before his portrait went upon a journey, ! Och! the family's itch For going to law was sitch, That they bound him long before to an attorney, 0! But still the magic stone (Blessings on it !) is not flown, To which a debt of gratitude Pat Lardner owes : Kiss that block, if you're a dunce, And you'll emulate at once The genius who to fame by dint of blarney rosa POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHON*. FRIAR O'MEARA'S SONG. CANTILENA OMKARICA. Why then, sure it was made by a learned owl, The " rule " by which I beg, Forbidding to eat of the tender fowl That haugs on yonder peg. But, rot it! no matter: For here on a platter Sweet Margaret brings A food fit for kings ; And a meat Clean and neat — That's an egg ! Sweet maid, She brings me an egg newly laid 1 And to fast I need ne'er be afraid, For 'tis Peg That can find me an egg. Three different "ways there are of eating them ; First boiled, then fried with salt, — ^ut there's a particular way of treating them, Where many a cook's at fault : For with parsley and flour 'Tis in Margaret's power To make up a dish, Neither meat, fowl, nor fish ; But in Paris they call 't A neat Omelette. Sweet girl! Li truth, as in Latin, her name is a pearl, When she gets Me a platter of nice omelettes. Och ! 'tis all in my eye, and a joke, To call fasting a sorrowful yoke; Sure, of Dublin-bay herrings a keg, And an egg, Is enough for all sensible folk ! Success to the fragrant turf-smoke, That curls round the pan on the fire; While the sweet yellow yolk From the egg-sh-Jls is broke In that pan, Who can, If he have but the heart of a man, Not feel the soft flame of desire, When it burns to a clinker the heart of a friar ! in. TERRY CALLAGHAN'S SONG; BXDTS A flTIX AJTD TBUB ACOOUTtT OT TUB STORMTXO Or BLAB KIT OASTLB, BT TDK TOITED FOBOB8 OF 0EOMW11X, IBBCOa AST) BAIBTAX, DC 1628. Aib— " Tm akin to the CaUaqhant." Blarney Castle, my darlint 1 Sure you're nothing at all but a stone Wrapped in ivy — a nest for all varmint, Since the ould Lord Clancarty is gone. Och I 'tis you that was once strong and aincieat, And ye kep all the Sassenachs down, While fighting them battles that aint yet Forgotten by martial renown. Blarney Castle, etc Bad luck to that robber, ould Crommill ! That plundered our beautiful fort ; We'll never forgive him, though some will- - Saxons ! such as George Knapp and his » jrt. But they tell us the day '11 come, when Dai leJ Will purge the whole country, and driv* All the Sassenachs into the channel, Nor leave a Cromwellian alive. Blarney Castle, etc. Curse the day clumsy Noll's ugly corpus, Clad in copper, was seen on our plain ; When he rowled over here like a porpoise In two or three hookers from Spain ! And bekase that he was a freemason He mounted a battering-ram, And into her mouth, full of treason, Twenty pound of gunpowder he'd cram. Blarney Castle, etc So when the brave boys of Clancarty Looked over their battlement-wall, They saw wicked Oliver's party All a feeding on powder and ball ; And that giniral that married his daugbtei Wid a heap of grape-shot in his jaw — That's bould Ireton, so famous for slaughter - And he was his brother-in-law. O Blarney Castle, etc. They fired off their bullets like thunder, That whizzed through the air like a snake; And they made the ould castle (no wonder I) With all its foundations to shake. While the Irish had nothing to shoot off But their bows and their arras, the sowli I POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Waypons fit for the wars of old Plutarch, And perhaps mighty good for wild fowls. Blarney Castle, etc. Och ! 'twas Crommill then gave the dark toket- Foi in the black art he was deep ; And though the eyes of the Irish stood open, They found themselves all fast asleep ! With his jack-boots he stepped on the water, And he walked clane right over the lake ; While his sodgers they all followed after, As dry as a duck or a drake. Blarney Castle, etc. Then the gates he burnt down to a cinder, And the roof he demolished likewise ; Oh! the rafters they flamed out like tinder, And the buildin'_/2ara? up to the skies. And he gave the estate to the Jeffers, With the dairy, the cows, and the hay ; And they lived there in clover like heifers, As their ancestors do to this day. O Blarney Castle, etc. THE LAMENT OF STELLA. A BURLESQUE ON THE LAMENT Otf DANAE, BY SIMONIDES. While round the churn, 'mid sleet and rain, It blew a perfect hurricane, Wrapped in slight garment to protect her, Methought I saw my mother's spectre, Who took her infant to her breast — Mt -he small tenant of that chest — While thus she lulled her babe : " How cruel i Have been the Fates to thee, my jewel ' But, caring naught for foe or scoffer, Thou sleepest in this milky coffer, Coopered with brass hoops weather-tight, Impervious to the dim moonlight. The shower cannot get in to soak Thy hair or little purple cloak ; Heedless of gloom, in dark sojourn. Thy face illuminates the churn! Small is thine ear, wee babe, for hearing, But grant my prayer, ye gods of Erin ! And may folks find that this young fellow Does credit to his mother Stella." EPITAPH ON FATHER PROUT. Swket upland ! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourned This priest devout ; Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurned The bones of Prout ! Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column His place of rest, Whose soul, above earth's homage, meek yet solemn, Sits 'mid the blessed. Much was he prized, much loved ; his stern re- buke O'erawed sheep-stealers ; And rogues feared more the good man's single look Than forty Peelers. He's gone ; and discord soon I ween will visit The land with quarrels; And the foul demon vex with stills illicit The village morals. No fatal chance could happen more to cross The public wishes ; And all the neighborhood deplore his loss, Except the fishes; For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring Preferred to gammon. Grim Death has broke his angling-rod ; his her- ring Delights the salmon. No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout, For fasting pittance, — Arts which Saint Peter loved, whose gate to Prout Gave prompt admittance. Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep His sainted dust ; The bad man's death it well becomes tc weep, — Not so the just. ATTRACTIONS OF A FASHIONABLE IRISH WATERING-PLACE. The town of Passage Is both large and spacious, And situated Upon the say. 240 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Tis nate and dacent, And quite adjacent To come from Cork On a summer's day ; There you may slip in To take a dipping, Foment the shipping That at anchor ride; Or in a wherry Cross o'er the ferry To Carrigaloe, On the other side. Mud cabins swarm in This place so charming, With sailor garments Hung out to dry ; And each abode is Snug and commodious, With pigs melodious In their straw-built sty. 'Tis there the turf is, And lots of murphies, Dead sprats and herrings, And oyster shells ; Nor any lack, O ! Of good tobacco — Though what is smuggled By far excels. There are ships from Cadiz, And from Barbadoes, But the leading trade is In whisky-punch ; And you may go in Where one Molly Bowen Keeps a nate hotel For a quiet lunch. But land or deck on, You may safely reckon, Whatsoever country You come hither from, On an invitation To a jollification, With a parish priest That's called " Father Tom.' Of ships there's one fixt For lodging convicts, A floating "stone Jug" Of amazing bulk ; The hake and salmon, Playing at backgammon, Swim for divarsion All round this "hulk;" There " Saxon" jailers Keep brave repailers, Who soon with sailors Must anchor weigh From th' em'rald island, Ne'er to see dry land, Until they spy land In sweet Bot'ny Bay. FROM GRESSET'S FAREWELL TO THE JESUITS. To the sages I leave here's a heartfelt farewell ! 'Twas a blessing within their loved cloisters to dwell, And my Nearest affections shall iling rounfj them still : Full gladly I mixed their blessed circles among. And oh ! heed not the whisper of Envy's foul tongue ; If you list but to her, you must know them but ill. 1 The Kev. Thomas England. P. P., known to the literary world ty "a life " of the celebrated friar, Arthur O'Leary. ohaplain to a elub which Cnrran, Yelvertoo, Earls Moire, Charlemont, etc., eta, established in 17>0. under the designation of " the Monks of th* ieiew.-O. T. DON IGNACIO LOYOLA'S VIGIL IN THE CHAFEI. OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRA* When at thy shrine, most holy maid ! The Spaniard hung his votive blade, And bared bis helmed brow — Not that he feared war's visage grim, Or that the battle-field for him Had aught to daunt, I trow ; " Glory !" he cried, " with thee I've done I Fame ! thy bright theatres I shun, To tread fresh pathways now : To track thy footsteps, Saviour God 1 With- throbbing heart, with feet unshod: Hear and record my vow. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Yes, Thou shalt reign ! Chained to thy throne, The mind of man thy sway shall own, And to its conqueror bow. Genius his lyre to Thee shall lift, And intellect its choicest gift •Proudly on Thee bestow." Straight on the marble floor he knelt, And in his breast exulting felt A vivid furnace glow; Forth to his task the giant sped, Earth shook abroad beneath his tread, And idols were laid low. India repaired half Europe's loss; O'er a new hemisphere the Cross Shone in the azure sky ; And, from the isles of far Japan To the broad Andes, won o'er man A bloodless victory ! THE SONG OF THE COSSACK. Come, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on ! The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of the dweller on the Don. Pillage and Death have spread their wings! 'tis the hour to hie thee forth, And with thy hoofs an echo wake to the trumpets of the North ! Nor gems nor gold do men behold upon thy saddle-tree ; But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for thee. Then fiercely neigh, my charger gray ! — thy chest is proud and ample; Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample I Europe is weak — she hath grown old — her bulwarks are laid low ; She is loath to hear the blast of war — she shrinketh from a foe ! Come, in our turn, let us sojourn in her goodly haunts of joy — In the pillared porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy! Proud as when first tliou slakedst thy thirst in the flow of conquered Seine , Aye shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy blood red flanks again. Then fiercely neigh, my gallant gray ! — thy chest is strong and ample ! Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample! Kings are beleaguered on their thrones by their own vassal crew ; And in their den quake noblemen, and priests are bearded too ; And loud they yelp for the Cossacks' help to keep their bondsmen down. And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a tyrant's crown ! The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and the crosier and the cross Shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and aloft THAT SCEPTRE tOSS ! Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray ! — thj chest is broad and ample ; Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France,, and the pride of her heroes trample ! In a night of storm I have seen a form ! — and the figure was a giant, And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent, and his look was all defiant ; Kingly his crest — and towards the West with his battle-axe he pointed ; And the " form " I saw was Attila ! of this earth the scourge anointed. From the Cossack's camp let the horseman's tramp the coming crash announce; Let the vulture whet his beak sharp set, on the carrion field to pounce ; And proudly neigh, my charger gray ! — Oh ! tby chest is broad and ample ; Thy hoofs shali prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample! What boots old Europe's boasted fame, o which she builds reliance, When the North shall launch its avalanche on her works of art and science ? Hath she not wept her cities swept by our hordes of trampling stallions ? And tower and arch crushed in the march of our barbarous battalions ? Can we not wield our fathers' shield f the same war-hatchet handle ? Do our blades want length, or the reapers' strength, for the harvest of the Vandal f POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray, for thy chest is strong and ample ; And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes tram- ple ! POPULAR RECOLLECTIONS OF BONA- PARTE. They'll talk of him for years to come, In cottage chronicle aud tale ; When for aught else renown is dumb, Mis legend shall prevail ! Then in the hamlet's honored chair Shall sit some aged dame, Teaching to lowly clown aud villager That narrative ot tame. Tis true, they'll say, his gorgeous throne France bled to raise ; But he was a\\ our own ! Motk«r ! say something in his praise — Oh, speak of him always! " I saw him pass : his was a host : Countless beyond your young imaginings — My children, he could boast A train of conquered kings! And when he came this road, 'Twas on my bridal day. He were, for near to him I stood, Cocked hat and surcoat gray. I blushed ; he said, ' Be of good cheer! Courage, my dear !' That was his very word." — Mother ! Oh, then this really occurred, And you his voice could hear ! " A year rolled on, when next at Paris I, Lone woman that I am, Saw him pass by, Girt with his peers, to kneel at Notre Dame. I knew by merry chime and signal gun, God granted him a son, And oh ! I wept for joy ! For why not weep when warrior-men did, Who gazed upon tliat sight so splendid, And blessed t.h' imperial boy ? Never did noonday sun shine out so bright! Oh, what a sight !"— Mother ! for you that must have been A glorious scene ! " But when all Europe's gathered strength Burst o'er tlie French frontier at length, 'Twill scarcely be believed What wondeis, single-handed, he achieved. Such general ne'er lived ! One evening on my threshold stood A guest — 'twas he ! Of warriors few He had a toil-worn retinue. He flung himself into this chair of wood, Muttering, meantime, with fearful air, ' Quelle guerre ! oh, quelle guerre/'" — Mother ! and did our emperor sit there, Upon that very chair ? " He said, ' Give me some food.' — Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine, And made the kindling fiieblocks shine, To dry his cloak with wet bedewed. Soon by the bonny blaze he slept, Then waking chid me (for I wept) ; 'Courage!' he cried, 'I'll strike for all Under the sacred wall Of France's noble capital !' Those were his words : I've reasured up With pride that same wine-cup ; And for its weight in gold It never shall be sold !" — Mother! on that proud relic let us gaze. Oh, keep that cup always! "But, through some fatal witchery, He, whom a Pope had crowned and blessed, Perished, my sons ! by foulest treachery : Cast on an isle far in the lonely West. Long time sad rumors were afloat — The fatal tidings we would spurn, Still hoping from that isle remote Once more our hero would return. But when the dark announcement drew Tears from the virtuous and the brave — When the sad whisper proved too true, A flood of grief I to his memory gave. Peace to the glorious dead !" Mother ! may God his fullest blessing shed Upon your aged head ! POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. ADDRESS TO THE VANGUARD OF THE FRENCH Ukder the Duke d'Alencon, 1521. Soldier! at length their gathered strength our might is doomed to feel — Spain and Brabant coniilitant — Bavaria and Cas- tile. Idiots, they think that France will shrink from a foe that rushes on, And terror damp the gallant camp of the bold Duke d'Alenjon ! But wail and woe betide the foe that waits for our assault! Back to his lair our pikes shall scare the wild boar of Hainault. "La Meuse shall flood her banks with blood, ere the sons of France resign Their glorious fields — the land that yields the olive and the vine ! • Then draw the blade ! be our ranks arrayed to the sound of the martial fife ; Inthefoeman'searletthe trumpeter blow a blast of deadly strife ; And let each knight collect his might, as if thare hung this day The fate of France on his single lance in the hour of the coming fray: As melts the snow in summer's glow, so may our helmets' glare ' • Consume their host; so folly's boast vanish in empty air. Fools ! to believe the sword could give to the chil- dren of the Rhine Our Gallic fields — the land that yields the olive and the vine ! < ■an Germans face our Norman race in the con- flict's awful shock — Brave the war-cry of " Britanny !" the shout of " Langueboc !" Dare they confront the battle's brunt — the fell encounter try When dread Bayard leads on his guard of stout gendarmerie f Strength be the test — then breast to breast, ay, grapple man with man ; Strength in the ranks, strength on both flanks, and valor in the van Let war efface each softer grace ; on stern Bel- lona's shrine We vow to shield the plains that yield the olive and the vine ! Methinks I see bright Victory, in robe of glory Joyful appear on the French frontier to the chief- tain she loves best ; While grim Defeat, in contrast meet, scowls o'er the Iceman's tent, She on our duke smiles down with look of bly the E'en now, I ween, our foes have seen their hopes of conquest fail ; Glad to regain their homes again, and quaff their Saxon ale. So may it be while chivalry and loyal hearts com- bine To lift a brand for the bonny land of the olive and the vine ! ODE ON THE SIGNAL DEFEAT OF THE SULTAN OSMAN, BY THE ARMY OF POLAND AND HER ALLIES, SEPTEM- BER, 1621. FROM THE LATIN OF CASIMIR 8AKBIEW8KI. As slow the plough the oxen plied, Close by the Danube's rolling tide, With old Galeski for their guide — The Dacian farmer — His eye amid the furrows spied Men's bones and armor. , The air was calm, the sun was low, Calm was the mighty river's flow, And silently, with footsteps slow, ' Labored the yoke ; When fervently, with patriot glow, v The veteran spoke : " Halt ye, my oxen ! Pause we her* Where valor's vestiges appear, And Islam's relics far and near Lurk in the soil ; While Poland on victorious spear Rests from her toil. POEMS OF FRANCIS MA1IONY. Ay ? well she may triumphant rest, Adorn with glory's plume her crest, And wear of victory the vest, Elate and flushed : Oft was the Paynim's pride repressed — Here it was crushed ! Here the tremendous deed was done, Here the transceudant trophy won, Where fragments lie of sword and gun, And lance and shield, And Turkey's giant skeleton Cumbers the field ! Heavens ! I remember well that day, Of warrior men the proud display, Of brass and steel the dread array — Van, flank, and rear ; How my young heart the charger's neigh Throbbed high to hear ! How gallantly our lancers stood, Of bristling spears an iron wood , Fraught with a desperate hardihood That naught could daunt, And burning for the bloody feud, Fierce, grim, and gaunt! Then rose the deadly din of fight Then shouting charged, with all '. Of Wilna each Teutonic knight, And of St. John's, While flashing out from yonder height Thundered the bronze. Dire was the struggle in the van, Fiercely we grappled man with man, Till soon the Paynim chiels began For breath to gasp ; When Warsaw folded Ispahan In deadly grasp. So might a tempest grasp a pine, Tall giant of the Apennine, Whose rankling roots deep undermine The mountain'3 base : Fitting antagonists to twine In stern embrace. Loud rung on helm, and coat of mail, Of musketry the rattling hai 1 .; Of wounded men loud rose the wail In dismal rout : git, And now alternate would prevail The victor's shout. Long time amid the vapors dense The fire of battle raged intense, While Victory heid in suspense The scales on high : But Poland in her faith's defence Maun do or die ! Rash was the hope, and poor the chance, Of blunting that victorious lance ; Though Turkey from her broad expanse Brought all her sous, Swelling with tenfold arrogance, Hell's myrmidons! Stout was each Cossack heart and hand, Brave was our Lithuanian band, But Gallantry's own native land Sent forth the Poles ; And Valor's flame shone nobly fanned In patriot souls. Large be our allies' meed of fame ! Rude Russia to the rescue came, From land of frost, with brand of flame— A glorious horde : Huge havoc here these bones proclaim, Done by her sword. Pale and aghast the crescent fled, Joyful we clove each turbaned head, Heaping with holocausts of dead The foeman's camp : Loud echoed o'er their gory bed Our horsemen's tramp. A hundred trees one hatchet hews; A hundred doves one hawk pursues; One Polish gauntlet so can bruise Their miscreant clay : As well the caliph kens who rues That fatal day. What though, to meet the tug of war, Osman had gathered from afar Arab, and Sheik, and Hospodar, And Copt, and Guebre, Quick yielded Pagan scimitar To Christian salre. Here could the Turkman turn and trace The slaughter-tracks, here slowly pace POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. The field of downfall and disgrace, Prompt to assume the right's defence Where men and horse, Mercy unto the meek dispense, Thick strewn, encumbered all the place Curb the rude jaws of insolence With frequent corse. With bit and bridle, And scourge the chiel whose frankincense Well might his haughty soul repent Burns for an idol. That rash and guilty armament; Weep for the blood of nations spent, Who, his triumphant course amid, His ruined host; Who smote the monarch of Madrid, His empty arrogance lament, And bade Pavia's victor bid And bitter boast. To power farewell ? Once Europe's arbiter, now hid Sorrow, derision, scorn, and hate, In hermit's cell. Upon the proud one's footsteps wait; Both in the field and in the gate Thou, too, hast known misfortune's blast ; Accursed, abhorred ; Tempests have bent thy stately mast, And be his halls made desolate And nigh upon the breakers cast With fire and sword 1" Thy gallant ship : Such was the tale Galeski told, But now the hurricane is passed — Calm as the mighty Danube rolled; Hushed is the deep. And well I ween that farmer old, For Philip, lord of Aragon, Who held a plough, Had fought that day a warrior bold With helmed brow. Of haughty Charles the haughty son. The clouds still gather dark and dun, The sky still scowls; But now upon the glorious stream And round his gorgeous galleon The sun fluug out his parting beam, The tempest howls. The soldier-swain unyoked his team, Yet still he chanted Thou, when th' Almighty ruler dealt Tha live-long eve : — and glory's dream The blows thy kingdom lately felt, His pillow haunted. Thy brows unhelmed, unbound thy belt, Thy feet unshod, Humbly before the chastener knelt, And kissed the rod. ODE ON THE TAKING OF CALAIS, Pardon and peace thy penance bought; Joyful the seraph Mercy brought ADDRESSED TO HENRY II., KING OF FRANCE, BY The olive-bough, with blessing fraught GEORGE BUCHANAN. For thee and France ; — God for thy captive kingdom wrought Henry ! let none commend to thee Deliverance. Fate, Fortune, Doom, or Destiny, Or Star in heaven's high canopy, 'Twas dark and drear ! 'twas win-ter's reign 1 With magic glow Grim horror walked the lonesome plain ; Shining on man's nativity, The ice held bound with crystal chain For weal or woe. Lake, flood, and rill ; And dismal piped the hurricane Rather, king ! here recognize His music shrill. A Providence all just, all wise, Of every earthly enterprise But when the gallant Guise displayed The hidden mover ; The flag of France, and drew the blade, Aye casting calm complacent eyes Straight the obsequious season bade Down on thy Louvre Its rigor cease ; POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. And, lowly crouching, homage paid What citadel may Guise not scale, The Flkur de Lvs. Climb, storm, and seize ? What foe before thee may not quail, Winter his violence withheld, gallant Guise ! His progeny of tempests quelled, His canopy of clouds dispelled, Thee let the men of England dread, Unveiled the sun — Whom Edward erst victorious led, And blithesome days unparalleled Right joyful now that ocean's bed Began to run. Between them rolls And thee ! — that thy triumphant tread 'Twas then beleaguered Calais found, Yon wave controls. With swamps and marshes fenced around, With counterscarp, and moat, and mound, Let ruthless Mary learn from hence Aud yawning trench, That Perfidy's a foul offence ; Vainly her hundred bulwarks frowned That falsehood hath its recompense ; To stay the French. That treaties broken, The anger of Omnipotence Guise ! child of glory and Lorraine, At length have woken. Ever thine house hath proved the bane Of France's foes ! aye from the chain May evil counsels prove the bane Of slavery kept her, And curse of her unhallowed reign; And in the teeth of haughty Spain Remorse, with its disastrous train, Upheld her sceptre. Infest her palace ; And may she of God's vengeance drain Scarce will a future age believe The brimming chalice! The deeds one year saw thee achieve Fame in her narrative should give Thee magic pinions To range, with free prerogative, All earth's dominions. MICHEL ANGELO'S FAREWELL TO What were the year's achievements? first, • SCULPTURE. Yon Alps their barrier saw thee burst, I feel that I am growing old — To bruise a reptile's head, who durst, My lamp of clay ! thy flame, behold ! With viper sting, 'Gins to burn low : and I've unrolled Assail (ingratitude accursed !) My life's eventful volume! Rome's Pontiff-King. The sea has borne my fragile bark To rescue Rome, capture Plaisance, Close to the shore — now, rising dark, Make Naples yield the claims of France, O'er the subsiding wave I mark "While the mere shadow of thy lance This brief world's final column. O'erawed the Turk : — Such was, within the year's expanse, 'Tis time, my soul, for pensive mood, Thy journey-work. For holy calm and solitude ; Then cease henceforward to delude But Calais yet remained unwon — Thyself with fleeting vanity. Calais, stronghold of Albion, Her zone begirt with blade and gun, The pride of art, the sculptured thought. In all the pomp Vain idols that my hand hath wrought-^ And pride of war ; fierce Amazon ! To place my trust in such were naught Queen of a swamp ! But sheer insanity. But even she hath proven frail, What can the pencil's power achieve ? Her walls and swamps of no avail ; What can the chisel's triumph give ! POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 247 A name perhaps on earth may live, And travel to posterity. But can proud Rome's Pantheon tell, If tor the soul of Raffaelle His glorious obsequies could quell The Judgment-Seat's severity? Yet why should Christ's believer fear, While gazing on yon image dear ? — Image adored, maugre the sDeer Of miscreant blasphemer. Are not those arms for me < What mean those thorns upon thy head ?- And shall I, wreathed with laurels, tread Far from thy paths, Redeemer ? THE SONG OF BRENNUS, OR THE INTRODUCTION OF THE GRAPE INTO FRANCE. Tubs— "The Night before Larry.™ When Brennus came back here from Rome, These words he is said to have spoken : * We have conquered, my boys ! and brought home A sprig of the vine for a token ! Cheer, my hearties ! and welcome to Gaul This plant, which we won from the foeman ; "lis enough to repay us for all Our trouble in beating the Roman ; Bless the gods ! and bad luck to the geese ! Oh ! take care to treat well the fair guest, From the blasts of the north to protect her ; Of your hillocks, the sunniest and best Make them hers, for the sake of her nectar. She shall nurse your young Gauls with her juice ; Give life to ' the arts' in libations ; While your ships round the globe shall produce Her goblet of joy for all nations — E'en the foeman shall taste of our cup. ' His body was laid out in state in the church of St Maria Eo- ton da (the Pantheon), whither all Rome flocked to honor the illus- trious dead. His last and most glorious work, " The Transfigura- tion, 1 ' was placed above his bier; while Leo's pontifical hand •tnwed flowers and burnt incense over the cold remains of depart- ed genius.— Life of Raffaette. The exile who flies to our hearth She shall soothe, all his sorrows redressing ; For the vine is the parent of mirth, And to sit in its shade is a blessing." So the soil Brennus dug with his lance, 'Mid the crowd of Gaul's warriors and sages ; And our forefathers grim, of gay France Got a glimpse through the vista of ages — And it gladdened the hearts of the Gauls! WINE DEBTOR TO WATER. An— "Life let us cherish*' 1 Rain best doth nourish Earth's pride, the budding vine ! Grapes best will flourish On which the dewdrops shine. Then why should water meet with scorn, Or why its claim to praise resign ? When from that bounteous source is born The vine! the vine ! the vine! Rain best disposes Earth for each blossom and each bud ; True, we are told by Moses, Once it brought on " a flood :" But while that flood did all immerse, All save old Noah's holy line, Pray read the chapter and the verse — The vine is there ! the vine ! Wine by water-carriage Round the globe is best conveyed ; Then why disparage A path for old Bacchus made? When in our docks the cargo lands Which foreign merchants here consign, The wine's red empire wide expands — The vine ! the vine ! the vine ! Rain makes the miller Work his glad wheel the livelong day * Rain brings the siller, And drives dull care away : For without rain he lacks the stream, And fain o'er watery cups must pine ; POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. But when it rains, he courts, I deem, Th*-whit« horse!— let a grave be his reward ! For he loved this land — ay, his dying hand to paint her fame he'd lend her : Let her passport be the memory of his native country's splendor ! " "Ye cannot pass," said the guard, "alas! (for tears bedimmed his eyes) Though France may count to pass that mount a glorious enterprise." — " Then pity take, for fair Freedom's sake," cried the mourners once again : "Her favorite was Leouklas, with his band of Spartan men ; Did not his art to them impart life's breath, that France might see What a patriot few in the gap could do at old Thermopylae ? Oft by that sight for the coming fight was the youthful bosom fired : Let his passport be the memory of the valor he inspired ! " " Ye cannot pass." — " Soldier, alas ! a dismal boon we crave — Say, is there not some lonely spot where his friends may dig a grave ? Oh! pity take, for that hero's sake whom he gloried to portray With crown and palm at Notre Dame on his coronation-day." Amid that band the withered hand of an aged pontiff rose, And blessing shed on the conqueror's head, for- giving his own woes : — He drew that scene — nor dreamt, I ween, that yet a little while, And the hero's doom would be a tomb far otf in a lonely isle ! "I am charged, alas ! not to let yon pass," said the sorrowing sentinelle ; "His destiny must also be a foreign grave ! " — "Tis well!— Hard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a place of rest, And to bear away his banished clay from the land that he loved best. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 251 But let us hence ! — Sad recompense for the lustre that he cast, Blending the rays of modern days with the glo- ries of the past ! Our sons will read with shame this deed (unless my mind doth err) And a future age make pilgrimage to the painter's sepulchre ! " TO PROSTRATE ITALY. FILICAIA. Hast thou not been the nations' queen, fair Italy ! though now Chance gives to them the diadem that once adorn- ed thy brow? Toe beautiful for tyrant's rule, too proud for handmaid's duty — Would thou hadst less of loveliness, or strength as well as beauty ! The fatal light of beauty bright with fell attrac- tion shone, Fatal to thee, for tyrants be the lovers thou hast won ! That forehead fair is doomed to wear its shame's degrading proof, And slavery's print in damning tint stamped by a despot's hoof! Were strength and power, maiden ! thy aower, soon should that robber-band, That prowls unbid thy vines amid, % scourged from off that land ; Nor wouldst thou fear yon foreigner, nor be con- demned to see Drink in the flow of classic Po barbarian cav- alry. Climate of art ! thy sons depart to gild a Van- dal's throne ; To battle led, their blood is shed in contests not their own ; — Mixed with yon horde, go draw thy sword, nor ask what cause 'tis for : Thy lot is cast — slave to the last! conquered or conqueror ! ODE TO THE STATUE OF MOSES JULIUS n. IS TH« MICHAEL ANQElA* Statue ! whose giant limbs Old Buonarotti plannetl, And Genius carved with meditative hand,— Thy dazzling radiance dims The best and brightest boasts of Sculpture's fa- vorite land. What dignity adorns That beard's prodigious sweep ! That forehead, awful with mysterious horns And cogitation deep, Of some uncommon mind the rapt beholder warns. In that proud semblance, well My soul can recognize The prophet fresh from converse with the skies; Nor is it hard to tell The liberator's name, — the Guide of Israel. Well might the deep respond Obedient to that voice, When on the Red Sea shore he waved his wand, And bade the tribes rejoice, Saved from the yawning gulf and the Egyptian's bond! Fools ! in the wilderness Ye raised a calf of gold ! Had ye then worshipped what I now behold, Your crime had been far less — For ye had bent the knee to one of godlike mould! LINES ADDRESSED TO THE TIBER. BT ALESSANDRO GUILDI. Tiber ! my early dream, My boyhood's vision of thy classic stream Had taught my mind to think That over sands of gold Thy limpid waters rolled, And ever-verdant laurels grew upon thy brink. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAUONY. But far in other guise But still thy proudest boast, The rude reality hath met mine eyes. Tiber! and what brings honor to thee most, Here, seated on thy bank, Is, that thy waters roll All desolate and drear Fast by th' eternal home Thy margin doth appear, Of Glory's daughter, Rome ; With »reeping weeds, and shrubs, and vegetation And that thy billows bathe the sacred Capitol. rank Famed is thy stream for her, Fondly I fancied thine Clelia, thy current's virgin conqueror, The wave pellucid, and the Naiad's shrine, Ansl him who stemmed the march In crystal grot below ; Of Tuscany's proud host, But thy tempestuous course When, firm at honor's post, Runs turbulent and hoarse, He waved his blood-stained blade above the And, swelling with wild wrath, thy wintry waters flow. broken arch. Of Romulus the sons, Upon thy bosom dark To torrid Africans, to frozen Huns, Peril awaits the light confiding bark, Have taught thy name, flood 1 In eddying vortex swamped ; And to that utmost verge Foul, treacherous, and deep, Where radiantly emerge Thy winding waters sweep, Apollo's car of flame and golden-footed stud. Enveloping their prey in dismal ruin prompt. For so much glory lent, Fast in thy bed is sunk Ever destructive of some monument, The mountain pine-tree's broken trunk, Thou makest foul return ; Aimed at the galley's keel ; Insulting with thy wave And well thy wave can waft Each Roman hero's grave,- Upon that broken shaft And Scipio's dust that fills yon consecrated urni The barge, whose sunken wreck thy bosom will conceal. The dog-star's sultry power, The summer heat, the noontide's fervid hour, THE ANGEL OF POETRY. That fires the mantling blood, Yon cautious swain can't urge TO L. E. L. To tempt thy dangerous surge, Or cool his limbs within thy dark insidious flood. Lady ! for thee a holier key shall harmonize the chord — In Heaven's defence Omnipotence drew an I've marked thee in thy pride, When struggle fierce thy disemboguing tide avenging sword ; With Ocean's monarch held ; But when the bolt had crushed revolt, one angel, But, quickly overcome fair though frail, By Neptune's masterdom, Retained his lute, fond attribute! to charm that Back thou hast fled as oft^ ingloriously repelled. gloomy vale. The lyre he kept his wild hand swept; the music Often, athwart the fields he'd awaken A giant's strength thy flood redundant wields, Would sweetly thriil from the lonely hill where Bursting above its brim — he sat apart forsaken : Strength that no dike can check : There he'd lament his bauishment, his thoughts Dire is the harvest-wreck ! to grief abandon, Buoyant, with lofty horns, th' affrighted bullock And weep Lis full. 'Twas pitiful to see him swims ! weep, fair Landon ! POKMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY Ho wept his fault ! Hell's gloomy vault grew vocal with his song ; But all throughout derision's shout burst from the guilty throng: God pitying viewed his fortitude in that unhal- lowed den ; Freed him from hell, but bade him dwell amid the sons of men. Lady ! for us, an exile thus, immortal Poesy Came upon earth, and lutes gave birth to sweet- est minstrelsy ; And poets wrought their spellwords, taught by that angelic mind, And music lent soft blandishment to fascinate mankind, Religion rose ! man sought repose in the shadow of her wings ; Music, for her walked harbinger, and Genius touched the strings : Tears from the tree of Araby cast on .her altar burned, But earth and wave most fragrance gave where Poetry sojourned. Vainly, with hate inveterate, hell labored in its rage, To persecute that angel's lute, and cross his pil- grimage ; Unmoved and calm, his songs poured balm' on sorrow all the while ; ' Vice he unmasked, but virtue basked in the radiance of his smile. Oh, where, among the fair and young, or in what kingly court, In what gay path where pleasure hath her favor- ite resort, Where bust thou gone, angelic one? Back to thy native skies? Or dost thou dwell in cloistered cell, in pensive hermit's guise? Methinks I ken a denizen of this our island — nay. Leave me to guess, fair poetess ! queen of the matchless lay ! The thrilling line, lady ! is thine; the spirit pure and free; And England views that angel muse, Landon! revealed in thee 1 "GOOD DRY LODGINGS." ACCORDING TO BEHANGEK, SONGSTER. My dwelling is ample, And I've set an example For all lovers of wine to follow ; If my home you should ask, I have drained out a cask, And I dwell in the fragrant hollow. A disciple am I of Diogenes — Oh ! his tub a most classical lodging is. 'Tis a beautiful alcove for thinking; 'Tis, besides, a cool grotto flor drinking: Moreover, the parish throughout You can readily roll it about. Oh ! the berth For a lover of mirth, To revel in jokes, and to lodge in ease, Is the classical tub of Diogenes ! In politics I'm no adept, And into my tub when I've crept, They may canvass in vain for my vote. For besides, after all the great cry and hubbub, Reform gave no " ten pound franchise " to my tub; So your "bill" I don't value a groat! And as for that idol of filth and vulgarity. Adorned now-a-days, and yclept Popularity, To my home Should it come, And my hogshead's blight aperture darken, Think not to such summons I'd hearken. No! I'd say to that ghoul grim and gaunt. Vile phantom, avauut! Get thee out of my sight ! For thy clumsy opacity shuts out the light Of the gay, glorious sun From my classical tun, Where a hater of cant and a lover of fun Fain would revel in mirth, and would lodge a ease — The classical tub of Diogenes 1 In the park of St. Cloud there stare at you A pillar or statue Of my liege, the philosopher cynical : There he stands on a piunacle, And his lantern is placed on the ground, While, with both eyes fixed wholly on The favorite haunt of Napoleon, 254 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 1 "A man!" he exclaims, "by the powers, I have found !" But for me, when at eve I go sauntering Oji the boulevards of Athens, " Love " carries my ianiern; And, egad! though I walk most demurely, For a man I'm not looking full surely ; Nay, I'm sometimes brought drunk home, Like honest Jack Reeve, or li'ke honest Tom Duncombe. Oh ! the nest For a lover of jest To revel in fun, and to lodge in ease, Is the classical tub of Diogenes. THE CARRIER-DOVE OF ATHENS. A Dream, 1822. Helen sat by my side, and I held To her lip the gay cup in my bower, When a bird at our feet we beheld, As we talked of old Greece in that hour; And his wing bore a burden of love, To some fair oue the seeret soul telling — Oh, drink of my cup, carrier-dove ! And sleep on the bosom of Helen. Thou art tired — rest awhile, and anon Thou shalt soar, with new energy thrilling, To the land of that far-off fair one, If such be the task thou'rt fulfilling; But perhaps thou dost waft the last word Of despair, wrung from valor and duty — Then drink of my cup, carrier-bird ! And sleep on the bosom of Beauty. Ha ! these lines are from Greece ! Well I knew The loved idiom ! Be mine the perusal. Son of France, I'm a child of Greece too ; And a kinsman will brook no refusal. " Greece is free!'" all the gods have concurred To fill up our joy's brimming measure — Oh, driuk of my cup, carrier bird ! And sleep on the bosom of Pleasure. Greece is free! . Let us drink to that land, To our elders in fame! Did ye merit Thus to struggle alone, glorious band ! From whose sires we our freedom inherit ? The old glories, which kings would destroy, Greece regains, never, never to lose 'em ! Oh, drink of my cup, bird of joy ! And sleep on my Helen's soft bosom. Muse of Athens! thy lyre quick resume ! None thy anthem of freedom shall hinder : Give Anacreon joy in his tomb, And gladden the ashes of Pindar. Helen ! fold that bright bird to thy breast, Nor permit him henceforth to desert you— Oh, drink of my cup, winged guest ! And sleep on the bosom of Virtue. But no, he must hie to his home, To the nest where his bride is awaiting; Soon again to our climate he'll come, The young glories of Athens relating, The baseness of kings to reprove, To blush our vile rulers compelling ! — Then drink of my goblet, O dove! And sleep on the breast of mv Helen. THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. FROM THE FRENCH OF MILLEVOTE. Autumn had stripped the grove, and strewed The vale with leafy carpet o'er — Shorn of its mystery the wood, And Philomel bade sing no more — Yet one still hither comes to feed His gaze on childhood's merry path; For him, sick youth! poor invalid! Lonely attraction still it hath. "I come to bid you farewell brief, Here, my infancy's wild haunt! For death gives in each falling leaf Sad summons to your visitant. 'Twas a stern oracle that told My dark decree, ' The woodland bloom Once more 'tis given thee to behold. Then comes th' inexorable tomb!'' Th' eternal cypress, balancing Its tall form like some funeral thing In silence o'er my head, Tells me my youth shall wither fast, Ere the grass fades — yea, ere the last Stalk from the vine is shed. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. I di* ! Yos, with his icy breath Fixed Fate has frozen up my blood ; And by the chilly blast of Death Nipped is my life's spring in the bud. Fall ! fall, O transitory leaf! And cover well this path of sorrow; Hide from my mother's searching grief The spot where I'll be laid to-morrow. But should my loved one's fairy tread Seek the sad dwelling of the dead, Silent, alone, at eve ; Oh, then with rustling murmur meet The echo of her coming feet, And sign of welcome give ! " Such was the sick youth's last sad thought : Then slowly from the grove he moved ; Next moon that way a corpse was brought, And buried in the bower he loved. But at his grave no form appealed, No fairy mourner: through the wood The shepherd's tread alone was heard In the sepulchral solitude. LINES ON THE BURIAL OF A FRIEND'S DAUGHTER AT PASSY, JULY 16, 1832. FROM THE FRENCH OF CHATEAUBRIAND. Ere that coffin goes down, let it bear on its lid The garland of roses Which the hand of a father, her mourners amid, In silence deposes — 'Tis the young maiden's funeral hour ! From thy bosom, O earth ! sprung that young budding rose Arid 'tis meet that together thy lap should in- close The young maid and the flower ! Never, never give back the two symbols so pure Which to thee we confide ; From the breath of this world and its plague-spot secure, Let them sleep side by side — They shall know not its pestilent power ! Boon the breath of contagion, the deadly mildew, Or the fierce scorching sun, might parch up ai they grew The young maid and the flower ! Poor Eliza ! for thee life's enjoyments have fled, But its pangs too are flown ! Then go sleep in the grave ! in that cold bridal bed Death may call thee his own — Take this handful cf clay for thy dower ! Of a texture wert thou far too gentle to last ; 'Twas a morning thy life ! now the matins are past For the maid aud the flower ! PRAY FOR ME.— A BALLAD. r«on the jeehoh or millevoyb, on ma death-bed at i Silent, remote, this hamlet i How hushed the breeze ! the eve how caln Light through my dying chamber beams, But hope comes not, nor healing balm. Kind villagers! God bless your shed! Hark ! 'tis for prayer — the evening bell — Oh, stay ! and near my dying bed, Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! When leaves shall strew the waterfall In the sad close of autumn drear, Say, " The sick youth is freed from all The pangs and woe he suffered here." So may ye speak of him that's gone ; But when your belfry tolls my knell, Pray for the soul of that lost one — Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! Oh ! pity her, in sable robe, Who to my grassy grave will come : Nor seek a hidden wound to probe — She was my love ! — point out my tomb ; Tell her my life should have been hers — 'Twas but a day ! — God's will ! — 'tis well But weep with her, kind villagers! Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. THE FRENCH FIDDLER'S LAMENTATION. My poor dog! here! of yesterday's festival-cake Eat the poor remains in sorrow; for when next a repast you and I shall make, It must be on brown bread, which, for charity's sake, Your master must beg or borrow. Of these strangers the presence and pride in France Is to me a perfect riddle; They have conquered, no doubt, by some fatal chance — For they haughtily said, "You must play us a dance ! " I refused — and they broke my fiddle ! Of our village the orchestra, crushed at one stroke, By that savage insult perished ! 'Twas then that our pride felt the strangers' yoke, When the insolent hand of a foreigner broke What our hearts so dearly cherished. For whenever our youth heard it merrily sound, A flood of gladness shedding, At the dance on the green they were sure to be found ; While its music assembled the neighbors around To the village maiden's wedding. By the priest of the parish its note was pro- nounced To be innocent " after service ;" And gayly the wooden-shoed peasantry bounced On the bright Sabbath-day, as they danced unde- nounced By pope, or bonze, or dervis. How dismally slow will the Sabbath now run, Without fiddle, or flute, or tabor — How sad is the harvest when music there's none — How sad is the vintage sans fiddle begun ! — Dismal and tuneless labor ! In that fiddle a solace for grief we had got ; 'Twas of peace the best preceptor ; For its sound made all quarrels subside on the spot, And its bow went much farther to soothe our hard lot Than the crosier or the sceptre. But a truce to my grief! — for an insult so base A new pulse in my heart hath awoken ! That affront I'll revenge on their insolent race; Gird a sword on my thigh — let a musket replace The fiddle their hand has broken. My friends, if I fall, my old corpse in the crowd Of slaughtered martyrs viewing, Shall say, while they wrap my cold limbs in a shroud, 'Twas not his fault if some a barbarian allowed To dance in our country's ruin 1 CONSOLATION Ir your bosom beats high, if your pulse quicker grows, When in visions ye fancy the wreath of the Muse, There's the path to renown — there's the path to repose — Ye must choose ! ye must choose I mm Manoel, thus the destiny rules thy career, And thy life's web is woven with glory and woe ; Thou wert nursed on the lap of the Muse, and thy tear Shall unceasingly flow. Oh, my friend ! do not envy the vulgar their joys, Nor the pleasures to which their low nature is prone ; For a nobler ambition our leisure employs — Oh, the lyre is our own ! And the future is ours ! for in ages to come, The admirers of genius an altar will raise To the poet ; and Fame, till her trumpet is dumb, Will re-echo our praise. Poet! Glory awaits thee; her temple is thine; But there's one who keeps vigil, if entrance you claim — 'Tis Misfortune ! she sits in the porch of the shrine, The pale portress of Fame. Saw not Greece an old man, like a pilgrim ar- rayed, With his tale of old Troy, and a staff in his hand, POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHON*. 257 Beg his bread at the door of each hut, as he strayed Through his own classic land 1 And because he had loved, though unwisely, yet well; Mark what was the boon by bright beauty be- stowed — Blush, Italy, blush ! for yon maniac's cell It was Tasso's abode. Hand in hand Woe and Genius must walk here below, And the chalice of bitterness, mixed for mankind, Must be quaffed by us all ; but its waters o'er- flow For the noble of mind. Then the heave of thy heart's indignation keep down; Be the voice of lament never wrung from thy pride ; Leave to others the weakness of grief; take re- nown With endurance allied. Lei them banish far off and proscribe (for they can) Saddened Portugal's son from his dear native plains ; But no tyrant can place the free soul under ban, Or the spirit in chains. No ! the frenzy of faction, though hateful, though strong, From the banks of the Tagus can't banish thy fame : Still the halls of old Lisbon shall ring with thy song And resound with thy name. When Dante's attainder his townsmen repealed — When the sons stamped the deeds of their sires with abhorrence, They summoned reluctant Ravenna to yield Back his fame to his Florence. And with both hands uplifted Love's bard ere he breathed His last sigh, far away from his kindred and home : To the Scythians his ashes hath left, but be- queathed All his glory to Rome. THE DOG OF THE THREE DAYS. A Ballad, September, 1831. With gentle tread, with uncovered head, Pass by the Louvre-gate, Where buried lie the " men of July ! " And flowers are flung by the passers-by, And the dog howls desolate. That dog had fought In the fierce onslaught Had rushed with his master on : And both fought well ; But the master fell — And behold the surviving one ! By his lifeless clay, Shaggy and gray, His fellow-warrior stood : Nor moved beyond, But mingled, fond, Big tears with his muster's blood. Vigil he keeps By those green heaps, That tell where heroes be : No passer-by Can attract his eye, For he knows " it is not he ! " At the dawn, when dew Wets the garlands new That are hung in this place of mourning, He will start to meet The coming feet Of him whom he dreamt returning. On the grave's wood -cross When the chaplets toss, By the blasts of midnight shaken, How he howleth ! Hark ' From that dwelling dark The slain he would fain awaken. When the snow comes fast On the chilly blast, Blanching the bleak churchyard, With limbs outspread On the dismal bed Of his liege, he still keeps guard. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Oft in the night, ii. With main and might, A priest of Egypt sat meanwhile He strives to raise the stone ■ Under a lofty palm, Short respite takes — And gazing on his native Nile, " If roaster wakes, As in a mirror calm, He'll call me " — then sleeps on. He saw a lowly Lotus plant — Pale orphan of the flood. Of bayonet-blades, And well did th' aged hierophant Of barricades, Mark the mysterious bud : And guns, he dreameth most; For he fitly thought, as he saw it float Starts from his dream, O'er the waste of waters wild, And then would seem That the symbol told of the cradle boat To eye a bleeding ghost. Of the wondrous Hebrew child. Nor was that bark-like Lotus dumb He'll linger there Of a mightier infant yet to come, In sad despair, Whose graven skiff in hieroglyph And die on his master's grave. Marks obelisk and catacomb. His name ? Tis known To the dead alone — in. He's the dog of the nameless brave ! A Greek sat on Colonna's cape, In his lofty thoughts alone, Give a tear to the dead, And a volume lay on Plato's lap, And give some bread For he was that lonely one. To the dog of the Louvre gate ! And oft as the sage gazed o'er the page Where buried lie the men of July, His forehead radiant grew ; .An J flowers are flung by the passers-by, For in Wisdom's womb of the Word to come And the dog howls desolate. The vision blessed his view. He broached that theme in the Academe, In the teachful olive grove ; And a chosen few that secret knew In the Porch's dim alcove. THE MISTLETOE, IV. A Sibyl sat in Cumse's cave — A TYPE OF THE HEAVEN-BORN. 'Twas the hour of infant Rome — And vigil kept, and warning gave *■ Of the holy one to come. A prophet sat by the Temple gate, 'Twas she who had culled the hallowed branch, And he spake each passer-by — And sat at the silent helm, In thrilling tone — with word of weight, When ^Eneas, sire of Rome, would launch And fire in his rolling eye. His bark o'er Hades' realm. " Pause thee, believing Jew ! And now she poured her vestal soul Nor move one step beyond, Through many a bright illumined scroll ; Until thy heart hath pondered By priest and sage of an after-age The mystery of this wand." Conned in the lofty capitol. Ami a rod from his robe he drew — Twas a withered bough torn long ago v. From th'e trunk on which it grew, A Druid stood in the dark oak wood B v the branch long torn showed a bud new Of a distant northern land, born And he seemed to hold a sickle of gold That had blossomed there anew. In the grasp of his withered hand ; 'Twas Jesse's rod ! And slowly moved around the girth And the bud was the birth of God. Of an aged oak, to see POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. ■ If a blessed plant of wondrous birth Had clung to the old oak tree. And anon he knelt, and from his belt Unloosened his golden blade, Then rose and culled the Mistletoe Under the woodland shade. VI. O blessed bough ! meet emblem thou Of all dark Egypt knew, Of all foretold to the wise of old, To Roman, Greek, and Jew. And long God grant, time-honored plant, May we behold thee hung In cottage small, as in baron's hall, Banner and shield among. Thus fitly rule the mirth of Yule Aloft in thy place of pride ; Still usher forth in each land of the north The solemn Christmas tide. SHOOTING STARS. *SH.tis2.!»D . :hey say that a star presides Over life 8 " — " 'Tis a truth, my son ! Its secrets from men the firmament hides, But tells to some favored one." — " Shepherd ! they say that a link unbroken Connects our fate with some favorite star ; What may yon shooting light betoken, That falls, falls, and is quenched afar ? " " The death of a mortal, my son, who held In his banqueting-hall high revel ; And his music was sweet, and his wine excelled, Life's path seemed long and level : No sign was given, no word was spoken, His pleasure death comes to mar." " But what does yon milder light betoken, That falls, falls, and is quenched afar » " *'Tis tne knell of beauty ! — it marks the close Of a pare and gentle maiden ; And her cheek was warm with its bridal rose, And her brow with its bride-wreath laden : — The thousand hopes young love had woken Lie crushed, and her dream is past." — * But what can yon rapid light betoken, That falls, falls, and is quenched so fast ? " "'Tis the emblem, my son, of quick decay ! 'Tis a rich lorj's child newly bom : The cradle that holds his inanimate clay, i Gold, purple, and silk adorn ; The panders prepared through life to haunt him Must seek some one else in his room." — " Look, now ! what means yon dismal phantom That falls, falls, and is lost in gbom ?" " There, son ! I see the guilty thought Of a haughty statesman fail, Who the poor man's comforts sternly sough J To plunder or curtail. His former sycophants have cursed Their idol's base endeavor." — "But watch the light that now has burst, Falls, falls, and is quenched forever 1" " What a loss, O my son, was there ! Where shall hunger now seek relief f The poor, who are gleaners elsewhere, Could reap in his field full sheaf! On the evening he died, his door Was thronged with a weeping crowd." — " Look, 'shepherd ! there's one star more That falls, and is quenched in a cloud." " 'Tis a monarch's star ? Do thou preserve Thy innocence, my child ! Nor from thy course appointed swerve, But there shine calm and mild. Of thy star, if the sterile ray For no useful purpose shone, At thy death, ' See that star,' they'd say ; 'It falls! falls! is past and gone! ' " A PANEGYRIC ON GEESE (1810). I hate to siug your hackneyed birds— So, doves and swans, a truce ! Your nests have been too often stin^d My hero shall be — in a word — A goose. The nightingale, or else " bulbul,'' By Tommy Moore let loose, Is grown intolerably dull — I from the feathered nation cull A goose. Can roasted Philomel a liver Fit for a pie produce i 2t>0 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Fat pies that on the Rhine's sweet river Fair Strasburg bakes. Pray who's the giver ? A goose ! An ortolan is good to eat, A partridge is of use ; But they are scarce — whereas you meet At Paris, ay, in every street, A goose ! When tired of war the Greeks became, They pitched Troy to the deuce ; Ulysses, then, was not to blame For teaching thetu the noble " game Of goose." May Jupiter and Bonaparte, Of thunder less profuse, Suffer their eagles to depart, Encourage peace, and take to heart A goose. ODE TO TIME. If my mind's independence one day I'm to sell, If with Vice in her pestilent haunts Tin to dwell- Then in mercy, I pray thee, Time ! Ere that day of disgrace and dishonor comes on, Let my life be cut short ! — better, better be gone Than live here on the wages of crime. But if yet I'm to kindle a flame in the soul Of the noble and free — if my voice can console, In the day of despondency, some — If I'm destined to plead in the poor man's de- fence — If my writings can force from the national sense An enactment of joy for his home:* Time ! retard thy departure ! and linger awhile — Let my " songs" still awake of my mother the smile — Of my sister the joy, as she sings. Cut, O Glory and Virtue ! your care I engage ; When I'm old — when my head shall be silvered with age, Come and shelwr my brow with your wings ! > O'Connell'8 conduct on. the Poor L»w for THE GARRET OF BERANGER. Oh ! it was here that Love his gifts bestowed On youth's wild age ! Gladly once more I seek ray youth's abode, In pilgrimage : Here my young mistress with her poet dared Reckless to dwell : She was sixteen, I twenty, and we shared This attic cell. Yes, 'twas a garret ! be it known to all Here was Love's shrine ; There read, in charcoal traced along the wall, Th' unfinished line — Here was the board where kindred hearts wonld blend — The Jew can tell How oft I pawned my watch, to feast a friend In attic cell ! Oh ! my Lisette's fair form could I recall With fairy wand ; There she would blind the window with aer shawl — Bashful, yet fond. What though from whom she got her dress Pre Learnt but too well, Still in those days I envied not a prince In attic cell ! Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst, 'Mid the bright bowls : Yes, it was here Marengo's triumph first Kindled our souls. Bronze cannon roared ; Fiance with redoubled might Felt her heart swell. Proudly we drank our consul's health -that night In attic cell ! Dreams of my joyful youth ! Fd freely give, Ere my life's close, All the dull days I'm destined yet to live, For one of those. Where shall I now find raptures that were felt, Joys that befell, And hopes that dawned at tweity, when I dtrelt In attic cell ? . POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. POLITICAL ECONOMY OF THE GYPSIES. Sons of witchcraft ! tribe of thiev« ! Whom the villager believes To deal with Satan, Tell us your customs and your rules : Whence came ye to this land of fools, On whom ye fatten ? " Whence do we come ? Whence comes the swal- low? Where does our home lie ? Try to follow 'The wild bird's flight, Speeding from winter's rude approach : Such home is ours. Who dare encroach Upon our right? Prince we have none, nor gypsy throne, Nor magistrate nor priest we own, Nor tax nor claim ; Blithesome, we wander reckless, free, And happy two days out of three : Who'll say the same ? Away with church-enactments dismal! We have no liturgy baptismal When we are born , Save the dance under greenwood tree, And the glad sound of revelry With pipe and horn. At our first entrance on this globe, Where Falsehood walks in varied robe, Caprice, and whims, — Sophist or bigot, heed ye this ! — The swathing-bands of prejudice Bound not our limbs. Well do we ken the vulgar mind, Ever to Truth and Candor blind, But led by Cunning; What rogue can tolerate a brother ? Gypsies contend with priests, each other In tricks outrunning. Your ' towered cities' please us not ; But give us some secluded spot, Far from the millions : Far from the busy haunts of men, Rise for the night, in shady glen, Our dark pavilions. Soon we are off; for we can see Nor pleasure nor philosophy In fixed dwelling. Ours is a life — the life of clowns, Or drones who vegetate in towns, Far, far excelling ! Paddock and park, fence and inclosure, We scale with ease and with composure : 'Tis quite delightful ! Such is our empire's mystic charm, We are the owners of each farm, More than the rightful. Great is the folly of the wise, If on relations he relies, Or trusts in men ; ' Welcome !' they say, to babes born newly, But when your life is eked out duly, ' Good evening !' then None among us seeks to illude By empty boast of brotherhood, Or false affection ; Give, when we die, our souls to God, Our body to the grassy sod, Or 'for Your noblemen may talk of vassals, Proud of their trappings and their tassels ; But never heed them : Our's is the life of perfect bliss — Freedom is man's best joy, and this Is PERFECT FREEDOM !" THE GOD OF BERANGER. T&ere's a God whom the poet in silence adores, But molests not his throne with importunate prayer ; For he knows that the evil There is blessing to pair. But the plan of the Deity beams in the bowl, And the eyelid of beauty reveals his design : Oh ! the goblet in hand, I abandon my soul To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and sees and abhors, and balm to re- 262 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. At the door of my dwelling the children of want Ever find the full welcome its roof can afford. While the dreams of the rich pain and poverty haunt, Peace awaits on my pillow, and joy at my board. Let the god of the court other votaries seek — No ! the idol of sycophants never was mine ; But I worship the God of the lowly and meek, In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and wine. I have seen die a captive, of courtiers bereft, Him, the sound of whose fame through our hemisphere rings ; I have marked both his rise and his fall : he has left The imprint of his heel on the forehead of kings. Oh, ye monarchs of Europe ! ye crawled round his throne — Ye, who now claim our homage, then knelt at his shrine ; But I never adored him, but turned me alone To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and wine. The Russians have dwelt in the home of the Frank ; In our halls from their mantles they've shaken the frost ; Of their war-boots our Louvre has echoed the clank, As they passed, in barbarian astonishment lost. O'er the ruins of France, take, England ! take pride ! Yet a similar downfall, proud land ! may be thine; But the poet of freedom still, still will confide In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and This planet is doomed, by the priesthood's decree, To deserved dissolution one day, O my friends! Lo ! the hurricane gathers, the bolt is set free, And the thunder on wings of destruction de- scends. Of thy trumpet, archangel, delay not the blast; Wake the dead in the graves where their ashes recline : While the poet, unmoved, puts his trust to the last In the Giver of genius, love, friends wine. and But away with the nightmare of gloomy fore- thought ! Let the ghoul Superstition creep back to ita den; Oh! this fair goodly globe, filled with plenty, was wrought By a bountiful hand, for the children of men- Let me take the full scope of my years as they roll, Let me bask in the sun's pleasant rays while they shine ; Then, with goblet in hand, I'll abandon my soul To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF P. J. DE BERANGER. Paris! gorgeous abode of the gay! Paris! haunt of despair ! There befell in thy bosom one day an occur- rence most weighty, At the house of a tailor, my grandfather, under whose care I was nursed, in the year of our Lord seven- teen hundred and eighty. By no token, 'tis true, did my cradle announce a young Horace — And the omens were such as might well lead astray the unwary ; But with utter amazement one morning my grandfather, Maurice, Saw his grandchild reclining asleep in the arms of a fairy. And this fairy so handsome Assumed an appearance so striking, And for me seemed to take such a liking, That he knew not what gift he should offer the dame for my ransom. Had he previously studied thy Legends, O rar# Crofty Croker ! He'd have learnt how to act from thy pages— ('tis there that the charm is), But my guardian's first impulse was rather fc> look for the poker, To rescue his beautiful boy from her hands vi et armis. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY Yet he paused in his plan, and adopted a milder For her attitude, calm and unterrlfied, made him respect her. So ha thought it was best to be civil, and fairly to question, Concerning my prospects in life, the benevo- lent spectre. And the fairy, prophetical, Read my destiny's book in a minute, With all the particulars in it : And its outline she drew with exactitude most geometrical. " His career shall be mingled with pleasure, though checkered with pain, And some bright sunny hours shall succeed to a rigorous winter : See him first a garqon at a hostelry — then, with disdain See him spurn that vile craft, and apprentice himself to a printer. As a poor university-clerk view him next at his desk ; — ilart that flash! 1 — he will have a most nar- row escape from the lightning: But behold after sundry adventures, some bold, some grotesque, The horizon clears up, ant. his prospects appear to be brightening." . Anc the fairy, caressing The iufant, foretold that, ere long, He would warble unrivalled in song; All France in the homage which Paris had paid acquiescing. " Yes, the muse has adopted the boy ! On his brow see the laurel ! In his hand 'tis Anacreon's cup ! — with the Greek he has drank it. Mark the high-minded tone of his songs, and their exquisite moral, Giving joy to the cottage, and heightening the . blaze of the banquet. Now the future grows dark — see the spectacle France has become ! 'Mid the wreck of his country, the poet, un- daunted and proud, 1 Beranger tells us in a note, that in early life he had well nigh perished by the electric fluid in a thunder-storm. The same is re- lated of Luther, when at the university. The flash which, in Lu- ther's case, changed the student into a monk, in Beranger's con- verted the tailor'B goose into a swan. To the public complaints shall give utterance: slaves may be dumb, But he'll ring in the hearing of despots defiance aloud !" And the fairy addressing My grandfather, somewhat astonished, So mildly my guardian admonished, That he wept while he vanished away with a smile and a blessing. MEDITATIONS IN A WINE-CELLAR. BY THE JESUIT VANIEKE. I've taught thus far a vineyard how to plant, Wielded the pruning-hook aud plied the hoe, And trod the grape ; now, Father Bacchus, grant Entrance to where, in many a goodly row, You keep your treasures safely lodged below Well have I earned the privilege I ask ; Then proudly down the cellar-steps I go : Fain would I terminate my tuneful task, Pondering before each pipe, communing with each cask. Hail, horrors, hail ! Welcome, Cimmerian cel- lar ! Of liquid bullion inexhausted mine 1 Cumean cave ! — no sibyl thy indweller : Sole Pythoness, the witchery of wine! Pleased I explore this sanctuary of thine, A humble votary, whom venturous feet Have brought into thy subterranean shrine; Its mysteries I reverently greet, Pacing these solemn vaults in contemplation sweet. th a lantern though the poet walks, Who dares upon those silent halls intrude, He cometh not a pupil of Gut Faux, O'er treasonable practices to brood Within this deep and awful solitude ; Albeit Loyola claims him for a son, Yet, with the kindliest sympathies imbued For every human thing heaven shines upon, Naught in his bosom beats but love and benison. 264 POEMS OF FRANCIS M.UIONY. He knows nor cares not wb:it be other men's Notions concerning orthodox belief; Oihei-s may seek theology in "Dens," He in tliis grot would rather take a leaf From Wisdom's book, and of existence brief Learn not to waste in empty jars the span. If jars thcne must be in ibis vale of grief, Let them be full ones; let the flowing can Reign umpire of disputes, uniting man with man. 'Twere better thus than in collegiate hall, Where wrangling pedants and dull ponder- ous tomes Build up Divinity's dark arsenal, Grope in the gloom with controversial gnomes — Geneva's gospel still at war with Rome's : Hotter lo bury discord and dissent In the calm cellar's peaceful catacombs, Than on dogmatic bickerings intent, Poison the pleasing hours for man's enjoyment meant. Doth yonder cask of Burgundy repine Th;it some prefer his brother of Bordeaux ? Is old Garumxa jealous of the Rhine ? Gaul, of ihe grape Germanic vineyards grow? Doth Xeres deem bright Lachrtma his foe On the that fringe the blue Mo- On Leman's margin, on the plains of Po, Pure from one common sky these dewdrops fell [ast thou preserved the juice in purity ? 'Tis Lessons of love, and light, and liberty, Lurk in these wooden volumes. Free- dom's code I Lies there and pity's charter. Poetry And genius make their favorite abode In double range of goodly puncheons stowed ; Whence welling up freely, as from a fount, The flood of fancy in all time has flowed, Gushing with more exuberance, I count, Than from Pierian sprang on Greece's fabled School of Athenian eloquence ! did not Demosthenes, half-tonsured, love to pass Winters in such preparatory grot, His topics there in fit array to class, And stores of wit and argument amass t Hath not another Greek of late arisen, Whose eloquence partaketh of the glass, Whose nose and tropes with rival radianc« glisten, And unto whom the Peers night after night must listen ? Say not that wine hath bred dissensions — wars; Charge not the grape, calumnious, with tjie blame Of murdered Clytus. Lapithse, Centaurs, Drunkards of every age, will aye defame The innocent vine to palliate their shame. Thyrsus, magic wand ! thou mak'st appear Man in his own true colors — vice proclaim, Its infamy — sin its foul figure rear, Like the recumbent toad touched by Ithuriel's spear ! A savage may the glorious sun revile, 1 And shoot his arrows at the god of day; Th' ungrateful iEthiop on thy tanks, O Nile ! With barbarous shout and insult may repay Apollo for his vivifying ray, Unheeded by the god, whose fiery team Prances along the sky's immortal way ; While from his brow, flood-like, the bounte- ous beam Bursts on the stupid slaves who gracelessly blas- pheme. That savage outcry some attempt to ape, Loading old Bacchus with absurd abuse; But, pitying them, the father of the grape, And couscious of their intellect obtuse, Tells them to go (for answer) to the juice : Meantime the god, whom fools would fain an- noy, Rides on a cask, and, of his wine profuse, 1 Le Nil a vu sur ses rivages Les noirs habitans de9 deserte Insulter, par de cris sauvages, I/astre brlllant de l'univers. Cris impuissaris! fureurs bizarresl Tandis qne ces monstres barbares Puussent d'inutlles elamenrs, Le Dieu, poursutvam sa carrier*, Verse des torrett3 de lutniere Sur ses ohscurs blasphematears." lefranc de Pompignan POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Sends up to earth the flood without alloy, Whence round the general globe circles the cup of joy. Hard was thy fate, much-injured Hylas ! whom The roguish Naiads of the fount entrapped; Thine was, in sooth, a melancholy doom — In liquid robes for wintry wardrobe wrap- ped, And " in Elysium" of spring- water "lapped!" Better if hither thou hadst been enticed, Where casks abound and generous wine is tapped ; Thou wouldst not feel as now, thy limbs all iced, But deem thyself in truth blessed and impara- A Roman king — the second of the Numa, who reigned upon Mount Palatine, Possessed a private grotto called EgericCs ; Where, being in the legislative line, He kept an oracle men deemed divine. What nymph it was from whom his " law " he got None ever knew; but jars, that smelt of wine, Have lately been discovered in a grot Of that Eyerian vale. Was this the nymph ? God wot. Here would I dwell ! Oblivious ! ' aye shut out Passions and pangs that plague the human heart, Content to range this goodly grot throughout, Loath, like the lotus-eater, to depart, Deeming this cave of joy the genuine mart; Cellar, though dark and dreary, yet I ween Depot of brightest intellect thou art. Calm reservoir of sentiment serene! Miscellany of mind ' wit ; « glorious magazine. LINES ON A MOTH-EATEN BOOK. FROM THE LATIN OF BEZA. The soldier soothes in his behalf Bellona, with a victim calf; The farmer's fold victims exhaust — Ceres must have her holocaust : And shall the bard alone refuse A votive offering to his muse, Proving the only uncompliant, Unmindful, and ungrateful client? What gift, what sacrifice select, May best betoken his respect ? Stay, let me think — 0, happy notion ! What can denote more true devotion, What victim gave more pleasing odor, Than yon small grub, yon wee corroder, Of sluggish gait, of shape uncouth, With Jacobin destructive tooth ? Ho, creeper ! thy last hour is come ; Be thou the muses' hecatomb! 8 With whining tricks think not to gull us: Have I not caught thee in Catullus, Converting into thy vile marrow His matchless ditty on "the Sparrow!" Of late, thy stomach had been partial To sundry tit-bits out of Martial ; Nay, I have traced thee, insect kecn-eycd ! Through the fourth book of Maro's "yfincid On vulgar French couldst not thou fatten, And curb thy appetite for Latin ? Or, if thou wouldst take Latin from us, Why not devour Duns Scot and Thomas! Might not the "Digest" and "Decretals" Have served thee, varlet, for thy victuals! Victim ! come forth ! crawl from thy nook ! Fit altar be this injured book ; Caitiff! 'tis vain slyly to simulate Torpor and death; thee this shall immolate— This penknife, fitting guillotine To shed a bookworm's blood obscene I Nor can the poet better mark his Zeal for the muse than on thy The deed is done ! the insect Goth Unmourned (save by maternal moth), Slain without mercy or remorse, Lies there, a melancholy corse. The page he had profaned 'tis meet Should be the robber's winding-sheet; While for the deed the muse dtcrees a Wreath of her brightest bays to Beza. ' Quere, Hack, a tome 1— Printer's Devil. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. THE FOUNTAIN OF ST. NAZARO. FHOM THE LATIN OK SANNAZAR. There's a fount at the foot of Pausilipe's hill, Springing up on our bay's sunny margin, And the mariner loveth his vessel to fill At this fount, of which I am the guardian. Tis the gem of my villa, the neighborhood's boast, And with pleasure and pride I preserve it; For alone it wells out, while the vine-covered coast In the summer lies panting and fervid. When the plains are all parched, and the rivers run low, Then a festival conies I love dearly: Here, with goblet in band, my devotion I show To the day of my birth that comes yearly. Tis the feast of my patron, Nazaro the Saint; Nor for aught that fond name would I barter : To this fount I have fixed that fond name, to ac- quaint All mankind with my love for the martyr. He's the tutelar genius of me and of mine, And to honor the saints is my motto : Unto him I devoted this well, and a shrine Unto him I have built in the grotto. There his altar devoutly with shells I have decked — I have decked it with crystal and coral ; And have strewed all the pavement with branches select Of the myrtle, the pine, and the laurel. By the brink of this well will I banquet the day Of my birth, on its yearly recurring; Then at eve, when the bonny breeze wrinkles the bay, And the leaves of the citron are stirring, Beneath my calm dwelling before I repair, To the Father of mercy addressing, In a spirit of thankfulness, gratitude's prayer, I'll invoke on his creatures a blessing. And long may the groves of Pausilipe shade By this fount, holy martyr, thy client: ITins long may he bless thee for bountiful aid, And remain on thy bounty reliant. To thy shrine shall the maids of Parthenope bring Lighted tapers, in yearly procession; While the pilgrim hereafter shall visit this spring, 1>o partake of the Saint's intercession. PETRARCA'S DREAM. (AFTER THE DEATH OF LAURA.) She has not quite forgotten me ; her shade My pillow still doth haunt, A nightly visitant, To soothe the sorrows that herself had made: And thus that spirit blessed, Shedding sweet influence o'er my hour of rest, Hath healed my woes, and all my love repaid. Last night, with holy calm, She stood before my view, And from her bosom drew A wreath of laurel and a branch of palm : And said, "To comfort thee, child of Italy ! From my immortal home, Petrarca, I am come," etc., etc. ON SOLAR ECLIPSES. (a new theory.) For the use of the London University. All heaven, I swear by Styx that njlls Its dark flood round the land of souls ! Shall play this day at "Blind man's bi Come, make arrangements on the spot; Prepare the 'kerchief, draw the lot — So Jove commands ! Enough ! Lot fell on Sol : the stars were struck At such an instance of ill luck. Then Luna forward came, And bound with gentle, modest hand, O'er his bright brow the muslin band: Hence mortals learned the zame. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHON1' THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. There's a legend that's told of a gypsy who dwelt In the land where the Pyramids be ; And her robe was embroidered with stars, and her belt With devices, right wondrous to see: And she lived in the days when our Lord was a child / On his mother's immaculate breast; When he fled from his foes — when to Egypt exiled, He went down with St. Joseph the blessed. This Egyptian held converse with magic, me- thinks, And the future was given to her gaze ; For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinx On her threshold kept vigil always. She was pensive and ever alone, nor was seen In the haunts of the dissolute crowd ; But communed with the ghosts of the Pharaohs, I ween, Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud. And there came an old man from the desert one day, With a maid on a mule, by that road ; And a child on her bosom reclined — and the way Led them straight to the gypsy's abode : And they seemed to have travelled a wearisome path, From their home many, many a league — From a tyrant's pursuit, from an enemy's wrath, Spent with toil, and o'ercome with fatigue. And the gypsy came forth from her dwelling, and prayed That the pilgrims would rest them awhile ; And she offered her couch to that delicate maid, Who had come many, many a mile ; And she fondled the babe with affection's caress, And she begged the old man would repose ; " Here the stranger," she said, " ever finds free access, And the wanderer balm for his woes." Then her guests from the glare of the noonday she led To a seat in her grotto so cool ; Where she spread them a banquet of fruits— and a shed, With a manger, was found for the mule ; With the wine of the palm-tree, with the dates newly culled, All the toil of the road she beguiled, And with song in a language mysterious sh» lulled On her bosom the wayfaring child. When the gypsy anon in her Ethiop hand Placed the infant's diminutive palm, Oh, 'twas fearful to see how the features she scanned Of the babe in his slumber so calm. Well she noted each mark and each furrow that crossed O'er the tracings of destiny's line : "Whence came ye?" she cried, in astonishmen lost, "For this child is or lineage divine!" "From the village of Nazareth," Joseph replied, " Where we dwelt in the land of the Jew ; We have fled from a tyrant, whose garment '*> dyed In the gore of the children he slew. We were told to remain till an angel's com- mand Should appoint us the hour to return ; But till then we inhabit the foreigner's land, And in Egypt we make our sojourn." "Then ye tarry with me!" cried the gypsy m joy, "And ye make of my dwelling your home : Many years have I prayed that the Israelite boy (Blessed hope of the Gentiles !) would come." And she kissed both the feet of the infant, and knelt, And adored him at once ; — then a smile Lit the face of his mother, who cheerfully dwelt With her host on the banks of the Nile. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. THE VEIL. AN ORIENTAL DIALOGUE. FROM THE FRKNOH OF VICTOR HUGO. "Hav« you prayed to-night, THE SISTER. What has happened, my brothers ? Your spirit to-day Some secret sorrow damps: There's a cloud on your brow. What has hap- pened ? oh, say ! For your eyeballs glare out with a sinister ray, Like the light of funeral lamps. The blades of your poniards are half-unsheathed In your zone — and ye frown on me 1 There's a woe untold, there's a paug unbreathed, In your bosom, my brothers three I ELDEST BROTHER. Gulnara. make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn, To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn? THE SISTER. As T came, my brothers ! — at noon — from the bath— As 1 came — it was noon — my lords — And your sister had then, as she constantly hath, Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the path Is beset by these foreign hordes. But the weight of the noonday's sultry hour Near the mosque was so oppressive, That — fnrgeiting a moment the eye of the Giaour — I yielded to heat excessive. SECOND BROTHER. Gulnara, make answer ! Whom, then, hast thou seen, In a turban of white, and a caftan of green? THE SISTER. Nay, he might have been there; but I muffled me so, He could scarce have seen my figure. — But why to your sister thus dark do you grow ? What words to yourselves do you mutter thus low, Of "blood,'' and "an intriguer}" Oh I ye cannot of murder bring down the red guilt On your souls, my brothers, surely ! Though I fear — from your hand that 1 1«« jtthe hilt, And the hint* you give obscurely. THIRD BROTHER. Gulnara ! this evening when sank che red sun, Hast thou marked how like blood in descending it shone ? THE tHii1£H. Mercy! Allah! three daggers! have pity! oh, spare ! See! I cling to your knees repenting! Kind brothers, forgive me ! for mercy, forbear ! Be appeased at the voice of a sister's despair, For your mother's sake relenting. God ! must I die ? They are deaf to my cries Their sister's life-blood shedding:' They have stabbed me again — and I faint — o'ei my eyes A Veil of Death is spreading ! — ELDEST BROTHER. Gulnara, farewell ! take that veil ; 'tis the gift Of thy brothers — a veil thou wilt never lift! THE BRIDE OF THE CYMBALEER. A BALLAD FROM VICTOR HUGO. " My liege, the Duke of Brittany. Has summoned his vassals all, The list is a lengthy litany ! Nor 'mong them shall ye meet any But lords of land and hall. pho dwell in donjon-keep, And mail-clad count and peer, Whose fief is fenced with fosse deep* But none excel in soldiership My own loved cymbaleer. Clashing his cymbals forth he went, With a bold and gallant bearing; Sure for a captain he was meant, POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 269 To judge from his accoutrement, And the cloth of gold he's wearing. But in my soul since then I feel A fear, in secret creeping ; And to Saint Bridget oft I kneel, That she may recommend his weal To his guardian angel's keeping Fve begged our abbot, Bernardine, His prayers not to relax ; And, to procure him aid divine, I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine Three pounds of virgin wax, Our Lady of Loretto knows The pilgrimage I vowed : To wear the scollop I propose, If health and safety from the foes My lover it allowed. No letter (fond affection's gage !) From him could I require, The pain of absence to assuage — A vassal-maid can have no page, A liegeman has no squire. This day will witness, with the duke's My cymbaleer's return : Gladness and pride beam in my looks, Delay my heart impatient brooks. All meaner thoughts I spurn. Back from the battle-field elate, His banner brings each peer ; Come, let us see, at the ancient gate, The martial triumph pass in state, And the duke and my cymbaleer. We'll see from the rampart-walls of Nantz What an air his horse assumes ; His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance, And on his head unceasing dance, In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes ! Be quick, my sisters ! dress in haste ! Come, see him bear the bell, With laurels decked, with true-love graced ; While in his bold hand, fitly placed, The bounding cymbals swell ! Mark well the mantle that he'll wear, Embroidered by his bride : Admire his burnished helmet's glare, O'ershadowed by the dark horse-hair That waves in jet folds wide I The gypsy (spiteful wench !) foretold With voice like a viper hissing (Though I had crossed her palm with gold), That from the ranks a spirit bold Would be to day found missing. But I have prayed so hard, I trust Her words may prove untrue; Though in her cave the hag accursed Muttered " Prepare thee for the worst f" With a face of ghastly hue. My joy her spells shall not prevent. Hark ! I can hear the drums ! And ladies fair from silken tent Peep forth, and every eye is bent On the cavalcade that comes Pikemen, dividing on both flanks, Open the pageantry ; Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks, And silk-robed barons lead the ranks, The pink of gallantry. In scarfs of gold, the priests admire ; The heralds on white steeds; Armorial pride decks their attire, Worn in remembrance of a sire Famed for heroic deeds. Feared by the Paynim's dark divan, The Templars next advance ; Then the brave bowmen of Lausanne, Foremost to stand in battle's van, Against the foes of France. Next comes the duke with radiant brow, Girt with his cavaliers ; Round his triumphant banner bow Those of the foe. Look, sisters, now ! Now come the cymbaleers !" She spoke — with searching eye surveyed Their ranks — then pale, aghast, Sunk in the crowd ! Death came in aid — 'Twas mercy to that gentle maid: The cymbaleers had passed ! POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY THE MILITARY PROFESSION On, the pleasant life a soldier leads! Let the lawyer count his fees, Let old women tell their beads, Let each booby squire breed cattle, if he please. Far better 'tis, I think, To make love, fight, and drink. Odds boddekin ! Such life makes a man to a god akin. Do we enter any town ? The portcullis is let down, And the joy-bells are rung by municipal author- ity; The gates are opened wide, , And the city-keys presented us beside, Merely to recognize our vast superiority. The married citizens, 'tis ten to one, Would wish us fairly gone; But we stay while it suits our good pleasure. Then each eve, at the rising of the moon, The fiddler strikes up a merry tune, We meet a buxom partner full soon, And we foot it to a military measure. [Chorus of drums. When our garrison at last gets "the route," Who can adequately tell The regret of the. fair all the city throughout, And the tone with which they bid us "fare- well?" Their tears would make a flood — a perfect river : And, to soothe her despair, Each disconsolate maid entreats of us to give her, Ere we go, a single lock of our hair. Alas! it is not often That my heart can soften Responsive to the feelings of the fair. [ Chorus of drums On a march, when our gallant divisions In the country make a halt, Think not that we limit our provisions To Paddy's fare, " potatoes and salt." Could such beggarly cheer Ever answer a French grenadier? No! we send a dragoon guard To each neighboring farmyard, To collect the choicest pickings — Turkeys, sucking-pigs, and chickens. For why should mere rustic rapscallions Fatten on such tit-bits, Better suited to the spits Of our hungry and valorous battalions } But, oh 1 at our return To our dear native France, Each village in its turn, With music, and wine, and merry dance, Forth on our joyful passage comes; And the pulse of each heart beats time to the drums. [Chorus of drum*. Oh, the merry life a soldier leads ! TIME AND LOVE. Old Time is a pilgrim — with onward course He journeys for months, for years ; But the trav'ller to-day must halt perforce — Behold, a broad river appears ! "Pass me over," Time cried ; "Oh ! tarry not, For I count each hour with my glass ; Ye, whose skiff is moored to yon pleasant spot — Young maidens, old Time come pass ! " Many maids saw with pity, upon the bank, The old man with his glass in grief; Their kindness, he said, he would ever thank, If they'd row him across in their skiff. While some wanted Love to unmoor the bark, One wiser in thought sublime: " Oft shipwrecks occur," was the maid's remark, " Wheu seeking to pass old Time ! " From the strand the small skiff Love pushed afloat — He crossed to the pilgrim's side, And taking old Time in his well-trimmed boat, Dipped his oars in the flowing tide. Sweetly he sung as he worked at the oar, And this was his merry song — "You see, young maidens who crowd the shore, How with Love Time passes along ?" But soon the poor boy of his task grew tired, As he often had been before ; And faint from his toil, for mercy desired Father Time to take up the oar. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 271 In h'/ iar.1 grown tuneful, the pilgrim old *Yith the puddles resumed the lay ; fiv he changed it and sung, "Young maids, tehold How with Time Love passes away I" PETRARCA'S ADDRESS TO THX SUMMER HAUNT OF LAURA. Sweet fountain of Vaucluse ! The virgin freshness of whose crystal bed The ladye, idol of my soul ! hath led Within thy wave her fairy bath to choose ! And thou, favorite tree ! Whose branches she loved best To shade her hour of rest — Her own dear native land's green mulberry! Roses, whose earliest bud To her sweet bosom lent Fragrance and ornament! Zephyrs, who fan the murmuring flood I Cool grove, sequestered grot ! Here in this lovely spot I pour my last sad lay, where first her love I wooed. If soon my earthly woes Must slumber in the tomb, And if my life's sad doom Must so in sorrow close ! Where yonder willow grows Close by the margin lay My cold and lifeless clay, That unrequited love may find repose ! Seek thou thy native realm, My soul ! and when the fear Of dissolution near, And doubts shall overwhelm, A ray of comfort round My dying couch shall hover, If some kind hand will cover My miserable bones in yonder hallowed ground ! But still alive for her Oft may my ashes greet The sound of coming feet ! And Laura's tread gladden my sepulchre! Relenting, on my grave, My mistress may, perchance, With one kind pitying glance Honor the dust of her devoted slave. Then may she intercede, With prayer and sigh, for one Who, hence forever gone, Of mercy stands in need; And while for me her rosary she tells, May her uplifted eyes Win pardon from the skies, While angels through her veil behold the tear that swells 1 Visions of love ! ye dwell In memory still enshrined. — Here, as she once reclined, A shower of blossoms on her bosom fell! And while th' enamored tree From all its branches thus Rained odoriferous, She sat, unconscious, all humility. Mixed with her golden hair, those blossoms sweet Like pearls on amber seemed ; — Some their allegiance deemed Due to her floating robe and lovely feet : Others, disporting, took Their course adown the brook : Others aloft, wafted in airy sport, Seemed to proclaim, "To-day Love holds hi* merry court ! " I've gazed upon thee, jewel beyond price ! Till from my inmost soul This secret whisper stole — "Of Earth no child art thou, daughter of Para- dise ! " Such sway, thy beauty held O'er the enraptured sense, And such the influence Of winning smile and form unparalleled ! And I would marvel then " How came I here, and when, Wafted by magic wand, Earth's narrow joys beyond ? " Oh, I shall ever count My happiest days spent here by this romantic fount ! 272 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. THE PORCH OF HELL. (dante.) "Sick »e the path traceU bi>e tbe toratb of ffioB for Miifiill mortals ? ©t t tie reprobate tin's is tbe state, tljese are tbe Qloumj portals. ffor sin ne aitD crtme from tbe birth of tinue Suflflc teas this (Klilpb Cnfcrnal. (Sliest! let all fflope on this tbresboltt st op ! jete reffliis Bespafr Eternal." I read with tears these characters — tears shed on man's behalf'; Each word seemed fraught with painful thought, the lost soul's epitaph. Turning dismayed, "0 mystic shade!" I cried, "my kiudly Mentor, Of comfort, say, can no sweet ray these dark dominions enter? " "My son!" replied the ghostly guide, "this is the dark abode Of the guilty dead — alone they tread hell's mel- ancholy road. Brace up thy nerves! this hour deserves that Mind should have control, And bid avaunt fears that would haunt the clay- imprisoned soul. Mine be the task, when thou shalt ask, each mys- tery to solve ; Anon for us dark Erebus back shall its gates re- volve— Hell shall disclose its deepest woes, each punish- ment, each pang. Saint hath revealed, or eye beheld, or flame- tongued prophet sang." Gates were unrolled of iron mould — a dismal dungeon yawned! We passed — we stood — 'twas hell we viewed — eternity had dawned ! Space on our sight burst infinite — echoes were heard remote; Shrieks loud and drear startled our ear, and stripes incessant smote. Onward we went. The firmament was starless o'er our head, Spectres swept by inquiringly — clapping their hands they fled Borne on the blast strange whispers passed ; and ever and anon Athwart the plain, like hurricane, God's ven- geance would come on ! Then sounds, breathed low, of gentler woe soft on our hearing stole ; Captives so meek fain would I seek to comfort aud console : " Oh, let us pause and learn the cause of so much grief, and why Saddens the air of their despair the unavailing sigh!" " My son ! Heaven grants them utterance in plaintive notes of woe ; In tears their grief may find relief, but hence they never go. Fools ! they believed that if they lived blameless and vice eschewed, God would dispense with excellence, and give beatitude. They died 1 but naught of virtue brought to win their Maker's praise ; No deeds of worth the page set forth that chron- icled their days. Fixed is their doom — eternal gloom ! to mourn for what is past, And weep aloud amid that crowd with whom their lot is cast. One fate they share with spirits fair, who, when rebellion shook God's holy roof, remained aloof, nor part what- ever took; Drew not the sword against their Lord, nor yet upheld his throne: Could God for this make perfect bliss theirs when the fight was won ? The world knows not their dreary lot, nor cau assuage their pangs, Or cure the curse of fell remorse, or blunt the tiger's fangs. Mercy disdains to loose their chains — the honr of grace has been ! Son ! let that class unheeded pass — unwept, though not uuseen." POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. A TRUE BALLAD, CONTAINING THE FLIGHT OP NAPOLEON BONAPAETK, LOSS OP HIS SWORD, HIS HAT, AND IMPERIAL BATON, '. WOtaO IN THE HEAD ; THE GOOD LUCK OP GETTING HOLD OP HIS VALUABLES, IN DIAMONDS . rr- LASTLY, THE HAPPY ENTEY OP H] DIX-HOTT, INTO PABLS. FROM THE ITALIAN OF NICODEMUS LERMIL. Tune—" On Linden when." . When Bonaparte, overcome, Fled from the sound of Prussian drum, Aghast, discomfited, and dumb, Wrapped in his roquelaure, — To wealth and power he bade adieu- Affairs were looking Prussic blue : In emblematic tatters flew The glorious tricolor. What once had seemed fixed as a rock Had now received a fatal shock, And he himself had got a knock From a Cossack on the head. Gone was his hat, lost was his hope ; The hand, that once had smote the Pope, Ilad even dropped its telescope In the hurry as he fled. Old Blucher's corps a capture made Of his mantle, sabre, and cockade ; Which in " Rag Fair" would, " from the trade," No doubt a trifle fetch. But though the Prussians ('tis confessed) Of all his wardrobe got the best (Besides the military chest), Himself they could not catch. He's gone somewhere beyond the seas, To expiate his rogueries : King Louis in the Tuileries Has recommenced to reign. Gladness pervades the allied camps, And naught the public triumph damps; But every house is lit with lamps, E'en in each broken pane. Paris is one vast scene of joy ; And all her citizens employ Their throats in shouting Vive le roi! Amid the roar of cannon. Oh ! when they saw the " blanc drapeau " Once more displayed, they shouted so You could have heard them from the Po, Or from the banks of Shannon. Gadzooks ! it was, upon my fay, An European holiday ; And the land laughed, and all were gay, Except the sans culottes. You'd see the people playing cards, And gay grisettes and dragoon guards Dancing along the boulevards — Of brandy there were lots. Now, Bonaparte and Murat, My worthy heroes ! after that, I'd like to know what you'll be at — I think you must feel nervous. Perhaps you are not so besotted As to be cutting the "carotid"" — But there's the horsepond ! — there, odd rot it ! From such an end preserve us ! THE WINE-CUP BESPOKEN. FROM THE ITALIAN OF CLAUDIO TOLOMEL Ale—" One bumper at parting." Great Vulcan ! your dark smoky palace, With these ingots of silver, I seek ; And I beg you will make me a chalice, Like the cup you once forged for the Greek Let no deeds of Belloua "the bloody " Emblazon this goblet of mine ; But a garland of grapes, ripe and ruddy, , In sculpture around it entwine. The festoon (which you'll gracefully model) Is, remember, but part of the whole; Lest, perchance, it might enter your noddle To diminish the size of the bowl. For though dearly what's deemed ornamental, And of art the bright symbols, I prize; Still I cling with a fondness parental Round a cup of the true good old size. 274 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Let me have neither sun, moon, nor planet, Nor " the Bear," nor "the Twins," nor " the Goat :" Vet its use to each eye that may scan it, Let a glance at its emblems denote. Then away with Minerva and Venus! Not a rush for them both do I care ; But let jolly old Father Silenus, Astride on his jackass, be there ! Let a dance of gay satyrs, in cadence Disporting, be seen 'mid the fruit; And let Pan to a group of young maidens Teach a new vintage-lay on his flute; Cupid, too, hand in hand with Bathyllua, May purple his feet in the foam : Long may last the red joys they distil us! Though Love spread his winglets to roam! VILLAGE SONG. Husbands, they tell me, gold hath won More than aught else beside: Gold I have noue ; can I find one To take me for his bride ? Yet who knows How the wind blows — Or who can say I'll not find oue to-day ? I can embroider, I can sew — A husband I could aid ; I have no dowry to bestow — Must I remain a maid? Yet who knows How the wind blows — Or who can say I'll not find one to-day? A simple maid I've been too long — A husband I would find ; But then to ask— no ! — that were wrong; So I must be resigned. Yet who knows How the wind blows — Or who can say I'll not find one to-day t THE VISION OF PETRAROA. A form I saw with secret awe — nor ken I what it warns ; Pure as the snow, a gentle dw it seemed with silver horns. Erect she stood, close by a wood between two runniug streams; And brightly shone the morning sun upon that land of dreams. The pictured hind fancy designed glowing with love and hope ; Graceful she stepped, but distant kept, like the timid antelope; Playful, yet coy — with secret joy her image filled my soul; And o'er the sense soft influence of sweet obliv- ion stole. Gold I beheld and emerald on the collar that she wore ; Words too — but theirs were characters of legeu- dary lore : " Caesar's Secree &atb maDe me free; ana tbroiiflb bl» solemn cliavijf, ZantoucbeTi by men o'er bill anti alen B timnBcr bere at larae." The sun had now with radiant brow climbed his meridian throne, Yet still mine eye untiringly gazed on that lovely one. A voice was heard — quick disappeared my dream. The spell was broken. Then came distress — to the consciousness of life I had awoken. A VENETIAN BARCAROLLE. " Prithee, young fisherman, come over — Hither thy light bark bring ; Row to this bank, and try recover My treasure — 'tis a ring!" The fisher-boy of Como's lake His bonny boat soon brought her, And promised for her beauty's saka To search beneath the water. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 275 " I'll give thee," said the ladye fair, "One hundred sequins bright, If to my villa thou wilt bear, Fisher, that ring to-night." * A hundred sequins I'll refuse When I shall come at eve: But' there is something, if you choose, Lady, tnat you can give ! " The ring was found beneath the flood ; Nor need my lay record What was that lady's gratitude, What was that youth's reward. ODE TO THE WIG OF FATHER BOSCO- ! VICH, M THE ITALIAN OF JULIUS OfiSAR CORDAKA. With awe I look on that peruke, Where Learning is a lodger, And think, whene'er I see that hair Which now you wear, some ladye fair Had woMi it onoe, dear Roger ! On empty skull most beautiful Appeared, no doubt, those locks, Once the bright graee of pretty face ; Now far more proud to be allowed To deck thy " knowledge-box." Condemned to pass before the glass Whole bom's each blessed morning, 'Twas desperate long, with curling-tong And tortoise-shell, to have a belle Thee frizzing and adorning. Bright ringlets set as in a net, To catch us men like fishes ! Your every lock concealed a stock Of female wares — love's pensive cares, Vain dreams, and futile wishes! That chevelure has caused, I'm sure, Full many a lover's quarrel ; Then it was decked with flow«rs select And myrtle-sprig: but now a wio, 'Tis circled wiibk * ilamrel J Where fresh and new at first they grev Of whims, and tricks, and fancies, Those locks at best were but a nest: — Their being spread on learned head Vastly their worth enhances From flowers exempt, uncouth Matted, entangled, thick ! Mourn not the loss of curl or gloss 'Tis infra dig. Thou art the wig Op Roger Boscovich ! THE INTRUDER. FROM THE ITALIAN OF MENZINI. There's a goat in the vineyard ! an unbidden guest — He comes here to devour and to trample; If he keep not aloof, I must make, I protest, Of the trespassing rogue an example. Let this stone, which I fling at his ignorant head, Deep impressed in his skull leave its moral — That a four-footed beast 'mid the vines should not tread, Nor attempt with great Bacchus to quarrel. Should the god on his car, to which tigers are yoked, Chance to pass and espy such a scandal, Quick he'd mark his displeasure — most justly provoked At the sight of this four-footed Vandal. To encounter his wrath, or be found on his path, In the spring when his godship is sober, Silly goat ! would be rash — and you fear not the lash Of the god in the month of October. In each bunch, thus profaned by an insolent tooth, There has perished a goblet of nectar ; Fitting vengeance will follow those gambols uncouth, For the grape has a jealous protector. On the altar of Bacchus a victim must bleed, To avert a more serious disaster ; Lest the ire of the deity visit the deed Of the goat on his negligent master. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY A SERENADE. DT VITTOBBLLI. Pale to-night is the disk of the moon, and of azure unmixed Is the bonny blue Bky it lies on ; And silent the stream-let, and hushed is the zephyr, and fixed Is each star in the calm horizon ; And the hamlet is lulled to repose, and all na- ture is still — How soft, how mild her slumbers! And naught but the nightingale's note is awake, and the thrill Of his sweetly plaintive numbers. His song wakes an echo ! it comes from the neighboring grove — Love's sweet responsive anthem ! Lady ! list to the vocalist ! Dost thou not envy his love, And the joys his mate will grant him ? Oh, smile on thy lover to-night! let a transient hope Ease the heart with sorrow laden : From yon balcony wave the fond signal a mo- ment — and ope Thy casement, fairest maiden. THE REPENTANCE OF PETRARCA. Bright days of sunny youth, irrevocable years, Period of manhood's prime ! O'er thee I shed sad but unprofitable tears — Lapse of returnless time. Oh I I have cast away, like so much worthless dross, Hours of most precious ore — Blessed hours I could have coined for heaven, your loss Forever I'll deplore ! Contrite I kneel, God inscrutable, to thee, High heaven's immortal King! Thou gavest me a soul that to thy bosom free Might soar on seraph wing : My mind with gifts and grace thy bounty had endowed To cherish Thee alone — Those gifts I have abused, this heart I have allowed Its Maker to disown. But from his wanderings reclaimed, with fulL, with throbbing heart Thy truant has returned : Oh ! be the idol and the hour that led him to depart From Thee, forever mourned. If I have dwelt remote, if I have loved the tents of guilt — To thy fond arms restored, Here let me die! On whom can my eternal hopes be built, Save upon Thee, O Lord ! (Dbes of Horace. Horace, in one small volume, shows ns what it U To blend together every kind of talent; — TIs a bazaar for all sorts of commodities, To suit the grave, tb* sad, the brave, the gallant : He deals in songs and •• sermons," whims and odditiea By turns is philosophic and pot-valiant. And not unfrequently with sarcasm slaughters The vulgar insolence of coxcomb authors. Ode I. — To Mec>«nas. " Mecsnas 1 atavis edits regibus," etc. Mr friend and patron, in whose veins runneth right royal blood, Give but to some the hippodrome, the car, the prancing stud, Clouds of Olympic dust — then mark what ecstasy of soul Their bosom feels, as the rapt wheels glowing have grazed the goal. Talk not to them of diadem or sceptre, save the whip — A branch of palm can raise them to the gods' companionship. And there be some, my friend, for whom the crowd's applause is food, Who pine without the hollow shout of Rome's mad multitude ; Others, whose giant greediness whole provinces would drain — Their sole pursuit to gorge and glut huge gran- aries with grain. TOEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Yon homely hind, calmly resigned his narrow farm to plod, Seek not with Asia's wealth to wean from his paternal sod : f e can't prevail ! no varnished tale that simple swain will urge, In galley built of Cyprus oak, to plough th' Egean surge. Your merchant-mariner, who sighs for fields and quiet home, While o'er the main the hurricane howls round his path of foam, Will make, I trow, full many a vow, the deep for aye t' eschew. He lands — what then? Pelf prompts again — his ship 's afloat anew ! Sufi Leisure hath its votaries, whose bliss it is to baik In summer's ray the live-long day, quaffing a mellow flask Under the green-wood tree, or where, but newly born as yet, Religion guards the cradle of the infant rivulet. Some love the camp, the horseman's tramp, the clarion's voice ; aghast Pale mothers hear the trumpeter, and loathe the murderous blast. Lo ! under wintry skies his game the Hunter still pursues; And, while his bonny bride with tears her lonely bed bedews, He for his antlered foe looks out, or tracks the forest whence Broke the wild boar, whose daring tusk levelled the fragile fence. Thee the pursuits of learning claim — a claim the gods allow ; Thine is the ivy coronal that decks the scholar's brow : Me in the woods' deep solitudes the Nymphs a client count, The dancing Faun on the green lawn, the Naiad of the fount. For me her lute (sweet attribute !) let Polyhym- sia sweep ; For me, oh ! let the flageolet breathe from Eu terpe's lip ; Give but to me of poesy the lyric wreath, and then Th' immortal halls of bliss won't hold a prouder denizen. Ode II. "Jam satla terris nivls atque dir» Grandinis," eta. Since Jove decreed in storms to vent The winter of his discontent, Thundering o'er Rome impenitent With red right hand, The flood-gates of the firmament, Have drenched the land ! Terror hath seized the minds of men, Who deemed the days had come again When Proteus led, up mount and glen, And verdant lawn, Of teeming ocean's darksome den The monstrous spawn. When Pyrrha. saw the ringdove's nest Harbor a strange unbidden guest, And, by the deluge dispossessed Of glade and grove Deers down the tide, with antlered crest, Affrighted drove. We saw the yellow Tiber, sped Back to his Tuscan fountain-head, O'erwhelm the sacred and the dead In one fell doom, And Vesta's pile in ruins spread, And Numa's tomb. Dreaming of days that once had been, He deemed that wild disastrous scene Might soothe his Illa, injured queen! And comfort give her, Reckless though Jove should intervene, Uxorious river ! Our sons will ask, why men of Rome Drew against kindred, friends, and home Swords that a Persian hecatomb Might best imbue — 278 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Sons, by their fathers' feuds become Feeble and few ! Whom can our country call in aid ! Where must the patriot's vow be paid ? With orisons shall vestal maid Fatigue the skies ? Or will not Vesta's frown upbraid Her votaries ? Augur Apollo ! shall we kneel To thee, and for our commonweal With humbled consciousness appeal? Oh, quell the storm ! Come, though a silver vapor veil Thy radiant form ! Will Venus from Mount Eryx stoop, And to our succor hie, with troop Of laughing Graces, and a group Of Cupids round her ? Or comest thou with wild war-whoop, Dread Mars ! our founder ? Whose voice so long bade peace avaunt ; Whose war-dogs still for slaughter pant; The tented field thy chosen haunt, Thy child the Roman, Fierce legioner, whose visage gaunt Scowls on the foeman. Or hath young Hermes, Maia's son, The graceful guise and form put on Of thee, Augustus? and begun (Celestial stranger !) To wear the name which thou hast won— "Cesar's Avenger?" Blessed be the days of thy sojourn, Distant the hour when Rome shall mourn The fatal sight of thy return To Heaven again, Forced by a guilty age to spurn The haunts of men. Rathei remain, beloved, adored, Since Rome, reliant on thy sword, To thee of Julius hath restored The rich reversion ; Baffle Assyria's hovering horde, And smite the Persian 1 Ode T II. — To the Ship bearing Vihsil t« Greece. " 8ic te diva potene," etc. May Love's own planet guide thee o'er tb« wave! Brightly aloft Helen's star-brother's twinkling, And ^Eolus chain all his children, save A west-wind soft Thy liquid pathway wrinkling, Galley ! to whom we trust, on thy parole, Our Virgil — mark Thou bear him in thy bosom Safe to the land of Greece ; for half my soul, gallant bark ! Were lost if I should lose him. A breast of bronze full sure, and ribs of oak, Where his who first Defied the tempest-demon ; Dared in a fragile skiff the blast provoke, And boldly burst Forth on the deep a Seaman ! Whom no conflicting hurricanes could daunt, Nor Boreas chill, Nor weeping Hyads sadden, E'en on yon gulf, whose lord, the loud Levant, Can calm at will, Or to wild frenzy madden. What dismal form must Death put on for hina Whose cold eye mocks The dark deep's huge indwellers ! Who calm athwart the billows sees the grim Ceraunian rocks, Of wail and woe tale-tellers ! — Though Providence poured out its ocean-flood, Whose broad expanse Might land from land dissever, Careeiing o'er the waters, Man withstood Jove's ordinance With impious endeavor. The human breast, with bold aspirings fraught, Throbs thus unawed, Untamed, and unquiescent, Fire from the skies a son of Japbet brought, And, fatal fraud ! Made earth a guilty present. Scarce was the spark snatched from the bright abode, POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 279 When roiind us straight Buds out all florid ; — A ghastly phalanx thickened — Now let the knife devote, Fever and Palsy ; and grim Death, who strode In some still grove remote, With tardy gait A victim-lamb to Faun ; or, should he list, a Far off, — his coming quickened. goat. Wafted on daring art's fictitious plume, Death, with impartial foot, The Cretan rose, Knocks at the hut ; And waved his wizard pinions ; The lowly Downwards Alcides pierced the realms of gloom, As the most princely gate. Where darkly flows favored friend ! on life's brief date Styx, through the dead's dominions. To count were folly ; Naught is beyond our reach, beyond our scope, Soon shall, in vapors dark, And heaven's high laws Quenched be thy vital spark, Still fail to keep us under; And thou, a silent ghost, for Pluto's land em- How can our unreposing malice hope bark? Respite or pause From Jove's avenging thunder! Where at no gay repast, By dice's cast King chosen, Wine-laws shalt thou enforce, But weep o'er joy and love's warm sourue Ode IV. Forever frozen ; And tender Lydia lost, Of all the town the toast, "Solvitur acris hyems," etc. Kaw Winter melts beneath Who then, when thou art gone, will fire all Spring's genial breath, bosoms most ! And Zephyr Back to the water yields The stranded bark — back to the fields The stabled heifer — And the gay rural scene Ode V. — Pyrrha's Inconstancy. The shepherd's foot can wean, "Qnis mnlt4 gracilis te pner in rosa," eta Forth from his homely hearth, to tread the meadows green. Ptrrha, who now, mayhap, Pours on thy perfumed lap Now Venus loves to group With rosy wreath, fair youth, his fond addresses! Her merry troop. Within thy charming grot, Of maidens, For whom, in gay love-knot, Who, while the moon peeps out, Playfully dost thou bind thy yellow tresses ? Dance with the Graces round about Their queen in cadence; So simple in thy neatness ! While far, 'mid fire and noise, Alas ! that so much sweetness Vulcan his forge employs, Should prelude prove to disillusion painful! Where Cyclops grim aloft their ponderous sledges He shall bewail too late ■ poise. His sadly altered fate, Chilled by thy mien, lepellant and disdainful. Now maids, with myrtle-bough, Garland their brow — Who now, to fondness prone, Each forehead Deeming thee all his own, Shining with flow'rets decked ; Revels in golden dreams of favors boundless ; While the glad earth, by frost unchecked, So bright thy beauty glows, POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONV. Still fascinating those Who've yet to learn all trust in thee is ground- I the false light forswear, A shipwrecked mariner, Who hangs the painted story of his suffering Aloft o'er Neptune's shrine; There shall I hang up mine, And of my dripping robes the votive offering 1 Ode VI. Varlo," etc Aorippa 1 seek a loftier bard ; nor ask Horace to twine in songs The double wreath, due to a victor's casque From land and ocean : such Homeric task To Varius belongs. Our lowly lyre no fitting music hath, And in despair dismisses The epic splendors of "Achilles' wrath," Or the " dread line of Pelops," or the "path Of billow-borne Ulysses." The record of the deeds at Actium wrought So far transcends our talent — Vain were the wish ! wild the presumptuous thought! To sing how Caesar, how Agrippa, fought — Both foremost 'mid the gallant ! The God of War in adamantine mail; Merlon, gaunt and grim ; .Pallas in aid ; while Troy's battalions quail, .Scared by the lance of Dioraed . . . must fail To figure in our hymn. Ours is the banquet-song's light-hearted strain, Roses our only laurel, The progress of a love-suit our campaign, Our only scars the gashes that remain When romping lovers quarrel. Ode VII. — To Munatius Plancub. "Landabunt alii claram Rbodoa** Rhodes, Ephesus, or Mitylene, Or Thessaly's fair valley, Or Corinth, placed two gulfs atween, Delphi, or Thebes, suggest the scene Where some would choose to dally ; Others in praise of Athens launch, And poets lyric Grace, with Minerva's olive branch Their panegyric. To Juno's city some would roam — Argos — of steeds productive; In rich Mycenae make their home, Or find Larissa pleasantsome, Or Sparta deem seductive ; Me Tibur's grove charms more than all The brook's bright bosom, And o'er loud Auio's waterfall Fruit-trees in blossom. Plancus! do blasts forever sweep Athwart the welkin rancored ? Friend 1 do the clouds forever weep f— Then cheer thee, and thy sorrows deep Drown in a flowing tankard : Whether " the camp ! the field ! the sword 1* Be still thy motto, Or Tibur to thy choice afford A sheltered grotto. When Teucer from his father's frown t For exile 'parted, Wreathing his brow with poplar crown, In wine he bade his comrades drown Their woes light-hearted ; And thus he cried, Whate'er betide, Hope shall not leave me: The home a father hath denied Let Fortune give me! Who doubts or dreads if Teucer lead! Hath not Apollo A new-found Sulumis decreed,' Old Fatherland shall supersede? Then fearless follow. Ye who could bear ten years your share Of toil and slaughter, Drink ! for our sail to-morrow's gale Wafts o'er the water. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Ode VIII. "Lydia, die per omnes ," etc Enchanting Lydia! prithee, By all the gods that, see thee, Pray tell me this Must Sybaris Perish, enamored with thee? Lo ! wrapped as in a trance, he Whose hardy youth could fancy Each manly feat, dreads dust and heat, All through thy necromancy ! Why rides he never, tell us, Accoutred like his fellows, For curb and whip, and horsemanship, And martial bearing zealous? . Why hangs he back, demurrent To breast the Tiber's current, From wrestlers' oil, as from the coil Of poisonous snake, abhorreut ? No more with iron rigor Rude armor-marks disfigure His pliant limbs, but languor dims His eye and wastes his vigor. Gone is the youth's ambition To give the lance emission, Or hurl adroit the circling quoit II gallant competition. And his embowered retreat is Like where the Son of Thetis Lurked undivnlged, while he indulged A mother's soft entreaties, Robed as a Grecian girl, Lest soldier-like apparel Might raise a flame, and his kindling frame Through the ranks of slaughter whirl. Ode IX. See how the winter blanches Soracte's giant brow ! Hear how the forest-branches Groat, for the weight of snow ! While the fixed ice impanels Rivers within their channels. Out with the frost! expel herl Pile up the fael-block. And from thy hoary cellar Produce a Sabine crock : O Thaliarck ! remember It count a fourth December. Give to the gods the guidance Of earth's arrangements. List! The blasts at their high biddance From the vexed deep desist, Nor 'mid the cypress riot ; And the old elms are quiet. Enjoy, without foreboding, Life as the moments run ; Away with Care corroding, Youth of my soul ! nor shun Love, for whose smile thou'rt suited ; And 'mid the dancers foot it. While youth's hour lasts, beguile it ; Follow the field, the camp, Each manly sport, till twilight Brings on the vesper-lamp; Then let thy loved one lisp her Fond feelings in a whisper. Or in a nook hide furtive, Till by her laugh betrayed, And drawn, with struggle sportive, Forth from her ambuscade ; Bracelet or ring th' offender In forfeit sweet surrender ! Ode X. — Hymn to Mercury. "Mercurl facundo Nepos Atlantis," etc Persuasive Hermes! Afric's son ! Who — sc;trce had human life begun- Amid our rude forefathers shone With arts instructive, And man to new refinement won With grace seductive. Herald of Jove, and of his court, The lyre's inventor and support, Genius ! that can at will resort To glorious cunning; POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY. Both gods and men in furtive sport And wit outrunning! You, when a child the woods amid, Apollo's kine drew off and hid ; And when the god with menace bid The spoil deliver, Forced him to smile — for, while he chid. You stole his quiver ! The night old Priam sorrowing weDt, With gold through many a Grecian tent, And many a foeman's watchfire, bent To ransom Hector, In you he found a provident Guide and protector. Where bloom Elysium's groves beyond Death's portals and the Stygian pond, Yon guide the ghosts with golden wand, Whose special charm is That Jove and Pluto both are fond Alike of Hermes ! Ode XI. — Ad Leuconobn. "Tu ne qusesieris," etc Love, mine ! seek not to grope Through the dark windings of Chaldean witchery, To learn your horoscope, Or mine, from vile adepts in fraud aud treachery, My Leuconoe ! shun Those sons of Babylon. Far better 'twere to wait, Calmly resigned, the destined hour's maturity, Whether our life's brief date This winter close, or, through a long futurity, For us the sea still roar Oo yon Tyrrenean shore. Let Wisdom fill the cup ; — Vain hopes of lengthened days and years felici- tous Folly may treasure up ; Onrs be the day that passeth — unsolicitous Of what the next may bring. Time flieth as we sing! Ode XII. — A Pkayer for Augustus. " Qaem vlrom »ot taeros.'' An— "Sultime wat the warniTig." Name Clio, the man! or the god — for whose sake The lyre, or the clarion, loud echoes shall wake On thy favorite hill, or in Helicon's grove* Whence forests have followed the wizard of Thrace, When rivers enraptured suspended their race, When the ears were vouchsafed to the obdurate oak. And the blasts of mount Haemus bowed down to the yoke Of the magical minestrel, grandson of Jove. First to Him raise the song ! whose parental cou- trol Men and gods feel alike ; whom the waves, as they roll — Whom the earth, and the stars, and the seasons obey, Unapproached in his godhead ; majestic alone, Though Fallas may stand on the steps of hi» throne, Though huntress Diana may challenge a shrine, And worship be due to the god of the vine. And to archer Apollo, bright giver of day. Shall we next sing Alcides ? or Leda's twin- lights — Him the Horseman, or him whom the Cestus delights ? Both shining aloft, by the seaman adored ; (For he kens that their risiug the clouds car. dispel, Dash the foam from the rock, and the hurricane quell.) — Of Romulus next shall the claim be allowed ? Of Numa the peaceful ? of Tarquiu the proud ? Of Cato, whose fall hath ennobled his sword ? Shall Scaurus, shall Regulus fruitlessly crave Honour due ? shall the Consul, who prodigal gave His life-blood on Cannae's disastrous plain? Camillus? or he whom a king could not tempt! Stern Poverty's children, unfashioned, uukempt. The fame of Marcellus grows j'et in the shade, But the meteor of Julius beams over his head, Like the moon that outshines all the stars in her train I POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Great Deity; guardian of men ! unto whom We commend, in Augustus, the fortunes of Rome, Reign for ever! but guard his subordinate throne. Be it his — of the Parthian each inroad to check ; Of the Indian, in triumph, to trample the neck; To rule all the nations of earth ; — be it Jove's To exterminate guilt from the god's hallowed groves, Be the bolt and the chariot of thunder thine Ode XIII. — The Poet's Jealousy. Ltdia, when you tauntingly Talk of Telephus, praising him For his beauty, vauntingly Far beyond me raising him, His rosy neck, and arms of alabaster, My rage I scarce can master ! Pale and faint with dizziness, All my features presently Paint my soul's uneasiness; Tears, big tears, incessantly Stea. down my cheeks, and tell in what fierce fashion My bosom burns with 'Sdeath ! to trace the evidence Of your gay deceitfulness, Mid the cup's improvidence, 'Mid the feast's forgetfulness, To trace, where lips and ivory shoulders pay for it, The kiss of your young favorite ! Deem not vainly credulous, Such wild transports durable, Or that fond and sedulous Love is thus procurable : Though Venus drench the kiss with her quint- Its nectar Time soon lessens. Eut where meet (thrice fortunate !) Kindred hearts and suitable, Strife comes ne'er importunate, 'Love remains immutable ; ■'■•' On to the close they glide, 'mid scenes Elysian, Through life's delightful vision 1 Ode XIV. — To the Vessel of the State.- An Allegory. ad eimpublioam. What fresh perdition urges, Galley ! thy darksome track, Once more upon the surges ? Hie to the haven back ! Doth not the lightning show thee Thou hast got none to row thee } Is not thy mainmast shattered ? Hath not the boisterous south Thy yards and rigging scattered? In dishabille uncouth, How canst thou hope to weather The storms that round thee gather f Rent are the sails that decked thee ; Deaf are thy gods become, Though summoned to protect thee, Though sued to save thee from The fate thou most abhorrest, Proud daughter of tlie forest ! Thy vanity would vaunt us, Yon richly pictured poop Pine-timbers from the Pontus ; Fear lest, in one foil swoop, Paint, pride, and pine-trees hollow, The scoffing whirlpool swallow ! I've watched thee, sad and pensive, Source of my recent cares ! Oh, wisely apprehensive, Venture not unawares Where Greece spreads out her seas, Begemmed with Cyclades! Ode XV. — The Sea-God's Warning to Paris. " Pastor cum traheret," eta As the Shepherd of Troy, wafting over the deep Sad Perfidy's freightage, bore Helen along, Old Nerens uprose, hushed the breezes to sleep, And the secrets of doom thus revealed in hi* song. Ah ! homeward thou bringest, with omen of dread, POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. One whom Greece will reclaim ! — for her millions have sworn Not to rest till they tear the false bride from thy bed, Or till Priam's old throne their revenge over- turn. See the struggle! how foam covers horsemen and steeds ! See thy Ilion consigned to the bloodiest of sieges ! Mark, arrayed in her helmet, Minerva, who speeds To prepare for the battle her car and her aegis! Too fondly thou deemest that Venus will vouch For a life which thou spendest in trimming thy curls, Or, in tuning 1 , reclined on an indolent couch, An effeminate lyre to an audience of girls. Though awhile in voluptuous pastime employed, Far away from the contest, the truant of lust Hay baffle the bowman, and Ajax avoid, Th) adulterous ringlets are doomed to the dust* jee'st thou him of Ithica, scourge of thy race? Gallant Teucer of Salarnis? Nestor the wise? F.ow, urging his car on thy cowardly trace, Swift Sihenelus poises his lance as he flies? Swift. Sthenelus, Diomed's brave charioteer, Accomplished in combat like Merion the Cretan, Fierce, toweling aloft see bis master appear, Of a breed that in battle has never been beaten. Whom thou, like a fawn, when a wolf in the valley The delicate pasture compels him to leave, Wilt fly, faint and breathless — though flight may not tally With all thy beloved heard thee boast to 4 achieve. Achilles, retire ■) in his angry pavilion, Shall cause a short respite to Troy and her games ; Yet a few winters more, and the turrets of Ilion Must sink 'mid the roar o' retributive flames I Ode XVI. — The Satirist's Recantation. Blessed with a charming mother, yet, Thou still more fascinating daughter! Prythee rny vile lampoons forget — Give to the flames the libel — let The satire sink in Adria's water ! Not Cybele's most solemn rites, Cymbals of brass and spells of magic ; Apollo's priest, 'mid Delphic flights; Or Bacchanal, 'mid fierce delights, Presents a scene more tragic Than Anger, when it rules the soul. Nor fire nor sword can then surmount her Nor the vexed elements control, Though Jove himself, from pole to pole, Thundering rush down to the encounter. Prometheus — forced to graft, of old, Upon our stock a foreign scion, Mixed up — if we be truly told — With some brute particles, our mould — Anger he gathered from the lion. Anger destroyed Thyestes' race, O'erwhelmed his house in ruin thorough, And many a lofty city's trace Caused a proud foeman to efface, Ploughing the site with hostile furrow. Oh, be appeased ! 'twas rage, in sooth, First woke my song's satiric tenor; In wild and unreflecting youth, Anger inspired the deed uncouth ; But, pardon that foul misdemeanor. Lady ! I swear — my recreant lays Henceforth to rectify and alter — To change my tones from blame to praise, Should your rekindling friendship raise The spirits of a sad defaultei ! POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Ode XVII. — An Invitation to Horace's Ode XVIII. Villa u Wullam, Vare, sacri vlte prias severls arborem," etc AD TTODARIDEU. Since at Tivoli, Varus, you've fixed upon planting Oft for the hill where ranges Round your villa enchantiug, My Sabine flock, Of all trees, my frieud ! let the Vine be the Swift-footed Faun exchanges first. Arcadia's rock, On no other condition will Jove lend assistance And, tempering summer's ray, forbids To keep at a distance Untoward rain to harm my kids. Chagrin, aud the cares that accompany thirst. And there in happy vagrance, No one talks after wine about "battles" or Roams the she-goat, "famine;" Lured by marital fragrance, But, if you examine, Through dells remote ; The praises of love and good living are rife. Of each wild herb and shrub partakes, Though once the Centaurs, 'mid potations toe Nor fears the coil of lurking snakes. •■ ample, Left a tragic example No prowling wolves alarm her; Of a banquet dishonored by bloodshed and strife, Safe from their gripe While Faun, immortal charmer! Far removed be such doings from us ! Let the Attunes his pipe, Thracians, ind down the vale and o'er the hills Amid their libations, tfstica'e every echo tills. Confound all the limite of right and of wrong; I never will join in their orgies unholy — The Gods, their bard caressing, I never will sully With kinduess treat: The rites that to ivy-crowned Bacchus belong. They've filled my house with blessing — My country-seat, Let Cybele silence her priesthood, and calm her Where Plenty voids her loaded horn, Brass cymbals and clamor ; ?air Tyndaris, pray come adorn ! Away with such outbursts, uproarious and vain ! Displays often followed by Insolence mulish, From Sirius in the zenith, And Confidence foolish, From summer's glare, To be seen through and through, like this glass Come, where the valley screeneth, that I drain. Gome, warble there , Songs of the hero, for whose love Penelope aud Circe strove. Nor shall the cup be wanting, So harmless then, To grace that hour enchanting Ode XIX.— De Glycera. In shady glen. 41 Mater Saeva Oupidinum," etc. Nor shall the juice our calm disturb ! Nor aught our sweet emotions curb ! Love's unrelenting Queen, With Bacchus — Theban maid! thy wayward Fear not, my fair one ! Cyrus child Shall not intrude, Whene'er I try to* wean, Nor worry thee desirous My heart, from vain amours and follies wild, Of solitude, Is sure to intervene, Nor rend thy innocent robe, nor tear Kindling within my breast some passion unfor- The garland from thy flowing hair. seen. 2SG POEMS OF FRANOIS MAHONY. Glyceric dazzling glance, That with voluptuous light ray vision dims — The graces that enhance The Parian marble of her snow-white limbs, Have left my heart no chance Against her winning wiles and playful petulance. Say not that Venus dwells In distant Cyprus, for she fills my breast, And from that shrine expels All other themes: ray lyre, by love possessed, No more with war-notes swells, Nor sings of Parthian shaft, nor scythian slaugh- ter tells. Come hither, slaves! and pile An altar of green turf, and incense burn ; Strew magic vervain, while | I pour libations from a golden urn : ' These rites may reconcile The goddess of fierce love, who yet may deign to smile. Ode XX. — " Pot-luck " with Horace. Since thou, Maecenas, nothing loath, Under the bard's roof-tree, Canst drink rough wine of Sabine growth, Here stands a jar for thee ! — The Grecian delf I sealed myself, That year the theatre broke forth, In tribute to thy sterling worth, When Rome's glad shout the welkin rent, Along the Tiber ran, And rose again, by Echo sent, Back from Mount Vatican ; — When with delight, Roman Knight ! Etruria heard her oldest flood Do homage to her noblest blood. Wines of Falernian vintage, friend, Thy princely cellar stock; Bethink thee, should'st thou condescend To share a poet's crock, Its modest shape, Cajeta's grape Hath never tinged, nor Formia's hill Deigned with a purple flood to fill. Ode XXI. — To the Rising Generation or Rome. AD FVBXM BOMAKAlt Worship Diana, young daughters of Italy ! Youths! sing i. polio — both children of Jove: Honor Latona, their mother, who mightily Triumphed o£ old in the Thunderer's love. Maids ! sing the Huntress, whose haunts are the highlands, Who treads, in a buskin of silvery sheen, Each forest-crowned summit through Greece and her highlands, From dark Erymanthus to Cragus the green. From Tempe's fair valley, by Phosbus frequented, To Delos his birthplace — the light quiver hung From his shoulders — the lyre that his brother in- vented — Be each shrine by our jouth and each attn bute sung. May your prayers to the regions of light fiud ad- mittance On Caesar's behalf; — and the Deity urge To drive from our land to the Persians and Briton3, Of Famine the curse ! of Bellona the scourge 1 Ode XXII. AD ABIBTTOM FDBODK. Aristius ! if thou canst secure A conscience calm, with morals pure, Look upwards for defence ! abjure All meaner craft — The bow and quiver of the Moor, And poisoned shaft. What though thy perilous path lie traced O'er burning Aftic's boundless waste. . . . Of rugged Caucasus the guest, Or doom'd to travel Where fabulous rivers of the East Their course unravel !. . . . Under my Sabine woodland shade, Musing upon ray Grecian maid, , Unconsciously of late I strayed / Through glen and meadow, % POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. When, lo! a ravenous wolf, afraid, Fled from my shadow. No monster of such magnitude Lurks in the depth of Daunia's wood, Or roams through Lybia unsubdued The' land to curse — Land of a fearful lion-brood The withered nurse. Waft me away to deserts wild, Where vegetation never smiled, Where sunshine never once beguiled The dreary day, But winters upon winters piled For aye delay. Place me beneath the torrid zone, Where man to dwell was never known, I'd cherish still one thought alone, Maid of my choice ! The smile of thy sweet lip — the tone Of thy sweet voice ! Ode XXIV. — To Virgil. — A Consolatory Address. Ode XXIII. — A Remonstrance to Chlob the Bashful. " Vitas hinnuleo," etc Why wilt thou, Chloe, fly me thus? The yearling kid Is not more shy and timorous, Our woods amid, Seeking her dam o'er glen and hill, While all her frame vain terrors thrill. Should a green lizard chance to stir } Beneath the bush — Should Zephyr through the mountain-fir • Disporting gush — With suddeu flight behold her start, With trembling knees and throbbing heart. And canst thou think me, maiden fair ! A tiger grim ? A Lybian lion, bent to tear Thee limb by limb ) Still canst thou haunt thy mother's shade, Ripe for a husband, blooming maid f Why check the full outburst of sorrow ? Why blush To weep for the friend we adored! Raise the voice of lament ! let the swollen tear gush! Bemoan thee, Melpomene, loudly ! nor hush The sound of thy lute's liquid chord ! For low lies Quinctilius, tranced in that sleep That issue hath none, nor sequel. Let Candor, with all her white sisterhood, weep — Truth, Meekness, and Justice, his memory keep — For when shall they find his equal ? ' Though the wise and the good may bewail him, yet none O'er his clay sheds the tear more truly Than you, beloved Virgil! You deemed him your own : You mourn his companionship. — 'Twas but a loan, Which the gods have withdrawn unduly. Yet not though Eurydice's lover had left Thee a legacy, friend, of his song ! Couldst thou warm the cold image of life-blnod bereft, Or force death, who robbed thee, to render the theft, Or bring back his shade from the throng, Which Mercury guides with imperative wand, To the banks of the fatal terry. — 'Tis hard to endure ; — but 'tis wrong to despond : For patience may deaden the blow, though be- yond Thy power, my friend, to parry. Ode XXVI. — Friendship and Poetry the best Antidotes to Sorrow. musis amicus.— ahso ab u. o. mdooixx. Am— " Fill the bumper fair." Sadness — I who live Devoted to the Muse*. POEMS OF FRANCIS MA1IONY. To the wild wind give, What ! silent thus ? Dost fear to name aloud To waft wht To'er it chooses ; The girl of thy affection ? Deigning not to care Youth! let thy choice be candidly avowed; What savage chief be chosen Thou hast a delicate taste, and art allowed To reign beneath " the Bear," Some talent lor selection. O'er the fields forever frozen. Yet, if the loud confession thou wilt shun, To my safe ear discover Let Tiridates rue Thy cherished secret. . . . Ah, thou art undone ! The march of Roman legions, What! she? How little such a heartless one While I my path pursue Deserves so fond a lover ! Through poesy's calm regions — Bidding the Muse, who drinks What fiend, what Thracian witch, deaf to re- From the fountains unpolluted, morse, To weave with flowery links Hath brewed thy dire love-potion I A wreath, to Friendship suited, Scarce could the hero of the winged horse Effect thy rescue, or — to free thee — force For gentle Lamia's blow. — That dragon of the ocean ! Muse melodious ! sweetly Echo his praise; for thou Alone canst praise him fitly. For him thy Lesbian shell With strings refurnish newly, Ode XXIX. — The Sage turned Soldier. And let thy sisters swell The jocund chorus duly. ADIOCIUH. Sadness — I who live devoted, etc. Aie — " One bumper at parting" The trophies of war, and the plunder, Have fired a philosopher's breast — So, Iccius, you march ('mid the wonder Of all) for Arabia the blessed. Ode XXVII. — A Banquet-Scene. Toast and Full sure, when 'tis told to the Persian, Sentiment. That you have abandoned your home, AD BODALXS. He'll feel the full force of coercion, And strike to the banners of Rome 1 To make a weapon of joy's cup, my friends, Is a vile Thracian custom; What chief shall you vanquish and fetteif Shame on such practices ! — they mar the ends What captive shall call you her lord \ How soon may the maiden forget her Of calm and kindly Bacchus. Bloodshed tends To sadden and disgust him. Betrothed, hewn down by your sword ? What stripling has fancy appointed, Here, 'mid the bowls, what business hath the From all that their palaces hold, swoid? To serve you with ringlets anointed, Come, sheathe yon Persian dagger ; And hand you the goblet of gold? Let the bright lamp shine on a quiet board; Recline in peace — these hours we can't afford His arts to your pastime contribute, For brawling, sound, and swagger. His foreign accomplishments show, And, taught by his parent, exhibit Say, shall your chairman fill his cup, and drain His dexterous use of the bow. — Of humming bowls another? Who doubts that the Tiber, in cholei, Then, first, a toast his mandate shall obtain; May, bursting all barriers and bars, He'll know the nymph whose witcheries enchain Flow back to its source, when a scholar The fair Megilla's brother Deserts to the standard of Mars t POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. When you, the reserved and the prudent, Whom Socrates hoped to engage, Can merge in the soldier the student, And mar thus an embryo sasjc — Bid the visions of science to vanish, And barter yon erudite hoard Of volumes from Greece for a Spanish Cuirass, and the pen for a sword ! -The Dedication of Glyoera's Chapel. Odi XXX, Air—" The Boyne water." O Venus ! Queen of Cyprus isle, Of Paplios and of Gnidus, Hie from thy favorite haunts awhile, And make abode amid us ; Glycera's altar for thee smokes, With fraukincense sweet-smelling — Thee, while the charming maid invokes, Hie to her lovely dwelling! Let yor. bright Boy, whose hand hath grasped Love s blazing torch, precede thee, While gliding on, with zone unclasped, The sister Graces lead thee : Nor be thy Nymph-attendants missed : Nor can it harm thy court, if Hebe the youthful swell thy list, With Mercury the sportive. Ode XXXI. — The Dedication op AroLLo'a Temple. Air — " Leebia hath a beaming eye.™ When the bard in worship, low Bends before his liege Apollo, While the red libations flow From the goblet's golden hollow, Can ye guess his orison ? Can it be for " grain "he asketh- Mellow grain, that in the sua 0'«r Sardinia's bosom basketb ? No, no ! The fattest herd of kine That o'er Calabrian pasture ranges — The wealth of India's richest mine — The ivory of the distant Ganges ? No — these be not the poet's dream — Nor acres broad to roam at large in, Where lazy Liris, sileut stream, Slow undermines the meadow's margin. The landlord of a wide domain May gather his Campanian vintage, The venturous trader count his gain — I covet not his rich percentage ; When for the merchandise he sold He gets the balance he relied on, Pleased let him toast, in cups of gold, " Free intercourse with Tyre and Sidon I ' Each year upon the watery waste, Let him provoke the fierce Atlantic Four separate times — ... I have no taste For speculation so gigantic. The gods are kind, the gain superb ; But, haply, I can feast in quiet On salad of some homely herb, On frugal fruit and olive diet. On, let Latona's son but please To guarantee me health's enjoyment ! The goods he gave — the faculties Of which he claims the full employment; Let me live on to good old age, No deed of shame my pillow haunting, Calm to the last, the closing stage Of life : — nor let the lyre be wanting. Ode XXXII. — An occasional Prelude o; the Poet to his Songs. AD LTBAM. Air — "Dear harp of my country." They have called for a lay that for ages abi- ding, Bids Echo its music through years to prolong; Then wake, Latin lyre ! Since my country takei pride in Thy wild native harmony, wake to my song. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Twas Alcseus, a minstrel of Greece, who first married The tones of the voice to the thrill of the chord ; O'er the waves of the sea the loved symbol he carried, Nor relinquished the lyre though he wielded the sword. Gay Bacchus, the Muses, with Cupid he chanted — The boy who accompanies Venus the fair — And he told o'er again how for Lyca he panted, With her bonny black eyes and her dark flowing hair. 'Tis the pride of Apollo— he glories to rank it, Amid his bright attributes, foremost of all : Tis the solace of life ! Even Jove to his banquet Invites thee ! — O lyre ! ever wake to my call. "Ode XXXIV. — The Poet's Conversion. I, whom the Gods had found a client, .Rarely with pious rites compliant, At Unbelief disposed to nibble, And pleased with every sophist quibble — I, who had deemed great Jove a phantom, Now own my errors, and recant 'em! Have I not lived of late to witness, Athwart a sky of passing brightness, The God, upon his car of thunder, Cleave the calm elements asunder! Arid, through the firmament careering, Level his bolts with aim unerring ? Then trembled Earth with sudden shiver; Then quaked with tear each mount and river; Stunned at the blow, Hell reeled a minute, With all the darksome caves within it; And Atlas seemed as he would totter Beneath his load of land and water ! Yes! of a God I hail the guidance ; The proud are humble at his biddance; Fortune, his handmaid, now uplifting Monarchs, and now the sceptre shifting, With equal proof his power evinces, Whether she raise or ruin Princes. Ode XXXV. — An Addkess to Fortchb. AD FORT UN AM. Fortune, whose pillared temple crowns Cape Antium's jutting cliff, Whose smiles cout'er success, whose frown* Can change our triumphs brief To funerals — for life both lie at The mercy of thy sovereign fiat. Thee, Goddess ! in his fervent prayers, Fondly the frugal farmer courts ; The mariner, before he dares Unmoor his bark, to thee resorts — That thy kind favor may continue, To bless his voyage to Bithynia. Rude Dacia's clans, wild Scythia's hordes — Abroad — at home — all worship thee! And mothers of barbarian Lords, And purpled tyrants, bend the knee Before thy shrine, Maid ! who seemest To rule mankind with power supremest. Lest thou their statue's pillared pride Dash to the dust with scornful foot — Lest Tumult, bent on regicide, Their ancient dynasty uproot; When maddened crowds, with FieDds to lead 'em, Wreck empires in the name of freedom! Thee stern Necessity leads on, Loaded with attributes of awe! And grasping, grim automaton, Bronze wedges in his iron claw, Prepared with sledge to drive the bolt in, And seal it fast with lead that's molten. Thee Hope adores. In snow-white vest, Fidelity (though seldom found) Clings to her liege, and loves him best, When dangers threat and ills surround ; Prizing him poor, despoiled, imprisoned, More than with gold and gems bedizened. Not so the fickle crowd ! Not so The purchased Beauty, sure to fly Where all our boon companions go, Soon as the cask of jo,v runs dry: Round us the Spring and Summer brought *«»»— They leave us at the close of Autumn ! P0EMJ3 OF FRANCIS MAHONY. THE PRAYER. Goddess! defend, from dole and harm, Caesar, who speeds to Britain's camp ! And waft, of Rome's glad youth, the swarm Safe to where first Apollo's lamp Shines in the East— the brave whose fate is To war uponnhy banks, Euphrates! Oh ! let our country's tears expunge From history's page those years abhorred, When Roman hands could reckless plunge, Deep in a brother's heart, the sword ; When 'Guilt stalked forth, with aspect hideous, With every crime and deed perfidious ; When Sacrilege and Frenzy urged To violate each hallowed fane. — Oh ! that our falchions were reforged, I And purified from sin and shame ; — Then — turned against th' Assyrian foeman — Baptized in exploits truly Roman ! Ode XXXVI — A Welcome to Numida. Ode XXXVII. — The Defeat op Cleopatra. A JOYFUL BALLAD Burn frankincense ! blow fife A merry note ! — and quick devote A victim to the knife, To thank the guardian powers Who led from Spain — home once again This gallant friend of ours. Dear to us all.; yet one Can fairly boast — his friendship most : Oh, him he doats upon ! The gentle Lamia, whom, Long used to share — each schoolday car He loved in boyhood's bloom. One day on both conferred The garb of men — this day, again Let a "white chalk" record. Then send the wine-jar round, And blithely keep — the •"Salian" step With many a mirthful ibound. Now, comrades, drink Full bumpers, undiluted! Now, dancers, link Firm hands, and freely foot it! Now let the priests, Mindful of Numa's ritual, Spread victim-feasts, And keep the rites habitual ! Till now, 't was wrong T' unlock th' ancestral cellar, "Where dormant long Bacchus remained a dweller; While Egypt's queen Vowed to erase (fond woman !) Rome's walls, and e'en The very name of Roman ! Girt with a band Of craven-hearted minions, Her march she planned Through Caesar's broad dominions! With visions sweet Of coming conquest flattered ; When, lo ! her fleet Agrippa fired and scattered ! While Caesar left Nor time nor space to rally; Of all bereft — All, save a single galley — Fain to escape When fate and friends forsook her, Of Egypt's grape She quaffed the maddening liquor t And turned her back On Italy's fair region ; — When soars the hawk So flies the timid pigeon ", So flies the hare, Pursued by Scythia's hunter, O'er fallows bare, Athwart the snows of winter. The die was cast, And chains she knew t' await her ;- POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Queen to the last, She spurned the foeraau's fetter ; Nor shelter sought In hidden harbors meanly; — Nor feared the thought Of death — but met it queenly ! Untaught to bend, Calm 'mid a tottering palace — 'Mid scenes that rend Weak woman's bosom, callous — Her arm could grasp The writhing snake ; nor waver, While of the asp It drank the venomed slaver 1 Grim Death unawed She hailed with secret rapture, Glad to defraud Rome's galleys of a capture ! And, haughty dame, Scorning to live, the agent Of To grace a Roman pageant ! Odb XXXVIII.— Last Ode of Book First. AD HUnSTBUlL DIEECTIONB FOB BtTPPEB. Slave ! for my feast, in humble grot Let Persia's pomps be all forgot ; With twining garlands worry not Thy weary fingers, Nor heed in what secluded spot The last rose lingers. Let but a modest myrtle-wreath, In graceful guise, our temples sheathe Nor thou nor I aught else herewith Can want, I'm thinking. Cupbearer thou ; — and I, beneath The wine-tree drinking. II. Ode I. — To Pollio ok his Mkdita TED H18TORT. The story of our civil wars, Through all the changes that befell us, To chronicle thy pen prepares, Dating the record from Metellus ; — Of parties and of chiefs thy page Will paint the leagues, the plans, the forcet; Follow them through each varied stage, And trace the warfare to its sources. And thou wilt tell of swords still wet With unatoned-for blood : — historian, Bethink thee of thy risk ! ... ere yet Of Clio thou awake the clarion. Think of the tact which Rome requires In one who would such deeds unfold hes Know that thy tread is upon fires Which still beneath the ashes smoulder. Of Tragedy the weeping Muse Awhile in thee may mourn a truant. Whom varnished fiction vainly woos, Of stern realities pursuant : But finish thy laborious task, Our annals write with care and candor ; Then don the buskin and the mask, And tread through scenes of tragic grandeur. Star of the stage! to thee the Law Looks for her mildest, best expounder — Thee the rapt senate hears with awe, Wielding the bolts of patriot thunder — Thee Glory found beneath the tent, When from a desert wild and horrid, Dalmatia back in triumph sent Her conqueror, with laurelled forehead 1 But, hark ! methinks the martial horn Gives prelude to thy coming story ; In fancy's ear shrill trumpets warn Of battle-field*, hard fought and gory : Fancy hath conjured up the scene, And phantom warriors crowd beside her — The squadron dight in dazzling sheen — The startled steed — th' affrighted rider! Hark to the shouts that echo loud From mighty chieftaios, shadowed grimly I POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. While blood and dust each hero shroud, Costume of slaughter — not unseemly : Vainly ye struggle, vanquished brave ! Doomed to see fortune still desert ye, Till all the world lies prostrate, save Unconquered Cato's savage virtue ! Juno, who loveth Afric most, And each dread tutelary godhead, Who guards her. black barbaric coast, Lybia with Roman gore have floolled: While warring thus the sons of those Whose prowess could of old subject her, Glutting the grudge of ancient foes, Fell — but to glad Jugurtha's spectre! Where be the distant land but drank Our Latium's noblest blood in torrents? Sad sepulchres, where'er it sank, Bear witness to each foul occurrence. Rude barbarous tribes have learned to scoff, Sure to exult at our undoing; — Persia hath heard with joy, far off, The sound of Rome's gigantic ruin ! Point out the gulf on ocean's verge — The stream remote, along whose channels Hath not been heard the mournful dirge That rose throughout our murderous annals- Show me the sea — without its tide Of blood upon the surface blushing — Show me the shore — with blood undyed From Roman veins profusely gushing. But, Muse ! a truce to themes like these — Let us strike up some jocund carol ; Nor pipe with old Simonides Dull solemn strains, morosely moral : Teach me a new, a livelier stave — Aud that we may the better chant it, Hie with me to the mystic cave, Grotto of song ! by Bacchus haunted. Lib. II. Ode IT. — Thoughts on Bullion and the Currency. AS OBOPUlf SALLTTBTIUM. ■ Mr Sallust, say, in days of dearth, What is the lazy ingot worth, Deep in the bowels of the earth Allowed to settle, Unless a temperate use send forth The shining metal ? Blessings on him whose bounteous hoard A brother's ruined house restored — Spreading anew the orphan's board, With care paternal : Murena's fame aloft hath soared Od wings eternal ! Canst thou command thy lust for gold f Then art thou richer, friend, fourfold, Than if thy nod the marts controlled Where chiefest trade is — The Carthages both " new " and "old," The Nile and Cadiz. Mark yon hydropic sufferer, still Indulging in the draughts that fill His bloated frame, — insatiate, till D°ath end the sickly ; Unless the latent fount of ill Be dried up quickly. Heed not the vulgar tale that says — "ITe counts calm hours and happy day* Who from the throne of Cyrus sways The Persian sceptre :" Wisdom corrects the ill-used phrase — And — stern preceptor — Happy alone proclairaeth them, Who with undazzled eye contemn The pile of gold, the glittering gem, The bribe unholy — Palm, laurel-wreath, and diadem, Be theirs — theirs solely ! Lib. H. Ode III. — A Homily on Death. AD Q. DELLnm. Thee, whether Pain assail Or Pleasure pamper, Dellius — whiche'er prevail — Keep thou thy temper ; Unwed to boisterous joys, that ne'er Can save thee from the sepulchre ; Death smites the slave to spleen, Whose soul repineth, And him who on the green, Calm sage, reclineth, • 294 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Keeping — from grief's intrusion far — Blithe holiday with festal jar. Where giant fir, sun-proof, With poplar blendeth, Aud high o'er head a roof Of boughs extendeth ; While onward runs the crooked rill, Brisk fugitive, with murmur shrill. Bring wine, here, on the grass! Bring perfumes hither! Bring roses — which, alas! Too quickly wither — Ere of our days the spring-tide ebb, While the dark sisters weave our web. Soon — should the fatal shear Cut life's frail fibre- Broad lands, sweet Villa near The yellow Tiber, With all thy chattels rich and rare, Must travel to i Be thou the nobly born, Spoiled child of Fortune- Be thou the wretch forlorn, Whom wants importune — By sufferance thou art here at most, Till death shall claim his holocaust. All to the same dark bourne Plod on together — Lots from the same dread urn Leap forth — and, whether Our's be the first or last, Hell's wave Yawns for the exiles of the grave. Lib. II. Ode IV. — Classical Love Matches. " Ne Bit ancillffl tlbi amor padori," etc. ** When the heart of a man is oppressed with care, The mist is dispelled if a woman appear ; Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly, liaises his spirits and charms his ear." Captain Maohkath. O deem not thy love for a captive maid Doth, Phoceus, the heart of a Roman degrade! Like the noble Achilles, 'tis simply, simply, With a "Briseis" thou sharest thy bed. Ajax of Telamon did the same, Felt in his bosom a Phrygian flame! Taught to contemn none, King Agamemnon Fond of a Trojan slave became. Such was the rule with the Greeks of old, When they had conquered the foe's stronghold When gallant Hector — Troy's protector — Falling," the knell of Ilion tolled. Why deem her origin vile and base? Canst thou her pedigree fairly trace;? Yellow-haired Phyllis, slave tbo' she be, still is The last, perhaps, of a royal race. Birth to demeanor will sure respond — Phyllis is faithful, Phyllis is ton,' : Gold cannot buy her — then why Q'ny her A rank the basely born beyond ? Phyllis hath limbs divinely wrought, Features and figure without a fault. .. Do not feel jealous, friend, when a fellow's Fortieth year forbids the thought ! Lib. II. Ode VI. — The Attractions of TlBUR AND TaRENTUM. "Septiml, Gades," etc. Septimius, pledged with me to roam Far as the fierce Ibekian's home, Where men abide not yet o'ercorae By Roman legions. And Mauritanian billows foam — Barbaric regions ! Tibur ! — sweet colony of Greece ! — There let my devious wanderings cease;— There would I wait old age in peace, There calmly dwelling, A truce to war! — a long release From " colonelling ! " Whence to go forth should Fate ordain, Galesus, gentle flood! thy plain Speckled with sheep — might yet remain For heaven to grant us; Land that once knew the halcyon reigu Of King Phalantus. POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 295 Spot of all earth most dear to me ! To hide her brow's dimiuished frown Teeming with sweets! the Attic bee, Low amid heaps of slaughter- O'er Mouut Hymettus ranging free, Finds not such honey — But Mercury, who kindly watched Nor basks the Capuan olive-tree Me 'mid that struggle deadry In soil more sunny. Stooped from a cloud, and quickly snatched His client from the medley. There lingering Spring is longest found : While thee, alas! the ebbing flood E'en Winter's breath is mild ;— and round Of war relentless swallowed, Delicious Aulon grapes abound, Replunging thee 'mid seas of blood; In mellow cluster ! And years of tempest followed. Such as Falernuin's richest ground Can rarely muster. Then slay to Jove the victim calf, Due to the God ; and weary, Romantic towers ! thrice happy scene ! Under my bower of laurels quaff There might our clays glide ou serene ; A wine-cup blithe and merry. Till thou bedew with tears, I ween, Here, while thy war-worn limbs repose. Of love sincerest, 'Mid peaceful scenes sojourning, The dust of him who once had been Spare not the wine. . .'twas kept. . .it flows Thy friend, the Lyrist ! To welcome thy returning. Come, with oblivious bowls dispel Grief, care, and disappointment! Freely from yon capacious shell Lib, II. Ode VII. — A Fellow-Soldier wel- Shed, shed the balmy ointment! comed from Exile. Who for the genial banquet weaves "O«tpemeoum,"eto. Gay garlands, gathered newly ; Fresh with the garden's greenest leaves, Friend of my soul ! with whom arrayed Or twined with myrtle duly ? I stood in the ranks of peril, When Brutus at Philip-pi made Whom shall the dice's cast "wine-kino" That effort wild and sterile . . Elect, by Venus guided ? Who hath reopened Rome to thee, Quick, let my roof with wild mirth ring- Her temples and her forum ; Blame not my joy, nor chide it ! Beckoning the child of Italy Madly each bacchanalian feat Back to the clime that bore him? I mean to-day to rival, For, oh ! 'tis sweet thus . . . thus to qrekt Thou, my earliest comrade ! say, So DEAR A FRIEND'S ARRIVAL 1 Pompey, was I thy teacher To baulk old Time, and drown the and Deep in a flowing pitcher? Think of the hours we thus consumed, While Syria's richest odors, ' Lib. n. Ode VIII. — The Ro^uebibs or Lavish of fragrancy, perfumed Barine. The locks of two marauders. D» BABISXH. With thee I shared Philippe's rout, Barine ! if, for each untruth, Though I, methinks, ran faster; Some blemish left a mark uncouth, Leaving behind — 'twas wrong, no doubt — With loss of beauty and of youth, My shield in the disaster: Or Heaven should alter E'en Fortitude that day broke down ; The whiteness of a single tooth— And the rude foeman taught her fair defaulter I 298 POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. Then might I trust thy words. But thou Fresh courage nerve thee : Dost triumph o'er each broken vow ; Still on his bloodstained wheel he'll whet Falsehood would seetn to give thy brow His darts to serve thee ! Increased effulgence : Men still admire — and gods allow Fast as they grow, our youths enchain, Thee fresh indulgence. Fresh followers in beauty's train : While they who loved thee first would fain, Swear by thy mother's funeral urn — Charming deceiver, Swear by the stars that nightly burn Within thy threshold still remain, (Seeming in silent awe to mourn And love, forever ! O'er such deception) — Swear by each Deity in turn, Their sons from thee all mothers hide ; From Jove to Neptune : All thought of thee stern fathers chide ; Thy shadow haunts the new-made bride, Venus and all her Nymphs would yet And fears dishearten her, With smiles thy perjury abet — Lest thou inveigle from her side Cupid would laugh — Go on I and let Her life's young partner. THE POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN. Not withstanding the manypoints of interest, topographical as well as historical, which the old " Legend of St. Brendan" possesses, it is somewhat difficult to find any satisfactory account of it even in works expressly devoted to the early legendary lore of Christian Ireland. Dr. Lanigan, in his Eccle- siastical History, has a passing allusion to it, but it is a con- temptuous one ; although, from all that appears, he does not seem to have possessed a fuller acquaintance with its details than might be gleaned from Colgan's incidental description of the Saint's visit to Arran, previous to his setting out on his great expedition. Colgan, in the passage referred to, promised to give a full account of this famous voyage when treating of St. Brendan's Festival on the 16th May. This promise I believe he fulfilled, but unfortunately the portion of hie great work, "Acta Sanc- torum Hiberniae," which contains this, in common with much other interesting matter, has never been published. The rare and valuable folio, which is so well known, includes only the lives of those Irish saints whose festivals occur before the end of March. In the public libraries both of England and Ireland MS. copies of the Latin legend may be met with, but not so frequently as in those on the Continent : the Biblio- theque unperiale at Paris alone containing, probably, a greater number than all the libraries of the three kingdoms put to- gether. In the old library close to St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, founded by the Primate Marsh, there is a MS. com- monly, but incorrectly, called the "Codex Kilkeniensis,"' which, along with the lives of many other early Irish saints, contains a life of St. Brendan, which is, however, unfortu- nately, imperfect. The same library possesses a copy of the " Nova Legenda Angliae," compiled by Joannes Capgravins, and published in 1516. This also contains a life of St. Brendan, but carelessly and inaccurately abridged, after the manner of this writer. The "Legenda Aurea" of Jacobus de Voragine, that famous repertory of legends so popular in the thirteenth and succeeding centuries, makes no mention of the Irish Ulysses. Of this work, it is stated byBrunet, in his "Manuel du Libraire," that, previous to the year 1500, no less than seventy-four editions had appeared, and that up to that period it had been translated thirty times into foreign languages. 2 The " Golden Legende" of Caxton, printed by Wynkin de Worde at Westminster in 1483, which might be thought a mere translation of the "Legenda Aurea" of Jacobus de Vora- gine just referred to, contains, however, many additional legends, the most interesting of which, perhaps, is the one devoted to St. Brendan. The fine copy of this rare and valua- ble book in the Grenville Collection at the British Mnseun had the pleasure of examining a few years ago, and of making Co- 2 A very excellent edition of this rare book has been recently pub- lished by Dr. Th. Gruesse, Librarian to the Kiag of Saxony (Leipsic. Io50.) It contains many additional legends not to be found in the origi- nal work. There is also a French translation by M. G. B. in 2 vols., onl.li>r.ed br Oharlei (1 isselin. Paris, 1813. a transcript therefrom of the " Lyfe of Saint Brandon," which I subsequently published in the " Dublin University Maga- zine," vol. xxxix. p. 556, where it is to be found in all its original quaintness. Until very lately, no Irish version of the Legend, which on many accounts onght to be the most valuable, was available. A transcript of a copy, however, has been recently procured for the library of the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin ; but as it remains unedited and untranslated, its advantages to the gen- eral student are but slight. The Legend, which has thus been somewhat neglected in the country where it originated, has, however, attracted the notice of a distinguished French archae- ologist, M. Achille Jubinal, who has published the Latin original, as well as two early Romance versions of it, under the following title : — " La Legende Latiue de S. Brandainea avec une traduction en prose et en poesie Romanes." Paris, 1S36. The Legend which concerns St. Brendan, says M. Achille Jubinal, in his Preface to the above scarce and interesting little tract, " is, without doubt, if we may judge by the multi- tude of narratives founded upon it which still exist, one o< those that were most widely diffused in the Middle Ages. This kind of monkish Odyssey is to be found, in fact, in most of the old European dialects ; and, thanks to the marvels of which it is the snhject, it must have obtained an immense popularity with our ancestors, and with the inhabitants of the British Isles generally— a people that have at all times been the playmates of the ocean." In the Bibliotheque Imperiale at Paris there are to be found no less than eleven MSS. of the original Latin legend, the dates of which vary from the eleventh to the fourteenth cen- tury. In the old French and Romance dialects copies both in prose and verse are abundant in the various public libraries of France, while versions in the Irish, Dutch, German, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese languages are found scattered through the public and private libraries of colleges and convents all over the Continent. The Spaniards and Portuguese, down nearly to the middle of the eighteenth century, seem to have considered the legend a true narrative, and on several occasions fitted out flotillas for the purpose of ascertaining the exact locality of the islands supposed to have been discovered by St. Brendan. The first expedition, says M. Achille Jubinal, which had this object in view waB that of Fernando de Troya and Fer- nando Alvarez in 1526. It was not followed, as may well be imagined, by any successful result ; but this did not discourage the partisans of the singular illusion which had drawn these two men to Beek for the unknown island, since, somewhat later, Dr. Herman Perez de Grado fitted out a little armament destined for the same discovery. This new attempt was not more fortunate than the preceding. In fine, a third expedition confided to the renowned mariners Fray Lorenzo Pinedo and Gaspard Perez de Acosta, departed from the port of Palms, POEMS OF DENIS F. AIcCARTIIY. which had witnrsHcd the disappointment of the previous un- dertakings, bat did 1101 obtain any greater success. It is probable, after this, thai the zeal oi (lit- Spaniards chilled con- siderably; for during a century then- wan no further attempt to discover the position of ihis inland. Hut in 17*41, Don Juan dc Mur. Governor o,' rtie C;in:in<-s. o.n tided a ship to Gaspard Dominguez, which departed from the port of Santa Cruz, and returned after many mouths, without having discovered any- thing. From that time no further expedition lias l>een at- tempted. It was, however, a popular belief in Spain for a long time, that the Isle of St. Brendan, which was called by them Sun Borondon, had served as an asylum fur Kin-,' Rod- erick against the Moors, and that tola monarch dwelt there in an impenetrable fortress; and finally, that it was divided into seven opulent cities; that it had an archbishop, six bishops, seaports, large rivers, and that, as might be supposed, the in- habitants were good Christians, loaded with riches and all the other gifts of fortune. The Portuguese were not behind the Spaniards in the vivid- ness oi' i heir imagination. They were for a long period firmly persuaded that the Isle of St. Brendan was the asylum of King Don Sebastian ; and when they beheld the Indies for the first lime, tln-y were convinced they had at length discovered the long sought for Island of St. Brendan. 1 The well-known story of Madoc, which seems like a lay ver- sion of the Legend of St. Brendan, is familiar to all from the fine poem of Southey, of which that prince is the hero. A Hill earlier Welsh tradition is mentioned by Southey, in his notes to 1 he same poem, of the " Gwerdonnau Llion," or Green Islands of the Ocean, in search of which the enchanter Merlin sailed in his house of glass, and from which expedition he never returned. The optical causes which prodnce the Fata Morgana in the Straits of Messina may have something to do with these vari- ous apparitions, as familiar now to the Tonga Islanders of the South Pacific, as of old time to the more sympathizing and credulous inhabitants oi Spain, of Portugal, and of Ireland. 3 To return to the voyage of St. Brendan, the main incidents of which appear to be neither impossible nor improbable. These have been carefully abridged by the late licv. Cassar Otway in one of his very pleasing "Sketch-books of Irish Scenery. " The passage may serve as a sufficient explanation oftneuse I have made of the Legend in the composition of the following poem :— "We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous voyage of his cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and obtaining an account from him of the happy isles he had landed on in the far west, determined, under the strong desire of winning heathen souls to Christ, to undertake a voyage of dis- covery himself. And, aware that all along the western coast ef Ireland there were many traditions respecting the existence of a western land, he proceeded to the Islands of A mm, and there remained for some time, holding communication with the venerable St. En da, and obtaining from him much infor- mation on what his mind was bent. There can be little doubt that he proceeded northward along the coast of Mayo, and made inquiry, among its bays and islands, of the remnants of the Tuatha Danaan people, that once were so expert in naval affairs, and who acquired from the Milesians, or Scots, that overcame them, the character of being magicians, for their superior knowledge. At Inniskea, then, and Innisgloria, Brendan set up his cross; and, in after-times, in his honor were erected those curious remains that still exist. Having prosecuted his inquiries with all diligence, Brendan returned to his native Kerry; and from a bay sheltered by the lofty mountain that is now known by his name, he set sail for the Atlantic land; and, directing his course toward the south- west, in order to meet the summer solstice, or what we would (.6.1 tne tropic, after a long and rough voyage, his little bark being well provisioned, he came to summer seas, where he was carried along, without the aid of sail or oar, for many a long day. This, it is to be presumed, was the great gulf-stream, and which brought his vessel to shore somewhere about tho Virginian capes, or where the American coast tends eastward, and forms the New England States. Here landing, he and hit- companions marched steadily into the interior for fifteen days, and then came to a large river, flowing from cast to west: thiB, evidently, was the river Ohio. And this the holy adventurer was about to cross, when he was accosted by a person of noble presence— but whether a real or visionary man does not ap- pear—who told him he had gone far enough ; that further dis- coveries were reserved Tor other men, who would, in due time, come and Christianize all that pleasant land. The above, when tested by common sense, clearly shows that Brendan landed on a continent, and went a good way into the interior, met a great river running in a different direction from those he heretofore crossed; and here, from the difficulty of transit, or want of provisions, or deterred by increasing difficulties, he turned back, and, no doubt, in a dream he saw some snch vision which embodied his own previous thought and satis fied him that it was expedient for him to return home. It is said he remained seven years away, and returned to set up a college of three thousand monks, at Clonfert, and he then died in the odor of sanctity."- -Cresar Otway's Sketclies in Erris and Tyrawley, note, pp. 98, 99. According to Colgan, St. Brendan set out on his voyage in 545. Dr. Lanigan, however (Ecclesiastical Hist., vol. ii. p. 35), considers that it must have commenced some years earlier, as it is natural to suppose that Brendan was. at the time of un- dertaking such a perilous work, in the vigor of his age, and not sixty years old, a« he was in the year 545. I may add, in conclusion, that the " Paradisus Avium*' mentioned in Capgrave's version, and so picturesquely elabo- rated by Caston in "The Golden Legende,' 1 seemed to me a tempting opportunity of describing the more remarkable specimens of American Ornithology. This I have attempted, in the fifth part of the poem. PART I. THE VOCATION. O Ita !' mother of my heart and miml — My nourisher — my fosterer — my friend, Who taught me first, to God's great will re- Before his shining altar-steps to hend. 1 The following carious account of St. Ita is to be found in Colgan's " Acta Sanctorum :" "St. Ita was of the princely family of the Desii, or Nandesi, in the now county of Waterford. By the divine command she established the convent of Cluain-Credhuil, in that portion of Hy-Couaill which constitutes the present barony of Connello, in the county of Limerick. When Brendan was a mere infant, he was placed under her care, and remained with her five years, after which period he was led away by Bishop Ercus, in order t'o receive from him the more solid instruction neces- sary for his advancing years. Brendan retained always the greatest respect and affection for his foster-mother ; and he is represented, after his seven years' voyage, amusing St. Ita with an account of his adventures in the ocean. He, however, was not the only person reared by the benevol ent abbess of Cluain-Credhuil ; her own nephew, Pulcherius, had also this enviable advantage. The manner of his birth, as described in Colgan, is so curious, that it is worth transcribing. His father's name was Beoanus ; he was a skilful artificer, and of an honorable family in Connaught ; but, being compelled to fly into exile, he came into the neighborhood of St. Ita. She, hearing of his professional skill, and being anxious to make some addition to the buildings of her convent, requested him POEMS OF DEXIS F. MoCAKTHY. Who poured bis word upon my soul like balm, And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints, And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm, And all the sacred knowledge of the saints. Who but to thee, my mother, should be told, Of all the wonders I have seen afar ?-^ Islands more green, and suns of brighter gold Than this dear land, or yonder blazing star; Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops, And seas that dimple with eternal smiles ; Of airs from heaven that fan the golden crops, O'er the great ocean, 'mid the blessed isles ! in. Thou knowest, O my mother ! how to thee, The blessed Ercus led me when a boy, And how within thine arms and at thy knee I learned the lore that death cannot de- stroy ; And how I parted hence with bitter tears, And felt when turning from thy friendly door, Iu the reality of ripening years, My paradise of childhood was no more. I wept — but not with sin such tear-drops flow; I sighed — for earthly things with heaven entwine ; to undertake the work. He consented, on the conditions of receiving Nessa, the sister of the saint, as his wife, and also some land on which to settle. St. Ita acquiesced in the pro- position, and gave him her sister Nessa to wife ; and he, with great assiduity, applied himself to erect the buildings in the monastery of the saint. It happened, after a time, that in battle, whither he had followed a certain chieftain, Beoanus was killed ; and his head, being cut off, was carried away a great distance. St. Ita was, of course, very much grieved at this occurrence, particularly as she had promised her brother- in-law that he would have a son, which promise was unful- filled, as his wife had been sterile up to this time. St. Ita went to the field of battle, and found the mutilated body of Beoanus, but, of course, without the head. She however, prayed that it might be shown to her, and the head, through the divine power, flew through the air, and stopped where the body lay before her ; and the Lord, at the entreaty of his handmaid, made the head adhere to the body as perfectly as if it had never been cnt off, except that a slight mark of the wonnd remained : and the space of one honr having passed, he rose alive, saluting the servant of the Lord, and returning thanks to God, After the return of Beoanus, his wife con- ceived, and 6he brought forth a son, as St, Ita had promised. This son was Pulcheriue, and he remained with the saint in til he reacked his twentieth year."— Colgan's Acta Sancto- Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow, And love, though human, is almost divine. The heart that loves not knows not how to pray; That eye can never smile that never weeps; 'Tis through our sighs Hope's kindling sun- beams play, And through our tears the bow of Promise peeps. v. I grew to manhood by the western wave, Among the mighty mountains on the shore ; My bed the rock within some natural cave, My food, whate'er the seas or seasons bore ; My occupation, morn and noon and night : The only dream my hasty slumbers gave, Was Time's unheeding, unreturning flight, And the great world that lies beyond the grave. VI. And thus, where'er I went, all things to me Assumed the one deep color of my mind ; Great Nature's prayer rose from the mur- muring sea, And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind. The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a tear, Like penitents, grew purified and bright, And, bravely struggling through earth's at- mosphere, Passed to the regions of eternal light. I loved to watch the clouds, now dark and dun, In long procession and funereal line, Pass with slow pace across the glorious stra, Like hooded monks before a dazzling shrine. And now with gentler beauty as they rolled Along the azure vault in gladsome May, Gleaming pure white, and edged with broi- dered gold, Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day. And then I saw the mighty sea expand Like Time's unmeasured and unfathomed waves, One with its tide-marks on the ridgy uand, The other with its line of weedy graves ; 300 POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHT. And as beyond the outstretched wave of Time The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet, So did I dream of some more sunny clime Beyond the waste of waters at my feet : Some clime where man, unknowing and un- known, For God's refreshing Word still gasps and faints ; Or happier rather some Elysian zone, Made for the habitation of His saints ; Where Nature's love the sweat of labor spares, Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends, Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest bears, And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters The thought grew stronger with my growing days, Even like to manhood's strengthening mind and limb, And often now amid the purple haze That evening breathed upon the horizon's rim — Methought, as there I sought my wished-for home, 1 could descry amid the waters green, Full many a diamond shrine and golden dome, And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen. And then I longed with impotent desire, Even for the bow whereby the Python bled, That I might send one dart of living fire Into that land, before the vision fled; And thus at length fix thy enchanted shore, Hy-Brasail 1 — Eden of the western wave ! 1 My-Brasall, or the Enchanted Island, which was supposed to be visible from the western coast of Ireland every seven years. The ballad of Gerald Griffin, and the frequent allusion to this subject in works recently published, render it unneces- sary to give any more particular description of it in this olace. Among the several modes of disenchanting this island, and others subject to similar eccentric disappearances, re- sorted to by our ancestors, that of fire seems to have been the one most frequently attempted, and the only one which was That thou again wouldst fade away no more, Buried and lost within thy azure grave. But angels came and whispered as I dreamt, " This is no phantom of a frenzied brain — God shows this land from time to time to tempt Some daring mariner across the main : By thee the mighty venture must be made, By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be won ! Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid !" I woke, and kneeling cried, " His will be done !" PART II. ARA OF THE SAINTS.* L Hearing how blessed Enda* lived apart, Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor, And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart, Lay all the isles of that remotest shore ; And how he had collected in his mind All that was known to man of the Old Sea,' I left the Hill of Miracles' behind, And sailed from out the shallow sandy Leigh." attended with any success ; as not only was the island of In- nisbofin, off the coast of Connemara, fixed in its present posi- tion by means of a few sparks of lighted turf falling upon it. bnt the still more celebrated Hy-Brasail itself seems to have met with the same disaster, if we are to credit a very matter- of-fact and circumstantial account, which may be seen in Hardiman's "Irish Minstrelsy," vol. i. p. 3B9. .Shooting a fiery arrow was one of the means resorted to for bringing the disenchanting element into connection with Hy-Brasail; it was certainly the most elegant method, if not the most suc- cessful. 2 "From the number of holy men and women formerly inhab- iting Arran, it received the name of Ara-na-naomh, or ' Ara of the Saints. 1 " — Colgan, Acta Sanctorum, p. 710. n. IS. s " St. Enda, or Endeus, was the first abbot of Arran ; it was in the year 640, according to Colgan, that Brendan paid him the visit described in the text."— Ibid., p. 714. * "The Atlantic was anciently called Shan-arragh, or the Old Sea." — Sketches in Erris and Tyraivley* p. 51. 6 It is not mentioned from what place Brendan proceeded on thi6 visit to Arran. It is extremely probable that it was from Ardfert, five miles northwest of Traiee, where he had before tiiis period established a monastery, and where a portion of his church (one of the most beautiful ruins in Kerry) still re- mains to this day. According to Sir James Ware (vol. i. p. 518), Ardfert signifies " a wonderful place on an eminence," or, as some interpret it. " The Hill of Miracles." « Traiee was anciently written Traleigh. i.e." the strand of the river Leigh," which is a small stream that empties itself at the bottom of Traiee Bay. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIIY. 301 Betwixt the Samphire Isles 1 swam my light skiff, And like an arrow flew through Fenor Sound,' Swept by the pleasant strand," and the tall cliff Whereon the pale rose amethysts are found, 4 Rounded Moyferta's rocky point,* and The mouth of stream-streaked Erin's might- iest tide, Whose troubled waves break o'er the City lost, Chafed by the marble turrets that they hide." Beneath Ibrickan's hills, moory and tame,' And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and dark, 8 I sailed along. The white-faced otter came,' And gazed in wonder on my floating bark. The soaring gannet 10 perched upon my mast, And the proud bird that flies but o'er the sea," Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna Upon the branch of some life-giving tree. 1 » " The strand of F'il/yheigh is, in fine weather, a very pleaB- ■mt ride."— Smith's Kerry, p. 208. • The Amethyst Miffs, near Kerry Head. Very fine ame- thysts have been found among these cliffs. Smith describes their colors as being of various degrees and shades of purple : Borne approach t The surface of Arran is covered over with large fiat slab* of stone. Hardiman 6ays that the " Marble Islands" would Dot he a bad name for the Arran Isles generally. * "This sister was St. Fanchea, who, going with three fe- male companions to visit her brother Enda, who was then in Rome, came to the seaside ; and not finding a vessel to carry them over, spread her cloak upon the sea, and passed over onon it to the desired port of Britain. During the voyage, the hem of the cloak sank a little beneath the waves, in con- sequence of one of her companions having brought a brazen vessel with her from the convent, contrary to the expressed command of the saint. Upon her throwing it from her into the sea, the sinking hem rose np on a level with the rest of the cioak."— Colgan's Acta Sanctorum, p. 2. » " St. Scothinus, by fasting and other penitential observ- ances, had so purified his body, that he had the privilege of walking upon the sea with dry feet, and going upon it whither he pleased, without using auy ship or vessel whatsoever. In his Life it is mentioned that, upon one occasion, while he was thus walking over to Britain, a ship approached him, in which was the Bishop St. Barra,\vho beholding the man of God Sco- thinus. and recognizing him, inquired wherefore he walked npou the sea ? Scothinus replied, that it. was a flowery field on which he walked, and immediately extending his hand to the water, he plucked from the middle of the ocean a handful of rosy flowers, which, as a proof of his assertion, he flung in- to the bosom of the blessed bishop. The bishop, on the other hand, to prove that he was justified in making Buch an inquiry, drew a fish from the sea and threw it to St. Scothinus, and each, magnifying God for his miracles, went on his sepa- rate way."— Colgan's Acta Sanctorum, p. 10, chap. v. vi. * " This island (Ara-mhor) was inhabited by infldels ont of C'orcomroe, the next adjacent country in the county of Clare, when St. Enna (Enda) got it by the donation of Engus. King of Munster, anno Christi circiter 480."— O'Flaherty's »«« Connaught, p. 79. These " infidels" were headed by a chief, Corbanns, about whom the following curious story is told by Colgan. Being in possession of Arran previous to the arrival of St. Endan, he surrendered it to him with very bad grace, and was not perfectly convinced of his right to the island un- til after the occurrence of the following miracle. For, wish- ing to test how far St. Enda was protected by the celestial powers, he prepared a large barrel, which he filled with corn- seed, and leaving it on the shore of the mainland, he said to himself, 'If Enda be a favorite of heaven, this corn, which he so much requires, will be carried over to him in a miraculous manner.' Wonderful to relate, the event occurred precisely as he anticipated ; for the angel of God, taking the barrel, drew it through the sea, and the track of the barrel still re- mains in perpetual 6erenity amid the turbulence of the sur- rounding water."— Ibid., chap. xvi. p. 770. 6 " When St. Enda obtained the grant of Arran from his brother-in-law, Engns MacNatfraich. for the purpose of erect- ing a monastery thereon, he proceeded with his disciples to the sea-shore, in order to pass over to Arran. There being no vessel at that place, and the saint not wishing to lose time, he ordered eight of his monks to raise a great stone, which lay upon the shore, and to place it in the water, and a favora- ble breeze springing up, they were wafted over the sea on this stone, in perfect safety, to Arran."— Ibid., chap. xiv. p. 707. « " When St. Kieran. with many pious followers, was about leaving Arran, to found the monastery of Clonmacnoise, up- on the Shannon, St. Enda had many visions, in one of which he saw all the angels who had hitherto been the guardians of that island departing from it in a great crowd. In another, he 6aw a mighty tree growing in the midst of Arran, with its branches extending all round to the sea, and many men came and dug up the tree by the roots, aud it was borne with them through the air, and replanted by the banks of the river Shan- non, where it grew to a still larger size."— Ibid., chap, xxviii. p. 710. According to Ussher, St. Kieran left Arran in tba year 53s. POEMS OF DENTS F. McCARTHY. Which, in the sunny morning's golden light, Shone like the burning lake of Lassarae,' Now 'neath heaven's frown — and now, be- neath its smile — Borne on the tide, or driven before the gale; And as I passed 'MacDara's sacred Isle, Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let down my sail.* Westward of Arran, as I sailed away, I saw the fairest sight eye can behold, — Rocks which, illumined by the morning's ray, Seemed like a glorious city built of gold. Men moved along each sunny shining street, Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke to rise, When lo ! the city vanished, and a fleet, With snowy sails, rose on my ravished eyes.* Thus having sought for knowledge and for strength, For the unheard-of voyage that I planned, I left these myriad isles, and turned at length Southward my bark, and sought my na- tive land. There I made all things ready, day by day, The wicker boat, with ox-skins covered o'er — * Chose the good monks companions of my way, And waited for the wind to leave the shore. i " There is some uncommonly fine pasture-land about Moylough, and near it is a lake called Lough L3ssarse. or the illuminated lake. This was celebrated as a place of religiouB rite, even in the time of Paganism ; and its waters are said, every seventy years, to possess this luminous quality in ex- cess ; and then the people bring their children and cattle to be washed in its phosphoric waters, and they are considered to have no chance of dying that year."— Csesar Otway's Tour in Conimvght, p. 163. Lough Lurgan was the ancient name of Galway Bay. ' This is the island formerly called Cruach. Mhic Dara, liter- Ally, the stack, or rick (from its appearance in the ocean) of MacDara, who is the patron saint of Moyrus parish. " The boats that pass between Mason-head and this island," Bays G'Flaherty, " have a custome to bow down their sails three times, in reverence to the saint."— Description ofH-Iar Con- naught, p. 99. 3 These are the Skird Rocks, which are thus beautifully de- scribed by O'Flaherty: "There is. westward of Arran, in •ight of the next continent of Balynahynsy barony, Skerde, a PART III. THE VOYAGE. At length the day so long expected came, When from the opening arms of that wild Beneath the hill that bears my humble name,* Over the waves we took our untracked way: Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill, Gladly the waves played in its golden light, And the proud top of the majestic hill Shone in the azure air — serene and bright." Over the sea we flew that sunny morn, Not without natural tears and human sighs ; For who can leave the land where he was born, And where, perchance, a buried mother lies — Where all the friends of riper manhood dwell, And where the playmates of his childhood sleep — Who can depart and breathe a cold farewell, Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep ? Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles On ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird ; wild island of huge rocks, the receptacle of a deal of seals thereon yearly slaughtered. These rocks sometimes appear to be a great city far oil', fall of houses, castles, towers, and chimneys : sometimes full of blazing flames, smoak, aud peo- ple running to and fro. Another day you would see nothing but a number of ships, with their sails and riggings : then bo many great stakes, or reeks of corn and turf; and this not only on a fair, sun-shining day, whereby it might be thought the reflection of the sunbeams, or the vapors arising about it, had been the cause, but also on dark and cloudy days hap- pening. There is another like number of rocks called Car- rigmeacan, on the same coast, whereon the like apparitions are seen. But the enchanted island of O'Brazil is not always visible, as those rocks are, nor these rockB have always those apparitions."— H-Iar Connaught, p. 69. * The vessel in which Brendan took his wonderful voyage was made of wattles, over which were ox-skins stretched, asd made water-proof with pitch and tallow. Boats of a similar construction are used to this day among the islands of West Connaught. • Brandon Hill. Smith, in his "History of Kerry," says: "It is a certain token of fine weather when its top is visible." — d. 194. 304 POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAKTHY. And then the land, with all its hundred isles, Faded away, and yet we spoke no word. Each silent tongue held converse with the past, Each moistened eye looked round the cir- cling wave, And, save the spot where stood our trem- bling mast, Saw all things hid within one mighty grave. We were alone, on the wide watery waste — Naught broke its bright monotony of blue, Save where the breeze the flying billows chased, Or where the clouds their purple shadows threw. We were alone — the pilgrims of the sea — One boundless azure desert round us spread ; No hope, no trust, no strength except in Thee, Father, who once the pilgrim-people led. And when the bright-faced sun resigned his throne Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the night, — Who, with her pearly crown and starry zone, Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery light,— As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway, And felt within our hearts her holier power, We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to pray, And hailed with vesper hymns the tran- quil hour ! VI. For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens ap- peared A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's praise, — Such as no human architect has reared, Where gems, and gold, and precious mar- bles blaze. What earthly temple such a roof can boast ? What flickering lamp with the rich star- light vies. When the round moon rests, like the sacred Host, 1 Tpon the azure altar of the skies ? We breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer, Which makes us brothers even with the Lord; "Our Father," cried we, in the midnight air, " In heaven and earth be Thy great name adored ; May Thy bright kingdom, where the angels are, Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim." And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious star, We sang the Virgin -Mother's vesper hymn: " Hail, brightest star ! that o'er life's trou- bled sea Shines pity down from heaven's elysian blue! Mother and maid, we fondly look to thee, Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams brightly through. Star of the morning! guide our youthful days, Shine on our infant steps in life's long race; Star of the evening! with thy tranquil rays, Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face. IX. " Hail, sacred maid ! thou brighter, better Eve, Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin; Within our hearts no selfish poison leave, For thou the heavenly antidote canst win. O sacred Mother ! 'tis to thee we run — Poor children from this world's oppres- sive strife ; Ask all we need from thy immortal Son, Who drank of death, that we might taste of life. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAKTHT. 305 " Hail, spotless Virgin ! mildest, meekest maid — Hail ! purest Pearl that Time's great sea hath borne — May our white souls, in purity arrayed, Shine as if they thy vestal-robes had worn ; Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure — Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives, And make us pass to joys that will endure When the dark term of mortal life ar- 'Twas thus in hymns, and prayers, and holy psalms, Day tracking day, and night succeeding night, Now driven by tempests, now delayed by calms, Along the sea we winged our varied flight. Oh ! how we longed and pined for sight of land ' Oh ! how we sighed for the green pleasant fields ! Compared with the cold waves, the barest strand — The bleakest rock — a crop of comfort yields. Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale, In search of rest, beneath the waves would flee, Like some poor wretch, who, when his strength doth fail, Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting sea; Then would the Brothers draw from mem- ory's store Some chapter of life's misery or bliss — Some trial that some saintly spirit bore — Or else some tale of passion such as this : PART IV. THE BURIED CITY, i. Beside that giant stream that foams and swells Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore, And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells,' A gentle maiden dwelt, in days of yore. She long has passed out of Time's aching womb, And breathes Eternity's favonian air; Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb, And paints her glorious features as they Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless light, Which never cloud nor earthly vapor mars; Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of night — Black, but yet brightened by a thousand stars ; Her tender form, moulded in modest grace, Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved apart ; Heaven shone reflected in her angel face, And God reposed within her virgin heart She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land, Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw, Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits stand One vast tiara over stream and shaw. Almost in solitude the maiden grew, And reached her early budding woman' prime ; And all so noiselessly the swift time flew, She knew not of the name or flight of Time. 1 The three preceding stanzas are a paraphrase of the bean- occasion the roughness of this part of the eBtnary. The whole tifnl hymr of the Catholic Church, " Ave, Maris Stella." city becomes visible on every seventh year, and has been 2 " The mouth of the Shannon is grand, almost beyond con- often seen by the fishermen sailing over it ; but the sight bodes cention. Its inhabitants point to a part of the river, within I ill-luck, for within a month after the ill-fated sailor is a corpse, t.ir headlands, over which the tides rush with extraordinary ] The time of its appearance is also rendered further disastrous rapidity and violence. They say it is the site of a lost city, j by the loss of some boat or vessel, of which, or its crew, no long buried beneath the waves: and that its towers, and vestige is ever to be found."— Hall's lrdand, vol. iii. p. 430. Bfcires, and turrets, acting as breakers against the tide-water, I » Inniscattery Island. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHT. And thus within her modest mountain nest, This gentle maiden nestled like a dove, Offering to God from her pure, innocent breast The sweet and silent incense of her love. No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife. Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified The thousand trivial, common cares of life. Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth, Whose nature's woof was woven of good and ill — "Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of truth, But in a devious course, round many a hill- Now lingering through a valley of delight, Where sweet flowers bloomed, and sum- mer song-birds sung, Now hurled along the dark tempestuous night, With gloomy, treeless mountains over- hung. VI. He sought the soul of Beauty throughout space, — Knowledge he tracked through many a vanished age : For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant face, And for the other, Learning's shrivelled page. If Beauty sent some fair apostle down, Or Knowledge some great teacher of her lore, Bearing the wreal"h of rapture and the crown, He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore. Full many a time he spread his little sail, — How rough the river, or how dark the skies, — Gave his light currach to the angry gale, And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's eyes. As yet 'twas worship, more than human love- That hopeless adoration that we pay Unto some glorious planet throned above, Though severed from its crystal sphere for aye. But warmer love an easy conquest won, The more he came to green Moyarta's bowers ; Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun, In summer-time puts forth her myriad flowers. The yearnings of his heart — vague, unde- fined — Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams, Took everlasting shape, and intertwined Around this incarnation of his dreams. Some strange fatality restrained his tongue — He spoke not of the love that filled his breast : The thread of hope, on which his whole life hung, Was far too weak to bear so strong a test. He trusted to the future — time or chance — His constant homage, and assiduous care; Preferred to dream and lengthen out his trance, Rather than wake to knowledge and de- spair. And thus she knew not, when the youth would look Upon some pictured chronicle of eld, In every blazoned letter of the book One fairest face was all that he beheld : And where the limner, with consummate art, Drew flowing lines and quaint devices rare, The wildered youth, by looking from the heart, Saw naught but lustrous eyes and waving hair. He soon was startled from his dreams, for now ' Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call, His life of life would take the vestal vow, In one short month, within a convent's wall. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 307 He heard the tidings with a sickening fear, But quickly had the sudden faintness flown, And vowed, though heaven or hell should interfere, Ethna — his Ethna — should be his alone ! He sought his boat, and snatched the feath- ery oar — It was the first and brightest morn of May; The white-winged clouds that sought the northern shore, Seemed but love's guides, to point him out the way. The great old river heaved its mighty heart, And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on, As if of all his griefs it felt a part, But knew they should be borne, and so had gone. Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed, Although the stream that that light bur- den bore Was like the level path the angels made, Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed shore ; ' And from the rosy clouds the light airs And from the rich reflection that they gave, Like good Scothinus, had he reached his hand," He might have plucked a garland from the wave. And now the noon in purple splendor blazed, The gorgeous clouds in slow procession filed— The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes, and gazed Down through the waves on which the blue heavens smiled : What sudden fear his gasping breath doth drown ? What hidden wonder fires his startled eyes? Down in the deep, full many a fathom down, A great and glorious city buried lies. Not like those villages with rude-built walls, That raised their humble roofs round every coast, But holding marble basilics and halls, Such as imperial Rome itself might boast. There were the palace and the poor man's home, And upstart glitter and old-fashioned gloom, The spacious porch, the nicely rounded dome, The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb. There was the cromleach, with its circling There the green rath, and the round nar- row tower ; There was the prison whence the captive's groans Had many a time moaned in the midnight hour. Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed, Around the walls the sparkling waters ran, The golden chariot rolled along the road, — All, all was there except the face of man. The wondering youth had neither thought nor word, He felt alone the power and will to die ; His little bark seemed like an outstretched bird, Floating along that city's azure sky. It was not that he was not bold and brave, And yet he would have perished with affright, Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave, Concealed the buried city from his sight. xvni. He reached the shore: the rumor was too true — Ethna, his Ethna, would be God's alone POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAKTIIY. In one brief month ; for which the maid withdrew, To seek for strength before His blessed throne. Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed, Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred, That made him vow to snatch the white- veiled maid Even from the very altar of her Lord ! The first of June, that festival of flowers, Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows green ! And all the children of the spring-tide showers Rose from their grassy beds to hail their Queen. A song of joy, a pajan of delight, Rose from the myriad life in the tall grass, When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep of night, Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's glass. Ethna awoke — a second, brighter dawn — Her mother's fondling voice breathed in her ear : Quick from her couch she started, as a fawn Bounds from the heather when her dam is near. Each clasped the other in a long embrace — Each knew the other's heart did beat and bleed — Each kissed the warm tears from the other's face, And gave the consolation she did need. XXI. Oh ! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make — That of a mother of her darling child — That of a child, who, for the Saviour's sake, Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle smiled ! They who may think that God doth never need So great, so sad a sacrifice as this, While they take glory in their easier creed, Will feel and own the sacrifice it is. All is prepared — the sisters in the choir — The mitred abbot on his crimson throne — The waxen tapers with their pallid fire Poured o'er the sacred cup and altar- stone — The upturned eyes, glistening with pious tears — The censer's fragrant vapor floating o'er. Now all is hushed, for, lo ! the maid appears, Entering with solemn step the sacred door. She moved as moves the moon, radiant and pale, Through the calm night, wrapped in a sil- very cloud ; The jewels of her di - ess shone through her veil, As shine the stars through their thin va- porous shroud ; The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid Beneath their smooth white caskets arch- ing o'er, WMch, by the trembling of each ivory lid, Seemed conscious of the treasures that they bore. She reached the narrow porch and the tall door, Her trembling foot upon the sill was placed — Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded floor — Her cold hands chilled the bosom they embraced. Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a book, Bears many a deep-traced character ot pain? Who looks for pardon as the damned may look — That ever pray, and know they pray in Tis he, the wretched youth — the Demon's prey. One sudden bound, and he is at her side — POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. One piercing shriek, and she has swooned away, Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's warm tide. Horror and terror seized the startled crowd ; Their sinewy hands are nerveless with af- fright; When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud, The youth bears off the maiden from their Close to the place the stream rushed roaring by, His little boat lay moored beneath the bank, Hid from the shore, and from the gazer's eye, By waving reeds and water-willows dank. Hither, with flying feet and glowing bi-ow, He fled as quick as fancies in a dream — Placed the insensate maiden in the prow — Pushed from the shore, and gained the open stream. Scare: nad he left the river's foamy edge, When sudden darkness fell on hill and plain ; The angry Sun, shocked at the sacrilege, Fled from the heavens with all his golden train ; The stream rushed quicker, like a man afeared ; Down swept the storm and clove its breast of green, And though the calm and brightness reap- peared, The youth and maiden never more were seen. Whether the current in its strong arms bore Their bark to green Hy-Brasail's fairy halls, Oi whether, as is told along that shore, They sunk within the buried city's walls ; Whether through some Elysian clime they stray, Or o'er their whitened bones the river rolls : — Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us pray To God for peace and pardon to their souls. Such was the brother's tale of earthly love — He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend head: For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above, And sang the De Profundis for the dead. A freshening breeze played on our moistened cheeks, The far horizon oped its walls of light, And lo! with purple hills and sunbright peaks A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened sight. PART V. THE PARADISE OF BIRDS. L It was the fairest and the sweetest scene — The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering green Unto the sea and stormed-vexed mariner : No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged with ice, Nor jagged rocks — Nature's gray ruins — marred The perfect features of that Paradise. The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill, Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars large, All o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill. Unnumbered birds their glorious colors fling Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze, As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing And settled on the green o'erarching trees. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIIY. Oh ! Ita, Ita ! 'tis a grievous wrong, That man commits who, uninspired, pre- sumes To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song, To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes — Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays — Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems The angels bore thee in thy childhood's days. 1 There dwells the bird that to the farther west Bears the sweet message of the coming spring ; a June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast, And summer skies gleam from his azure wing. While winter prowls around the neighbor- ing seas, The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest, Then flies away, and leaves his favorite trees Unto his brother of the graceful crest.' Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown, There wear a splendor words cannot ex- press. ' " Upon a certain occasion, when St. Ita was sleeping, she saw an angel approach her, and present her with three pre- cious stones, at which she wondered exceedingly, until in- formed by the angel that the three precious stones were types of the blessed Trinity, by whom she would be always visited and protected."— Life of St. Ita, in Colgan, p. 66. 3 The Blue Bird (Le rouge gorge bleu de Buffon). " The pleasing manners and sociable disposition of this little bird entitle him to particular notice. As one of the first messen- gers of the spring, bringing the charming tidings to our very doors, he bears his own recommendation along with him, and meets with a hearty welcome from everybody." — Wilson and Bonaparte's American Ornithology, vol. i. pp. 56, 57. His fa- vorite haunts are the cedar-trees of the Bermudas. • The Cedar Bird. "This bird wears a crest on the head, which, when erected, gives it a gay and elegant appearance." —Ibid., vol. i. p. 109. • The Golden-crowned Thrush. " Sciurus Aurocapillus."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 2.18. • The Scarlet Tanagar.— " Seen among the green leaves with the light falling strongly on his plumage, he really appears beautiful."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 194. "Mr. Edwards calls it the Scarlet Sparrow."— Ibid., p. 196. • The Baltimore Oriole.—" It has a variety of names, among The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown,' And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet dress.' There partial Nature fondles and illumes The plainest offspring that her bosom bears ; The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,* And the small wren a purple ruby wears.* Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stray, Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as flowers, Come with the flowers, and with the flow- ers decay." The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws From his blue neck the azure of the skies, And his pale brother of the northern snows, Bearing white plumes mirrored with bril- liant eyes." Oft, in the sunny mornings, have I seen Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue, Meeting in crowds upon the branches gr<;en, And sweetly singing all the morning through ; 10 And others, with their heads grayish and Jark, Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees, which are 'the golden robin,' and ' the fire-bird:' the latter from the bright orange of its plumes, shining through the green leaves like a flash of fire."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 16. ' The Ruby-crowned Wren.—'- This little bird visits us early in the spring, from the south, and is generally found among the maple blossoms about the beginning of April."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 831. e Peacocks. — "Their brilliant plumes, which surpass in beauty the fairest flowers, wither like them, and fall with each succeeding year."— Bujfora. » The Wbite Peacock of Sweden.— "Although the plu- mage of the white peacock is altogether of this color, the long plumes of the train do yet retain, at their extremities, some vestige9 of the brilliant mirrors peculiar to the species."— Oli- vier. These are the only birdB not strictly American that I have introduced into this description. 10 The Yellow Bird, or Goldfinch : itB color is of a rich lemon shade. " Ou their first arrival in Pennsylvania, in February, and until early in April, they frequently assemble in great numbers on the same tree, and bask and dress themselves ro the morning sun, singing in concert for half an hour together; the confused mingling of their notes forming a kind of har- mony not at all unpleasant." — Wilson and Bonaparte, vol. i. p. 12. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark, Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease. 1 And diamond-birds chirping their single notes, Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blos- soms seen, Now floating brightly on with fiery throats, Small-winged emeralds of golden green ; a And other larger birds with orange cheeks, A many-color-painted chattering crowd, Prattling forever with their curved beaks, And through the silent woods screaming aloud. 3 Color and form may be conveyed in words, But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains That from the throats of these celestial birds Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains : There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet, But robed in richer raiment than our own ; 4 And as the moon smiled on his green retreat, The painted nightingale sang out alone. 6 1 The Gold-winged Woodpecker.— " His back and wings are of a dark amber-color ; upper part of the head an iron gray ; cheeks, and part surrounding the eyes, of a fine cinnamon- color. The sagacity of this bird in discovering, under a sound bark, a hollow limb or trunk of a tree, is truly surprising." — Wilson and Bonaparte, vol. i. p. 45. 3 Humming-birds.—" The Jewels of Ornithology" — " Least of the winged vagrants of the sky. 11 Wilson describes this interest ; ng bird in the following manner :— " The Humming- bird is extremely fond of tubular flowers, and I have often stopped with pleasure to observe his manoeuvres among the blossoms of the trumpet-flower. When arrived before a thicket of those that are full-blown, he poises or suspends himself on wing for the space of two or three seconds so Btead- ily, that his wings become invisible, or only like a mist, and yon can plainly distinguish the pupil of his eye looking round with great quickness aad circumspection. The glossy golden green of his back, and the fur of his throat dazzling in the sun, form altogether a most interesting appearance." — Ibid., p. 179. His only note is a single chirp, not louder than that of a small cricket or grasshopper. « The Carolina Parrot.—" Out of 168 kinds of parrots enu- merated by Europeans, this is the only species which may be considered a native of the territory of the United States." — Ibid., vol. i. p. 387. • "The Meadow-lark, though inferior in song to his Euro- pean namesake, is superior to him in the richness of his plu- mage." — Ibid., vol. i. p. 318. * "The Cardinal Grosbeak, or Red-bird, sometimes called the Virginia Nightingale."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 191. Words cannot echo music's winged note, One bird alone exhausts their utmost power ; ' Tis that strange bird whose many-voiced throat Mocks all his brethren of the woodland bower — To whom, indeed, the gift of tongues is given, The musical rich tongues that filL the grove, Now like the lark dropping his notes from heaven, Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove.' Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong, As if in search of his evanished soul, Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song ; ' And as I wandered on, and upward gazed, Half lost in admiration, half in fear, I left the brothers wondering and amazed, Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near. Was it a revelation or a dream ?— That these bright birds as angels once did dwell In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme, Half sinned with him, and with him part- ly fell ; • The Mocking-bird (Tardus Folyglottw).— "His voice i» full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every modu- lation, from the clear, mellow tones of the wood-thrush to the savage scream of the eagle."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 168. "So perfect are his imitations, that he many times deceives the sportsman, and sends him in search of birds that are not within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly imitates. Even birds themselves are often imposed on by this admira- ble mimic, and are decoyed by the fanciful calls of their mates, or dive with precipitation into the depths of thickets, at the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow-hawk."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 169. T His expanded wings and tail glistening with white, and: the buoyant gayety of his action, arrest the eye, and his song most irresistibly does the ear, as he sweeps round with en- thusiastic ecstasy. He mounts aud descends as his song swells or dies away ; and, as Mr. F.artram has beautifully ex- pressed it, " He bounds aloft with the celerity of an arrow, as if to recover or recall his very soul, expired in the last eleva- ted strain."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 169. 312 POEMS OF DEXIS F. McCARTHT. That in this lesser paradise they stray, Float through its air, and glide its streams along, And that the strains they sing each happy day Rise up to God like morn and even song. 1 PART VI. THE PROMISED LAND. ■ i. As on this world the young man turns his eyes, When forced to try the dark sea of the grave, Thus did we gaze upon that paradise, Fading, as we were borne across the wave. And as a brighter world dawns by degrees Upon Eternity's serenest strand, Thus having passed through dark and gloomy seas, At length we reached the long-sought Promised Land. The wind had died upon the ocean's breast, When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore, A smooth, bright current, gliding to the west, Bore our light bark to that enchanted shore. i " Soon after, as God would, they saw a fair island, fall of flowers, herbs, and trees, whereof they thanked God of his pood grace ; and anon they went on land, and when they had gone lung in this, they found a full fayre well, and thereby stood a fair tree full of boughs, and on every bough sat a fayre i the tree, that uneath any leaf of bird, and Ihey -a! so thick the tree might be seen. The number and they sung so mcrrilie, that it was an heavenlike noise to hear. Whereupon S. Brandon kneeled down on his knees and wept for joy, and made his praises devoutlie to our Lord God, to know what these birds meant. And then anon one of the birds flew from the tree to S. Brandon, and he, with the flickering of his wings, made a full merrie noise like a fid- dle, thai him seemed he never heard so joyful a melodic. And then St, Brandon commanded the foul e to tell him the cause why they sat so thick on the tree and sang so merrilie. And then the Tonic said. Sometime we were angels in hea- ven, inn when our master, Lucifer, fell down into hell for his high pride, and we Tell with him for our offences, some higher ami sonic lower, after the quality of the trespass. And he- cau-e our trespasse is but little, therefore our Lord hath sent n^ here, out of all paine. in full great joy and mirlhc. after his li, easing, here t-o serve him on this tree In the besl maimer It was a lovely plain — spacious and fair, And blessed with all delights that eartU can hold, Celestial odors filled the fragrant air That breathed around that green and pleasant wold. There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain, Injure the smallest and most delicate flower, Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain, Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's shower. That noble land is all with blossoms flowered, Shed by the summer breezes as they pass ; Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered, And flowers grow thicker in the fields than grass. 3 rv. Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep, Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened waves, Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep, Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves ; Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies, Nor on its level breast rests aught un- smooth ; — we can. The Sundaie is a daie of rest from all worldly occu- pation, and therefore, that, daie all we be made as white as any snow, for to praise our Lorde, in the best wise we may. And then all the birds began to sing even Bong so merrilie, that it was an heavenlie noise to hear: and after supper St. Brandon and his fellows went to bed and slept wed. And in the morn they arose by times, and then these foulos began mattyns, prime, and hours, and all such service as Christian men used to sing; and St. Brandon and his fellows abode there seven weeks, until Trinity Sunday was passed."— The " Lijfe of St. Brandon " in the Golden Legend. Published by Wynkyn de Worde. 14S3. Pol. 357. * The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are prin- cipally founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the Latin poem " De Phenice," ascribed to Lactantius, a literal transla- tion of which is given in Wright's Essay on " St. Patrick's Purgatory," p. 186. "This poem," says Mr. Wright, "is as old as the earlier part of the eleventh century, and probablj more ancient." 3 "Nullam herbam vidimus sine floribus et arborem nullam sine fractions; et lapides illius pretiosa? gemma; sunt."— Colgan's Acta Sanctorum, p. 721. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHF. 313 A green, glad meadow under golden skies, Blooming forever in perpetual youth. That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea, By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem The highest hills beneath the heavens to be. There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam. All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene, The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's own hand, Cling to the trees that stand forever green, Obedient to their Maker's first command. Summer and winter are the woods the same, Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade ; Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame, Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time shall have decayed. Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit, As fabled by the northern sea-born men, Gather her golden and immortal fruit, That brings their youth back to the gods again. 1 Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride, Set round the deluged world the ocean- flood, When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide, This glorious land above the waters stood. Such shall it be at last, even as at first, Until the coming of the final doom, When the dark chambers — men's death- homes — shall burst, And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb. There, there is never enmity, nor rage, Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath, 1 "In the Scandinavian mythology, Bragi presided over elo- quence and poetry. His wife, named Idnna, had the care 01 certain apples which the gods tasted when they found them- Belves grow old, and which had the power of instantly restor- ing 'hem to yonth."— Mullet's Xorihern Anth/'iilies. p. 95. Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age, Nor loss of vigor, nor the narrow death, Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep, Nor painful exile from one's native soil, Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep, Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil. There, never falls the rain-cloud as with us, Nor gapes the earth with the dry sum- mer's thirst, But liquid streams, wondrously curious, Out of the ground with fresh, fair bubblings burst. Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters glide Over the soil and through the shady bowers ; Flowers fling their colored radiance o'er the tide, And the white streams their crystals o'er Such was the land for man's enjoyment made When from this troubled life his soul doth wend: Such was the land through which entranced we strayed, For fifteen days, nor reached its bound nor end. Onward we wandered in a blissful dream, Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly rest ; Until at length we reached a mighty stream, Whose broad, bright waves flowed from the east to west. We were about to cross its placid tide, When lo ! an angel on our vision broke. Clothed in white, upon the further side He stood majestic, and thus sweetly spoke : "Father, return ! thy mission now is o'er; God, who did call thee here, now bids thee go. Return in peace unto thy native shore, And tell the mighty secrets thou dost know. 314 POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIli. " In after years, in God's own fitting time, This pleasant land again shall reappear ; And other men shall preach the truths sub- lime To the benighted people dwelling here. But ere that hour, this land shall all be made, For mortal man, a fitting, natural home, Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade, And the strong rock stem the white tor- rent's foam. " Seek thy own isle — Christ's newly-bought domain, Which Nature with an emerald pencil paints ; Such as it is, long, long shall it remain, The school of truth, the college of the saints, The student's bower, the hermit's calm re- treat, The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth, The shrine to. which shall wander pilgrim feet From all the neighboring nations of the earth. " But in the end upon that land shall fall A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears, When ruthless tyranny shall level all The pious trophies of its earlier years : Then shall this land prove thy poor country's friend, And shine, a second Eden, in the west ; Then shall this shore its friendly arms ex- tend, And clasp the outcast exile to its breast." xv. He ceased, and vanished from our dazzled sight, While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly o'er : For us, again we winged our homeward flight O'er the great ocean to our native shore ; And as a proof of God's protecting hand, And of the wondrous tidings that we bear, The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land Clings to the very garments that we wear.' tfptttfjS mft g/pijc*. THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrous- ly they stand By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land ; In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, These gray old pillar temples — these con- querors of time ! Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak The Roman's arch of triumph, and the tem- ple of the Greek, And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires, All are gone, one by one, but the temples of The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, And the proud halls of the mighty, and the calm homes of the just ; For the proudest works of man, as certainly but slower, Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower ! ^ip^pliil 1 POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth, On the wing of the Spring, comes the god- dess of the Earth : But for man in this world no spring-tide e'er returns To the labors of his hands or the ashes of his urns ! Two favorites hath Time — the pyramids of Nile, And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle ; As the breeze o'er the seas, where the hal- cyon has its nest, Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the tem- ples of the West ! The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom, Like the dry branch in the fire or the body ir the tomb ; But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast — These temples of forgotten gods — these relics of the past ! Around these walls have wandered the Bri- ton and the Dane — The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain — Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman Peers-- And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years ! How many different rites have these gray old temples known ! To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone ! What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth, Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth ! Here blazed the sacred fire, and when the sun was gone, As a star from afar to the traveller it shone ; And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk, And the death-song of the Druid and the matin of the Monk. Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine, And the mitre, shining brighter with its dia- monds than the East, And the crozier of the Pontiff and the vest- ments of the Priest ! Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper-bell, — Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell ; And hope hung out its symbol to the inno- cent and good, For the Cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood ! There may it stand forever, while this sym- bol doth impart lonous vision, or one To the mind proud throb to the heart ; While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last, Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past ! THE LAY MISSIONER. Had I a wish — 'twere this : that Heaven would make My heart as strong to imitate as love, That half its weakness it could leave, and take Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above ; A lordly eagle mated with a dove — POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAKTHY. Strong will and warm affection, these be mine : Without the one no dreams has fancy wove, Without the other soon these dreams de- cline, Weak children of the heart, which fade away and pine ! Strong have I been in love, if not in will ; Affections crowd and people all the past, And now, even now, they come and haunt me still, Even from the graves where once my hopes were cast. But not with spectral features, all aghast, Come they to fright me ; no, with smiles and tears, And winding arms, and breasts that beat as fast As once they beat in boyhood's opening years, Come the departed shades, whose steps my rapt soul hears. Youth has passed by, its first warm flush is o'er, And now 'tis nearly noon ; yet unsubdued My heart still kneels and worships, as of yore, Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and Good! Valley and mountain, sky and stream and wood, And that fair miracle, the human face, And human nature in its sunniest mood, Freed from the shade of all things low and base, — These in my heart still hold their old accus- tomed place. 'Tis not with pride, but gratitude, I tell How beats my heart with all its youthful glow, How one kind act doth make my bosom swell, And ilown my cheeks the sweet, warm, glad tears flow. Enough of self, enough of me you know, Kind reader; but if thou would st further wend With me this wilderness of weak words through, Let me depict, before the journey end, One whom methinks thou'lt love — my bro- ther and my friend. Ah! wondrous is the lot of him who stands A Christian Priest, within a Christian fane, And binds with pure and consecrated hands, Round earth and heaven, a festal, flowery chain ; Even as between the blue arch and the main A circling western ring of golden light Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain Of April makes the cloud and clay unite, Thus links the Priest of God the dark world and the bright. All are not priests, yet priestly duties may, And should be all men's: as a common sight We view the brightness of a summer's day, And think 'tis but its duty to be bright ; But should a genial beam of warming light Suddenly break from out a wintry sky, With gratitude we own a new delight, Quick beats the heart, and brighter beams the eye, And as a boon we hail the splendor from on high. 'Tis so with men, with those of them at least Whose hearts by icy doubts are chilled and torn: They think the virtues of a Christian Priest Something professional, put on and worn Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn ; But should a friend or act or teach as he, Then is the mind of all its doubting? shorn, The unexpected goodness that they see Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced and free ! One have I known, and haply yet I know, A youth by baser passions undefiled, wwm i i 1 1 POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 317 Lit by the light of genius, and the glow Which real feeling leaves where once it smiled; Firm as a man, yet tender as a child ; Armed at all points by fantasy and thought, To face the true or soar amid the wild ; By love and labor, as a good man ought, Heady to pay the price by which dear truth is bought ! "Tis not with cold advice or stern rebuke, With formal precept, or with face demure, But with the unconscious eloquence of look, Where shines the heart, so loving and so pure: 'Tis these, with constant goodness, that allure All hearts to love and imitate his worth. Beside him weaker natures feel secure, Even as the flower beside the oak peeps forth, Safe, though the rain descends, and blows the biting North ! Such is my friend, and such I fain would be, Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving, Correct, not cold, nor uncontrolled, though free, But proof to all the lures that round us play- Even as the sun, that on his azure way Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien (Though blushing clouds, like sirens, woo his stay), Higher and higher through the pure serene, Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him from the scene. SUMMER LONGINGS. Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May — Waiting for the pleasant rambles, Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, With the woodbine alternating, Scent the dewy way : — Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May — Longing to escape from study, To the young face fair and ruddy, And the thousand charms belonging To the summer's day : — Ah ! my heai-t is sick with longing Longing for the May. Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May — Sighing for their sure returning, When the summer beams are burning, Hopes and flowers that dead or dying All the winter lay : — Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May. Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, Throbbing for the May — Throbbing for the sea-side billows, Or the water-wooing willows ; Where in laughing and in sobbing Glide the streams away : — Ah ! my heart, my heart is' throbbing, Throbbing for the May. Waiting sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May — Spring goes by with wasted warnings, Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings ; Summer comes, yet dark and dreary Life still ebbs away : — Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May ! ' A LAMENT. Ts esta Llama ee deeata, Ya cadnca este ediflcio, Ta se desmaya esta Flor. Thb dream is over, The vision has flown ; : by the late lamented Earl of ] 318 POEMS OF DENIS P. McCAItTHY. Dead leaves are lying Where roses have blown ; Withered and strown Are the hopes I cherished, — All hath perished But grief alone. JMy heart was a garden Where fresh leaves grew ; Flowers there were many, And weeds a few ; Cold winds blew, And the frosts came thither, For flowers wiK wither, And weeds renew ! Youth's bright palace Is overthrown, With its diamond sceptre And golden throne ; As a time-worn stone Its turrets are humbled, — All hath crumbled But grief alone ! Whither, oh ! whither Have fled away The dreams and hopes 'Of ray early day? Ruined and gray Are the towers I builded ; And the beams that gilded — Ah ! where are they ? Once this world Was fresh and bright, With its golden noon And its starry night ; Glad and light, By mountain and river, Have I blessed the Giver With hushed delight. These were the days 'Of story and song, When Hope had a meaning And Faith was strong. " Life will be long, And lit with love's gleamings: Such were my dreamings, But, ah ! how wrong 1 Youth's illusions, One by one, Have passed like clouds That the sun looked on. While morning shone, How purple their friuges I How ashy their tinges When that was gone ! Darkness that cometh Ere morn has fled — Boughs that wither Ere fruits are shed — Death-bells instead Of a bridal's pealings — Such are my feelings, Since hope is dead ! Sad is the knowledge That cometh with years — Bitter the tree That is watered with tears ; Truth appears, With his wise predictions, Then vanish the 'fictions Of boyhood's years. As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp- As meteors are quenched In a stagnant swamp — Thus Charlemagne's camp, Where the paladins rally, And the Diamond Valley, And Wonderful Lamp, And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile, And Haroun's rambles, And Crusoe's isle, And Princes who smile On the Genii's daughters 'Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile, And all that the pen Of Fancy can write, Must vanish In manhood's misty light — Squire and knight, And damosel's glances, POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 319 Sunny romances So pure and bright ! These have vanished, And what remains ? Life's budding garlands Have turned to chains — Its beams and rains Feed but docks and thistles, And sorrow whistles O'er desert plains ! The dove will fly From a ruined nest — Love will not dwell In a troubled breast — The heart has no zest To sweeten life's dolor — If Love, the Consoler, Be not its guest ! The dream is over, The vision has flown ; Dead leaves are lying Where roses have blown; Withered and strown Are the hopes I cherished — All hath perished But grief alone ! * THE CLAN OF MacCAURA.* O ! height are the names of the chieftains and sages, That shine like the stars through the dark ness of ages, Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story, There forever to live in the sunshine of glory- Heroes of history, phantoms of fable, Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur Round Table— O ! but they all a new lustre could borrow From the glory that hangs round the name of MacCaura ! 1 Set to music by the Earl of Belfast. Translated into French by M. le Chevalier de Chatelain. 1 MacCarthy— MacCartha (the correct way of spelling the name in Roman characters) is pronounced in Irish, MacCaura the th or dotted t having in that language the soft sound of h Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine, And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Rhine, And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glance Through the elms of old England and vine- yards of France ; Many have fallen, and many will fall — Good men and brave men have dwelt in them all — But as good and as bra-ve men, in gladness and sorrow, Have dwelt in the halls of the princely Mac- Caura ! Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank, And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown, By the smooth Guadalquiver, and sunny Garonne — Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled The name of a Doge in her proud " Book oi Gold ;" s When her glory was all to come on like the morrow, There were chieftains and kings of the clan of MacCaura ! Proud should thy heart beat, descendant ol Heber,* Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre. Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered, Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered. Their fire is extinguished — your flag long unfurled — But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the world ! And should both fade away, oh ! what heart would not sorrow O'er the towers of the Guebre — the name ol MacCaura ! » Montmorency and Medina are respectively at the head of the French and Spanish nobility.— The first Doge elected in Venice in 709. Voltaire considered the families whose names were inscribed in The Book of Gold at the founding of the city, as entitled to the first place in European nobility.— Burke's Commoners. * The MacCarthy's trace their origin to Heber Pionn, the eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, through Oilioll Olimn. King of Munster, in the third century.— Shrines of the Guebre —The Round Towehs. 320 POEMS OF DEXIS F. McCARTIIY. What, a moment of glory to cherish and dream on, When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon, With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patri- cians, To free Inis-Fail from the spells of magicians ! Oh ! reason had these for their quaking and pallor, For what magic can equal the strong sword of valor? Better than spells are the axe and the arrow, When wielded or flung by the hand of Mac- Caura. 1 From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in his pride O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide, From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rills That are leaping forever down Brandon's brown hills ; The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear, The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare — From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks of the Barrow — All owned the proud sway of the princely MacCaura ! In the house of M ; odchuart, 2 by princes sur- rounded, How noble his step when the trumpet was sounded, And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him, And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him ; On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated, And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted, s also the sons of Milesius.— The peo- on of the country when the Milesians Invaded it, were the Tuatha de Danaans, so called, says Keat- ing, " from their skill in necromancy, of whom Borne were bo famous as to be called gods." " The house of Miodchiiart was an apartment in the palace of Tara, where the provincial kings met for the despatch of public business, at the Fcis (pronounced as one syllable), or parliament or Tara, which assembled then once in every three years— the ceremony aliuded to is described in detail by Keat- ing. See Petrie's "Tara." ' Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Feis of Tara— Oh ! none was to rival the princely Mac- Caura ! To the halls of the Red Branch, when con- quest was o'er, The champions their rich spoils of victory bore, 8 And the sword of the Briton, the shield of the Dane, Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain — There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war, From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of the Loire ; 4 But no knight ever bore from the hills of Ivaragh The breastplate or axe of a conquered Mac Caura ! In chasing the red-deer what step was the In singing the love-song what roiuo va« "he sweetest, — What breast was the foremost in couiung the danger — What door was the widest to shelter the stranger — In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest, In revel the gayest, in council the gravest — A hunter to-day, and a victor to-morrow ? Oh ! who but a chief of the princely Mac- Caura ! But oh ! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on The one fatal stain of thy princely es- cutcheon — In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness — Through ages of valor the one hour of weak- ness! Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal — 1 The houseuof the Red Branch was situated in the stately palace of Eamhain (or Emania), in Ulster ; here the spoils taken from the foreign foe were hung up, and the chieftains who won them were called Knights of the Red Branch. * Dathy was killed at the Alps by lightning, and Niall (his uncle and predecessor), by an arrow fired from the opposite side of the river by one of his own generals as he sal in his tent on the banks of the Loire in France. POEMS OF DENIS P. MCCARTHY. 321 Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal ! Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow Have we -wept for thy treason, base Diar- mid MacCaura ! O ! why, ere you thus to the foreigner pan- dered, Did you not bravely call round your Emer- ald standard The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley, O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, Mac- Awley, O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dun- kerron, And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardin- teran ? As the sling sends the stone, or the bent bow the arrow, Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura ! Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe — ' Thy life to the Butler— thy crown to the foe — Thy castles dismantled and strewn on the sod— And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God ! No more in thy halls is ths wayfarer fed — Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread — Nor the clairsech's sweet notes — now in mirth, now in sorrow — All, all have gone by but the name of Mac- Caura ! MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, But its name cannot fade, and its fame can- not die — Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves shine 2 Around no green forests or castles of thine — 1 Diarmid MacCarthy, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Bri- en, K'ng of Thomond. were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry II. * 8 The Arigideen means the little silver stream, and Alio, the echoing: river. By these rivers and m^v others in the •sdby the MaCm-thy*. Though the shrines that you founded bo in cense doth hallow, Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Alio— 2 One treasure thou keepest — one hope for the morrow — True hearts yet beat of the clan of Mac- Caura ! . DEVOTION. When I wander by the ocean, When I view its wild commotion, Then the spirit of devotion Cometh near ; But it fills my brain and bosom, Like a fear ! I fear its booming thunder, Its terror and its wonder, Its icy waves that sunder Heart from heart ; And the white host that lies under Makes me start ! Its clashing and its clangor Proclaim the Godhead's angei" — I shudder, and with languor Tarn away ; No joyance fills my bosom For that day ! When I wander through the valleys, When the evening zephyr dallies And the light expiring rallies, In the stream, That spirit comes and glads me Like a dream. The blue smoke upward curling, The silver streamlet purling, The meadow wild-flowers furling Their leaflets to repose — All woo me from the world And its woes ! The evening bell that bringeth A truce to toil outringeth, — No sweetest bird that singeth Half so sweet. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. Not even the lark that springeth From my feet ! Then see I God beside me, The sheltering trees that hide me, The mountains that divide me From the sea, — All prove how kind a Father He can be. Beneath the sweet moon shining The cattle are reclining, No murmur of repining Soundeth sad ; All feel the present Godhead ! And are glad ! With mute, unvoiced confessings, To the Giver of all blessings I kneel, and with caressings Press the sod, And thank my Lord and Father, And my God ! OVER THE SEA. Sab eyes, why are ye steadfastly gazing Over the sea ? Is it the flock of the Ocean-shepherd grazing Like lambs on the lea ? — Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing Allureth ye ? Sad heart, why art thou tremblingly beating, What troubleth thee ? There where the waves from the fathomless water come greeting, Wild with their glee ! Or rush from the rocks like a routed battal- ion retreating, Over the sea ! Sad feet, why are ye constantly straying Down by the sea ? There where the winds in the sandy harbor are playing, Childlike and free, What is the charm, whose potent enchant- ment obeying, There chaineth ye ? Oh ! sweet is the dawn and bright are the colors it glows in ! Yet not to me ! To the beauty of God's bright creation my bosom is frozen ! Naught can I see ! Since she has departed — the dear one, the loved one, the chosen, Over the sea ! Pleasant it was when the billows did strug- gle and wrestle, Pleasant to see ! Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea-birds nestle, When near to thee I Naught can I now behold but the track of thy vessel Over the sea ! Long as a Lapland winter, whioh no pleasant sunlight cheereth, The summer shall be : Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it weareth, Vainly for me ! No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel appeareth Over the sea ! Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, moth- erly bringeth Flowers to the bee 1 Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly flingeth Fruits on the tree ! Shall be winter, when homeward returning, thy swift vessel wingeth Over the sea ! HOME PREFERENCE. Oh ! had I the wings of a bird, To soar through the blue, sunny sky, By what breeze would my pinions be stirred? To what beautiful land would I fly ? Would the gorgeous East allure, With the light of its golden eves, POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. Where the tall, green palm over isles of balm, Waves with its feathery leaves ? Ah! no! no! no! I heed not its tempting glare ; In vain would I roam from my island home, For skies more fair. Would I seek a southern sea, Italia's shore beside, Where the clustering grape from tree to tree Hangs in its rosy pride ? My truant heart, be still, For I long have sighed to stray Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's bowers, By the shores of its southern bay. But no ! no ! no ! i Though bright be its sparkling seas, I never would roam from my island home For charms like these ! Would I seek that land so bright, Where the Spanish maiden roves, With a heart of love and an eye of light, Through her native citron groves ? Oh ! sweet would it be to rest In the midst of the olive vales, Where the orange blooms, and the rose per- The breath of the balmy gales ! But no ! no ! no ! Though sweet be its wooing air! I never would roam from my island home To scenes, though fair ! Would I pass from pole to pole ? Would I seek the western skies, Where the giant rivers roll, And the mighty mountains rise ? Or those treacherous isles that lie In the midst of the sunny deeps, Where the cocoa stands on the glistening 4nd the dread tornado sweeps ? Ah ! no ! no ! no ! They have no charms for me ; I never would roam from my island home, Though poor it be J Poor! — oh ! 'tis rich in all That flows from Nature's hand — | Rich in the emerald wall That guards its emerald land ! Are Italy's fields more green ? Do they teem with a richer store Than the bright, green breast of the isle of the West, And its wild, luxuriant shore ? Ah ! no ! no ! no ! Upon it Heaven doth smile. Oh ! I never would roam from my na- tive home, My own dear isle ! ' THE FIRESIDE. I hate tasted all life's pleasures, I have snatched at all its joys, The dance's merry measures and the revel's festive noise ; Though wit flashed bright the livelong night, and flowed the ruby tide, I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own ! In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across the ocean's breast, In search of some bright earthly star, some happy isle of rest ; I little thought the bliss I sought, in roam- ing far and wide, Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own ~~ ! How sweet to turn at evening's close from all our cares away, And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly passing day ! The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sis- ter or of bride, AH fairy ground doth make around one'B own fireside ! " My Lord" would never condescend to honor my poor hearth ; " His grace" would scorn a host or friend of mere plebeian birth ; Translated intr French byM. le Chevalier de Chatelain. 324 POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTH*. And yet the lords of human kind, whom man has deified, Forever meet in converse sweet around my fireside ! The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage his lore repeats, The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the chief his warlike feats ; Though far away may be their clay, and gone their earthly pride, Each godlike mind in books enshrined still haunts my fireside. Oh ! let me glance a moment through the coining crowd of years, Their triumphs or their failures, their sun- shine or their tears, How poor or great may be my fate, I care not what betide, So peace and love but hallow thee, my own fireside ! Still let me hold the vision close, and closer to my sight ; Still, still in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing its flight ; Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream may yield from out its tide, A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet THE VALE OF SHANGANAH. When I have knelt in the temple of Duty, Worshipping honor, and valor, and beauty — When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance, I have fought the good fight on the field of existence ; When a home I have won in the conflict of labor, With truth for my armor and thought for my sabre, Be that home a calm home where my old age may rally, A home full of peace in this sweet, pleasant valley ! Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan- ganah ! Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan- ganah ! May the accents of love, like the drop- pings of manna, Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah ! Fair is this isle — this dear child of the ocean, Nurtured with more than a mother's de- votion ; For, see ! in what rich robes has Nature arrayed her, From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben Edar," By Glengariff 's lone islets — Killarney's weird water, So lovely was each, that then matchless I thought her ; But I feel, as I stray through each sweet- scented alley, Less wild but more fair is this soft, veidant valley ! Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan- ganah ! Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan- ganah ! No wide-spreading prairie — no Indian savannah, So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shan- ganah ! How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, From that margin of silver whereon the blue wa-ter Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean-foam's daughter ! To where, with the red clouds of morning combining, The tall "Golden Spears'" o'er the moun- tains are shining, With the hue of their heather, as sunlight advances, Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the lances ! i Ben Bdar is the Irish name of the Hill of Howth. 1 The Sugar Loaf Mountains, Co. Wicklow, according to. me antiquaries, were called in Irish " The Golden Spears." POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan- ganah ! Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan- ganah ! No lands far away by the calm Susque- hannah, So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shan- ganah ! But here, even here, the lone heart were be- nighted, No beauty could reach it, if love did not light it ; 'Tis this makes the earth, oh ! what mortal can doubt it? A garden with it, but a desert without it ! With the loved one, whose feelings instinct- ively teach her That goodness of heart makes the beauty of How glad through this vale would I float down life's river, Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver ! Sweetest of vales, is the Vale of Shan- ganah ! Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan- ganah ! May the accents of love, like the drop- pings of manna, Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanajanah ! ' THE WINDOW. At my window, late and early, In the sunshine and the rain, When the jocund beams of morning Come to wake me from my napping, With their golden fingers tapping At my window-pane : From my troubled slumbers flitting — From my dreamings fond and vain From the fever intermitting, Up I start, and take my sitting At my window-pane : — Through the morning, through the noontide T/u Vols of Slianganah (or more usually called Shanganasrh J8 to the south of KiHiney Hill, near Dalkey, Co. Dublin." Fettered by a diamond chain, Through the early hours of evening, When the stars begin to tremble, As their shining ranks assemble O'er the azure plain : When the thousand lamps are blazing Through the street and lane — Mimic stars of man's upraising — Still I linger, fondly gazing From my window-pane ! For, amid the crowds, slow passing, Surging like the main, Like a sunbeam among shadows, Through the storm-swept cloudy masses, Sometimes one bright being passes ' Neath my window-pane : Thus a moment's joy I borrow From a day of pain. See, she comes ! but, bitter sorrow ! Not until the slow to-morrow Will she come again. God bade the Sun with golden step sublime Advance ! He whispered in the listening ear of Time, Advance ! He bade the guiding spirits of the Stars, With lightning speed, in silver-shining cars, Along the bright floor of his azure hall Advance ! Suns, Stars, and Time, obey the voice, and all Advance ! The River, at its bubbling fountain, cries Advance ! The Clouds proclaim, like heralds through the skies, Advance ! Throughout the world the mighty Master's laws Allow not one brief moment's idle pause. J TMb poem has been admirably translated into French verse by M. le Chevalier de Chatelain. See the interesting specimens of his " Beautes de la Poesie Anglaise," appended to the third edition, of his " Fables de Gay," London, 1S57. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. The Earth is full of life, the swelling seeds Advance ! And summer hours, like flowery harnessed steeds, Advance ! To Man's most wondrous hand the same voice cried, Advance ! Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tide Advance ! Go draw the marble from its secret bed, And make the cedar bend its giant head ; Let domes and columns through the won- dering air Advance ! The world, O Man ! is thine. But wouldst thou share — Advance ! Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke, Advance ! From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke, "Advance !' " Go track the comet in its wheeling race, And drag the lightning from its hiding-place ; From out the night of ignorance and fears, Advance ! For love and hope, borne by the coming years, Advance !" All heard, and some obeyed the great com- mand, Advance ! It passed along from listening land to land, Advance ! The strong grew stronger, and the -weak grew strong, As passed the war-cry of the World along — Awake, ye nations, know your powers and rights — Advance ! Through hope and work to freedom's new delights — Advance ! Knowledge came down and waved her steady torch, Advance ! Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch, Advance ! As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak, The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the Greek, The painted Briton caught the winged word, Advance ! And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird, Advance ! Oh ! Ireland — oh ! my country, wilt thou not Advance ? Wilt thou not share the world's progressive lot? Advance ! Must seasons change, and countless years roll on, And thou remain a darksome Ajalon, 1 And never see the crescent moon of hope Advance ? ' Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scopt,, Advance ! Dear brothers, wake ! look up ! be firm ! be strong ! Advance ! From out the starless night of fraud and wrong Advance ! The chains have fallen from off thy wasted hands, And every man a seeming freedman stands. But ah ! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells : Advance ! Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles* Advance ! Advance ! thou must advance or perish now : Advance ! Advance ! Why live with wasted heart and brow? Advance ! Advance ! or sink at once into the grave ; Be bravely free, or artfully a slave ! Why fret thy master, if thou mus>. have one ? Advance ! " Advance three steps, the glor ous work is done" — ' Advance ! The first is Courage — 'tis a giant stride ! Advance ! 1 "Move not. O Sun. towards Gabaon, nor thon, O Moon, toward the Valley of Ajalon."— Josue. ix. 12. > "TroiB pas en avant, e'eet fait."— Victor Hugo. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 32T With bounding step np freedom's rugged side Advance ! Knowledge will lead you to the dazzling heights ; Tolerance wiil teach and guard your bro- ther's rights. Faint not ! for thee a pitying Future waits : Advance ! Be wise, be just : with will as fixed as Fate's, Advance ! THE EMIGRANTS. PART I. " Oh ! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water ; Oh ! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter ; Oh ! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling, clime thine aged knees, and call thy daughter — mother. " Oh ! come, and leave this land of death — this isle of desolation — This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation ; Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, When labor seeks the poorhouse, and inno- cence the prison. " ' Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending ; •Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending ; ' Tis true, the island's aged face looks hap- pier and younger, But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger. " When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the fever — Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver ; Too well remember many a time the mourn- ful task that brought him, When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn. " But then the trial, though severe, still tes- tified our patience, We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations ; We felt the gloomiest time was both a pro- mise and a warning, Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning. " But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh — No bird of promise in our hearts the glad- some song awaketh ; No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectation — Naught but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation. " So, mother, turn thine aged feet, and let our children lead 'em Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom ; Forgetting naught of all the past, yet all the past forgiving : Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living. " They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story, How once its Emerald Flag flung out a sun- burst's fleeting glory ; Oh ! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, Fly where the rising stars of heaven com- mingle to replace it. " So, come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water ; Oh ! come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter ; Oh ! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling, climb thine aged knees, and call thy daughter — mother." PART II. " Ah ! go, my children, go away — obey this inspiration ; Go with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation ; POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies ; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the blessed Virgin Mary's. " But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee anil thine to sever, To look upon these darling ones the last time and forever; Yet in this sad and dark old land, by deso- lation haunted, My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be transplanted. "A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk is dying— They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are lying : Ah ! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth can loose 'em, Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands in its bosom. " Others are twined around the stone, where ivy blossoms smother The crumbling lines that trace thy names, my father and my mother ! God's blessing be upon their souls — God grant, my old heart prayeth, Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne'er decayeth. " Alas ! my prayers would never warm with- in those great cold buildings, Those grand cathedral churches, with their marbles and their gildings ; Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendor o'er me, Is the simple chapel's whitewashed walls, where my people knelt before me. " No doubt it is a glorious laud to which you now are going, Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing ; But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of his Law remind me, Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columbkille, in the land I'd leave behind me V "So leave me here, my children, with my old ways and old notions — Leave me here in peace, with my memoriei and devotions : Leave me in sight of your father's grave ; and as the heavens allied us, Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us. " There's not a week but I can hear how you prosper better and better, For the mighty fire-ships over the sea will bring the expected letter ; And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing, Thou'lt gladly spare from thy growing store, a little for my requiring " So, go, my children, go away — obey this inspiration ; Go with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation ; Go clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies ; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the blessed Virgin Mary's." TO ETHNA. Da lei si move ciascun mio pensii Perche Tanima ha prcso qualitate Di sua bells persona. First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved ! Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my man- hood's light, — Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved Full many a year along life's darksome night ! Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists obscure ; Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white, My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure. Thine was the light from Heaven that ever must endure POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap, No chance or change can break our mu- tual ties ; My heart lies spread before thee like a map, Here roll the tides, and there the moun- tains rise ; Here dangers frown, and there hope's streamlet flies, And golden promontories cleave the main ; And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes, And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain, A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain ! Dearest and best, I dedicate to thee, From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares, All that I am, and all I e'er may be, — Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin, white hairs ; Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares — Sweet saint — shalt guard me as with an- gel's wings ; To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers, The evening hymns, the thoughts that mid- night brings, The worship that like fire out of tlfre warm heart springs. Thou wilt be with me through the strag- gling day, Thou wilt be with me through the pen- sive night, Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight. In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight, In every thought thy form shall bear a part, In every dream thy memory shall unite, Bride of my soul, and partner of my heart ! Till fram the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart ! Am I deceived ? and do I pine and faint For worth that only dwells in heaven above ? Ah ! if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint, Then thou art not the Ethna that I love : If thou art not as gentle as the dove, Avid good as thou art beautiful, the tooth Of venomed serpents will not deadlier prove Than that dark revelation : but, in sooth, Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is Truth. 1 WINGS FOR HOME. My heart hath taken wings for home ; Away ! away ! it cannot stay. My heart hath taken wings for home, Nor all that's best of Greece or Rome Can stop its sway. My heart hath taken wings for home, Away ! My heart hath taken wings for home, O Swallow, Swallow, lead the way ! O, little bird, fly north with me, I have a home beside the sea Where thou canst sing and play ; — My heart hath taken wings for home, Away ! My heart hath taken wings for home, But thou, O little bird, wilt stay ; Thou hast thy little ones with thee here, Thy mate floats with thee through the clear Italian depths of day ; — My heart hath taken wings for home, Away! My heart hath taken wings for home, Away ! away ! it cannot stay. One spring from Brunelleschi's dome, To Venice by the Adrian foam, Then westward be my way. — My heart hath taken wings for home, Away! TO AN INFANT. Leap, little feet ; leap up, oh leap ! With bounding life, be bold and brave ; The time may come when ye must creep, Even to a grave ! 1 Mthnu, or Aithna, in Irish signifies Truth. The mother of St. Columbkille bore this beautiful name. See "Adamnan's Life of St. Columba," edited by the Eev. Dr. Reeves, for tho Irish Archaeological and Celtic Society, p. 8. •MO POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. Laugh, little lips, in dreamless sleep, Sweet eyes, smile sweet, the angels hear ; The time may come when ye must weep, No angel near ! Look, little soul, from out thy gate ; Look out and seek thy one true friend: Ah me ! to think that thou must wait Till life shall end ! Beat, little heart, within thy breast ;' Beat fond and fast, oh flesh-caged dove, And when the bars are broke, thy nest Be heaven above ! HOME-SICKNESS. TO THE BAT OF DUBLIN. My native bay, for many a year I've loved thee with a trembling fear, Lest thou, though dear, and very dear, And beauteous as a vision, Shouldst have some rival far away — Some matchless wonder of a bay Whose sparkling waters ever play 'Neath azure skies elysian. ii. ' TIs love, me thought, blind love that pours The rippling magic round these shores — For whatsoever love adores Becomes what love desireth : 'Tis ignorance of aught beside That throws enchantment o'er the tide And makes my heart respond Avith pride To what mine eye admireth. in. And thus, unto our mutual loss, Whene'er I paced the sloping moss Of green Killiney, or across The intervening waters — Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, To see thy sinuous bosom bend, Or view thine outstretched arms extend To clasp thine islet daughters : IV. Then would this spectre of my fear Beside me stand— how calm and clear Slept underneath the green waves, near The tide-worn rocks' recesses ; Or when they woke and leaped from land, Like startled sea-nymphs, hand in hand Seeking the southern silver strand With floating emerald tresses : It lay o'er all, a moral mist ; Even on the hills, when evening kissed The granite peaks to amethyst, I felt its fatal shadow : It darkened o'er the brightest rills, •It lowered upon the sunniest hills, And hid the winged song that fills The moorland and the meadow. But now that I have been to view All even nature's self can do, And from Gaeta's arch of blue Borne many a fond memento ; And from each fair and famous scene, Where beauty is, and power hath been, Along the golden shores between Misenum and Sorrento : I can look proudly in thy face, Fair daughter of a hardier race, And feel thy winning, well-known grace, Without my old misgiving ; And as I kneei upon thy strand, And kiss thy once unvalued hand, Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land, Where life is worth the living. YOUTH AND AGE. To give the blossom and the fruit The soft warm air that wraps them round, Oh ! think how long the toilsome root Must live and labor 'neath the ground. ii. To send the river on its way, With ever deepening strength and force, Oh ! think how long 'twas let to play, A happy streamlet, near its source. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 331 SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER. Summer is a glorious season — Warm, and bright, and pleasant ; But the past is not a reason To despise the present. So while health can climb the mountain, And the log lights up the hall, There are sunny days in winter, after all ! Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, Maiden-like in charms ; Summer, too, with all her promise, Perished in our arms. But the memory of the vanished, Whom our hearts recall, Maketh sunny days in winter, after all ! True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh, All the best are dead ; But the wall-flower still perfumeth Yonder garden-bed. And the arbutus pearl-blossomed Hangs its coral ball — There are sunny days in winter, after all ! Summer trees are pretty — very, And I love them well ; But this holly's glistening berry, None of those excel. While the fir can warm the landscape, And the ivy clothes the wall, There are sunny days in winter, after all ! Sunny hours in every season Wait the inuocent — Those who taste with love and reason What their God hath sent. Those who neither soar too highly, Nor too lowly fall, Feel the sunny days of winter, after all I Then, although our darling treasures Vanish from the heart ; Then, although our once-loved pleasures One by one. depart ; Though the tomb looms in the distance, And the mourning pall, There is sunshine and no winter, after all ! DUTY. As the hardy oat is growing, Howsoe'er the wind may blow ; As the untired stream is flowing, Whether shines the sun or no :— Thus, though storm-winds rage about it,. Should the strong plant, Duty, grow ; Thus, with beauty or without it, Should the stream of being flow. ORDER. A word went forth upon Creation's day, At which th-3 void infinitude was filled With life and light. Where horrid Chaos reigned In dark confusion, orbed Order rose, And with the silent majesty of strength Took up the sceptre of a thousand worlds, And ruled by right divine the radiant realms. Where all was blank vacuity, or worse, Monstrous Disorder — fair material Form Rose wondering from the vacant wastes of And as each world beheld its sister world, So calm, so beautiful, so full of light, Walking in gladnees through the halls of heaven, Like a fair daughter in her father's house — Its heart yearned towards her, and its trem- bling feet Turned in pursuit ; and its great, eager eyes Followed her ever down the eternal day. Round golden suns the silver planets rolled, Round silver planets circled moons of pearl, Round pearly moons, the roses of the sky (Eve-crimsoned clouds) stood wondering, till their cheeks Grew pale with passion, and then dark with pain ; As sank the moons behind the unheeding hills ! POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. THE FIRST OF THE AXGELS. Hush ! hush ! through the azure expanse of the sky Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh and a sigh ; And I rise from my writing, and look up on high, And I kneel — for the first of God's angels is nigh! Oh! how to describe what my rapt eyes descry ! For the blue of the sky is the blue of his eye ; And the white clouds, whose whiteness the snow-flakes outvie, Are the luminous pinions on which he doth And his garments of gold gleam at times like the pyre Of the west, when the sun in a blaze doth expire ; Now tinged like the orange — now flaming with fire ! Half the crimson of roses and purple of Tyre. And his voice, on whose accents the angels have hung — He himself a bright angel, immortal and young — Scatters melody sweeter the green buds among, Thau the poet e'er wrote, or the nightingale sung. It tomes on the balm-bearing breath of the breeze, And the odors that later will gladden the bees, With a life and a freshness united to these, From the rippling of waters and rustling of trees. Like a swan to its young o'er the glass of a pond, So to earth comes the angel, as graceful and fond ; While a blight beam of sunshine — his mag- ical wand — Strikes the fields at my feet, and the moun- tains beyond. They waken — they start into life at a bound — Flowers climb the tall hillocks, and cover the ground ; With a nimbus of glory the mountains are crowned, As their rivulets rush to the ocean profound. VIII. There is life on the earth — there is calm on the sea, And the rough waves are smoothed, and the frozen are free ; And they gambol and ramble like boys in their glee, Round the shell-shining strand on the grass- bearing lea. There is love for the young — there is life for the old, And wealth for the needy, and heat for the cold; For the dew scatters nightly its diamonds untold, And the snowdrop its silver — the crocus ita gold! God — whose goodness and greatness we bless and adore — Be Thou praised for this angel — the first of the four — To whose charge Thou hast given the world's uttermost shore, To guide it, and guard it, till time is no more t SPIRIT VOICES. Tiiere are voices, spirit voices, sweetly sounding everywhere, At whose coming earth rejoices, and the echoing realms of air. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 333 And their joy and jubilation pierce the near and reach the far — From the rapid world's gyration to the twinkling of the star. One, a potent voice uplifting, stops the white cloud on its way, As it drives with driftless drifting o'er the vacant vault of day, And in sounds of soft upbraiding calls it down the void inane To the gilding and the shading of the moun- tain and the plain. Airy offspring of the fountains, to thy des- tined duty sail — Seek it on the proudest mountains, seek it in the humblest vale ; Howsoever high thou fliest, howso deep it bids thee go, Be a beacon to the highest and a blessing to the low. Thus reflecting heaven's pure splendor, and concealing ruined clay, Up to God thy spirit render, and dissolving, pass away. And with fond solicitation, speaks another to the streams — Leave your airy isolation, quit the cloudy land of dreams, Break the lonely peak's attraction, burst the solemn, silent glen, Seek the living world of action, and the busy haunts of men. Turn the mill-wheel with thy fingers, turn the steam- wheel with thy breath, With thy tide that never lingers, save the dying fields from death ; Let the swiftness of thy currents bear to man the freight-filled ship, And the crystal of thy torrents bring re- freshment to his lip. When the sad earth, broken-hearted, hath not even a tear to shed, And her very soul seems parted for her chil- dren lying dead, Send the streams with warmer pulses through that frozen fount of fears, And the sorrow that convulses, soothe and soften down to tears. Bear the sunshine and the shadow, bear the rain-drop and the snow, Bear the night-dew to the meadow, and to hope the promised bow, Bear the moon, a moving mirror, for her angel face and form, And to guilt and wilful error, bear the light- ning and the storm. When thou thus hast done thy duty on the earth and o'er the sea, Bearing many a beam of beauty, ever bet- tering what must be, And when thou, O rapid river, thy eternal home dost seek — When no more the willows quiver but to touch thy passing cheek — When the groves no longer greet thee and the shores no longer kiss — Let infinitude come meet thee on the verge of the abyss. Other voices seek to win us — low, sugges- tive, like the rest — But the sweetest is within us, in the stillness of the breast ; Be it ours, with fond desiring, the same har- vest to produce As the cloud in its aspiring, and the river in its use. TRUTH IN SONG. I cannot sing, I cannot write, To show that I can write and sing- 334 POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. f cannot for a cause bo slight Command my Ariel's dainty wing: Not for the dreams of cultured youth, Nor praises of the lettered throng. Oh, no ! I string the pearls of song But only on the chords of truth : And when the precious pearls are strung, What are their value but to deck Some kindred forehead, or be hung Around the whiteness of some neck? Some neck ? sonic forehead ? — ah ! but one Would win or haply wear the chain, And now the fragments of the strain Lie broken round me — She is gone ! Gone from my home some weary hours, But never, never from my heart — Gone, like the memory of the showers To flowers long-drooping, love, thou art: O, truest friend — O, best of wives — Come soon: my world, my queen, my crown, Then shall the pearls run ringing down The love-twined chords of both our lives. ALL FOOL'S DAY. The sun called a beautiful beam that was playing At the door of his golden-walled palace on high ; And he bade him be off without any delay- ing. To a fast-fleeting cloud on the verge of the sky: " You will give him this letter," said roguish Apollo, (While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye), " With my royal regards ; and be sure that you follow Whatsoever his highness may send in re- ply." The beam heard the order, but being no novice, Took it coolly, of course — nor in this was he wrong ; But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's post-office) To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn't be long ; So he went home and dressed — gave his beard an elision — Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace ; And thus being equipped, with a postman's precision, He prepared to set out on his nebulous race. Off he posted at last, but just outside the portals He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the dark ; l So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals, Who, when sent on an errand, first go on a lark. But he broke from the bird — reached the cloud in a minute — Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained ; But the sun's correspondent, on looking within it, Found " Send the fool farther," was all it contained. The cloud, who was up to all mystification, Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the sun; And was ever too airy — though lofty hL station — To spoil the least taste of the prospect ol fun ; So he hemmed and he hawed — took a roll o) pure vapor, Which the light from the beam made as bright as could be, (Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden- edged paper), And wrote a few words, superscribed " Tr the Sea." > " Hark I hark I the lark at heaven's gate sings ," &c. POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 335 "My dear Beam," or "dear Ray," ('twas thus coolly he hailed him), " Pray take down to Neptune this letter from me, For the person you seek — though I lately re- galed him — Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the sea." So our Mercury hastened away through the ether, The bright face of Thetis to gladden and greet ; And he plunged in the water a few feet be- neath her, Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet. To Neptune the letter was brought for in- spection — But the god, though a deep one, was still rather green ; So Le took a few moments of steady reflection, Ere he wholly made out what the missive could mean : But the date (it was "April the first") came to save it From all fear of mistake ; so he took pen in hand, And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he gave it To our travelled-tired friend, and said " Bring it to Land." To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely received it, When it sent it post-haste back again to the Sea ; The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it, And sent it once more to the Land on the lea; From the Land to the Lake — from the Lakes to the Fountains — From the Fountains and Streams to the Hills' azure crest, •Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the mountains, Sent it back to the Cloud in the now golden west. He saw the whole trick, by the way he was greeted By the Sun's laughing face, which all pur- ple appears ; Then amused, yet annoyed at the way he was treated, He first laughed at the joke, and then burst into tears. It is thus at this day of mistakes and sur- prises, When fools write on foolscap, and wear it the while, This gay saturnalia forever arises 'Mid the shower and sunshine, the tear and the smile. THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING. Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream ! ' Tis as hopeful and bright as the Summer's first beam: 1 dreamt that the World, like yourself darling dear, Had presented a son to the happy New Year ! ' Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile, But like thine was the joy, at her baby's first smile, When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hast- ened to fling Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled Thb Spring. O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all, With their friendly regards, condescended to call : The rough rains of Winter like summer-dews fell, And the North-wind said, zephyr-like — " Is the World well ?" And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the Earth God's goodness to man in this mystical birth, I 336 POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring ! O Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born, More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn ; The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew, And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new ; And methought when the Priest of the Uni- verse came — The Sun, in his vestments of glory and flame — He was seen the warm rain-drops of April to fling On the brow of the babe, and baptize him The Spring ! O Kathleen, dear Kathleen ! what treasures are piled In the mines of the Past tor this wonderful Child ! The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards, Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards ; All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb, Without price, without peril, are offered to him; And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting, As it offers its sweets to this beautiful Spring ) O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things, Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet wings ; How the lands of the world in communion are brought, And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought. Think, think what an heir-loom the great world will be, With this wonderful wire 'neath the Earth and the Sea ; When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring All the wealth of the world to the feet of the Spring. O Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love, That The Master who lives in the Great House above, Prepares for the poor child that's born on His land — Dear God! they're the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand — The crocus, the primrose, the violet given Awhile, to make Earth the reflection oi Heaven ; The brightness and lightness that round tho world wing Are Thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring 1 O Kathleen, dear Kathleen ! that dream is gone by, And I wake once again, but, thank God I thou art by ; And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam, Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream : The spring-tide of Nature its blessing im- parts — Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts ; Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling, And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. ghe lag of the Ictl. Vivos voco. Mortnos plango. Fulgura frango. PREPARATION FOR POUNDING THE BELL. Firstly wall'd within the soil Stands the firebaked mould of clay. Courage, comrades ! Now for toil ! For we cast the Bell to-day. Sweat must trickle now Down the burning brow, If the work may boast of beauty: Still 't's Heaven must bless our duty. A woid of earnest exhortation The serious task before us needs : Beguiled by cheerful conversation, How much more lightly toil proceeds ! Then let us here, with best endeavor, Weigh well what these our labors mean: Contempt awaits that artist ever Who plods through all, the mere machine; But Thought makes Man to dust superior, And he alone is thoughtful-soul'd Who ponders in his heart's interior Whatever shape his hand may mould. Gather first the pine-tree wood, Only be it wholly dry, That the flame, with subtle flood, Through the furnace-chink may fly. Now the brass is in, Add the alloy of tin, That the ingredients may, while warm, Take the essential lluid form. OFFICES OF THE BELL What here in caverns by the power Of fire our mastering fingers frame, Hereafter from the belfry tower Will vindicate its makers' aim; 'Twill speak to Mau with voice unfailing In latest years of after-days, Will echo back the mourner's wailing, Or move the heart to prayer and praise : In many a varying cadence ringing, The willing Bell will publish far The fitful changes hourly springing Beneath Man's ever-shifting star. Surface-bubbles glittering palely Show the mixture floweth well : Mingle now the quick alkali ; That will help to found the Bell. Purified from scum Must the mass become, That the tone, escaping free, Clear and deep and full may be. THE BIRTH -DAT BELL. For, with a peal of joyous clangor It hails the infant boy, that in The soft embrace of sleep and languor Life's tiring travel doth begin. His brighter lot anil darker doom Lie shrouded in the Future's womb. Watch'd over by his tender mother, His golden mornings chase each other; Swift summers fly like javelins by. 338 POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. The woman's yoke the stripling spurneth ; He rushes wildly forth to roam The wide world over, and returneth When years have wheel'd — a stranger — home. Array'd in Beauty's magic might, A vision from the Heaven that's o'er him, With conscious blush and eye of light, The bashful virgin stands before him. Then flies the youth his wonted sports, For in his heart a nameless feeling Is born ; the lonesome dell he courts, And down his cheek the tears are stealing. He hangs upon her silver tone, He tracks with joy her very shadow, And culls, to deck his lovely one, The brightest flowers that gem the meadow. Oh, golden time of Love's devotion, When tenderest hopes and thrills have birth, When hearts are drunk with blest emotion And Heaven itself shines out on Earth 1 Were thy sweet season ever vernal ! Were early Youth and Love eternal ! !Ha ! the pipes appear embrown'd, So this little staff I lower : Twill be time, I wis, to found, If the fluid glaze it o'er. Courage, comrades ! Move ! Quick the mixture prove. If the soft but well unite With the rigid, all is right. THE WEDDING -BELL. For, where the Strong protects the Tender, Where Might and Mildness join, they render A sweet result, content insuring ; Let those then prove who make election, That heart meets heart in blent affection, Else Bliss is brief, and Grief enduring ! In the bride's rich ringlets brightly Shines the flowery coronal, As the Bell, now pealing lightly, Bids her to the festal hall. Fairest scene of Man's elysian World ! thou closest life's short May : With the zone and veil ' the Vision Melts in mist and fades for aye ! The rapture has fled, Still the love has not perish'd ; The blossom is dead, But the fruit must be cherish'd. The husband must out, He must mix in the rout, In the struggle and strife And the clangor of life, Must join in its jangle, Must wrestle and wrangle, O'erreaching, outrunning, By force and by cunning, That Fortune propitious May smile on his wishes. Then riches flow in to his uttermost wishesr; His warehouses glitter with all that is pre- cious ; The storehouse, the mansion, Soon call for expansion ; And busied within is The orderly matron, The little ones' mother," Who is everywhere seen As she rules like a queen, The instructress of maruens And curber of boys ; And seldom she lingers In plying her fingers, But doubles the gains By her prudence and pains, And winds round the spindle the threads at her leisure, And tills odoriferous coffers with treasure, And store th her shining receptacles full Of snowy- white linen and pale-colored wool, And blends with the Useful the Brilliant and Pleasing, And toils without ceasing. And the father counts his possessions now, As he paces his house's commanding terrace, And he looks around with a satisfied brow i Mit dem OUrtel, mit dem Schkier, Reiezt der schOne Wahn entzwei. Schiller here alludes to that custom of antiquity according to which the bridegroom unloosed the zone and removed the reil of his betrothed. Among the ancientB, to unbind the cental, and to espouse, were expressions meaning the Mime thing. Hence the well-known line of Catullas— Quod possit zonam solvere virgineain. » Here, and In a few subsequent pawages, Schiller orait* POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. On his pillar-like trees in rows unending, And his barns and rooms that are filling amain, And his granaries under their burden bend- ing. And his wavy fields of golden grail, And speaks, with exultation, " Fast as the Earth's foundation, Against all ill secure, Long shall my house endure ! " But ah ! with Destiny and Power No human paction lasts an hour, And Ruin rides a restless courser. ■Good ! The chasm is guarded well ; Now, my men ! commence to found ; Yet, before ye run the Beix, Breathe a prayer to Heaven around ! Wrench the stopple-cork ! God protect our work ! Smoking to the bow it flies, While the flames around it rise. THE FIRE-BELL. Fire works for good with noble force So long as Man controls its course ; And all he rears of strong or slight Is debtor to this heavejnly might. But dreadful is this heavenly might When, bursting forth in dead of night, Unloosed and raging, wide and wild It ranges, Nature's chainless child ! Woe ! when oversweeping bar, With a fury naught can stand, Through the stifled streets afar Rolls the monstrous volume-brand ! For the elements ever war With the works of human hand. From the cloud Blessings gush ; From the cloud Torrents rush ; From the cloud alike Come the bolts that strike. Laeum peals from lofty steeple Rouse the people 1 Red, like blood, Heaven is flashing ! How it shames the daylight's flood ! Hark ! what crashing Down the streets ! Skyward flares the flame in columns I Through the tent-like lines of street* Rapidly as wind it fleets ! Now the white air, waxing hotter, Glows a furnace — pillars totter — Rafters crackle — casements rattle — Mothers fly — Children cry — Under ruins whimper cattle. All is horror, noise, affright ! Bright as noontide glares the night ! Swung from hand to hand with zeal along By the throng, Speeds the pail. In bow-like form Sprays the hissing water-shower, But the madly-howling storm Aids the flames with wrathful power ; Round the shrivell'd fruit they curl : Grappling with the granary-stores, Now they blaze through roof and floors, And with upward-dragging whirl, Even as though they strove to bear Earth herself aloft in air, Shoot into the vaulted Void, Giant-vast ! Hope is past : Man submits to God's decree, And, all stunn'd and silently, Sees his earthly All destroy'd ! Burn'd a void Is the Dwelling : Winter winds its wailing dirge i In the skeleton window-pits Horror sits, And exposed to Heaven's wide woof Lies the roof. One glance only On the lonely Sepulchre of all his wealth below Doth the man bestow ; Then turns to tread the world's broad path. It matters not what wreck the wrath Of fire hath bi ought on house and land, One treasured blessing still he hath, His Best Beloved beside him stand ! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAK Happily at length, and rightly, Poth it till the loamy frame : Think ye will it come forth brightly ? Will it yet fulfil our aim ? If we fail to found ? If the mould rebound ? Ah 1 perchance, when least we deem, Fortune may defeat our scheme. In hope our work we now confide To Earth's obscure but hallow'd bosom ; Therein the sower, too, doth hide The seed he hopes shall one day blossom. If bounteous Heaven shall so decide. But holier, dearer Seed than this We bury oft, with tears, in Earth, And trust that from the Grave's abyss 'Twill bloom forth yet in brighter birth. THE PASSING BELL. Hollowly and slowly, By the Bell's disastrous tongue, Is the melancholy Knell of death and burial rung. Heavily those muffled accents mourn Some one journeying to the last dark bourne. Ah ! it is the spouse, the dear one 1 Ah ! it is that faithful mother ! She it is that thus is borne, Sadly borne and rudely torn By the sable Prince of Spectres From her fondest of protectors — From the children forced to flee Whom she bore him lovingly, Whom she gazed on day and night Witli a mother's deep delight. Ah ! the house's bands, that held Each to each, are doom'd to sever She that there as mother dwell'd Roams the Phantom-land forever. Truest friend and best arranger ! Thou art gone, and gone for aye ; And a loveless hireling stranger O'er thine orphan'd ones will sway. Till the Bell shall cool and harden, Labor's heat a while may cease ; Like the wild-bird in the garden, Each may play or take his ease. Soon as twinkles Hesper, Soon as chimes the Vesper, All the workman's toils are o'er, But the master frets the more. Wandering through the lonely greenwood Blithely hies the merry rover Forward towards his humble hoveL Bleating sheep are homeward wending, And the herds of Sleek and broad-brow'd cattle come with Lowing warning Each to fill its stall till morning. Townward rumbling Reels the wagon, Corn-o'erladen, On whose sheaves Shine the leaves Of the Garland fair, While the youthful band of reapers To the dance repair. Street and market now grow stiller : Round the social hearth assembling, Gayly crowd the house's inmates, As the town-gate closes creaking ; And the earth is Robed in sable, But the night, which wakes affright In the souls of conscience-haunted men, Troubles not the tranquil denizen, For he knows the eye of Law unsleeping Watch is keeping. Blessed Order ! heaven-descended Maiden ! Early did she band Like with like, in union blended, Social cities early plann'd ; She the fierce barbarian brought From his forest-haunts of wildness; She the peasant's hovel sought, And redeem'd his mind to mildness, And first wove that ever-dearest band, Fond attachment to our Fatherland ! Thousand hands in ceaseless motion All in mutual aid unite, Every art with warm devotion Eager to reveal its might. All are bonded in affection ; Each, rejoicing in his sphere, Safe in Liberty's protection, POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Laughs to scorn the scoffer's sneer. Toil is polish'd Man's vocation : Praises are the meed of Skill ; Kings may vaunt their crown and station, We wiil vaunt our Labor stilly Mildest Quiet ! Sweetest Concord ! Gently, gently Hover over this our town ! Ne'er may that dark day be witness'd When the dread exterminators Through our vales shall rush, destroying, When that azure Softly painted by the rays of Sunset fair Shall (oh, horror !) with the blaze of Burning towns and hamlets glare ! Now, companions, break the mould, For its end and use have ceased : On the structure 'twill unfold Soul and sight alike shall feast. Swing the hammer ! Swing ! 1111 the covering spring. Shivered first the mould must lie Ere the Bell may mount on high. The Master's hand, what time he wills, May break the mould ; but woe to ye If, spreading far in fiery rills, The glowing ore itself shall free ! With roar as when deep thunder crashes It blindly blasts the house to ashes, And as from Hell's abysmal deep The death-tide rolls with lava-sweep. Where lawless force is awless master Stands naught of noble, naught sublime ! Where Freedom comes achieved by Crime Her fruits are tumult and disaster. THE TOCSIN, OR ALARM-BELL. Woe ! when in cities smouldering long The pent-up train explodes at length ! Woe ! when a vast and senseless throng Shake off their chains by desperate strength ! Then to the*bellrope rushes Riot, And rings, and sounds the alarm afar, And, destined but for tones of quiet, The Tocsin peals To War ! Tc War " Equality and Liberty !" They shout : the rabble seize on swords ; And streets and halls' fill rapidly With cutthroat gangs and ruffian hordes. Then women change to wild hyenas, And mingle cruelty with jest, And o'er their prostrate foe are seen, as With panther-teeth they tear his breast. All holy shrines go trampled under : The Wise and Good in horror flee ; Life's shamefaced bands are ripped asunder, And cloakless Riot wantons free. The lion roused by shout of stranger, The tiger's talons, these appal- But worse, and charged with deadlier danger, Is reckless Man in Frenzy's thrall ! Woe, woe to those who attempt illuming Eternal blindness by the rays Of Truth ! — they flame abroad, consuming Surrounding nations in their blaze ! God hath given my soul delight ! Glancing like a star of gold, From its shell, all pure and bright, Comes the metal kernel roll'd. Brim 3 and rim, it gleams As when sunlight beams ; And the armorial shield and crest Tell that Art hath wrought its best. In, in ! our task is done — In, in, companions every one ! By what name shall we now baptize the Bell? Concordia will become it well : For oft in concord shall its pealing loud Assemble many a gay and many a solemn crowd. THE DESTINATION OF THE BELL. And this henceforward be its duty, For which 'twas framed at first in beauty : 1 Die Straszen fallen sich, die flaxen.— Schiller mean lie halls, as the Town Hall, the Halls of Justice, &c. 3 Brim is the technical term for the body of * he bell, < part upon which the clapper strikes. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAJS. High o'er this world of lowly labor In Heaven's blue concave let it rise, And heave aloft, the thunder's neighbor, In commerce with the starry skies. There let it chorus with the story Of the resplendent planet-sphere, Which nightly hymns its Maker's glory, And guides the garland-crowned year. Be all its powers devoted only To things eternal and sublime, As hour by hour it tracks the lonely And forward-winging flight of Time ! To destiny an echo lending, But never doom'd itself to feel, Forever be it found attending Each change of Life's revolving wheel ; And as its tone, when tolling loudest, Dies on the listener's ear away, So let it teach that all that's proudest Iu human might must thus decay ! Now attach the ropes — now move, Heave the Bell from this its prison, Till it hath to Heaven above And the realm of Sound arisen. Heave it ! heave it ! — There — Now it swings in air. Joy to this our city may it presage ! Peace attend its first harmonious message ! THE DIVER A BALLAD. " Baron or vassal, is any so bold As to plunge in yon gulf, and follow Through chamber and cave this beaker of gold, Which already the waters whirlingly swallow ? Who retrieves the prize from the horrid abyss Shall keep it: the gold and the glory be his!" So spake the King, and incontinent flung From the cliff that, gigantic and steep, High over Charybdis's whirlpool hung, A glittering wine-cup down in the deep ; And again he ask'd, " Is there one so brave As to plunge for the gold in the dangerous wave ?" And the knights and the knaves all answer- less hear The challenging words of the speaker ; And some glance downward with looks of fear, And none are ambitious of winning the beaker. And a third time the King his question urges — "Dares none, then, breast the menacing surges ?" But the silence lasts unbroken and long ; When a Page, fair-featured and soft, Steps forth from the shuddering vassal- throng, And his mantle and girdle already are doff'd, And the groups of nobles and damosels nigh, Envisage the youth with a wondering eye. He dreadlessly moves to the gaunt crag's brow, And measures the drear depth under ; — But the waters Charybdis had swallow 'd she now Regurgitates bellowing back in thunder ; And the foam, with a stunning and horrible sound, Breaks its hoar way through the waves around. And it seethes and roars, it welters and boils, As when water is shower'd upon fire ; And skyward the spray agonizingly toils, And flood over flood sweeps higher and higher, Upheaving, dowurolling, tumultuously, As though the abyss would bring forth a young sea. But the terrible turmoil at last is over ; And down through the whirlpool's well A yawning blackness ye may discover, Profound as the passage to central Hell; POEMS BY JAMES CLAHENCE MANGAN. And the waves, under many a struggle and spasm, Are suck'd in afresh by the gorge of the chasm. And now, ere the din rethunders, the youth Invokes the Great Name of God ; And blended shrieks of horror and ruth Burst forth as he plunges headlong unaw'd : And down he descends thro' the watery bed, And the waves boom over his sinking head. But though for a while they have ceased their swell, They roar in the hollows beneath, And from mouth to mouth goes round the farewell — " Brave-spirited youth, good-night in death ! " And louder and louder the roarings grow, While with trembling all eyes are directed below. Now, wert thou even, O monarch ! to fling Thy crown in the angry abyss, And exclaim, " Who recovers the crown shall be king !" The guerdon were powerless to tempt me, I wis ; For what in Charybdis's caverns dwells No chronicle penn'd of mortal tells. Full many a vessel beyond repeal Lies low in that, gulf to-day, And the shatter'd masts and the drifting keel Alone tell the tale of the swooper's prey. But hark ! — with a noise like the howling of storms, Again the wild water the surface deforms ! And it hisses and rages, it welters and boils, As when water is spurted on fire, And skyward the spray agonizingly toils, Ar.d wave over wave beats higher and higher, While the foam, with a stunning and horri- ble sound, Breaks its white way through the waters around. When lo ! ere as yet the billowy war Loud-raging beneath is o'er, An arm and a neck are distinguish'd afar, And a swimmer is seen to make for the shore, And hardily buffeting surge and breaker, He springs upon land with the golden beaker. And lengthen'd and deep is the breath he draws As he hails the bright face of the sun ; And a murmur goes round of delight and applause — He lives ! — he is safe ! — he has conquer'd and won ! He has master'd Charybdis's perilous wave ! He has rescued his life and his prize from the grave ! Now, bearing the booty triumphantly, At the foot of the throne he falls, And he proffers his trophy on bended knee ; And the King to his beautiful daughter calls, Who fills with red wine the golden cup, While the gallant stripling again stands up, " All hail to the King ! Rejoice, ye who breathe Wheresoever Earth's gales are driven ! For ghastly and drear is the region beneath ; And let Man beware how he tempts high Let him never essay to uncurtain to light What destiny shrouds in horror and night ! "The maelstrom dragg'd me down in its course ; When, forth from the cleft of a rock, A torrent outrush'd with tremendous force, And met me anew with deadening shock ; And I felt my brain swim and my senses leel As the double-flood whirl'd me round like a wheel. " But the God I had cried to answer'd me When my destiny darkliest frown'd, And He show'd me a reef of rocks in the sea. Whereunto I clung, and there I found On a coral jag ths goblet of gold, Which else to tVe lowermost crypt had roll'd. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. " And the gloom through measureless toises under Was all as a purple haze ; And though sound was none in these realms of wonder, I shudder'd when under my shrinking gaze That wilderness lay develop'd where wander The dragon, and dog-fish, and sea-salamander. " And I saw the huge kraken and magnified snake, And the thornback and ravening shark, Their way through the dismal waters take; While the hammer-fish wallow'd below in the dark, And the river-horse rose from his lair be- neath, And grinn'd through the grate of his spiky teeth. " And there I hung, aghast and dismay'd, Among skeleton larvse, the only Soul conscious of life — despairing of aiJ In that vastness untrodden and lonely. Not a human voice — not an earthly sound — But silence, and water, and monsters around. •' Soon one of these monsters approach'd me, and plied His hundred feelers to drag Me down through the darkness; when, springing aside, I abandon'd my hold of the coral crag, And the maelstrom grasp'd me with arms of strength, And upwhirl'd and upbore me to daylight at length." Then spake to the Page the marvelling King, " The golden cup is thine own, But — I promise thee further this jewell'd ring That beams with a priceless hyacinth-stone, Shouldst thou dive once more and discover for me The mysteries shrined in the cells of the sea." — Now the King's fair daughter was touch'd and grieved, And she fell at her father's feet — " O father, enough what the youth has achieved ! Expose not his life anew, I entreat ! If this your heart's longing you cannot well tame, There are surely knights here who will rival his fame." — But the King hurl'd downward the golden cup, And he spake as it sank in the wave, " Now, shouldst thou a second time bring it me up, As my knight, and the bravest of all my brave, Thou shalt sit at my nuptial banquet, and she Who pleads for thee thus thy wedded shall be !"— Then the blood to the youth's hot temples rushes, And his eyes on the maiden are cast, And he sees her at first overspread with blushes, And then growing pale and sinking aghast. So, vowing to win so glorious a crown, For Life or for Death he again plunges down. The far-sounding din returns amain, And the foam is alive as before, And all eyes are bent downward. In vain, in vain — The billows indeed re-dash and re-roar. But while ages shall roll and those billowB shall thunder, That youth shall sleep under ! THE MAIDEN'S PLAINT. The forest-pines groan — The dim clouds are flitting — The Maiden is sitting On the green shore alone. The surges are broken with might, with might, And her sighs are pour'd on the desert Night, And tears are troubling her eye. " All, all is o'er : The heart is destroy'd — The world is a void — It can yield me no more. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 345 Then, Master of Life, take back thy boon : I have tasted such bliss as is under the moon : I have lived, I have loved — I would die !" Tby tears, O Forsaken ! Are gushing in vain ; Tby -wail shall not waken The Buried again : But all that is left for the desolate bosom, The flower of whose Love has been blasted in blossom, Be granted to thee from on high ! Then pour like a river Thy tears without number ! The Buried can never Be wept from their slumber : But the luxury dear to the Broken-hearted, When the .sweet enchantment of Love hath departed, Be thine — the tear and the sigh ! THE UNREALITIES. And dost thou faithlessly abandon me ? Must thy chameleon phantasies depart? Thy griefs, thy gladnesses, take wing and flee The bower they builded in this lonely heart ? O, Summer of Existence, golden, glowing ! Can naught avail to curb thine onward motion ? In vain ! The river of my years is flowing, And soon shall mingle with the eternal ocean. Extinguish'd in dead darkness lies the sun, That lighted up my shrivell'd world of wonder ; Those fairy bands Imagination spun Around my heart have long been rent asunder. Gone, gone forever is the fine belief, The all too generous trust in the Ideal : All my Divinities have died of grief, And left me wedded to the Rude and Real. As clasp'd the enthusiastic Prince 1 of old The lovely statue, stricken by its charms, Until the marble, late so dead and cold, Glow'd into throbbing life beneath his arms ; So fondly round enchanting Nature's form, I too entwined my passionate arms, till, press'd In my embraces, she began to warm And breathe and revel in my bounding breast. And, sympathizing with my virgin bliss, The speechless things of Earth received a tongue ; They gave me back Affection's burning kiss, And loved the Melody my bosom sung : Then sparkled hues of Life on tree and flower, Sweet music from the silver fountain flow'd ; All soulless images in that brief hour The Echo of my Life divinely glow'd ! How struggled all my feelings to extend Themselves afar beyond their prisoning bounds ! Oh, how I long'd to enter Life and blend Me with its words and deeds, its shapes and sounds ! This human theatre, how fair it beam'd While yet the curtain hung before the scene ! Uproll'd, how little then the arena seem'd ! That little how contemptible and mean ! How roam'd, imparadised in blest illusion, With soul to which upsoaring Hope lent pinions, And heart as yet unchill'd by Care's intru- sion, How roam'd the stripling-lord through his dominions ! Then Fancy bore him to the palest star Pinnacled in the lofty ether dim: Was naught so elevated, naught so fair, But thither the Enchantress guided him ! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. With what rich reveries his brain was rife ! What adversary might withstand him long? How glanced and danced before the Car of Life The visions of his thought, a dazzling throng ! For there was Fortune with her golden crown, There flitted Love with heart-bewitching boon, There glitter'd starry-diadem'd Renown, And Truth, with radiance like the sun of But ah ! ere half the journey yet was over, That gorgeous escort wended separate ways ; All faithlessly forsook the pilgrim-rover, And one by one evanish'd from his gaze. Away inconstant-handed Fortune flew ; And, while the thirst of knowledge burn'd alway, The dreary mists of Doubt arose and threw Their shadow over Truth's resplendent ray. I saw the sacred garland-crown of Fame Around the common brow its glory shed : The rapid Summer died, the Autumn came, And Love, with all his necromancies, fled, And ever lonelier and silenter Grew the dark images of Life's poor dream, Till scarcely o'er the dusky scenery there The lamp of Hope itself could cast a gleam. And now, of all, Who, in my day of dolor, Alone survives to clasp my willing hand ? Who stands beside me still, my best con- soler, And lights my pathway to the Phantom- strand ? Thou, Friendship ! stancher of our wounds and sorrows, From whom this lifelong pilgrimage of , pain A balsam for its worst afflictions borrows ; Thou whom I early sought, nor sought in vain ! And thou whose labors by her light are wrought, Soother and soberer of the spirit's fever, Who, shaping all things, ne'er destroyesb aught, Calm Occupation ! thou that -weariest never ! Whose efforts rear at'last the mighty Mount Of Life, though merely grain on grain they lay, And, slowly toiling, from the vast Account Of Time strike minutes, days, and years away. THE WORDS OF REALITY. I name you Three Words -which ought to resound In thunder from zone to zone : But the world understands them not — they are found In the depths of the heart alone. That man must indeed be utterly base In whose heart the Three Words no longei find place. First, — Man is free, is created free, Though born a manacled slave : — I abhor the abuses of Liberty — I hear how the populace rave, — But I never can dread, and I dare not dis- dain, The slave who stands up and shivers his chain! And, — Virtue is not an empty name : — 'Tis the paction of Man with his soul, That, though balk'd of his worthiest earthly aim, He will still seek a heavenly goal ; For, that to which worldling natures are blind Is a pillar of light for the childlike mind. And, — A God, an Immutable Will, exists, However Men waver and yield : — Beyond Space, beyond Time, and their dim- ming mists, The Ancient of Davs is reveal'd ; POEMS BY JAMES CLAKENCE MANGAN. 34J And while Time and the Universe haste to decay, Their unchangeable Author is Lord for aye ! Then, treasure those Words. They ought to resound In thunder from zone to zone ; But the world will not teach thee their force ; — they are found In the depths of the heart alone ; Thou never, O Man ! canst be utterly base While those Three Words in thy heart find place ! THE WORDS OF DELUSION. Three Words are heard with the Good and Blameless, Three ruinous words and vain — Their sound is hollow — their use is aimless — They cannot console and sustain. Man's path is a path of thorns and troubles So long as he chases these vagrant bubbles. So long as he hopes that Triumph and Will yet be the guerdon of Worth : — Both are dealt out to Baseness in lavishest measure ; The Worthy possess not the earth — They are exiled spirits and strangers here, And look for their home to a purer sphere. So long as he dreams that On clay-made creatures The noonbeams of Truth will shine : — No mortal may lift up the veil from her features ; On earth we but guess and opine : We prison her vainly in pompous words : She is not our handmaid — she is the Lord's. So long as he sighs for a Golden Era, When Good will be victress o'er III : The triumph of Good is an idiot's chimera ; She never can combat — nor will : The Foe must contend and o'ermaster, till, cloy'd By destruction, he perishes, self-destroy'd. Then, Man ! through Life's labyrinths wind- ing and darken'd, Take, dare to take, Faith as thy clue ! That which eye never saw, to which ear NEVER HEARKEN'd, That, that is the Beauteous and True !' It is not without — let the foci seek it there — It is in thine own bosom and heart — the Perfect, the Good, and the Fair !' THE COURSE OP TIME. Time is threefold — triple — three : First — and Midst — and Last ; Was— and Is— and Tet-To-Be ;— Future — Present — Past. Lightning-swift, the Is is gone — The Yet-To-Be crawls with a snakelike slow- Still stands the Was for aye — its goal is won* No fierce impatience, no entreating, Can spur or wing the tardy Tarrier ; No strength, no skill, can rear a barrier Between Departure and the Fleeting : No prayers, no tears, no magic spell, Can ever move the Immovable. Wouldst thou, fortunate and sage, Terminate Life's Pilgrimage ? Wouldst thou quit this mundane stage Better, happier, worthier, wiser ? Then, whate'er thine aim and end, Take, O Youth ! for thine adviser, Hot thy working-mate, The Slow ; Oh, make not The Vanishing thy friend, Or The Permanent thy foe! The Future is Man's immemorial hymn : In vain runs the Present a-wasting ; To a golden goal in the distance dim In life, in death, he is hasting. The world grows old, and young, and old, But the ancient story still bears to be told. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Hope smiles on the Boy from the hoar of his birth : — To the Youth it gives bliss without limit ; It gleams for Old Age as a star on earth, And the darkness of Death cannot dim it. Its rays will gild even fathomless gloom, When the Pilgrim of Life lies down in the tomb. Never deem it a Shibboleth phrase of the crowd, Never call it the dream of a rhymer ; The instinct of Nature proclaims it aloud — We are destined for something sub- LlilER. This truth, which the Witness within reveals, The purest worshipper deepliest feels. 3fadwig Itghtand. SPIRITS EVERYWHERE. A many a summer is dead and buried Since over this flood I last was ferried ; And then, as now, the Noon lay bright On strand, and water, and castled height. Beside me then in this bark sat nearest Two companions the best and dearest; One was a gentle and thoughtful sire, The other a youth with a soul of fire. One, outworn by Care and Illness, Sought the grave of the Just in stillness The other's shroud was the bloody rain And thunder-smoke of the battle plain. Yet still, when memory's necromancy Robes the Past in the hues of Fancy, Me dreameth I hear and see the Twain, With talk and smiles at my side again ! Even the grave is a bond of union ; Spirit and spirit best hold communion ! Seen through Faith, by the Inward Eye, It is after Life they are truly nigh ! Then, ferryman, take this coin, I pray thee, Thrice thy fare 1 cheerfully pay thee ; For, though thou seestthem not, there stand Anear me Two from the Phantom-land ! SPRING ROSES. Green-leafy Whitsuntide was come, To gladden many a Christian home: — Spake then King Engelbert — " A fitter Time than this we scarce shall see For tournament and revelrie : Ho ! to horse, each valiant Ritter !" Gay banners wave above the walls, — The herald's trumpet loudly calls, And beauteous eyes rain radiant glances ! And of all the knights can none Match the Monarch's gallant son, In the headlong shock of lances ! Till, at the close, a Stranger came, — Japan-black iron cased his frame ; In his air was somewhat kingly : Well I guess, that stalwart knight Yet will overcome in fight All the hosts of Europe singly. As he flings his gage to earth You hear no more the sound of mirth, — All shrink back, as dreading danger ; The Prince alone defies the worst — Alas! in vain ! He falls, unhorsed: Sole victor bides the Sable Stranger ! Boots now no longer steed or lance: " Light up the hall ! — a dance ! — a d ance ! Anon a dazzling throng assembles ; And then and therethat DarkUnscann'd Asks the Royal Maiden's hand, Whilk she gives, albeit it trembles. And as they dance — the Dark and Fair- In the Maiden's breast and hair Every golden clasp uncloses, And, to and fro — that way and this — Drops dimm'd each pearl and amethyss— Drop dead the shrivell'd yello v roses. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. »49 But who makes merriest at the feast ? Not he who furnish'd it at least ! Sad is he for son and daughter! Fears that reason cannot bind Chase each other through his mind, Swift and dark as midnight water ! So pale both youth and maiden were ! Whereon the Guest, affecting care, Spake, "Blushful wine will mend your color," Fill'd he then a beaker up, And they — they drank ; but oh ! that cup Proved in sooth a draught of dolor ! Their eyelids droop, and neither speaks ; They kiss their father ; and their cheeks, Pale before, wax white and shrunken : Momently their death draws nigher, He, the while, their wretched sire, Gazing on them, terror-drunken ! " Spare these ! Take me /" he shriek'd, and pressed The stone-cold corpses to his breast ; When, to that heart-smitten father Spake the Guest, with iron voice, "Autumn spoils are not my choice; in the Spring I gather !" THE CASTLE OVER THE SEA. " Sawbst thou the castle that beetles over The wine-dark sea ? The rosy sunset clouds do hover Above it so goldenly ! " It hath a leaning as though it would bend to The waves below ; It hath a longing as though to ascend to The skies in their gorgeous glow." " — Well saw I the castle that beetles over The wine-dark sea; And a pall of watery clouds did cover Its battlements gloomsomely." "The winds and the moonlit waves were singing A choral song? And the brilliant castle-hall was ringing With melody all night long ?" " The winds and the moonless waves were sleeping In stillness all ; But many voices of woe and weeping Rose out from the castle-hall." — — " And sawest thou not step forth so lightly The King and the Queen, Their festal dresses bespangled brightly, Their crowns of a dazzling sheen ? " And by their side a resplendent vision, A virgin fair, The glorious child of some clime elysian With starry gems in her hair r"" " — Well saw I the twain by the wine-dark water Walk slower and slower ; They were clad in weeds, and their vir- gin daughter Was found at their side no more." DURAND OP BLONDEN. Towards the lofty walls of Balbi, lo ! Durand of Blonden hies; Thousand songs are in his bosom ; Love and Pleasure light his eyes. There, he dreams, his own true maiden, beauteous as the evening star, Leaning o'er her turret-lattice, waits to hear her knight's guitar. In the linden-shaded courtyard soon Durand begins his lay. But his eyes glance vainly upward ; there they meet no answering ray. Flowers are blooming in the lattice, rich of odor, fair to see, But the fairest flower of any, Lady Blanca, where is she ? s POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Ah ! while yet he chants the ditty, draws a Towards the Distance, mourner near and speaks — Roams each fonder " She is dead, is dead forever, whom Durand Yearning yonder, of Blonden seeks !" There, where wander Ana the knight replies not, breathes not; Golden stars in blest existence! darkness gathers round his brain : He is dead, is dead forever, and the mourn- ers weep the twain. Thence what fragrant Airs are blowing 1 In the darken'd castle-chapel burn a many What rich vagrant tapers bright : Music flowing ! There the lifeless maiden lies, with whitest Angel voices, wreaths and ribands dight. Tones wherein the There But lo ! a mighty marvel ! She Heart rejoices, hath oped her eyes of blue ! Call from thence from Earth to win thee t All are lost in joy and wonder! LarlyBlanca lives anew ! Dreams and visions flit before her, as she How yearns and burns for evermore asks of those anear, My heart for thee, thou blessed shore ! "Heard I not my lover singing ! — Is Durand And shall I never see thy fairy of Blonden here ?" Bowers and palace-gardens near? Yes, Lady, thou hast heard him ; he has Will no enchanted skiff so airy, died for thy dear sake ! Sail from thee to seek me here ? He could wake his tranced mistress : him Oh ! undeveloped Land, shall none forever wake ! Whereto I fain would flee, What mighty hand shall break each band He is in a realm of glory, but as yet he That keeps my soul from thee ? weets not where ; In vain I pine and sigh He but seeks the Lady Blanca: dwells she To trace thy dells and streams : not already there ? They gleam but by the spectral sky Till he finds her must he wander to and fro, That lights my shifting dreams. as one bereaven, Ah ! what fair form, flitting through yon Ever calling, "Blanca! Blanca!" through green glades, the desert halls of Heaven. Dazes mine eye? Spirit, oh! rive my chain ! m Woe is my soul ! Swiftly the vision fades, And I start up — waking — to weep in vain! ludmtg ®teh. Hence this fever ; Hence this burning Love and Longing: LIFE IS THE DESERT AND THE SOLITUDE. Hence forever, Ever turning, Whence this fever ? Ever thronging, Whence this burning Towards the Distance, Love and Longing? Roams each fonder Ah ! forever, Yearning yonder, Ever turning, There, where wander Ever thronging Golden stars in blest existence ! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. How such a bell resembles LIGHT AND SHAJE. The drooping poet's heirt ! The gayest lot beneath Thereon must Misery's hammer drearily By Grief is shaded : Pale Evening sees the wreath jar, Ere the deep melody that shrinks and Of Morning faded. trembles Within its daedal chambers can impart Pain slays, or Pleasure cloys ; Its tale unto the listless world afar. All mortal morrows But waken hollow joys Or lasting sorrows. And, woe is me ! too often Hath such a bell alone, Hope yesternoon was bright, — At such an hour, with such disastrous Earth beam'd with beauty ; tongue, But soon came conquering Night Power to disarm the heart's despair, and And claim'd his booty. soften Its chords to music ; even as now its tone Life's billows, as they roll, Inspires me with the lay I thus have sung Would fain look sunward ; But ever must the soul Drift darkly onward. The sun forsakes the sky, THE WANDERER'S CHANT. Sad stars are sovereigns, Long shadows mount on high May sparkle for others And darkness governs. Henceforward this wine ! Adieu, beloved brothers So Love deserts his throne, And sisters of mine, Weary of reigning ! My boyhood's green valleys, Ah ! would he but rule on My fathers' gray halls ! Young and unwaning ! Where Liberty rallies Pain slays, or Pleasure cloys, My destiny calls. And all our morrows But waken hollow joys The sun never stands, Or lasting sorrows. Never slackens his motion ; He travels all lands ♦ Till he sinks in the ocean ; The stars cannot rest ; Justinus Scrncr. The wild winds have no pillow, And the shore from its breast Ever flings the blue billow. THE MIDNIGHT BELL. Hark ! through the midnight lonely So Man in the harness How tolls the convent-bell ! Of Fortune mu6t roam, But ah ! no summer-breeze awakes the And far in the Farness sound ; Look out for his home ; The beating of the heavy hammer only Unresting and errant, Is author of the melancholy knell West, East, South, and North, That startles the dull ear for miles The liker his parent, around. The weariless Earth . 352 POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Though he hears not the words of The language he loves, He kens the blithe birds of His Fatherland's groves: Old voices are singing From river and rill, And flow'rets are springing To welcome him still. And Beauty's dear Are lovely to view, And Friendship still blesses The soul of the True : And love, too, so garlands The wanderer's dome, That the farthest of far lands To him is a home. HOT AT HOME. "One grand cause of this uneasiness is, that Man iB not 8 me. 11 — Godwin, Thoughts on Man. My spirit, alas, knoweth no rest ! I lay under Heaven's blue dome, One day, in the summer beam, By the Mummel-zee in the forest, And dream'd a dream Of my Home — My Home, the Home of my Father ! Shon» glory within and without ; Shone bright in its garden bowers Such fruits as the Angels gather, And gold-hued flowers All about ! Alas ! the illusion soon vanish'd. I awoke. There were clouds in the sky. My tears began to flow. My quiet of soul was banish'd ; I felt as though I could die ! And still with a heart ever swelling With yearnings, — and still with years Overdark'd by a desolate lot, I seek for my Father's Dwelling, And see it not For my tears ! (Sottfrierl Augustus Buerger. HOPE. Oh ! maiden of heavenly birth, Than rubies and gold more precious, Who earnest of old upon Earth, To solace the human species ! As fair as the morn that uncloses Her gates in a region sunny, Thou openest lips of roses And utterest words of honey. When Innocence forth at the portals Of Sorrow and Sin was driven, For sake of afflicted mortals Thou leftest thy home in Heaven, To mitigate Anguish and Trouble, The monstrous brood of Crime, And restore us the prospects noble That were lost in the olden time. Tranquillity never-ending And Happiness move in thy train : Where Might is with Might contending, And labor and tumult reign, Thou succorest those that are toiling, Ere yet all their force hath departed ; And pourest thy balsam of oil in The wounds of the Broken-hearted. Thou lendest new strength to the warrior When battle is round him and peril ; Thou formest the husbandman's barrier 'Gainst Grief, when his fields are sterile From the sun and the bright Spring show ers, From the winds and the gentle dew, Thou gatherest sweets for the flowers And growth for the meads anew. When armies of sorrows come swooping, And Reason is captive to Sadness, Thou raisest the soul that was drooping, And givest it spirit and gladness ; The powers Despair had degraded Thou snatchest from dreary decay, And all that was shrunken and faded Reblooms in the light of thy ray. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. When the Sick on his couch lies faintest Thou deadenest half of his dolors, For still as he suffers thou paintest The Future in rainbow colors : By thee are his visions vermilion'd ; Thou thronest his sold in a palace, In which, under purple pavilion'd, He quaffs Immortality's chalice. Down into the mine's black hollows, Where the slave is dreeing his doom, A ray from thy lamp ever follows His footstejjs throughout the gloom. And the wretch condemn'd in the galleys To swink at the ponderous oar, Revived by thy whisperings, rallies, And thinks on his labors no more. O goddess ! the gales of whose breath Are the heralds of Life when we languish. And who dashest the potion of Death From the lips of the martyr to Anguish : No earthly event is so tragic But thou winnest good from it still, And the lightning-like might of thy magic Is conqueror over all ill ! larl gimmh O MARIA, REGINA MISERICORDI^E ! There lived a Knight long years ago, Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless. Of God above, or Hell below, He took no thought, but, undismay'd, Pursued his course of wickedness. His heart was rock ; he never pray'd To be forgiven for all his treasons ; He only said, at certain seasons, " O Mart, Queen of Mercy ! " Tears roll'd, and found him still the same, Still draining Pleasure's poison-bowl ; Yet felt he now and then some shame ; The torment of the Undying Worm At whiles woke in bis trembling soul ; And then, though powerless to reform, Would he, in hope to appease that sternest Avenger, cry, and more in earnest, "O Mart, Queen of Mercy!" At last Youth's riotous time was gone, And loathing now came after Sin. With locks yet brown he felt as one Grown gray at heart ; and oft with tears, He tried, but all in vain, to win From the dark desert of his years One flower of hope ; yet, morn and e'ening, He still cried, but with deeper meaning, " O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " A happier mind, a holier mood, A purer spirit, ruled him now ; No more in thrall to flesh and blood, He took a pilgrim-staff in hand, And, under a religious vow, Travell'd his way to Pommerland : There enter'd he an humble cloister, Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister, " O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " Here, shorn and cowl'd, he laid his cares- Aside, and wrought for God alone. Albeit he sang no choral prayers, Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn, He mortified his flesh to stone : For him no penance was too stern ; And often pray'd he on his lonely Cell-couch at night, but still said only, " O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " And thus he lived long, long ; and, when God's angels call'd him, thus he died. Confession made he none to men, Yet, when they anointed him with oil, He seem'd already glorified, His penances, his tears, his toil, Were past ; and now, with passionate sigh- ing, Praise thus broke from his lips while dying " Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " They buried him with mass and song Aneath a little knoll so green ; But, lo ! a wonder-sight ! — Ere long POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Rose, blooming, from that verdant mound, The fairest lily ever seen ; And, on its petal-edges round, Relieving their translucent whiteness, Did shine these words in gold-hued bright- ness, " O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " And, would God's angels give thee power, Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold The fibres of this holy flower Upspringing from the dead man's heart In tremulous threads of light and gold ; Then wouldst thou choose the better part !' And thenceforth flee Sin's foul sugges- tions ; Thy sole response to mocking questions, " O Mart, Queen of Mercy ! " Johaim (Klias fkhlegel. LOVE -DITTY. Mt love, my winged love, is like the swallow, Which in Autumn flies from home, But, when balmy Spring again is come, And soft airs and sunshine follow, Retu'rneth newly, And gladdens her old haunts till after bowery July. My slumbrous love is like the winter-smitten Tree, whereon Decay doth feed, Till the drooping dells and forests read What the hand of May hath written Against their sadness ; And then, behold ! it wakens up to life and gladness ! My love, my flitting love, is like the shadow All day long on path or wall : Let but Evening's dim-gray curtains tall, And the sunlight leave the meadow, And, self-invited, It wanders through all bowers when Beauty's lamps are lighted. (gmamicl (Seibkr. CHARLEMAGNE AND THE BRIDGE OP MOONBEAMS. [" Many traditions are extant of the fondness of Charle- magne for the neighborhood of Langewinkel. Nay, it U firmly believed that tbis affection survived his death ; and that even now, at certain seasons of the year, his spirit loves to wake from its slumber of ages, and revisit it still "— Smow»'» Legends ofllie Rhine, vol. ii.] Beauteous is it in the Summer-night, and calm along the Rhine, And like molten silver shines the 'ight that sleeps on wave and vine. But a stately Figure standeth on the Silent Hill alone, Like the phantom of a Monarch looking vainly for his throne ! Yes ! — 'tis he — the unforgotten Lord of this beloved land ! 'Tis the glorious Car'lus Magnus, with his gleamy sword in hand, And his crown enwreath'd with myrtle, and his golden sceptre bright, And his rich imperial purple vesture floating on the nigrht ! Since he dwell'd among his people, stormy centuries have roll'd. Thrones and kingdoms have departed, and the world is waxing old : Why leaveth he his house of rest ? Why cometh he once more From his marble tomb tc zander here by LangawinkePs shore ? POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 356 Oh, fear ye not the Emperor ! — he doth not leave his tomb As the herald of disaster to our land of blight and bloom ; He cometh not with blight or ban on castle, field, or shrine, But with overflowing blessings for the Vine- yards of the Rhine ! As a bridge across the river lie the moon- beams all the time, They shine from Langawinkel unto ancient Ingelheim ; And along this Bridge of Moonbeams is the Monarch seen to go, And from thence he pours his blessings on the royal flood below. He blesses all the vineyards, he blesses vale and plain, The lakes and glades and orchards, and fields of golden grain, The lofty castle-turrets and the lowly cot- tage-hearth ; He blesses all, for over all he reign'd of yore on earth ; Then to each and all so lovingly he waves a mute Farewell, And returns to slumber softly in his tomb at La Chapelle, Till the Summer-time be come again, with sun, and rain, and dew, And the vineyards and the gardens woo him back to them anew. fart Theodore f oerner. THE MINSTREL'S MOTHERLAND. Where lies the minstrel's Motherland ? Where Love is faith and Friendship duty, WL9re Valor wins its meed from Beauty, Where Man makes Truth, not Gold his booty, And Freedom bids the soul expand — There lay my Motherland ! Where Man makes Truth, not Gold his booty, There was my Motherland ! How fares the minstrel's Motherland ! The land of oaks and sunlit waters Is dark with woe, is red with slaughters ; Her bravest sons, her fairest daughters, Are dead — or live proscribed and bann'd — So fares my Motherland ! The land of oaks and sunlit waters — My cherish'd Motherland ! Why weeps the minstrel's Motherland ? To see her sons, while tyrants trample Her yellow fields and vineyards ample, So coldly view the bright example Long shown them by a faithful band — For this weeps Motherland ! Because they slight that high example Weeps thus my Motherland ! What wants the minstrel's Motherland ? To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming, And see their German broadswords gleaming, And spy their German standard stream- Who spurn the Despot's haught command — This wants my Motherland ! To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming, This wants my Motherland ! Whom calls the minstrel's Motherland ? Her saints and gods of ancient ages, Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages, To bless the war fair Freedom wages, And speed her torch from hand to hand — These calls my Motherland ! Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages, These calls my Motherland ! And hopes then still the minstrel's Land ? Yes ! Prostrate in her deep dejection, She still dares hope swift resurrection ! She hopes in Heaven and His protection Who can redeem from Slavery's brand — This hopes my Motherland ! She hopes in God and Gor-'s protection, My suffering Motherland ! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. <©tto llunflc. HOLINESS TO THE LORD. There blooms a beautiful Flower ; it blooms in a far-off land ; Its life has a mystic meaning for few to un- derstand. Its leaves illumine the valley, its odor. scents the wood ; And if evil men come near it they grow for the moment good. When the winds are tranced in slumber, the rays of this luminous Flower Shed glory more than earthly o'er lake and hill and bower ; The hut, the hall, the palace, yea, Earth's forsakenest sod, Shine out in the wondrous lustre that fills the Heaven of God. Three kings came once to a hostel, wherein lay the Flower so rare : A star 6hone over its roof, and they knelt adoring there. Whenever thou seest a damsel whose youn eyes dazzle and win, Oh, pray that her heart may cherish this Flower of Flowers within 1 $.%. iHtahtmamt. THE GRAVE, THE GRAVE. Blest are the Dormant In Death ! They repose From Bondage and Torment, From Passions and Woes, From the yoke of the world and the snares of the traitor : The Grave, the Grave, is the true Liberator! Griefs chase one another Around the Earth's dcme; In the arms of the Mother' Alone is our home. Woo Pleasure, ye triflers ! The Thoughtful are wiser: The Grave, the Grave, is their one Tranquil- lizer ! Is the good man unfriended On Life's ocean-path, Where storms have expended Their turbulent wrath ? Are his labors requited by Slander and Ran- cor? The Grave, the Grave, is his sure bower- anchor ! To gaze on the faces Of Lost ones anew, — To lock in embraces The Loved and the True, Were a rapture to make even Paradise brighter: The Grave, the Grave, is the great Reuniter t Crown the corpse then with laurels, The conqueror's wreath, Make joyous with carols The Chamber of Death, And welcome the Victor with cymbal and psalter : The Grave, the Grave, is the only Exalter ! von dtoethe. THE MINSTREL. " What voice, what harp, are those we hear Beyond the gate in' chorus ? Go, page ! — the lay delights our ear, We'll have it sung before us ! " So speaks the king : the stripling flies. He soon returns ; his master cries — " Bring in the hoary minstrel ! " POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. " Hail, princess mine ! Hail, noble knights ! All hail, enchanting dames ! What starry heaven ! What blinding lights ! Whose tongue may tell their names ? In this bright hall, amid this blaze, Close, close, mine eyes ! Ye may not gaze On such stupendous glories ! " The Minnesinger closed his eyes : He struck his mighty lyre : Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs, And warriors felt on fire ; The king, enraptured by the strain, Commanded that a golden chain Be given the bard in guerdon. " Not so ! Reserve thy chain, thy gold, For those brave knights whose glances, Fierce flashing through the battle bold, Might shiver sharpest lances ! Bestow it on thy Treasurer there — The golden burden let him bear With other glittering burdens. " I sing as in the greenwood bush The cageless wild-bird carols — The tcmes that from the full heart gush Themselves are gold and laurels ! Yet, might 1 ask, then thus I ask, Let one bright cup of wine in flask Of glowing gold be brought me ! " They set it down : he quaffs it all — " Oh ! draught of richest flavor ! Oh ! thrice divinely happy hall, Where that is scarce a favor ! If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me, And thank your God as I thank ye For this delicious wine-cup ! " Once a boy beheld a bright Rose in dingle growing; Far, far off it pleased his sight ; Near he view'd it with delight : Soft it seemed and glowing. Lo ! the rose, the rose so bright, Rose so brightly blowing ! Spake the boy, " I'll pluck thee, grand Rose all wildly blowing." Spake the rose, " I'll wound thy hand, Thus the scheme thy wit hath plann'd. Deftly overthrowing." Oh ! the rose, the r^se so grand, Rose so grandly glowing. But the stripling pluck'd the red Rose in glory growing, And the thorn his flesh hath bled, And the rose's pride is fled, And her beauty's going. Woe ! the rose, the rose once red, Rose once redly glowing. A VOICE PROM THE INVISIBLE WORLD High o'er his mouldering castle walls The warrior's phantom glides, And loudly to the skiff it calls That on the billow rides — " Behold ! these arms once vaunted might, This heart beat wild and bold — Behold ! these ducal veins ran bi-ight With wine-red blood of old. " The noon in storm, the eve in rest, So sped my life's brief day. What then ? Young bark on Ocean's breast. Cleave thou thy destined way ! " A SONG FROM THE COPTIC. Quaeeels have long been in vogue among sages ; Still, though in many things wranglers and rancorous. AU the philosopher-scribes of all ages Join, and voce, on one point to anchor us. Here is the gist of their mystified pages, Here is the wisdom we purchase with gold : Children of Light, leave the viorld to its mulishness, Things to their natures, and fools to their Berries were bitter in forests of old. 308 POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Hoary old Merlin, that great necromancer, Made me, a student, a similar answer, When I besought him for light and for lore : Toiler in vain ! leave the world to its mulish- ness, Things to their natures, and fools to their Granite was hard in the quarries of yore. And on the ice-crested heights of Armenia, And in the valleys of broad Abyssinia, Still spake the Oracle just as before : Wouldst thou have peace, leave the world to its mulishness, Things to their natures, and fools to their foolishness ; Beetles were blind in the ages of gore. ANOTHER COPTIC SONG. Go ! — but heed and understand This my last and best command : Turn thine Youth to such advantage As that no reverse shall daunt Age. Learn the serpent's wisdom early ; And contemn what Time destroys; Also, wouldst thou creep or climb, Choose thy role, and choose in time, Since the scales of Fortune rarely Show a liberal equipoise. Thou must either soar or stoop, Fall or triumph, stand or droop ; Thou must either serve or govern, Must be slave, or must be sovereign j 3fust, in fine, be block or wedge, Must be anvil or be sledge. $mMth (Sflttlieb itoptoiift. [One night, in 1748, Klopbtook, was seated alone in his room in the University at Leipsic. He was deeply immersed In meditation on the Past and the Future. Suddenly a thought, Isolated and dreary in its character, appears to have taken possession of his mind. He fancied that some nnknown in- dividual had been reft by death of his nearest and dearest, of all his friends and his beloved, and stood alone in th« world. Involuntarily his imagination called up and marshal- led before him the Appearances of the Departed. Tbey came, a shrouded and shadowy group, and surrounded the Iyiving Man ; and then it was that the poet, as he earnestly contem- plated them, found that he bad snlTered a forfeiture of his proper identity ; for he himself was now that other Man, and the Appearances he gazed on wore the forms and lineaments of his own literary friends. The vision lasted but a brief while, and when the spell was broken, Klofstock started as from a dream ; bnt so vivid was the impression that remained with him, that he ever afterward regarded what he had seen as a kind of pictorial revelation, a prophetical flgure-history of his own destiny. We are now to fancy him over a flask of wine with his fellow-student Johann Arnold Ebert. With every glass their gayety grows wilder and wilder. Suddenly Elopstock covers his face with his hands : the recollection of his vision has intervened, and brings with it gloom and anguish.] TO EBERT. Ebert, Ebert, my friend ! • Here over the dark-bright wine A horrible phantasy masters me ! In vain thou showest me where the chalice- glasses shine, In vain thy words ring cheerily: I must aside and weep — if haply my weep- ing may Assuage this agony of distress. Oh, tears ! in pity Nature blent you with hu- man clay, To mitigate human wretchedness ; For, were your fountain uplocked, and yon forbidden to flow, Could Man sustain his sorrows an hour? Then let me aside and weep : this thought of dolor and woe Struggles within me with giant power. O, Ebert ! if all have perished, and under shroud and pall Lie still and voiceless in Death's abyss ; If thou and 1 be the lone and withered sur- vivors of all ? Art not thou, also, speechless at this ? Glazes not horror thine eye ? Glares it not blank without soul ? So from mine, too, departed the light, When first this harrowing phantom over the purple bowl Struck my spirit with tbundermight. Sudden as when a wanderer, hastening home to the faces That circle with smiles his joyous hearth, To his blooming offspring and spouse, whom already in thought he embraces, POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. By the tempest-bolt is fell'd to the earth, Death-stricken, so that his hones are blasted to blackest ashes, The while in triumph is heard to roll The booming thunder through Heaven, so suddenly flash'd, so flashes This vision athwart my shuddering soul, Deadening the might of mine arm, and dark- ening the light of mine eyes, And shrivelling the flesh of my heart with Oh ! in the depth of the Night I saw the Death- Pageant arise ! And — Ebert !— the souls of our friends were there. Oh! in the depths of the Night I saw the Graves laid bare ! Around me throng'd the immortal Band !, When gentle Giseke's eye no longer lustre shall wear ; When faithful Cramer, lost to our land, Shall moulder in dust ; when the words that Gaertner and Rabner have spoken Shall only be echo'd through years in dis- tance ; When every sweetly-sounding chord shall be ruefully broken In the noble Gbllert's harmonious exist- ence; When his early companions of pleasure young Rotiie, the social and bright, Shall meet on the charnel chamber-floor, And when from a longer exile 1 ingenious Schlegel shall write To the cherisb'd friends of his youth no more; When for Schmidt, the beloved and evan- ished, these weariful eyes shall weep No longer their wonted affectionate rain ; When Hagedorn at last in our Father's bosom shall sleep ; 1 Schlegel, on quitting college, had gone to Strehla, and there established an academy, from whence he corresponded with his friends, the members of the Poetical club at Leipzig. This residence of his at Strehla they were playfully wont to designate his exile. By longer exile, Klopstock, of course, means Death. Oh, Ebert ! what then are We who remain ? What but Woe-consecrated, whom here a dreary doom Has left to mourn for those that are gone ? If then one of us should die (Behold how my thought of gloom Further and darklier hurries me on !) If then, of us, one should die, and One alone should survive — And oh, should that sad survivor be I — If she, the unknown Beloved, with whom I am destined to wive, If she, too, under the mould should lie ! If I be the Only, the Lonely, the earth's companionless One, ' Oh, answer ! Shalt thou, my undying soul, For friendship created, shalt thou preserve thy feeling and tone, In the days that then may vacantly roll ? Or shalt thou, in slumberfhl stupor, imagine that Daylight is pass'd, And the reign of Night has begun for thee ? Haply ! but should st thou up start, oh, im- mortal spirit, at last, And feel all the weight of thy misery, Wilt thou not, suffering spirit, in agony shriekingly call To the sepulchres where thy Sleepers are — ■ " Oh ! ye graves of my Dead ! Ye tombs of my dearest ones all ! Why are ye severed apart so far ? Why not rather ingrouped in the blossomy valleys yonder, Or cluster'd in groves, or flower-crown'd? Guide an expiring old man ! With faltering feet will I wander And plant upon every hallow'd mound A cypress-tree, beneath whose yet undark- ening shade May rest my happier daughters and sons, And oft through its boughs at night shall stand before me portray'd The effigies of my immortal ones ! Till, worn with weeping, I too shall finally join those immortals ; Then, oh ! Grave, beside which I snail be ! Grave over which I shall die! — I call on thee — open thy portals, And hide forever my tears and me !" 300 POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Horrible dream ! from which, as in chains, I struggle to waken, Terrible as the Judgment-hour, And as Eternity solemn ! My spirit, appall'd and shaken, Can wrestle no longer against thy power. krder. THE BROTHER AND THE SISTER In a winding dell, thick-sown with Often play'd together, through the hours Of the livelong sunny Summer's day, Two most lovely children — one a boy, One a girl, a sister and a brother ; And along with them did ever play Innocence, and Gracefulness, and Joy. Here there stood an image of the Mother Of our Blessed Saviour, with her Child In her urms, who always look'd and smiled On the playmates. And their own dear mother One day told them, after they had play'd, Who the smiling little Infant was ; How He was the mighty God, who made Sun, and Moon, and Earth, and the green grass, And themselves; and, when she saw them moved With deep reverence, and their childish mirth Hush'd, she told them how this God had loved Little children when He dwell'd on Earth, And that now in Heaven He loved them still. And the little girl said, " I and brother Both love God : will He love us, too, mother ? " And the mother said, " If you be good, He will." So upon another time, a bland, Bright, soft, Summer-evening, as the fair Children sat together hand in hand, One said to the other ('twas the boy To the girl), " Oh, if the dear God there Would come down to us ! There's not a toy In our house but I would give to Him." And the girl said, " I would cull Him all Pretty flowers." " And I would climb the tall Trees," the boy said, " till the day grew dim, And would gather fruits for Him." And thus Each sweet child did prattle to the other, Till the sun sank low behind the hill, And both, running, then sought out their mother, And cried out together, " Mother ! — will God come down some day and play with us ?" Gently spake the mother in rebuke Of their babble ; but it bore a deep Meaning in the eternal Minute-book ; For, one night, soon after, in her sleep, She beheld the Infant-Saviour playing With her children and she heard Him saying, " How shall I requite you for the flowers And the fruits you would have given me ? Thee, Brother, will I take along with me, To my Father's many-mansion'd Home, And will guide thee to luxuriant bowers, Where bloom fruits unknown on Earth be- neath ; And to thee, my sister, will I come On thy bridal-day, and with a wreath Of celestial flowers adorn thy brow, And will bless thy nuptials, so that thou Shalt have children good and innocent even As my Father's angels are in Heaven." And the mother woke, and pray'd with tears, " Oh, my God ! my Saviour ! spare my son ! Spare him to console my waning years, If thou canst ! If not, thy will be done !** And the will of God was done. The boy Sicken'd soon and died. But, ere he died Those about him saw his countenance Lighted up with gloriousness and joy Inexpressible ; for by his side He beheld (rapt all the while in trance, As his mother noticed) a young Child Brighter than the sun and beauteous as God Himself! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Tear after year did pass, ! And at length her twentieth Summer smiled On the maiden with her wedding-day ; But behold ! — as she knelt down to pray At the altar, heavenly radiance heam'd Round her, and she saw, as though she dream'd, Him, her childhood's Infant-Saviour, reaching Her a wreath of brilliant flowers, with some Dark ones intermix'd : a symbol, teaching Her what hue the years that were to come Should assume for her. And truly, she Spent a life of peace and blessedness, Mingled with such mild adversity That she rather wish'd it more than less. Ofrdge. THE FIELD OF KUNNERSDORF. 1 Day is exiled from the Land of Twilight ; Leaf and flower are drooping in the wood, And the stars, as on a dark-stain'd skylight, Glass their ancient glory in the flood. Let me here, where night-winds through the yew sing, Where the moon is chary of her beams, Consecrate an hour to mournful musing Over Man and Man's delirious dreams. Pines and yews ! envelop me in deeper, Dunner shadow, sombre as the grave, While with moans, as of a troubled sleeper, Gloomily above my head ye wave ; Let mine eye look down from hence on yonder Battle-plain, which Night in pity dulls ; Let my sad imagination ponder Over Kunnersdorf, that Place of Skulls ! Dost thou reillume those wastes, O Summer ? Hast thou raised anew thy trampled bow ers? Will the wild bee come again a hummer Here, within the houses of thy flowers ? 1 fCunnersdorf, a village near Frankfort on the Oder, where Frederick was defeated by the Russians, on the 12th of Au- gust. 1759, in one of the bloodiest battles of modern times. Can thy sunbeams light, thy mild rains water This Aeeldema, this human soil, Since that dark day of redundant slaughter When the blood of men flow'd here like oil? Ah, yes ! — Nature, and thou, God of Nature, Ye are ever bounteous !. Man alone, Man it is whose frenzies desolate your World, and make it in sad truth his own. Here saw Frederick fall his bravest warriors : Master of thy World, thou wert too great ! Heaven had need to establish curbing-b&r- riers 'Gainst thine inroads on the World of Fate. Oh, could all thy coronals of splendor Dupe thy memory of that ghastly day? Could the Graces, could the Muses" render Smooth and bright a corse-o'ercover'd way? No ! the accusing blood-beads ever trickle Down each red leaf of thy chaplet-crown : Men fell here as corn before the sickle, Fell to aggrandize thy false renown I Here the veteran dropp'd beside the spring aid; Here sank Strength and Symmetry in line : Here crush'd Hope and gasping Valor min- gled; And, Destroyer, the wild work was thine ! Whence is then this destiny funereal ? What this tide of Being's flow and ebb ? Why rends Death at will the fine material Of Existence's diyinest web ? Vainly ask we ! Dim age calls to dim age ; Answer, save an echo, cometh none : Mere stands Man, of Life-in-Death an image, There, invisibly, the Living One ! Storm-clouds lower and muster in the Dis- tance ; Girt with wrecks by sea and wrecks by land, Time, upon the far Shore of Existence, Counts each wave-drop swallow'd by the sand. Generation chases generation, Down-bow'd by the all-worn, Mworn yoke :* POEMS m r JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. No cessation and no explication ! — Birth— Life— Death ! — the Silence, Flash, and Smoke. Here, then, Frederick, formidable sovereign ! Here, in presence of these whiten'd bones, Swear at length to cherish Peace, and govern So that men may learn to reverence thrones ! Oh, repudiate blood-bought fame, and hearken To the myriad witness-voiced Dead, Ere the Sternness shall lay down, to darken In the Silentness, thy crownless head ! * Shudder at the dire phantasmagory Of the slain, who perish'd here through thee; And abhor all future wreaths of glory Gather'd from the baleful cypress-tree ! Lofty souls disdain or dread the laurel : Hero is a mad exchange for Man : Adders lurk in green spots : such the moral Taught by History since her schools began. Caesar slain, the victim of his trophies, Bajazet expiring in his cage, All the Cassars, all the sabre-Sophies,' Preach the self-same homily each age. One drugg'd wine-cup dealt with Alexander, And his satraps scarce had shared afresh Half the empires of the World-commander, Ere the charnel-worms had shared his flesh. Though the rill roll down from Life's green Mountain, Bright through festal dells of youthful days, Soon the water of that glancing fountain In the vale of years must moult its rays. : Vor dera Emste, der dein Haupt, entfttretet, In die Stille niederlegen wird. Before to the Solemn who thy head, unprinced, in the Stilly beneath lay shall, viz., Before the [coming of the] solemn [hour] which shall lay thy head, stripped of its royalty, in the etiU [ness of the grave.] I have adhered to the metonymy, save that I have chosen to make der Ernste represent Death himself rather than the time of death ; the Sternness, there- lore, is Death, and the Silentness the grave. " Sop/ii, a title of the Khan of Persia. By this scymitar That flew the Sophy and a Persian prince, And won three fields of Sultan Solyman. Mfrch. of Yen. Act. II. te, . There the pilgrim on the bridge that, bound- ing Life's domain, frontiers the wold of Death, Startled, for the first time hears resounding From Eternity, a voice that saith, — All which is not pure shall melt anb WITHER. Lo ! THE DeSOLATOr's ARM 18 BARE, And where Man is, Truth shall track htm thither, Be he curtain'd round with GLOOM OB GLARE.' 3 uMq f einriclt ©hratogh fo<% THE AGED LANDMAN'S ADVICE TO HIS SON. Oh ! cherish Faith and Truth, til' Death Shall claim thy forfeit clay, And wander not one finger's breadth From God's appointed way ; So shall thy pilgrim pathway be O'er flowers that brightly bloom ; So shalt thou, rich in hope and free From terror face the tomb ; Then wilt thou handle spade and scythe, With joyous heart and soul ; Thy water-jug shall make thee blithe As brimming purple bowl. All things but work the sinner woe, For, do his worst or best, The devil drives him to and fro, And never lets him rest. Him glads no Spring, no sky outroll'd, No mellow, yellow field ; His one sole good and god is gold ; His heart is warp'd and steel'd ; The winds that blow, the streams that flow Affright the craven slave ; Peace flies him, and he does not know Rest even in his grave ! ' Was niobt rein ist, wird in Nacht i Dbs Vercesters Hand ist ausoestreckt ; Und die Wahrheit wird den Menschen finden, Ob ms Donkel oder Glanz vebsteckt 1 POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. For he when spectral midnight reigns, Must burst each coffin-band, And as a pitch-black dog in chains Before his house-door stand. The spinners, who with wheel on arm Belated home repair, Will quake, and cross themselves from harm To see the monster there ; And every spinning crone of this Terrific sight will tell, And wish the villain in the abyss And fire of hottest hell. Old Grimes was all his life a hound, A genuine devil's brand ; He counter-plough'd his neighbors' ground ; And robb'd them of their land : Now, fire-clad, see him plough with toil The same land everywhere, Upturning all night long the soil, With white-hot burning share : Himself like blazing straw-sheaf burns Behind the glowing plough ; And so he burns and so upturns, Till Morning bares her brow. The bailie who, without remorse, Shot stags and fleeced the poor, AVith one grim dog, on fiery horse, Hunts nightly o'er the moor ; Oft, as a rugged-coated bear, He climbs a gnarled pole ; Oft, as a goat, must leave his lair, And through the hamlet stroll. The riot-loving priest who cramm'd His chests with ill-got gold, Still haunts the chancel, black and damn'd, Each night when twelve has toll'd ; He howls aloud with dismal yells, That startle aisle and fanes, Or in the vestry darkly tells His church-accursed gains. The squire who drank and gamed pell-mell The helpless widow's all, Now driven along by blasts from Hell, Goes coach'd to Satan's ball ; His blue frock, dipp'd in Hell's foul font, With sulphur-flames is lined ; One devil holds the reins in front, Two devils ride behind. Then, Son ! be just and true till Death Shall claim thy forfeit clay ; And wander not one finger's breadth From God's revealed way. So shall warm tears bedew in showers The grass above thy head, And lilies and all odorous flowers O'erarch thy last low bed. lUwrftert. AND THEN NO MORE. I saw her once, one little while, and then no more: 'Twas Eden's light on Earth awhile, and; then no more. Amid the throng she pass'd along the mea- dow-floor : Spring seem'd to smile on Earth awhile, and then no more. But whence she came, which way she went, what garb she wore, I noted not ; I gazed awhile, and then no more. I saw her once, one little while, and then no more : 'Twas Paradise on Earth awhile, and then no more: Ah ! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore ? She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then no more. The shallop of my peace is wreck'd on Beau- ty's shore ; Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more ! I saw her once, one little while, and then no more : Earth look'd like Heaven a little while, and then no more. Her presence thrill'd and lighted to its inner core My desert breast a little while, and then no more. 8«4 POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. So may, perchance, a meteor glance at mid- night o'er Some ruin'd pile a little while, and then no more ! I saw her once, one little while, and then no more, The earth was Peri-land awhile, and then no more. Oh, might I see but once again, as once be- fore, Through chance or wile, that shape awhile, and then no more ! Death soon would heal my griefs ! This heart, now sad and sore, Would beat anew a little while, and then no THE CATHEDRAL OP COLOGNE. The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! Antique, unique, sublime — Rare monument from the elder time, Begun so long agone, Yet never finish'd, though wrought at oft- Yonder it soars alone, Alone, aloft, Blending the weird, and stern, and soft, The Cathedral-dome of Cologne ! The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! Whence came its Meister's plan ? Before or since to the eye of man Was never aught like it shown ! Alas ! the matchless Meister died ! Alas ! he died ! — and none Thereafter tried To fathom the mystery typified By the marvellous Dome of Cologne! The Dome, the Dome of Cologne! In the troublesome times of old The soldier alone won fame and gold — The artist pass'd for a drone ! War's hurricanes rock'd and wasted earth ; Men battled for shrine or throne ; None sat by his hearth To ponder the means of a second birth For the holy Dome of Cologne ! The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! To God be immortal praise That now at length, in our own bright days, The Meister's plan is known! Research hath brought the relic to light From its mausoleum of stone — We hail with delight A treasure so long conceal'd from sight, The original Dome of Cologne! The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! Its hour of glory is nigh ! Build ye it high as the sapphire sky!. As the moonlight never hath shone On Temple of such a magnificent Ideal from zone to zone, So, aid its ascent To the sapphire blue of the firmament, The Cathedral-dome of Cologne ! Jriedriclt faron §e in gRoty Jouque. BALE AND HIGH-WAY. In a shady dell a Shepherd sate, And by his side was the fairest mate ! The hearts of both the youth and maiden With love were laden and overladen. And, as they spake with tongue and eye, A weary wandering man rode by ; A swarthy wayfarer, worn with travel, Rode wearily over the burning gravel. " Down hither, and rest thee, thou Weary One! Why ride at noon in the scorching sun ? Rest here in this dell, so cool and darkling That even the rivulets run unsparkling. " And I and the maiden thou seest with me Will gather the palest flowers for thee, And weave them in'o as pale a garland As wreathes the brow of a fay from Star- land." POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 365 So spake the Shepherd, all cool in the shade, And thus the Wanderer answer made : " Though the way be long and the noon be burning, I ride unresting and unreturning : " For I was false to my vows, and sold The early love of my heart for gold; So dare I seek Rest and Happiness never, But only Geld for ever and ever! " No flowers for me, until Pity's tears Bedew the few that in after-years May droop where the winds shall be nightly telling How low I lie in my last dark dwelling ! " A SIGH. Fake-thee-sweetly, Touthhood's time, Golden time of Love and Singing ! Hope and Joy were in their prime Only when thy flowers were springing. AH thy voiceful soul is mute, Thou hast dream'd thy dream of glory : Scarcely now can lyre or lute Wake one echo of thy story ! Ah ! the heart is but a grave, Late or soon, for young Affection. There the Love that Nature gave Sleeps, to know no resurrection. This our sons will echo long ; This our sires have sung before us ; Join, then, we the shadowy throng ! Swell, then, we the spectral chorus ! Jjpdmand Jrtfliflratft. THE SHEIK OP MOUNT SINAI. A NARRATIVE OF OCTOBER, 1830. " How sayest thou ? Came to-day the Car- avan From Africa? And is it here !— 'Tis well ! bear me beyond the tent, me and mine otto- I would myself behold it. I feel eager To learn the youngest news. As the Ga- zelle Rushes to drink will I to hear, and gather thence fresh vigor." So spake the Sheik. They bore him forth ; and thus began the Moor — " Old man ! Upon Algeria's towers the Tricouleur is flying ! Bright silks of Lyons rustle at each balcony and door; In the streets the loud Reveil resounds at break of day : prance to the Marseillaise o'er heaps of Dead and Dying. The Franks came from Toulon, men say. " Southward their legions march'd through burning lands; The Barbary sun flash'd on their arms — about Their chargers' manes were blown clouds oi Tunisiau sands. Knowest where the Giant Atlas rises dim in The hot sky ? Thither, in disastrous rout, The wild Kabyles fled with their herds and women. "The Franks pursued. Hu Allah! — each defile Grew a very hell-gulf, then, with smoke, and fire, and bomb ! The Lion left the Deer's half-cranch'd re- mains the while ; He snufFd upon the winds a daintier prey! Hark ! the shout, En avant! To the top- most peak upclomb The conquerors in that bloody fray ! " Circles of glittering bayonets crown'd the mountain's height. The hundred Cities of the Plain, from At- las to the sea afar, From Tunis forth to Fez, shone in the noon- day light. FOEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. < The spearmen rested by their steeds, or slaked their thirst at rivulets : And round them through dark myrtles burn'd, — each like a star, — The slender golden minarets. " But in the valley blooms the odorous Al- mond-tree, And the Aloe blossoms on the rock, defy- ing storms and suns. Here was their conquest seal'd. Look ! — yonder heaves the sea, And far to the left lies Franquistan. The banners flouted the blue skies. The artillerymen came up. Mashallah ! how the guns Did roar to sanctify their prize !" " 'Tis they !" the Sheik exclaim'd : " I fought among them, I, At the Battle of the Pyramids ! Red all the long day ran, Red as thy turban-folds, the Nile's high bil- lows by ! But their Sultaun? — Speak! — He was once my guest. His lineaments, — gait, — garb ? Sawest thou the Man ?" — The Moor's hand slowly felt its way in- to his breast. " J¥o" he replied : " he bode in his warm palace-halls. A Pasha led his warriors through the fire of hostile ranks; An Aga thunder'd for him before Atlas' iron walls ! His lineaments, thou sayest? On gold, at least, they lack The kingly stamp. See here ! A Spahi of the Franks Gave me this coin in chaffering some days back." The Kashef took the gold: he gazed upon the head and face. Was this the great Sultaun he had known long years ago ? It seem'd not ; for he sigh'd as all in vain he strove to trace The still-remember'd features. "Ah, no ! — this," he said, " is Not his broad brow and piercing eye: who this man is I do not know. How very like a Pear his head ia 1" GRABBE. There stood I in the Camp. 'Twas when the setting sun Was crimsoning the tents of the Hussars. The booming of the Evening-gun Broke on mine ear. A few stray stars Shone out, like silver-blank medallions Paving a sapphire floor. Then flow'd in unison the tones Of many hautboys, bugles, drums, trom- bones And fifes, from twenty-two battalions. They play'd, "Give glory unto God our Lord ! " A solemn strain of music and sublime, That bade Imagination hail a coming time When universal Mind shall break the slaying sword, And Sin, and Wrong, and Suffering shall depart An Earth which Christian love shall turn to Heaven. A dream! — yet still I listen'd, and my heart Grew tranquil as that Summer-even. But soon uprose pale Hecate — she who trances The skies with deathly light. Her beams fell wan, but mild, On the long lines of tents, on swords and lances, - And on the pyramids of musquets piled Around. Then sped from rank to rani The signal order, " Tzako ab I " The music ceased to play. The stillness of the grave ensued. 1 1 arned away. Again my memory's tablets show'd a sad- dening blank I POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Meanwhile another sort of scene Was acted at the Outposts. Carelessly I stroll'd, Iii quest of certain faces, into the Canteen. Here wine and brandy, hot or cold, Pass'd round. At one long table Freder- icks-d'or Glitter'd d qui mieux mieux with epau- lettes, And, heedless of the constant call, " Who sets?" Harpwomen play'd and sang old ballads by the score. 1 sought an inner chamber. Here sat some Dragoons and Yagers, who conversed, or gambled, Or drank. The dice-box rattled on a drum. I chose a seat apart. My speculations rambled. Scarce even a passive listener or beholder, I mused : " Give glory " " Qui en veut ? "—the sound Came from the drum-head. I had half turn'd round When some one touch'd me on the shoulder. " Ha ! — is it you ? " " None other." " Well — what news ? How. goes it in Mulhausen?" Queries without end Succeed, and I reply as briefly as I choose, An hour flies by. " Now then, adieu, my friend ! " — "Stay! — tell me " "Quick! I am off| to Rouge et JVbir." — / " Well — one short word, and then Good- Night !— Grabbe f "— " Grabbe ? He is dead. Wait : let me see. Ay, right ! We buried him on Friday last. Bon soirP' An icy thrill ran through my veins. Dead ! Buried ! .Friday last ! — and here ! — Sis grave Profaned by vulgar feet ! Oh, Noble, Gifted, Brave ! Bard of The Hundred Days /' — was this to be thy fate indeed ? I wept ; yet not because Life's galling chains No longer bound thy spirit to this barren earth; I wept to think of thy transcendent worth And genius — and of what had been their meed. I wander'd forth into the spacious Night, Till the first feelings of my heart had spent Their bitterness. Hours pass'd. There was an Uhlan tent At hand. I enter'd. By the moon's blue light I saw some arms and baggage and a heap Of straw. Upon this last I threw My weary limbs. In vain ! The moanful night-winds blew About my head and face, and Memory banish'd Sleep. All night he stood, as I had seen him last, Beside my couch. Had he indeed forsaken The tomb ? Or, did I dream, and should I waken? My thoughts flow'd like a river, dark and fast. Again I gazed on that columnar brow : "Deserted House! of late so bright with vividest flashes Of Intellect and Passion, can it be that thou Art now a mass of sparkless ashes ? " Those ashes once were watch-fires, by whose gleams The glories of the Hohenstauffen race," And Italy's shrines, and Greece's hallowM streams Stood variously reveal'd — now, softly, as the face Of Night illumined by her silver Lamp — Now, burning with a deep and living lustre, , Like the high beacon-lights that stud this Camp, Here, far apart — there, in a circular cluster. • A poem by Grabbe thus entitled. 'The allusions are to Qra v i>e's historical and illustrate v» works. 368 POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. "This Camp! Ah, yes! methinks it images well What thou hast been, thou lonely Tower! Moonbeams and lamplight mingled — the deep ohoral swell Of Music in her peals of proudest power, And then — the tavern diee-box rattle ! The Grand and the Familiar fought Within thee for the mastery ; and thy depth of thought And play of wit made every conflict a drawn battle ! " And, oh ! that such a mind, so rich, so overflowing With ancient lore and modern phantasy, And prodigal of its treasures as a tree Of golden leaves when Autumn-winds are blowing, That such a mind, made to illume and glad All minds, all hearts, should have itself be- come Affliction's chosen Sanctuary and Home ! — This is in truth most marvellous and sad ! "Alone the Poet lives — alone he dies. Cain-like, he bears the isolating brand Upon his brow of sorrow. True, his hand Is pure from blood-guilt, but in human eyes His is a darker crime than that of Cain. Rebellion against Social Wrong and Law ! " Groaning, at length I slept, and in my dreams I saw The ruins of a Temple on a desolate plain. FREEDOM AOT5 RIGHT. Oh ! think not the Twain have gone down to their graves ! Oh ! say not that 'Mankind should basely despair, Because Earth is yet trodden by tyrants and slaves, And the sighs of the Noble are spent on the air ! Oh, no ! though the Pole, from the swamps of the North, Sees trampled in shreds the bright banner he bore ; Though Italy's heroes in frenzy pour forth The rich blood of their hearts on the dark dungeon-floor, Still live- Ever live in their might Both Freedom and Right ! Who fight in the van of the battle must fall; All honor be theirs ! — 'tis for Us to press on ! They have struck the first links from the gyves that enthral Men's minds ; and the half of our triumph is won — The swift-coming triumph of Freedom and Right ! Yes ! tremble, ye Despots ! the hour will have birth When, as vampires and bats, by the arrows of Light, Your nature, your names, will be blasted from Earth ! For still- Still live in their might Fair Freedom and Right ! Gone down to the grave ? No ! if ever their breath Gave life to the paralyzed nations, 'tis now, When the serf at length wakes, as from tor- por or death, And the sunshine of Hope gleams anew on his brow ! They traverse the globe in a whirlwind of fire — They sound their deep trumpet o'er Ocean and Land, Enkindling in myriads the queuchless desire To arm as one man for the Conflict at hand t Oh ! still- Still live in their might Both Freedom and Right ! They rouse even dastards to combat and dare, Till the last of oppression's bastiles be o'erthrown ; When they conquer not here, they are con' quering elsewhere, And ere long they will conquer all Earth for their own. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Then first Peac ill be born the Millennium of By mountain and woodland :.i dazes my — vision And, O God! what a garland will bloom in the sun, When the oak-leaf of Deutschland, the olive of Greece, And the trefoil of Ireland are blended in one T As they will ; For still in their might Live Freedom and Right ! And what, though before that Millennium can dawn, The bones of our Bravest must bleach on the plain ? Thank Heaven ! they will feel that the swords they have drawn Will be sheath'd by the victors, undimm'd by a stain ! And their names through all time will be shrined in each heart As the moral Columbuses — they who un- furl'd That sunbeamy standard that shone as a chart To illumine our way to the better New World ! TO THE BELOVED ONE. Through pine-grove and greenwood, o'er hills and by hollows, Thine image my footsteps incessantly follows, And sweetly thou smilest, or veilest thine eye, While floats the white moon up the wastes of the sky. In the sheen of the fire and the purple of dawn I see thy light figure in bower and on lawn. Like some brilliant shadow itom regions Elysian. Oft has it, in dreamings, been mine to behold Thee, fairy-like, seated on throne of red gold ; Oft have I, upborne through Olympus's por- tals, Beheld thee as Hebe among the Immortals. A tone from the valley, a voice from the height, Re-echoes thy name like the Spirit of Night ; The zephyrs that woo the wild flowers on the heath Are warm with the odorous life of thy breath. And oft when in stilliest midnight my soul Is borne through the stars to its infinite goal, I long to meet thee, my Beloved, on that shore "Where hearts reunite to be sunder'd no mora Joy swiftly departeth; soon vanisheth Sor- row; Time wheels in a circle of morrow and morrow ; The sun shall be ashes, the earth waste away, But Love shall reign king in his glory for aye. Juhann (Sattdeng f anm 0. $atts 1 O, Gott, welch ein Kranz wird sie Klorreich dann Zieren 1 Die Olive deB Griechen, das Kieebtatt dee Iren, TJnd vor Allem gennanisches Eichengeflecht, —Die Freiheit I das Recht ! CHEERFULNESS. See how the day beameth brightly before us! Blue is the firmament — green is the earth ; Grief hath no voice in the Universe-chorus — Nature is ringing with music and mirth. Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness. Gaze ! and if Beauty can capture thy soul, Virtue herself will allure thee to gladness — Gladness, Philosophy's guerdon and goal. 3V0 POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses — List ! ho w she thrills in the nightingale's lay ! Breathe! Btae is waiting thee sweets from the roses ; Feel ! she is cool in the rivulet's play ; Taste! from the grape and the nectarine gushing Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun ; Green in the hills, in the flower-groves blush- ing, Look ! she is always and everywhere one. Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trickling Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom ; Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling, Suffer his lamp to be quench'd in the tomb? Still may we battle for Goodness and Beauty; Still hath Philanthropy much to essay: •Glory rewards the fulfilment of Duty; Rest will pavilion the end of our way. What, though corroding and multiplied sor- rows, Legion-like, darken this planet of ours, Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows, Ever when Anguish hath palsied its powers ; Wherefore, though Fate play the part of a traitor, Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of Hope, Fearlessly certain that sooner or later Over the stars thy desires shall have scope. Look round about on the face of Creation ! Still is God's Earth undistorted and bright ; Comfort the captives to long tribulation, Thus shalt thou reap the more perfect delight. Love ! — but if Love be a hallow'd emotion, Purity only its rapture should share ; Love, then, with willing and deathless emo- tion, All that is just and exalted and fair. Act ! — for in Action are Wisdom and Glory ; Fame, Immortality — these are its crown Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of Story, Build on achixyxmknts thy Dome of Re- nown. Honor and Feeling were given thee to cher- ish, — Cherish them, then, though all else should decay : Landmarks be these that are never to perish, Stars that will shine on thy duskiest day. Courage ! — Disaster and Peril, once over, Freshen the spirit, as showers the grove O'er the dim graves that the cypresses cover Soon the Forget-Me-Not rises in love. Courage, then, friends ! Though the universe crumble, Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath, Patient and trustful and joyous and humble, Smiles through the ruin on Darkness and Death. August JuMgh f udu% gotten. FREEDOM. RraG, ring, blithe Freedom's Song ! Roll forth as water strong Down rocks in sheets ! Pale stands the Gallic swarm — Our hearts beat high and warm — Youth nerves the Teuton's arm For glorious feats ! God ! Father ! to thy praise The spirit of old days In Deutschland's Youth Spreads as a burning brand ! We hail the fourfold band ! God, Freedom, Fatherland, Old German Truth ! Pure-tongued and pious be, Manful and chaste and free, Great Hermann's race ! And, while God's judgments light On Tyranny's brute might, Build We the People's Right On Freedom's base ! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. For now in German Fair Freedom manifests Her power at length ; Her worth is understood ; We vow to her our blood ; We feel that Brotherhood Alone is Strength ! Ring, then, glad Song of Zeal, Loud as the thunder-peal That rooks the sphere ! Our hearts, hopes, objects, One, Stand we, One Starry Zone, And round One Sun, the Throne, Be our career! Jri^rah SiqjoM ti^tmt ^tottyttg. THE GRAVE. Life's Day is dark'd with Storm and 111 ; The Night of Death is mild and still ; The consecrated Grave receives Our frames as Earth doth wither'd leaves. There sunbeams shine, there dewy showers Fall bright as on the garden-bowers ; And Friendship's tear-drops, in the ray Of Hope, are brighter still than they. The Mother 1 from her lampless dome Calls out to all, "Come home! Come home!" Oh ! could we once behold her face, We ne'er would shun her dark embrace. e met with in the poetry of almost all countries ; but O'Doran has endeavored to give the legend a political coloring, of which. I apprehend, readers in general will hardiy deem it susceptible.] " Maidin chiuin dham chois bruach na tragha." 'Twas a balmy summer morning, Warm and early, Such as only June bestows ; Everywhere the earth adorning, Dews lay pearly In the lily-bell and rose. Up from each green-leafy bosk and hollow Rose the blackbird's pleasant lay, And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow. 'Twas the Dawning of the Day ! Through the perfumed air the golden Bees flew round me ; Bright tish dazzled from the sea, Till medreamt some fairy olden- World spell bound me In a trance of witcherie Steeds pranced round anon witn stateliest housings Bearing riders prankt in rich array, Like flush'd revellers'after wine-carousings. 'Twas the Dawning of the Day! Then a strain of song was chanted, And the lightly- Floatirig sea-nymphs drew anear. Then again the shore seem'd haunted By hosts brightly Clad, and wielding shield and spear! Then came battle shouts — an onward rushing — Swords, and chariots, and a phantom fray. Then all vanish'd ; the warm skies were, blushing In the Dawning of the Day ! Cities girt with glorious gardens, Whose immortal Habitants in robes of light Stood, methought, as angel-wardena Nigh each portal, Now arose to daze my sight. Eden spread around, revived and bloom- ing; When . . . lo ! as I gazed, all pass'd away ... I saw but black rocks and billows loom- ing In the dim chill Dawn of Day ! THE DREAM OF JOHN MacDONNELL. (translated FROM THE rRISH.) [John MacDonnell, usually called MacDonnell Claragh, from his family residence, was a native of the county of Cork, and may be classed among the first of the purely Irish poets of the last century. Fie was born in 1691, and died in 1154. Hia poems are remarkable for their energy, their piety of tone, and the patriotic spirit they everywhere mauifest. The follow- ing is one of them, and deserves to be regarded as a very curi- ous topographical " Jacobite relic."] I lay in unrest — old thoughts of pain, That I struggled in vain to smother, Like midnight spectres haunted my brain; Dark fantasies chased each other; POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. When, lo ! a Figure — who might it be ? — A tall fair figure stood near me ! Who might it be ? An unreal Banshee ? Or an angel sent to cheer me ? Though years have roll'd since then, yet now My memory thrillingly lingers On her awful charms, her waxen brow, Her pale translucent fingers, Her eyes that mirror'd a wonder-world, Her mien of unearthly mildness, And her waving raven tresses that curl'd To the ground in beautiful " Whence comest thou, Spirit ? " I ask'd, methougnt, "Thou art not one of the Banish'd?" Alas, for me ! she answer'd nought, But rose aloft and evanish'd ; And a radiance, like to a glory, beam'd In the light she left behind her. Long time I wept, and at last medream'd I left my shieling to find her. And first I turn'd to the thunderous North, To Gruagach's mansion kingly ; Untouching the earth, I then sped forth To Inver-lough, and the shingly And shining strand of the fishful Erne, And thence to Cruachan the golden, Of whose resplendent palace ye learn So many a marvel olden ! I saw the Mourna's billows flow — I pass'd the walls of Shenady, And stood in the hero-throng'd Ardroe, Embosk'd amid greenwoods shady ; And visited that proud pile that stands Above the Boyne's broad waters, Where iEngus dwells with his warrior- bands And the fairest of Ulster's daughters. To the halls of MacLir, to Creevroe's height, To Tara, the glory of Erin, To the fairy palace that glances bright On the peak of the blue Cnocfeerin, I vainly hied. I went west and east — I travell'd seaward and shoreward — But thus was I greeted at. field and at feast — " Thy way lies onward and forward !" At last I reach'd. I wist not how, The royal towers of Ival, Which under the cliff's gigantic brow, Still rise without a rival ; And here were Thomond's chieftains all, With armor, and swords, and lances, And here sweet music fill'd the hall, And damsels charm'd with dances. And here, at length, on a silvery throne, Half seated, half reclining, With forehead white as the marble stone, And garments so starrily shining, And features beyond the poet's pen — The sweetest, saddest features — Appear'd before me once agen, That fairest of Living- Creatures! " Draw near, O mortal !" she said with a sigh, " And hear my mournful story ! The Guardian-Spirit of Erin am I, But dimm'd is mine ancient glory My priests are banish'd, my warriors wear No longer Victory's garland ; And my Child, 1 my Son, my beloved Heir, Is an exile in a far land ! " I heard no more — I saw no more — The bans of slumber were broken ; And palace and hero, and river and shore, Had vanish'd, and left no token. Dissolved was the spell that had bound my will And my fancy thus for a season ; But a sorrow therefore hangs o'er me still, Despite of the teachings of Reason ! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 387 THE SORROWS OF INNISFALL. (•FROM THE IRISH OF GEOFFREY KEATING.) " Om sgeel air ard-mhagh Fail ni chodlann oidhche." Through the long drear night I lie awake, for the sorrows of Innisfail. My bleeding heart is ready to break ; I can- not but weep and wail. •Ob, shame and grief and wonder ! her sons crouch lowly under The footstool of the paltriest foe That ever yet hath wrought them woe ! How long, O Mother of Light and Song, how long will they fail to see That men must be bold, no less than strong, if they truly will to be free ? They sit but in silent sadness, while wrongs that should rouse them to madness, Wrongs that might wake the very Dead, Are piled on thy devoted head ! Thy castles, thy towers, thy palaces proud, thy stately mansions all, Are held by the knaves who cross'd the waves to lord it in Brian's hall. Britannia, alas ! is portress in Cobhthach's Golden Fortress, And Ulster's and Momonia's lands Are in the Robber-stranger's hands. The tribe of Eogan is worn with woe ; the O'Donnel reigns no more ; O'Neill's remains lie mouldering low, on Italy's far-off shore ; And the youths of the Pleasant Valley are scatter'd and cannot rally, While foreign Despotism unfurls Its flag 'mid hordes of base-born churls. 1 he chieftains of Naas were valorous lords, but their valor was crush'd by Graft — They fell beneath Envy's butcherly dagger, and Cailumny's poison'd shaft. A few of their mighty legions yet languish in alien regions, But most of 'them, the Frank, the Free, Were slain through Saxon perfidie ! Oh ! lived the Princes of Ainy's plains, and the heroes of green Domgole, And the chiefs of the Mauige, we still might hope to baffle our doom and dole. Well then might the dastards shiver who herd by the blue Bride river, But ah ! those great and glorious men Shall draw no glaive on Earth agen ! All-powerful God ! look down on the tribes who mourn throughout the land, And raise them some deliverer up, of a strong and smiting hand ! Oh ! suffer them not to perish, the race Thov wert wont to cherish, But soon avenge their fathers' graves, And burst the bonds that keep them slaves • THE TESTAMENT OF CATHAEIR MOR. [One of the most interesting archaeological relica connected with Irish literature is nnqnestionably the Testament of Cath- aeir Mor, King of Ireland in the second century. (Haverty'a History of Ireland, Farrell's Illustrated Edition, p. 37-9.) It is a document whose general authenticity is established be- yond question, though some doubt exists as to whether it was originally penned in the precise form in which it has come down to modern times. Mention of it is made by many writers on Irish history, and among others, by O'Flaherty in his Ogygia — (Part ni., c. 59). But in'the Leabhar na g-Ceart, or, The Book of Eights, now for the first time edited, with Translation and notes, by Mr. O'Donovan, for the Celtic So- ciety, we have it entire. The learned editor is of opinion that " it was drawn up in its present form some centuries after the death of Cathaeir Mor, when the race of his more illustrious sons had definite territories in Leinster." Be the fact as it may, the document is certainly one of those charac- teristic remains of an earlier age which most markedly bear the stamp of the peculiarities that distinguish natiye Irish literary productions.] -Jutrobttction. Here is the Will of Cathaeir Mor. God rest him. Among his heirs he divided his store, His treasures and lands, And, first, laying hands On his son Ross Faly, he bless'd him. " itln Soumign Jtotoer, my nobleness, My wealth, my strength to curse and bless, My royal privilege of protection, I leave to the son of my best affection, Ross Faly, Ross of the Rings, Worthy descendant of Ireland's Kings \ To serve as memorials of succession POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAN. For all who yet shall claim their possession In after ages. Clement and noble and bold Is Ross, my son. Then, let him not hoard up silver and gold, But give unto all fair measure of wages. Victorious in battle he ever hath been ; He therefore shall yield the green And glorious plains of Tara to none, No, not to his brothers ! Yet these shall he aid When attack'd or betray'd. This blessing of mine shall outlast the tomb, And live till the Day of Doom, Telling and telling daily, And a prosperous man beyond all others Shall prove Ross Faly !" Then he gave him ten shields, and ten rings, and ten swords, And ten drinking-horns ; and he spake him those words. " Brightly shall shine the glory, O Ross, of thy sons and heirs, Never shall flourish in story Such heroes as they and theirs !" Then, laying his royal hand on the head Of his good son, Daeet, 1 he bless'd him and said : — " iflrj t)alor, my daring, my mar- tial courage, My skill in the field, 1 leave to Daeet, That he be a guiding Torch and starry Light and Lamp to the hosts of our age. A hero to sway, to lead and command, Shall be every son of his tribes in the land! O, Daeey, with boldness and power Sit thou on the frontier of Tuath Lann,' And ravage the lands of Deas Ghower.' Accept no gifts for thy protection From woman or man. So shall heaven assuredly bless Thy many daughters with fruitfulness, 1 Laire Barrach. Haverty's Ireland (Fan-ell's edition), p.SJ. 'Tuath Laigliean, viz. North Leinster. • Jka) Qhabhair. viz. Sontb Leinster. And none shall stand above thee,- For I, thy sire, who love thee With deep and warm affection, I prophesy unto thee all success Over the green battalions Of the redoubtable Galions." 4 And he gave him, thereon, as memorials and meeds, Eight bondsmen, eight handmaids, eight cups, and eight steeds. The noble Monarch of Erin's men Spake thus to the young Prince Brassal, then : — " ftlrj Sea, with all its wealth oi streams, I leave to my sweetly-speaking Bbassax, To serve and to succor him as a vassal — And the lands whereon the bright sun beams Around the waves of Amergin's Bay' As parcell'd out in the ancient day: By free men through a long, long time Shall this thy heritage be enjoy'd — But the chieftaincy shall at last be destroy'd, Because of a Prince's crime. And though others again shall regain it, Yet Heaven shall not bless it, For power shall oppress it, And Weakness and Baseness shall stain it!" And he gave him six ships, and six steeds, and six shields, Six mantles and six coats of steel — And the six royal oxen that wrought in his fields, These gave he to Brassel the Prince for his weal. Then to Catach he spake : — " ills borber lanbs Thou, CATACH, shalt take, But ere long they shall pass from thy hands, And by thee shall none Be ever begotten, daughter or son !" • Gaillam, an ancient designation, according to O'Dono- van, of the Laisrhnigh or Leinstermen. * Inbhear Aimlurgldn. originally the estuary of the Black. water, and *o called from Aimhenrhin. one of the sons of MI leeiofi, to whom it was apportioned by lot. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK QLo .fearghns £nascon spake he thus : — " Thou'FEARGHUS, also, art one of us, But over-simple in all thy ways, And babblest much of thy childish days. For thee have I nought, but if lands may be bought Or won hereafter by sword or lance, Of those, perchance, I may leave thee a part, All simple babbler and boy as thou art !" Toting Fearghus, therefore, was left be- reaven, And thus the Monarch spake to Ckeeven — " 8t0 mg bogie!) hero, my gentle Ckeeven, Who loveth in Summer, at morn and even, To snare the songful birds of the field, But shunneth to look on spear and shield, I have little to give of all that I share. His fame shall fail, his battles be rare. And of all the Kings that shall wear his crown But one alone shall win renown." ' And he gave him six cloaks, and six cups, and seven steeds, And six harness'd oxen, all fresh from the meads. But on Aenghus Nic, a younger child, Begotten in crime and born in woe, The father frown'd, as on one defiled, And with louring brow he spake him so : — *' ®0 Nic, my son, that base-born youth, Shall nought be given of land or gold ; He may be great, and good, and bold, But his birth is an agony all untold, Which gnaweth him like a serpent's tooth. I am no donor To him or his race — His birth was dishonor ; His life is disgrace !" And thus he spake to Eochy Tijiin, Deeming him fit but to herd with women : — " tOeak son of mine, thou shalt not gain Waste or water, valley or plain. From thee shall none descend save cravens, Sons of sluggish sires and mothers, Who shall live and die, But give no corpses to the ravens ! Mine ill thought and mine evil eye* On thee beyond thy brothers Shall ever, ever lie !" And to Oilioll Cadach his words were those r " © ©ilioll, great in coming years Shall be thy fame among friends and foes As the first of Brughaidhs 3 and Hospita- liers ! But neither noble nor warlike Shall show thy renownless dwelling ; Thou shalt dazzle at chess, Therein supremely excelling And shining like somewhat starlike !" And his chess-board, therefore, and chess- men eke, He gave to Oilioll Cadach the Meek. Now Fiacha, — youngest son was he, — Stood up by the bed of his father, who said, The while, caressing Him tenderly : — " My son ! I have only for thee my blessing, And nought beside — Hadst best abide With thy brothers a time, aB thine years are green." Then Fiacha wept, with a sorrowful mien ; So, Cathaeir spake, to encourage him g ail y, With cheerful speech — " Abide one month with thy brethren each, And seven years long with my son, Ross Faly. Do this, and thy sire, in sincerity, Prophesies unto thee fame and pros- perity." And further he spake, as one inspired : — " A Chieftain flourishing, feared and admired, Shall Fiacha prove ! »In the original— "Mo fainii ttu> eatcains," literally, "Mj weakness, my cnrse." • Public victuallers. 3 'JO POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. The gifted Man from the boiling Berve. 1 Him shall his brothers' clansmen serve. His forts shall be Aillin and proud Almain, He shall reign in Carman and Allen ; * The highest renown shall his palaces gain When others have crumbled and fellen. His power shall broaden and lengthen, And never know damage or loss ; The impregnable Naas he shall strengthen, And govern in Ailbhe and Arriged Ross. Yes ! O Fiacha, Foe of strangers, This shall be thy lot '. And thou shalt pilot Ladhrann and Leeven ' with steady and even Heart and arm through storm and dangers ! Overthrown by thy mighty hand Shall the Lords of Tara lie. And Taillte's 4 fair, the first in the land, Thou, son, shalt magnify ; And many a country thou yet shalt bring To own thy rule as Ceann and King. The blessing I give thee shall rest On thee and thy seed While Time shall endure, Thou grandson of Fiacha the Blest ! It is barely thy meed, For thy soul is childlike and pure !" Here ends the Will of Cathaeir Mor, who was King of Ireland. RURY AND DARVORGILLA. (PROM THE IRISH.) [Ruaghrl, Prince of Oriel, after an absence of two days and nights from hie own territories on a hunting expedition, sud- denly recollects that he has forgotten his wedding-day. He despairs of forgiveness from the bride whom he appears to have slighted. nearbhorgilla, daughter of Prince Cairtre, hut would scorn her too much to wed her if she could forgive him. He accordingly prepares for battle with her and her father, but unfortunately intrusts the command of his forces to one of his most aged Ceanns or Captains. He is probably incited to the selection of this chieftain by a wish to avoid provoking hostili- ties, which, however, if they occur, he will meet by defiance and conflict ; but his choice proves to have been a fatal one. His Ceann is seized with a strange feeling of fear in the midst of the fray ; and this, being communicated to his troops, en- larges into a panic, and Ruaghri's followers are slaughtered. Ruagnri himself arrives next day on the battle-plain, and, per- ceiving the result of the contest, stabs himself to the heart. Dearbhorgilia witnesses this sad catastrophe from a distance, 1 Bearbha, viz., the river Barrow. ' The localities mentioned here were chiefly residences of the ancient kings of Leinster. 1 Forts upon the eastern coasts of Ireland. « TaMti, now Teltown, a village between Kells and Navan, to Heath. and, rushing toward the scene of it, clasps her lover iu her arms ; but her stern father, following, tears her away from tuo bleeding corpse, and has her cast in his wrath, it is supposed, into one of the dungeons of bis castle. But of her fate nothing certain is known afterward; though, from subsequent cir- cumstances, it is conjectured that she perished, the victim of her lover'sthoughtlessness and her father's tyranny.! Know ye the tale of the Prince of Oriel, Of Rury, last of his line of kings? I pen it here as a sad memorial Of how much woe reckless folly brings. Of a time that Rury rode woodwards, clothed In silk and gold on a hunting chase, He thought like thunder' on his betroth'd, And with clinch'd hand he smote his face. "Foreer!* Mobhron! 1 Princess Darvorgilla ! Forgive she will not a slight like this ; But could she, dared she, I should be still a Base wretch to wed her for heaven's best- bliss ! Foreer ! Princess Darvorgilla ! She has four hundred young bowmen bold I But I — I love her, and would not spill a Drop of their blood for ten torques' of gold. " Still, woe to all who provoke to slaughter ! I count as nought, weigh'd with fame like mine, The birth and beauty of Cairtre's daughter ; So, judge the sword between line and line ! " Thou, therefore, Calbhach,' go call a mus- ter, And wind the bugle by fort and dun ! When stain shall tarnish our house's lustre, Then sets in darkness the noon-day sun !" But Calbhach answer'd, " Light need to do so ! Behold the noblest of hero's here ! What foe confronts us, I reck not whoso, Shall fly before us like hunted deer !" the thought c "Alas I 7 Pronounced Mo vrone, and means My grief 1 8 Royal neck-ornaments. • Calbhach,— proper name of a man.— derived from C»lb» bald-pated. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Spake Rury then : " Calbhach, as thou wiliest ! But see, old man, there be brief delay — For this chill parle is of all things ehillest, And my fleet courser must now away ! " Yet, though thou march with thy legions townwards, Well arm'd for ambush or treacherous fray, Still show they point their bare weapons downwards, As those of warriors averse to slay !" Now, when the clansmen were arm'd and mounted, The aged Calbhach gave way to fears ; For, foot and horseman, they barely counted A hundred cross-bows and forty spears. And thus exclaim'd he : " My soul is ; We die the death, not of men but We sleep the sleep from which none awaken, And scorn shall point at our tombless graves ! " Then out spake Fergal : " A charge so weighty As this, O Rury, thou shouldst not throw On a drivelling dotard of eight-and-eighty, Whose arm is nerveless for spear or bow ! " But Rury answer'd : " Away ! To-morrow Myself will stand in Traghvally 1 town ; But, come what may come, this day I bor- row To hunt through Glafna the brown deer down !" So, through the nignt, unto gray Traghvally, The feeble Ceann led his hosts along ; But, faint and heart-sore, they could not rally, So deeply Rury had wrought them wrong. Now, when the Princess beheld advancing Her lover's troops with their arms re- versed, In lieu of broadswords and chargers prancing, She felt her heart's hopes were dead and hearsed. And on her knees to her ireful father She pray'd : " O father, let this pass by ; War not against the brave Rury ! Rather Pierce this fond bosom and let me die !" But Cairtre rose in volcanic fury, And so he spake : "By the might of God ; 1 hold no terms with this craven Rury Till he or I lie below the sod ! " Thou shameless child ! Thou, alike un- worthy Of him, thy father, who speaks thee thus, And her, my Mhearb, 2 who in sorrow bore thee ; Wilt thou dishonor thyself and us ? " Behold ! I march with my serried bowmen —Four hundred thine and a thousand mine; I march to crush these degraded foemen Who gorge the ravens ere day decline !" Meet now both armies in mortal struggle, The spears are shiver'd, the javelins fly But, what strange terror, what mental juggle, Be those that speak out of Calbhach's eye ? It is— it must be, some spell Satanic, That masters him and his gallant host. Woe, woe the day ! An inglorious panic O'erpowers the legions— and all is lost ! Woe, woe that day, and that hour of car Too well they witness to Fergal's truth ! Too well in bloodiest appeal they warn Age Not lightly thus to match swords with Youth ! When Rury reach'd, in the red of morning, The battle-ground, it was he who felt The dreadful weight of this ghastly warning, And what a blow had o'ernight been dealt ! So, glancing round him, and sadly groaning^ He pierced his breast with his noble blade ; Thus all too mournfully mis-atoning For that black ruin his word had made. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. But hear ye further ! When Cairtre's daugh- ter Saw what a fate had o'erta'en her Brave, Her eyes became as twin founts of water, Her heart again as a darker grave. Clasp now thy lover, unhappy maiden ! But, see ! thy sire tears thine arms away ! And in a dungeon, all anguish laden, Shalt thou be cast ere the shut of day. But what shall be in the sad years coming Thy doom ? I know not, but guess too well That sunlight never shall trace thee roaming Ayond the gloom of thy sunken cell ! This is the tale of the Prince of Oriel And Darvorgilla, both sprung of Kings ! I trace it here as a dark memorial Of how much woe thoughtless folly brings. THE EXPEDITION AND DEATH OF KING DATHY.' (FROM THE IRISH.) King Dathy assembled his Druids and Sages, And thus he spake them : "Druids and Sages ! What of king Dathy ? What is reveal'd in Destiny's pages Of him or his ? Hath he Aught for the Future to dread or to dree ? Good to rejoice in, or Evil to flee ? Is he a foe of the Gall — Fitted to conquer or fated to fall ?" And Beirdra, the Druid, made answer as thus : A priest of a hundred years was he — " Dathy ! thy fate is not hidden from us ! Hear it through me ! Thou shalt work thine own will ! Thou shalt slay — thou shalt prey — And be conqueror still ! Thee the Earth shall not harm ! Thee we charter and charm From all evil and ill ; Thee the laurel shall crown ! Thee the wave shall not drown ! Thee the chain shall not bind ! Thee the spear shall not find ! Thee the sword shall not slay ! Thee the shaft shall not piewfe Thou, therefore, be fearless and fierce, And sail with thy warriors away To the lands of the Gall, There to slaughter and sway, And be Victor o'er all !" So Dathy he sail'd away, away, Over the deep resounding ses> ; Sail'd with his hosts in armor gray Over the deep resounding sea, Many a night and many a day ; And many an islet conquer' J he — He and his hosts in armor gray. And the billow drown'd him not, And a fetter bound him not, And the blue spear found him not, And the red sword slew him not, And the swift shaft knew him not, And the foe o'erthrew iiim not. Till one bright morn, at the base Of the Alps, in rich Ausonia's regions, His men stood marshall'd face to face With the mighty Roman legions. Noble foes ! Christian and Heathen stood there among those, Resolute all to overcome, Or die for the Eagles of Ancient Rome ! Whon behold from a temple anear Came forth an aged priest-like man, Of a countenance meek and clear, Who, turning to Eire's Ceann," Spake him as thus : " King Dathy, hear! Thee would I warn ! Retreat ! retire ! Repent in time The invader's crime. Or better for thee thou hadst never been born !" But Dathy replied : " False Nazarene ! Dost thou, then, menace Dathy, thou ? And dreamest thou that he will bow To one unknown, to one so mean, So powerless as a priest must be ? He scorns alike thy threats and thee ! On ! on, my men, to victory !" » Ceaim— Head, King. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAX. Ana -vith loud shouts for Eire's King, The Irish rush to meet the foe, And fai.-.nions clash and bucklers ring — When, lo ! Lo ! a mighfv earthquake's shock ! And the cleft piains reel and rock ; Clouds of darkness pall the skies ; Thunder crashes, Lightning flashes, And in an instant Dathy lies On the earth a mass of blacken'd ashes ! Then mournfully and dolefully, The Irish warriors sail'd away Over the deep resounding sea, Till, wearily and mournfully, They anchor'd in Eblana's Bay. Thus the Seanachies ' and Sages, Tell this tale of lonsr-srone ages. PRINCE ALDFRID'S ITINERARY THROUGH IRELAND. (FROM THE IRISH.) . [Amongst the Anglo-Saxon students resorting to Ireland, was Prince Aldfrid, afterward King of the Northumbrian Saxons. His having been educated there about the year 634, is corroborated by venerable Bcde in his " Life of St. Cuth- bert." The original poem, of which this is a translation, at- tributed to Atafrid, is still extant in the Irish language.] I found in Innisfail the fail-, In Ireland, while in exile there, Women of worth, both grave and gay men, Many clerics and many laymen. I travell'd its fruitful provinces round, And in every one of the five * I found, Alike in church and in palace hall, _ . Abundant apparel, and food for all. Gold and silver I found, and money, Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey; I found God's people rich in pity, Found many a feast and many a city. I also found in Armagh, the splendid, Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, Fasting, as Christ hath recommended, And noble councillors untranscended. I found in each great church moreo'er, Whether on island or on shore, Piety, learning, fond affection, Holy welcome and kind protection. I found the good lay monks and brothers Ever beseeching help for others, And in their keeping the holy word Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord. I found in Munster unfetter'd of any, Kings and queens, and poets a many — Poets well skill'd in music and measure, Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure. I found in Connaught the just, redundance Of riches, milk in lavish abundance ; Hospitality, vigor, fame, In Cruachan's s land of heroic name. I found in the country of Connall 4 the glorious Bravest heroes, ever victorious ; Fair-complexion'd men and warlike, Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike ! I found in Ulster, from hill to glen, Hardy warriors, resolute men ; Beauty that bloom'd when youth was gone, And strength transmitted from sire to son. I found in the noble district of Boyle (MS. here illegible.) Brehon's," Erenachs, weapons bright, And horsemen bold and sudden in fight. I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, From Dublin to Slewmargy's * peak ; Flourishing pastures, valor, health, Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth. I found besides, from Ara to Glea, In the broad rich country of Ossorie, Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, Great chess-players, men of truthful speech. » Cruachan, or Croghan, was the name of the royal palace of Connaught. 4 Tyrconnell, the present Donegal. 1 Brehon— a law judge ; Erenach— a rnler, an archdeacon. " Slewmargy, a mountain in the Queen's county, near thi POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAX. I found in Meath's fair principality, Virtue, vigor, and hospitality; Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity, . Ireland's bulwark and security. I found strict morals in age and youth, I found historians recording truth ; The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, I found them all — I have written sooth. (fkom tiie raisn.) [This poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet MacLiag, the secretary of the renowned monarch Brian Born, who, as is well known, fell at the battle of Clontarf, in 1014, and the subject of it is a lamentation for the fallen condition of Kinkora, the palace of that monarch, consequent on his death. The de- cease of JtacLiag is recorded in the "Annals of the Four Mas- ters," as having taken place in 1015. A great number of his poems are still hi existence, but none of them have obtained a popularity so widely extended as his "Lament." Kinkora (Ceann Coradh. i. e., Head of the Weir) was situated on the hank of the Shannon : its site is occupied by the present town of Killaloe, but no vestiges remain of the fortress and palace cf Brian. (See Haverty's History of Ireland, Farrell's Edition, p. 132.) Oh, where, Kinkora ! is Brian the Great ? And where is the beauty that once was thine ? Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine ! Where, O Kinkora ? Oh, -where, Kinkora! are thy valorous lords? Oh, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone? Oh, -where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords ? * And where are the warriors Brian led on ? Where, O Kinkora ? And where is Morrogh, the descendant of kings ; The defeater of a hundred — the daringly brave — 1 " Bode assures ns that the Irish were a harmless and friend ly people. To them many of the Angles had been accustomed to resort in search of knowledge, und on all occasions had been received kindly and supported gratuitously. Aldfrid lived in spontaneous exile among the Scots (Irish) through his desire of kuowledge, and was called to the throne of North- umbria, after the decease of his brother Egfrid, in 6S5." Lin< tariff England, vol, 1, chap, ii > Volg Who set but slight store by jewels and rings— Who swam down the torrent and laugh'4 at its wave ? Where, O Kinkora ? And where is Donogh, King Brian's worthy son? And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief? And Kian and Core ? Alas ! they are gone ; They have left me this night alone with my grief! Left me, Kinkora ! And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth, The never-vanquish'd sons of Erin the brave, The great King of Ouaght, renown'd for his worth, And the hosts of Baskinn from the western wave? Where, O Kinkora? Oh, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds ? And where is Kian,who was son of Molloy ? And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds In the red battle-field no time can destroy ? Where, O Kinkora? And where is that youth of majestic height, The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots ? Even he, As wide as his fame was, as great as was his- might, Was tributary, O Kinkora, to thee ! Thee, Kinkora ! They are gone, those heroes of royal birth, Who plunder'd no churches, and broke no trust ; 'Tis weary for me to be living on earth, When they, Kinkora, lie low in the dust I Low, O Kinkora ! Oh, never again will Princes appear, To rival the Dalcassians 3 of the Cleaving Swords ; the swords of Gold— I. e. of the Gold-hilled LThe Dalcassians \ Brian's body-guard. KING BRIAN BEFORE THE BATTLE OF CLONTARF < POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. [ can never dream of meeting afar or anear, In the east or the west, such heroes and lords ! Never, Kinkora ! Oh, dear are the images my memory calls up Of Brian Boru ! — how he never would miss To give me, at the hanquet, the first bright cup! Ah ! why did he heap on me honor like this? Why, O Kinkora ? I am MacLiag, and my home is on the Lake : Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled, Came Brian, to ask me, and I went for his sake : Oh, my grief ! that I should live, and Brian Dead, O Kinkora ! LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL. (FROM TILE IRISH.) [This is an Elegy on the death of the princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnell, who having fled with others from Ireland in the year 1607, and afterward dying at Home tO'Donnell in 1608, O'Neill in 1616.— Haverty's Ireland. ParreU's Edition, p. 459), were interred on St. Peter's Hill, in one grave. The poem is the production of O'Donnell's bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird, or Ward, who accompanied the family in their exile, and is ad- dressed to Nnala, O'Donnell's sister, who was also one of the fugitives. As the circumstances connected with the ilight of the Northern Earls, which led to the subsequent confiscation of the sis Ulster Counties by James I., may not be immediate- ly in the recollection of many of our readers, it may be proper briefly to state, that it was caused by the discovery of a letter directed to Sir William Ussher, Clerk of the Council, dropped in the Council-chamber on the 7th of May. and which accused the Northern chieftains generally of a conspiracy to overthrow the government. The charge is now totally disbelieved. As an illustration of the poem, and as an interesting piece of hitherto unpublished literature in itself, we extract the ac- count of the flight as recorded in the Annals of the Pour Mas- ters, and translated by Mr. O'Donovnn: "Maguire (Cucon- naught) and Donogh, son of Mahon, who was son of the Bishop O'Brien, sailed in a ship to Ireland, and put in at the harbor of Swilly. They then took with them from Ireland the Earl O'Neill (Hugh, son of Fedoragh) and the Earl O'Donnell (Hory, son of Hugh, who was son of Magnus) and many others of the nobles of the province of Ulster. These are the persons who wont with O'Neill, namely, his Countess, Catherina, daughter ef Magennis, and her three sons ; Hugh, the Baron, John, and Brian ; Art Oge, son of Connac, who was son of the Baron ; Ferdoragh, son of Con, who was! son of O'Neill : Hugh Oge, son of Brian, who was son of Art O'Neill : and many others of his most intimate friends. These were they who went with, the Earl O'Donnell, namely, Caffer, his brother, with his sister Nuala ; Hugh, the Earl's child, wanting three weeks of being- one year old ; Hose, daughter of O'Doherty and wife of Caffer, with her son Hugh, aged two years and three months ; his- (Rory's) brother's son Donnell Oge, son of Donnel, Naghtan, son of Calvach, who was son of Donogh Cairbreach O'Donnell, and many others of his intimate friends. They embarked on the festival of the Holy Cross in autumn. This was a distin gnished company ; and it is certain that the sea has not borne and the wind has not wafted in modern times a number of per- sons in one ship more eminent, illustrious, or noble in point of genealogy, heroic deeds, valor, feats of arms, and brave achievements than they. Would that God had but permitted them to remain in their patrimonial inheritances until the chil- dren should arrive at the age of manhood ! Woe to the heart that meditated, woe to the mind that conceived, woe to the council that recommended the project of this expedition, with- out knowing whether they should, to the end of their liveB, be able to return to their native principalities or patrimonies." The Earl of Tyrone was the illustrious Hugh O'Neill, the Irish, leader in the wars against Elizabeth.] O Woman of the Piercing Wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan, Would God thou wert among the Gael I Thou wouldst not then from day to day Weep thus alone. 'Twere long before, around a grave In green Tirconnell, one could find This loneliness ; Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined Companionless. Beside the wave, in Donegal, In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, Or Killillee, Or where the sunny waters fall, At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, This could not be. On Derry's plains — in rich Drumcliefl" — Throughout Armagh the Great, renown'd In olden years, No day could pass but woman's grief Would rain upon the burial-ground Fresh floods of tears ! Oh, no ! — from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, From high Dunluce's castle-walls, From Lissadill, Would flock alike both rich and poor. One wail would rise from Cruachan's hall» To Tara's hill ; And some would come from Barrow-side, POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. And many a maid would leave her home On Leitrim's plains, And by melodious Banna's tide, And by the Mourne and Erne, to come And swell thy strains ! Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down The Mount whereon the martyr-saint ' Was crucified. From glen and hill, from plain and town, One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, Would echo wide. There would not soon be found, I ween, One foot of ground among those bands, For museful thought, So many shriekers of the keen ' Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, All woe-distraught ! Two princes of the line of Conn Sleep in their cells of clay beside O'Donnell Roe: Three royal youths, alas ! are gone, Who lived for Erin's weal, but died For Erin's woe ! Ah ! could the men of Ireland read The names these noteless burial-stones Display to view, Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, Their tears gush forth again, their groans Resound anew ! The youths whose relics moulder here Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord Of Aileach's lands ; Thy noble brothers, justly dear, Thy nephew, long to be deplored By Ulster's' bands. Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time Could domicile Decay or house Decrepitude ! They pass'd from Earth ere Manhood's prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows Or chill their blood. 1 St. Peter. Thi6 passage is not exactly a blunder, though at first it may Beem one ; the poet supposes the grave Itself transferred to Ireland, and he naturally includes in the trans- ference the whole of the immediate locality around the grave. — Tr. • Keen or Caolne, the foneral-waU. And who can marvel o'er thy grief. Or who can blame thy flowing tears, That knows their source ? O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, Cut off amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair— For valor, truth, and comely bloom, For all that greatens and adorns, A peerless pair. Oh, had these twain, and he, the third, The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son, Their mate in death — A prince in look, in deed and word — Had these three heroes yielded on The field their breath, Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, There would not be a town or clan From shore to sea, But would with shrieks bewail the Slain, Or chant aloud the exulting rann* Of jubilee ! When high the shout of battle rose, On fields where Freedom's torch still burn'd Through Erin's gloom, If one, if barely one of those Were slain, all Ulster would have mourn'd The hero»s doom ! K at Athboy, where hosts of brave Ulidian horsemen sank beneath The shock of spears, Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave, Long must the north have wept his death With heart- wrung; tears ! H on the day of Ballachmyre The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young, A warrior's fate, In vain would such as thou desire To mourn, alone, the champion sprung From Niall the Great ! No marvel this — for all the Dead, Heap'd on the field, pile over pile, At Mullach-brack, 1 Song. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Were scarce an eric' for his head, If Death had stay'd his footsteps while On victory's track ! If on the Day of Hostages The fruit had from the parent bough Been rudely torn In sight of Munster's hands — MacNee's — Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, Could ill have borne. If on the day of Balloch-boy, Some arm had lain, by foul surprise, The chieftain low, Even our victorious shout of joy "Would soon give place to rueful cries And groans of woe ! If on the day the Saxon host Were forced to fly — a day so great For Ashanee 3 The Chief had been untimely lost, Our conquering troops should moderate Their mirthful glee. There would not lack on Lifford's day, From Galway, from the glens of Boyle, From Limerick's towers, A marshall'd file, a long array, Of mourners to bedew the soil With tears in showers ! [f on the day a sterner fate Compell'd his flight from Athenree, His blood had flow'd, What numbers all disconsolate Would come unask'd, and share with thee Aflliction's load ! If Derry's crimson field had seen His life-blood offer'd up, though 'twere On Victory's shrine, A thousand cries would swell the keen, A thousand voices of despair Would echo thine ! Oh, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm That bloody night on Fergus' banks But slain our Chief, When rose his camp in wild alarm — How would the triumph of his ranks Be dash'd with grief ! How would the troops of Murbach mourn 1 A compensation or fine. If on the Curlew Mountains' day, Which England rued, Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, By shedding there, amid the fray, Their prince's blood ! Red would have been our warriors' eyes Had Roderick found on Sligo's field A gory grave, No Northern Chief would soon arise So sage to guide, so strong to shield, S) swift to save. Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh Had met the death he oft had dealt Among the foe ; But, had our Roderick fallen too, All Erin must, alas ! have felt The deadly blow ! What do I say ? Ah, woe is me ! Already we bewail in vain Their fatal fall ! And Erin, once the Great and Free, Now vainly mourns her breakless chain And iron thrall ! Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry Thine overflowing eyes, and turn Thy heart aside, For Adam's race is born to die, And sternly the sepulchral urn Mocks human pride ! Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, Nor place thy trust in arm of clay, But on thy knees Uplift thy soul to God alone, For all things go their destined way As He decrees. Embrace the faithful Crucifix, And seek the path of pain and prayer Thy Saviour trod ; Nor let thy spirit intermix With earthly hope and worldly care Its groans to God ! And Thou, O mighty Lord ! whose ways Are far above our feeble minds To understand, Sustain us in these doleful days, And render light the chain that binds Our fallen land ! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Look down upon our dreary state, And through the ages that may still Roll sidly on, Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate, And shield at least from darker ill The blood of Conn ! "The Saturday before the flight, the Earl of Tyrone was with the lord-iieputy at Slxne. where he had spoken with hie lordship of Ms journey into ERgland, and told him he would lip there about the beginning of Michaelmas term, according to his majesty's directions. He took leave of the lord-deputy in a more sail and passionate manner than wao usual with him. From thence he went to Mellifont and Garret Moore's house, wheie he wept abundantly when he took his leave, giv- ing a solemn farewell to every child and every servant in the house, which made them all marvel, because in general it was not hie manner to use such compliments. On Monday he went to Dungarvan, where he rested two whole days, and on Wednesday night, they say he travelled all night. It is like- wise reported that the countess, his wife, being exceedingly weary, slipped down from her horse, and weeping, said. ' She could go no fun her." Whereupon the earl drew his sword, and swore a great oath that ' he would kill her on the spot if she would not pass on wiih him, and put. on a more cheerful countenance.' When the party, which consisted (men, wo- men, and children) of fifty or sixty persons, arrived at Loch Foyle, it was found that their journey had not been so secret but that the irovemor there had notice of it, and sent to invite Tyrone and his son to dinner. Their haste, however, was such that they accepted not his courtesy, but hastened on to Tiathmulla. a town on the west side of Lough Swilly, where the Earl Tyrconnell and his company met with them. From thence the whole party embarked, and, landing on the coast of Normandy, proceeded through France to Brussels. Davies concludes his curious narrative with a few pregnant words, in which the difficulties that England had to contend with in conquering Tyrone arc fnus acknowledged with all the lrank- nesB of a generous foe :— ' As for us that, are here," he says, 'we are glad to see the day wherein the countenance and majesty of the law and civil government hath banished Ty- rone out of Ireland, which the best army iu Europe, and the expense of two millions of sterling pounds had not been able .to bring to pass.' "—Moore's Ireland. O'HUSSErS ODE TO THE MAGUIRE.' IP'Hussey, the last hereditary bard of the great sept of Ma- guire, of Fermanagh, who flourished about 1630, possessed a fine genius. He commenced his vocation when quite a youth, by a poem celebrating the escape of the famous Hugh Roe O'Donnell from Dublin Castle, in 1591, into which he had been treacherously betrayed. (Haverty's History of Ireland, Farrell's Edition, p. 408.) The noble ode which O'Hussey ad- dressed to Hugh Maguire, when that chief had gone on a dan- gerous expedition, in the depth of an unusually severe winter, is as interesting an example of the devoted affection of the bard to his chief, and as vivid a picture of intense desolation, as could be well conceived.] Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, mavrone! Oh, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh, 1 Mr. Ferguson, in a fine piece of criticism on this poem, re- marks: "There is a vivid vigor in these descriptions, and a •mvage power in the antithetical climax, which claim a char- acter almost approaching to sublimity. Nothing can be more Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through Pierceth one to the very bone ! Rolls real thunder ? Or was tha: red, livid light Only a meteor ? I scarce know ; but through the midnight dim The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him Nothing hath crueler venomy might. An awful, a tremendous night is this, me- seems ! The floodgates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst wide — Down from the overcharged clouds, like un- to headlong ocean's tide, Descends gray rain in roaring streams. Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods, Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea, Though he were a wild mountain-eagle, he could scarce bear, he, This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods. Oh, mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire ! Darkly, as in a dream he strays ! Before him and behind Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wound- ing wind, The wounding wind, that burns as fire ! It is my bitter grief — it cuts me to the heart — That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate ! Oh, woe is me, where is he ? Wandering, houseless, desolate, Alone, without or guide or chart ! graphic, yet more diversified, than his images of unmitigated horror — nothing more gpandly startling than his heroic concep- tion of the glow of glory triumphant over frozen toil. Wo have never read this poem without recurring, and that by no unworthy association, to Napoleon in hiB Russian campaign. Yet, perhaps O'Hussey has conjured up a picture of more inclement desolation, in his rude idea of northern horrors, than could be legitimately employed by a poet of the present day, when the romance of geographical obscurity no longer permits us to imagine the Phlegrean regions of endless storm, where the snows of Hajmus fall mingled with the lightnings of Etna, amid Bistonian wilds or Hyrcanian forests."— Dub- tin University Magazine, vol. iv. TOEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Medreams I see just now his face, the straw- berry-bright, Uplifted to the blacken'd heavens, while the tempestuous winds Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet-shower blinds The hero of Gal ang to-night ! Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is, That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form, Should thus be tortured and o'erborne — that this unsparing storm Should wreak its wrath on head like his ! That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppress'd, Should this chill, churlish night, perchance, be paralyzed by frost — While through some icicle-hung thicket — as one lorn and lost — He walks and wanders without rest. The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead, It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds — The lawns and pasture-grounds lie lock'd in icy bonds, So that the cattle cannot feed. The pale bright margins of the streams are seen by none. Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side — It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwell- ings far and wide — Water and land are blent in one. Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays, As he confronts the storm with anguish'd heart, but manly brow — Oh ! what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his were now A backward glance at peaceful days ! But other thoughts ape his — thoughts that can still inspire With joy and an onward-bounding hope the bosom of MacNee — Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows of the sea, Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire ! And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes, And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er, A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb he ever wore, The lightning of the soul, not skies. Hugh march'd forth to the fight — I grieved to see him so depart ; And lo ! to-night he wanders frozen, rain- drench'd, sad, betray'd — But the memory of the lime-white mansions his- right hand hath laid In ashes, warms the herd's heart I of KATHALEEN NY-HOULAHAN." (A JACOBITE RELIC — FROM THE IRISH.) Long they pine in weary woe, the noble our land, Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas ! and bann'd ; Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exile's brand ; But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! Think her not a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen, Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen ; Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crown'd a queen, Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! Sweet and mild would look her face, oh none so sweet and mild. > A concluding stanza, generally intended as a recapitu.a- tlon of the entire poem. • Angliee, Catherine Holohan, a name by which Ireland vu allegorically known. too POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled ; Woollen plaids would grace herself and robes of eilk her child, If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones, Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones ! Bitter anguish wrings our souls — with heavy sighs and groans We wait the Young Deliverer of Katha- leen Ny-Houlahan ! Let us pray to Him who holds Life's issues in his hands — Him who form'd the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands ; Girding them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, and strands, To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! He, who over sands and waves led Israel along — He, who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng — He, who stood by Moses, when his foes were fierce and strong- May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! WELCOME TO THE PRINCE. (A JACOBITE RELIC— FROM THE IRISH.) [This was written about the period of the battle of Cnlloden (87th April, 1746), by William IleiTcrnan, snrnamed Dall, or the Blind, of Shronehill, county Tipperary.] Lift up the drooping head, Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin !' Her blood yet boundcth red Through the myriad veins of Erin. No ! no ! she is not de-ad Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin ! ' IHrk Michael M'QUla Kerin, prince &! Oasory. Lo ! she redeems The lost years of bygone ages — New glory beams Henceforth on her History's pages ! Her long penitential Night of Sorrow Yields at length before the reddening mor- You heard the thunder-shout, Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin! Saw the lightning streaming out O'er the purple hills of Erin ! And, bide you yet in doubt, Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin? Oh ! doubt no more ! Through Ulidia's voiceful valleys, On Shannon's shore, Freedom's burning spirit rallies. Earth and Heaven unite in sign and omen Bodeful of the downfall of our foemen. Thurot commands the North, Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin I Louth sends her heroes forth, To hew down the foes of Erin ! Swords gleam in field and gorth* Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin! Up ! up ! my friend ! There's a glorious goal before us; Here will we blend Speech and soul in this grand chorus : " By the Heaven that gives us one more token, We will die, or see our shackles broken !" Charles leaves the Grampian hills, Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin ! Charles, whose appeal yet thrills, Like a clarion-blast, through Erin. Charles, be whose image fills Thy soul, too, MacGiolla-Kierin ! Ten thousand strong, His clans move in brilliant order, Sure that ere long He will march them o'er the Border. ' This is an allusion to that well-known i aomenon of the "cloud armies." which is said to bare 1 so common about this period in Scotland. * Oorth literally means Garden. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 401 While the dark-hair'd daughters of the Highlands Crown with wreaths the Monarch of three islands ! Fill, then, the ale-cup high, Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin ! Fill ! the bright hour is nigh That shall give her own to Erin ! Those who so sadly sigh, Even as you, MacGiolla-Kierin, Henceforth shall sing. Hark ! — O'er heathery hill and dell come Shouts for the King ! Welcome, our Deliverer ! Welcome ! Thousands this glad night, ere turning bed- ward, Will with us drink, "Victory to Charles Edward !" LAMENT FOR BANBA.' (from the irish.) Oh, my land ! Oh, my love ! What a woe, and how deep, Is thy death to my long mourning soul f God alone, God above, Can awake thee from sleep, Can release thee from bondage and dole ! Ala8, alas, and alas, For the once proud people of Banba I As a tree in its prime, Which the axe layeth low, Didst thou fall, oh unfortunate land ! Not by Time, nor thy crime, Came the shock and the blow. They were given by a false felon hand ! Alas, alas, and alas, For the once proud people of Banba ! Oh, my grief of all griefs Is to see how thy throne Is usurp'd, whilst thyself art in thrall ! Other lands have their chiefs, Have their kings, thou alone Art a wife, yet a widow withal ! Alas, alas, and alas, For the once proud people of Banba ! ; of the most ancieut 1 The high house of O'Neill Is gone down to the dust, The O'Brien is clanless and bann'd ; And the steel, the red steel, May no more be the trust Of the Faithful and Brave in the land ! Alas, alas, and alas, For the once proud people of Banba ! True, alas ! Wrong and Wrath Were of old all too rife. Deeds were done which no good man admires; And perchance Heaven hath Chasten'd us for the strife And the blood-shedding ways of our sires ! Alas, alas, and alas, For the once proud people of Banba 1 But, no more ! This our doom, While our hearts yet are warr% Let us not over-weakly deplore ! For the hour soon may loom When the Lord's mighty hand Shall be raised for our rescue once more T And our grief shall be turn'd into joy For the still proud people of Banba ! ELLEN BAWN. (FROM THE IRISH.) Ellen Bawn, oh, Ellen Bawn, you darling r darling dear, you Sit awhile beside me here, I'll die unless Fro near you ! 'Tis for you I'd swim the Suir and breast the Shannon's waters ; For, Ellen dear, you've not your peer in Gal- way's blooming daughters ! Had I Limerick's gems and gold at will to mete and measure, Were Loughrea's abundance mine, and all Portumna's treasure, These might lure me, might insure me many and many a new love, But oh ! no bribe could pay your tribe fo? one like you, my true leve I 40J POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Blessings be on Connaught ! that's the place for sport and raking ! Blessings, too, my love, on you, a-sleeping and a-waking ! I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the sun went under, But, woe ! the flooding Shannon broke across my path in thunder ! Ellen ! I'd give all the deer in Limerick's parks and arbors, ' Ay, and all the ships that rode last year in Munster's harbors, Could I blot from Time the hour I first be- came your lover, For, oh ! you've given my heart a wound it never can recover ! Would to God that in the sod my corpse to- night were lying, And the wild-birds wheeling o'er it, and the winds a-sighing, ■Since your cruel mother and your kindred choose to sever Two hearts that Love would blend in one forever and forever. LOVE BALLAD. (FROM THE IRISH.) Lonely from my home I come, To cast myself upon your tomb, And to weep. Lonely from my lonesome home, My lonesome house of grief and gloom, While I keep Vigil often all night long, For your dear, dear sake, Praying many a prayer so wrong That my heart would break ! Gladly, oh my blighted flower, Sweet Apple of my bosom's Tree, Would I now Stretch me in your dark death-bower Beside your corpse, and lovingly Kiss your brow. But we'll meet ere many a day, Never more to part, For even now 1 feel the clay Gathering round my heart. In my soul doth darkness dwell, And through its dreary winding oaves Ever flows, Ever flows with moaning swell, One ebbless flood of many Waves, Which are Woes. Death, love, has me in his lures, But that grieves not me, So my ghost may meet with yours On yon moon-loved lea. When the neighbors near my cot Believe me sunk in slumber deep, I arise — For, oh ! 'tis a weary lot, This watching eye, and wooing sleep With hot eyes — I arise, and seek your grave, And pour forth my tears ; While the winds that nightly rave, Whistle in mine ears. Often turns my memory back To that dear evening in the dell, When we twain, Shelter'd by the sloe-bush black, Sat, laugh'd, and talk'd, while thick sleet fell, And cold rain. Thanks to God ! no guilty leaven Dash'd our childish mirth. You rejoice for this in heaven, I not less on earth ! Love ! the priests feel wroth with me, To find I shrine your image still In my breast. Since you are gone eternally, And your fair frame lies in the chill Grave at rest ; But true Love outlives the shroud, Knows nor check nor change, And beyond Time's world of Cloud Still must reign and range. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Well may now your kindred mourn The threats, the wiles, the cruel arts, They long tried On the child they left forlorn ! They broke the tenderest heart of hearts, And she died. Curse upon the love of show ! Curse on Pride and Greed ! They would wed you " high" — and woe ! Here behold their meed ! THE VISION OF CONOR O'SULLIVAN. (FROM THE IRISH.) Last night amid dreams without number,,. • I beheld a bright vision in slumber : A maiden with rose-red and lily-white fea- tures, Disrobed of all earthly cumber. Her hair o'er her shoulder was flowing, In clusters all golden and glowing, Luxuriant and thick as in meads are the grass-blades That the scythe of the mower is mowing. With hei brilliant eyes, glancing so keenly, Her lips smiling sweet and serenely, Her pearly-white teeth and her high-arched eyebrows, *" She look'd most commanding and queenly. Her long taper fingers might dally With the harp in some grove or green alley ; And her ivory neck and her beautiful bosom Were white as the snows of the valley. Bowing down now, before her so lowly, With words that ca'me trembling and slowly, I ask'd what her name was, and where I might worship At the shrine of a being so holy ! " This nation is thy land and my land," She answer' d me with a sad smile, and The sweetest of tones — " I, alas ! am the spouse of The long-banish'd chiefs of our island 1" " Ah ! dimm'd is that island's fair glory, And through sorrow her children grow hoary ; Yet, seat thee beside me, O Nurse of the Heroes, And tell me thy tragical story !" " The Druids and Sages unfold it — The Prophets and Saints have foretold it, That the Stuart would come o'er the sea with his legions, And that all Eire's tribes should behold it ! " Away, then, with sighing and mourning, The hearts in men's bosoms are burning To free this green land — oh! be sure you will soon see The days of her greatness returning ! " Up, heroes, ye valiant and peerless ! Up, raise the loud war-shout so fearless ! While bonfires shall blaze, and the bagpipe and trumpet Make joyous a land now so cheerless ! "For the troops of King Louis shall aid us; — The chains that now bind us Shall crumble to dust, and our bright swords shall slaughter The wretches whose wiles have betray'd us !" PATRICK CONDON'S VISION. (FROM THE IRISH.) [Patrick Condon, tbe author of this song, was a native of the barony of Imokilly, county of Cork, and resided about four miles from the town of Youghai. About thirty years ago he emigrated to North America, and located himself some dis- tance from Quebec. The Englishman, who has ever in the course of his travels, chanced to come into proximity with an Irish " hedge school," will be at no loss to conjecture the or- igin of the frequent allusions to heathen mythology in theBe songs. They are to be traced, we may say, exclusively to that intimate acquaintance with the classics which the Munster peasant never failed to acquire from the instructions of the road-side pedagogue. The Kerry rustic, it is known, speaks Latin like a citizen of old Rome, and has frequently, though ignorant of a syllable of English, conversed in the language of Cicero and Virgil with some of the most learned and intellec- tual of English touriBts. Alas I that the acnteneBB of in- tellect for which the Irish peasant is remarkable should not have afforded a bint to our rulers, amid their many and fruit- less attempts at what is called conciliation 1 Would it not b» • policy equally worthy of their judgment, and deserving ol POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. praise in itself, to establish schools for the Irish in which they might be taught, at least the elementary principles of educa- tion through the medium of their native tongue • This course, Jong advocated by the most enlightened or every clasp and ereed, has been lately brought forward in an able manner by Mr. Christopher Anderson.— Sec his Sketches 0/ Native Irish.] The evening was waning : long, long I stood pondering Nigh a green wood on my desolate lot. Hie setting sun's glory then set me a-won- dering, And the deep tone of the stream in the grot. The birds on the boughs were melodiously singing, too. Even though the night was advancing apace ; Voices of fox-hunters, — voices were ringing too, And deep-mouth'd hounds follow'd up the long chase. Nut-trees around me grew beauteous and flourishing — Of the ripe fruit I partook without fear — Sweet was their flavor, — sweet, healthful, and nourishing ; Honey I too found — the best of good cheer! When, lo ! I beheld a fair maiden draw near to me ; The noblest of maidens in figure and mind- One who hath been, and will ever be dear to me — Lovely and mild above all of her kind ! Long were her locks, hanging down in rich tresses all — Golden and plaited, luxuriant and curl'd ; Her eyes shone like stars of that Heaven which blesses all : Swan-white was her bosom, the pride of the world. Her marvellous face like the rose and the lily shone ; Pearl-like her teeth were as ever were seen ; In her calm beauty she proudly, yet stilly shone — Meek as a vestal, yet grand as a Queen. Long-time I gazed on her, keenly and si- lently — Who might she be, this young damsel sublime ? Had she been chased from a foreign land violently ? Had she come hither to wile away time ? Was she Calypso ? I question'd her pleas- antly — Ceres, or Hecate the bright undefiled ? Thetis, who sank the stout vessels inces- santly ? Bateia the tender, or Hebe the mild ? " None of all those whom you name," she replied to me : " One broken-hearted by strangers am I ; But the day draweth near when the rights- naw denied to me All shall flame forth like the stars in the sky. Yet twenty-five years and you'll witness my gloriousness : Doubt me not, friend, for in God is my trust ; And they who exult in their barren victori- ousness Suddenly, soon, shall go down to the dust !' v SIGHILE NI GARA. (from the Irish.) [The first peculiarity likely to strike the reader is the re- markable sameness pervading those Irish pieces which artrime a narrative form. The poet usually wanders forth of a sum- mer evening over moor and mountain, mournfully meditatiug on the wrongs and sufferings of his native land, until at length, sad and weary, he lies down to repose in some flowery vale, or on the slope of some green and lonely hill-side. He- Bleeps, and in a dream beholds a young female of more than mortal beaut/, who approaches and accosts hira. She is al- ways represented as appearing in naked loveliness. Her per son is described with a minuteness of detail bordering upon tcdiousness — her hands, for Instance, are 6aid to be snch as would execute the most complicated and delicate embroioery. The enraptured poet Inquires whether she be one of the hero- ines of ancient story— Semiraniis, Helen, or Medea— or one of the illustrious women of his own country — Deirdre. Blath- nald, or Cearnuit, or some Banshee, like Aoibhill, Cliona, or Aine, and the answer he receives is. that she is none of those eminent personages, but Eire, once a qneen, and now a slave — of old in the enjoyment of all honor and dignity, but to-day in thrall to the foe and the stranger. Yet wretched as is her condition, she does not despair, and encourages her afflicted child to hope, prophesying that speedy relief will reach him< from abroad. The song then concludes, though in some in stances the poet appends a few consolatory reflections of hi* own. by way of finale. The present song is one .if the class which we have de scribed, and Sig/iile M Ghailtiaradh (Ceiia O'Gara). in the laic, guagc of allegory, means Ireland.) POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Alone as I wander'd in sad meditation, And ponder'd my sorrows and soul's tion, A beautiful vision — a maiden drew near me, An angel she seem'd sent from Heaven to cheer me. Let none dare to tell me I acted amiss Because on her lips I imprinted a kiss — Oh ! that was a moment of exquisite bliss ! For sweetness, for grace, and for brightness of feature, Earth holds not the match of this loveliest creature ! Her eyes, like twin stars, shone and sparkled with lustre ; Her tresses hung waving in many a cluster, And swept the long grass all around and be- neath her ; She moved like a being who trod upon ether, And seem'd to disda'in the dominions of space — Such beauty and majesty, glory and grace, So faultless a form, and so dazzling a face; And ringlets so shining, so many and golden, Were never beheld since the storied years olden. Alas, that this damsel, so noble and queenly, Who spake, and who look'd, and who moved so serenely, Should languish in woe, that her throne should have crumbled ; Her haughty oppressors abiding unhumbled. ■Oh ! woe that she cannot with horsemen and swords, With fleets and with armies, with chieftains and lords, Chase forth from the isle the vile Sassenach hordes, Who too long in their hatred have trodden us under, And wasted green Eire with slaughter and plunder ! She hath studied God's Gospels, and Truth's divine pages — The tales of the Druids, and lays of old sages ; She hath quaff 'd the pure wave of the foun- tain Pierian, And is versed in the wars of the Trojan and Tyrian ; So gentle, so modest, so artless and mild, The wisest of women, yet meek as a child ; She pours forth her spirit in speech uudefiled ; But her bosom is pierced, and her soul hath been shaken, To see herself left so forlorn and forsaken ! Oh, maiden !" so spake I, " thou best and divinest, Thou, who as a sun in thy loveliness shinest, Who art thou and whence? — and what land dost thou dwell in ? Say, art thou fair Deirdre, or canst thou be Helen ?" And thus she made answer — " What ! dost thou not see The nurse of the Chieftains of Eire in me — The heroes of Banba, the valiant and free ? I was great in my time, ere the Gall 1 became stronger • Than the Gael, and my sceptre pass'd o'er to the Wronger !" Thereafter she told me, with bitter lamenting, A story of sorrow beyond all inventing — Her name was Fair Eire, the mother of true hearts, The daughter of Conn, and the spouse of the Stewarts. She had snffer'd all woes, had been tortured and flay'd, Had been trodden and spoil'd, been deceived and betray 'd ; But her champion, she hoped, would soon come to her aid, And the insolent Tyrant who now was her master Would then be o'erwhelm'd by defeat and disaster ! Oh, fear not, fair mourner ! — thy lord and thy lover, Prince Charles, with his armies, will cross the seas ovor. Once more, lo ! the Spirit of Liberty rallies Aloft on thy mountains, and calls ironi thy valleys. Thy children will rise and will take, one and all, Revenge on the murderous tribes of the GalL Gall, the stranger ; Gads, the native Irish. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAN. And to thee shall return each reuown'd castle hall; And again thon shalt revel in plenty and treasure, And the wealth of the land shall be thine without measure. ST. PATRICK'S HYMN BEFORE TARAH. [The original Irish of this hymn was published by Dr. Petrie, In vol. xvili., " Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy." It Is In the Bearla Feine, the most ancient dialect of the Irish, the same in which the Brehon laws were written. It was printed from the "Liber Hymnoram," preserved in the Library of Trinity College, Dublin, a manuscript which, as Dr. Petrie proves by the authority of Usher and others, must be nearly 1250 years old.] At Tarah to-dat, in this awful hour, I call on the Holy Trinity ! Glory to Him who reigneth in power, The God of the elements, Father, and Son And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, The ever-existing Divinity ! At Taeah to-day I call on the Lord, On Christ, the Omnipotent Word, Who came to redeem from Death and Sin Our fallen race ; And I put and I place The virtue that lieth and liveth in His Incarnation lowly, His Baptism pure and holy, His life of toil, and tears, and affliction, His dolorous Death — his Crucifixion, His Burial, sacred and sad and lone, His Resurrection to life again, His glorious Ascension to Heaven's high Throne, And, lastly, his future dread And terrible coming to judge all men — Both the Living and Dead At Takah to-dat I put and I place The virtue that dwells in the Seraphim's love, And the virtue and grace That are in the obedience And unshaken allegiance Of all the Archangels and angels above, And in the hope of the Resurrection To everlasting reward and election, And in the prayers of the Fathers of old, And in the truths the Prophets foretold, And in the Apostles' manifold preachings, And in the Confessors' faith and teachings, And in the purity ever dwelling Within the immaculate Virgin's breast, And in the actions bright and excelling Of all good men, the just and the blest. . . At Tarah to-dat, in this fateful hour, I place all Heaven with its power, And the sun with its brightness, And the snow with its whiteness, And the fire with all the strength it hath, And lightning with its rapid wrath, And the winds with their swiftness along their path, And the sea with its deepness, And the rocks with their steepness, And the earth with its starkness,' All these I place, . By God's almighty help and grace, Between myself and the Powers of Darkness At Tarah to-dat May God be my stay ! May the strength of God now nerve rae t May the power of God preserve me ! May God the Almighty be near me ! May God the Almighty espy me ! May God the Almighty hear me ! May God give me eloquent speech ! May the arm of God protect rae ! May the wisdom of God direct me ! May God give me power to teach and to preach ! May the shield of God defend me ! May the host of God attend me, And ward me, And guard me, Against the wiles of demons and devils, Against the temptations of vices and evils, Against the bad passions and wrathful will Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart, Against every man who designs me ill, Whether leagued with others or plotting apart ! .! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. In this hour of iioues, I place all those powers Between myself and every .foe, Who threaten my body and soul With danger or dole, To protect me against the^evils that flow From lying soothsayers' incantations, From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations, From Heresy's hateful innovations, From Idolatry's rites and invocations, Be those my defenders, My guards against every ban — And spell of smiths, and Druids, and women; In fine, against every knowledge that renders The light Heaven sends us dim in The spirit and soul of Man ! May Christ, I peat, Protect me to-day Against poison and fire, Against drowning and wounding, That so, in His grace abounding, I may earn the Preacher's hire ! Christ, as a light, Illumine and suide me ! Christ, as a shield, o'ershadow and cover me ' Christ be under me ! Christ be over me ! Christ be beside me On left hand and right ! Christ be before me, behind me, about mt , Christ this day be within and without me ! Christ, the lowly and meek, Christ, the All-Powerful, be In the heart of each to whom I speak, In the mouth of each who speaks to me I In all who draw near me, Or see me or hear me ! , At Tarah to-day, in this awful hour, I call on the Holy Trinity ! Glory to Him who reigneth in power, The God of the Elements, Father, and Son, And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One The ever-existing Divinity ! Salvation dwells with the Lord, With Christ, the Omnipotent Word. From generation to generation | Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation ! APOCRYPHA. THE KARAMANIAN EXILE. (from the ottoman.) I see thee ever in my Karaman ! Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams, Karaman ! O Karaman ! As when thy gold-bright morning gleams, As when the deepening sunset seams, With lines of light thy hills and streams, Karaman ! So thou loomest on my dreams, Karaman ! O Karaman ! The hot, bright plains, the sun, the skies, Karaman ! Seem death-black marble to mine eyes, Karaman ! O Karaman ! I turn from summer's blooms and dyes ; Yet in my dreams thou dost arise In welcome glory to my eyes, Karaman ! In thee my life of life yet lies, Karaman ! Thou still art holy in mine eyes, Karaman ! O Karaman . ; Ere my fighting years were come, Karaman ! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 1 Troops were few in Erzerome, Ear am an ! O Kararaan ! Their fiercest came from Erzerome, They came from Ukhbar's palace dome, They dragg'd me forth from thee, my home, Karaman ! Thee, my own, my mountain home, Karaman ! In life and death, my spirit's home, Karaman ! O Karaman ! Oh, none of all my sisters ten, Karaman ! Loved like me my fellow-men, Karaman ! O Karaman ! I was mild as milk till then, I was soft as silk till then ; Now my breast is as a den, Karaman ! Foul with blood and bones of men, Karaman ! With blood and bones of slaughter'd men, Karaman ! O Karaman ! My boyhood's feelings newly born, Karaman ! Wither'd like young flowers uptorn, Karaman ! O Karaman ! And in their stead sprang weed and thorn ; What once I loved now moves my scorn ; My burning eyes are dried to horn, Karaman ! I hate the blessed light of morn Karaman ! It maddens me, the face of morn, Karaman ! O Karaman \ The Spahi wears a tyrant's chains, Karaman ! But bondage worse than this remains, Karaman ! O Karaman ! His heart is black with million stains : Thereon, as on Kaf 's blasted plains, Shall never more fall dews and rains, Karaman ! Save poison-dews and bloody rains, Karaman ! Hell's poison-dews and bloody rains, Karaman ! O Karaman ! But life at worst must end ere long, Karaman ! Azreel 1 avengeth every wrong, Karaman ! O Karaman ! Of late my thoughts rove more among Thy fields ; o'ershadowing fancies throng My mind, and texts of bodeful song, Karaman ! Azreel is terrible and strong, Karaman ! His lightning sword smites all ere long, Karaman ! O Karaman ! There's care to-night in Ukhbar's halls, Karaman ! There's hope too, for his trodden thralls, Karaman ! O Karaman ! What lights flash red along yon walls ? Hark ! hark ! — the muster-trumpet calls I— I see the sheen of spears and shawls, Karaman ! The foe ! the foe ! — they scale the walls, Karaman ! To-night Murad or TJkhbar falls, Karaman ! O Karaman ! THE WAIL AND WARNING OF THE THREE KHALENDEERS. (FROM THE OTTOMAN:) La' laha, il Allah ? Here we meet, we three, at length, Amrah, Osman, Perizad : Shorn of all our grace and strength, Poor, and old, and very sad ! We have lived, but live no more ; Life has lost its gloss for us, Since the days we spent of yore, Boating down the Bosphorus ! La' laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! Old Time brought home no loss for us. We felt full of health and heart Upon the foamy Bosphorus I La' laha, il Allah ! Days indeed ! A shepherd's tent Served us then for house and fold ; All to whom we gave or lent, 1 The augel of death. 1 God alone is all-merciful ' POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAX. 409 Paid us back a thousand fold. Troublous years by myriads wail'd, Rarely had a cross for us, Never when we gayly sail'd, Singing down the Bosphorus. La' laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! There never came a cross for us, While we daily, gayly sail'd Adown the meadowy Bosphorus. La' laha, il Allah ! Blithe as birds we flew along, Laugh'd and quaff 'd and stared about ; Wine and roses, mirth and song, Were what most we cared about. Fame we left for quacks to seek, Gold was dust and dross for us, While we lived from week to week, Boating down the Bosphorus. La' laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! And gold was dust and dross for us, While we lived from week to week, Aborting down the Bosphorus. La' laha, il Allah ! Friends we were, and would have shared Purses, had we twenty full. If we spent, or if we spared, Still our funds were plentiful. Save the hours we pass'd apart Time brought home no loss for us ; We felt full of hope and heart While we clove the Bosphorus. La' laha, il Allah i The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! For life has lost its gloss for us, Since the days we spent of yore Upon the pleasant Bosphorus ! La' laha, il Allah ! Ah ! for youth's delirious hours, Man pays well in after days, When quench'd hopes and palsied powers Mock his love-and-laughter days. Thorns and thistles on our path, Took the place of moss for us, Till false fortune's tempest wrath Drove us from the Bosphorus. La' laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! When thorns took place of moss for us, Gone was all ! Our hearts were graves Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus ! La' laha, il Allah ! Gone is all ! .In one abyss Lie Health, Youth, and Merriment I All we've learn'd amounts to this — Life's a sad experiment. What it is we trebly feel Pondering what it was for u.s, When our shallop's bounding keel Clove the joyous Bosphorus. La' laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! We wail for what life was for us, When our shallop's bounding keel Clove the joyous Bosphorus! THE WARNING. La' laha, il Allah ! Pleasure' tempts, yet man has none . Save himself t' accuse, if her Temptings prove, when all is done, Lures hung out by Lucifer. Guard your fire in youth, O Friends ! Manhood's is but Phosphorus, And bad luck attends and ends Boatings down the Bosphorus ! La' laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! Youth's fire soon wanes to PhosphoruB, And slight luck or grace attends Your boaters down the Bosphorus ! THE TIME OP THE BARMECIDES. (FKOM TELE ARABIC.) My eyes are film'd, my beard is gray, I am bow'd with the weight of years ; I would I were stretch'd in my bed of clay, With my long-lost youth's compeers ! For back to the Past, though the thought brings woe, My memory ever glides — To the old, old time, long, long ago, The time of the Barmecides ! To the old, old time, long, long ago, The time of the Barmecides. klO POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Hen Youth was mine, ami a fierce wild will, And an iron arm in war, And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, When the watch-lights glimmer'd afar, And a barb as fiery as any I know ♦ That Khoord or Beddaween rides, Ere my friends lay low — long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. Ere my friends lay low — long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. One golden goblet illumed my board, One silver dish was there ; At hand my tried Karamanian sword Lay always bright and bare, For those were the days when the angry blow Supplanted the word that chides — ' When hearts could glow — long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides; When hearts could glow — long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. Through city and desert my mates and I Were free to rove and roam, Our diaper'd canopy the deep of the sky, Or the roof of the palace dome — Oh ! ours Was that vivid life to and fro Which only sloth derides — Men spent Life so, long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides, Men spent Life so, long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. I see rich Bagdad once again, With its turrets of Moorish mould, And the Khalif 's twice five hundred men Whose binishes flamed with gold ; I call up many a gorgeous show Which the pall of Oblivion hides — All pass'd like snow, long, long ago, With the time of the Barmecides ; All pass'd like snow, long, long ago, With the time of the Barmecides ! But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray, And I bend with the weight of years — May I soon go down to the House of Clay Where slumber my Youth's compeers ! For with them and the Past, though the thought wakes woe, My memory ever abides ; And I mourn for the Times gone long ago, For the Times of the Barmecides! I mourn for the Times gone long ago, For the Times of the Barmecides ! THE MARINER'S BRIDE. (PROM THE 8PANI8H.) Look, mother ! the mariner's rowing His galley adown the tide ; I'll go where the mariner's going, And be the mariner's bride ! I saw him one day through the wicket, I open'd the gate and we met — As a bird in the fowler's net, Was I caught in my own green thicket O mother, my tears are flowing, I've lost my maidenly pride — I'll go if the mariner's going, And be the mariner's bride ! This Love the tyrant evinces, Alas ! an omnipotent might, He darkens the mind like Night. He treads on the necks of Princes ! O mother, my bosom is glowing, I'll go whatever betide, I'll go where the mariner's going, And be the mariner's bride ! Yes, mother ! the spoiler has reft me Of reason and self-control; Gone, gone is my wretched soul, And only my body is left me ! The winds, O mother, are blowing, The ocean is bright and wide ; I'll go where the mariner's going, And be the mariner's bride. TO THE 1NGLEEZEE KHAFIR, CALLING HIMSELF DJAUN BOOL DJENKINZUK. (FROM THE PERSIAN.) Thus writeth Meer Djafrit — I hate thee, Djaun Bool, Worse than Marid or Afrit, Or corpse-eating GhooL POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. I hate thee like Sin, For thy mop-head of bair, Thy snub nose and bald chin, And thy turkeycock aii. Thou vile Ferindjee ! That thou thus shouldst disturb an Old Moslim like me, With my Khizailbash turban ! Old fogy like me, With my Khizzilbash turban ! I spit on thy clothing, That garb for baboons ! I eye with deep loathing Thy tight pantaloons ! I curse the cravat That encircles thy throat, And thy cooking-pot hat, And thy swallow-tail'd coat f Go, hide thy thick sconce In some hovel suburban ; Or else don at once The red Moosleman turban. Thou dog, don at once The grand Khizzilbash turban r MISCELLANEOUS, SOUL AND COUNTRY. Aeise ! my slumbering soul, arise ! And learn what yet remains for thee To dree or do ! The signs are flaming in the skies ; A struggling world would yet be free, And live anew. The earthquake hath not yet been born, That soon shall rock the lands around, Beneath their base. Immortal freedom's thunder horn, As yet, yields but a doleful sound To Europe's race. Look round, my soul, and see and say If those about thee understand Their mission here ; The will to smite — the power to slay — Abound in every heart — and hand Afar, anear. But, God ! must yet the conqueror's sword Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year ? Oh, dream it not ! It sounds a false, blaspheming word, Begot and born of moral fear- - And ill-begot ! To leave the world a name is nought 9 To leave a name for glorious deeds And works of love — A name to waken lightning thought, And fire the soul of him who reads, This tells above. Napoleon sinks to-day before The ungilded shrine, the single soul Of Washington ; Truth's name, alone, shall man adore, Long as the waves of time shall roll Henceforward on ! My countrymen ! my words are weak, My health is gone, my soul is dark, My heart is chill — Yet would I fain and fondly seek To see you borne in freedom's bark O'er ocean still. Beseech your God, and bide your hour- He cannot, will not, long be dumb ; Even now his tread Is heard o'er earth with coming power ; And coming, trust me, it will come, Else were he dead ! POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. SIBERIA. In Siberia's wastes The Ice-wind's breath Woundeth like the toothed steel. Lost Siberia doth reveal Only blight and death. Blight and death alone. No Summer shines. Night is interblent with Day. In Siberia's wastes alway The blood blackens, the heart pines. In Siberia's wastes No tears are shed, For they freeze within the brain. Nought is felt but dullest pain, Pain acute, yet dead ; Pain as in a dream, When years go by Funeral-paced, yet fugitive, When man lives, and doth not live, Doth not live — nor die. In Siberia's wastes Are sands and rocks. Nothing blooms of green or soft, But the snow-peaks rise aloft And the gaunt ice-blocks. And the exile there Is one with those ; They are part, and he is part, For the sands are in his heart, And the killing snows. Therefore, in those wastes None curse the Czar. Each man's tongue is cloven by The North Blast, who heweth nigh With sharp scymitar. And such doom each drees, Till, hunger-gnawn, And cold-slain, he at length sinks there. Yet scarce inore a corpse than ere His last breath was drawn. A VISION OF CONNAUGHT IN THE THIR- TEENTH CENTURY. I walk'd entranced Through a land of Morn ; The sun, with wondrous excess of light, Shone down and glanced Over seas of corn And lustrous gardens aleft and right. Even in the clime Of resplendent Spain, Beams no such sun upon such a land ; But it was the time, 'Twas in the reign, Of Cahal M6r of the Wine-red Hand Anon stood nigh By my side a man Of princely aspect and port sublime. Him queried I, " Oh, my Lord and Khan,' What clime is this, and what golden time V* When he — " The clime Is a clime to praise, The clime is Erin's, the green and bland ; And it is the time, These be the days, Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand !" Then saw I thrones, And circling fires, And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell, Whence flow'd the tones Of silver lyres, And many voices in wreathed swell ; And their thrilling chime Fell on mine ears As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band — "It is now the time, These be the years, Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand !" I sought the hall, And, behold ! . . . a change From light to darkness, from joy to woe ! King, nobles, all, Look'd aghast and strange ; "Cfeonn, the Gaelic title for a chiet POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show! Had some great crime "Wrought this dread amaze, This terror ? None seem'd to understand ! 'Twas then the time, We were in the days, Of Cahal Morof the Wine-red Hand. I again walk'd forth ; .But lo ! the sky Show'd fleckt with blood, and an alien sun Glared from the north, And there stood on high, Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton ! It was by the stream Of the castled Maine, One Autumn eve, in the Teuton's land,. That I dream'd this dream Of the time and reign Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand ! AN INVITATION. Friends to Freedom ! is't not time That your course were shaped at length ? Wherefore stand ye loitering here ? Seek some healthier, holier clime, Where your souls may grow in strength, And -whence Love hath exiled Fear ! Europe, — Southron, Saxon, Celt, — Sits alone, in tatter'd robe. In our days she burns with aone Of the lightning-life she felt, When Rome shook the troubled globe, Twenty centuries agone. Deutschland sleeps : her star hath waned. France, the Thundress whilome, now Singeth small, with bated breath. Spain is bleeding, Poland chain'd ; Italy can but groan and vow. England lieth sick to death. 1 Cross with me the Atlantic's foam, And your genuine goal is won. '"England leidet von einer todtlichen Krankheit, ohne floff nung wie ohne Heilnng." England labors under a deadly sickness, without hope and without remedy.— NrEBCHB. Purely Freedom's breezes blow, Merrily Freedom's children roam, By the dcedal Amazon, And the glorious Ohio ! Thither take not gems and gold. Nought from Europe's robber-hoards Must profane the Western Zones. Thither take ye spirits bold, Thither take ye ploughs and swords, And your fathers' buried bones ! Come ! — if Liberty's true fires Burn within your bosoms, come ! If ye would that in your graves Your free sons should bless their sires, Make the Far Green West your home, Cross with me the Atlantic's waves ! THE WARNING VOICE* ie Bemble que nous Bommes a la veille d'une granc humainc. Les forces eont la ; mais j e n'y vois pas < "— Balzac: Livre Myrtigve. Ye Faithful !— ye Noble ! A day is at hand Of trial and trouble, And woe in the land ! O'er a once greenest path, Now blasted and sterile, Its dusk shadows loom — It cometh with Wrath, With Conflict and Peril, With Judgment and Doom ! False bands shall be broken, Dead systems shall crumble, And the Haughty shall hear Truths yet never spoken, Though smouldering like flam Through many a lost year In the hearts of the Humble ; For, Hepe will expire As the Terror draws nigher, And, with it, the Shame Which so long overawed Men's minds by its might — ■Written in the jcar 1847, when the British Famine l wasting Ireland, and when the Irish Confederation ■ formed. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. And the Powers abroad Will be Panic and Blight, And phrenetic Sorrow — Black Pest all the night, Aod Death on the morrow ! Now, therefore, ye True, <*ird your loins up anew ! By the good you have wrought! By all you have thought, And suffer'd, and done ! By your souls ! I implore you, Be leal to your mission — Remembering that one Of the two paths before you Slopes down to Perdition ! To you have been given, Not granaries and gold, But the Love that lives long, And waxes not cold ; And the Zeal that hath striven Against Error and Wrong, And in fragments hath riven The chains of the Strong ! Bide now, by your sternest Conceptions of earnest Endurance for others, Your weaker-soul'd brothers ! Your true faith and worth Will be History soon, And their stature stand forth In the unsparing Noon ! You have dream'd of an era Of Knowledge, and Truth, And Peace — the true glory 1 Was this a chimera ? Not so! — but the childhood and youth Of our days will grow hoary, Before such a marvel shall burst on their eight ! On you its beams glow not — For you its flowers blow not! You cannot rejoice in its light, But in darkness and suffering instead, You go down to the place of the Dead ! To this generation The sore tribulation, The stormy commotion, And foam of the Popular Ocean, The struggle of class against class ; The Dearth and the Sadness, The Sword and the War-vest ; To the next, the Repose and the Glad ness, " The §ea of clear glass," And the rich Golden Harvest ! Know, then, your true lot, Ye Faithful, though few! Understand your position, Remember your mission, And vacillate not, Whatsoever ensue ! Alter not ! Falter not ! Palter not now with your own living souls, When each moment that rolls May see Death lay his hand On some new victim's brow ! Oh ! let not your vow Have been written in sand ! Leave cold calculations Of Danger and Plague, To the slaves and the traitors Who cannot dissemble The dastard sensations That now make them tremble With phantasies vague ! — The men without ruth — The hypocrite haters Of Goodness and Truth, Who at heart curse the race Of the sun through the skies ; And would look in God's face With a lie in their eyes ! To the last do your duty, Still mindful of this — That Virtue is Beauty, And Wisdom, and Bliss ; So, howe'er, as frail men, you have err'd ou Your way along Life's thronged road, Shall your consciences prove a sure guerdon And tower of defence, Until Destiny summon you hence To the Better Abode ! , POEMS BY JAMES CLAltENCE MANGAN. THE LOVELY LAND. (On a Landscape, painted by m******.) Glorious birth of Mind and Color, Gazing on thy radiant face, The most lorn of Adam's race Might forget all dolor ! What divinest light is beaming Over mountain, mead, and grove ! That blue noontide sky above, Seems asleep and dreaming. Rich Italia's wild-birds warble In the foliage of those trees. I can trace thee, Veronese, In these rocks of marble ! Yet no ! Mark I not where quiver The sun's rays on yonder stream ? Only a Poussin could dream Such a sun and river ! What bold imaging ! Stony valley, A n d fair bower of eglantine ! Here I see the black ravine, There the lilied alley ! This is some rare clime so olden, Peopled, not by men, but fays ; Some lone land of genii days, Storyful and golden ! Oh for magic power to wander One bright year through such a land Might I even one hour stand On the blest hills yonder ! But — what spy I ? . . .0, by noonlight ! 'Tis the same ! — the pillar-tower I have oft pass'd thrice an hour, Twilight, sunlight, moonlight ! No ! no land doth rank above thee Or for loveliness or worth ! So shall I, from this day forth, Ever sing and love thee ! me, my own, my sire-land, Not to know thy soil and skies 1 Shame, that through Machse's eyes I first see thee, Ireland ! THE SAW-MILL. My path lay toward the Mourne agen, But I stopp'd to rest by the hill-side That glanced adown o'er the sunken glen, Which the Saw- and Water-mills hide, Which now, as then, The Saw- and Water-mills hide. And there, as I lay reclined on the hill, Like a man made by sudden qualm ill, I heard the water in the Water-mill, And I saw the saw in the Saw-mill ! As I thus lay still, I saw the saw in the Saw-mill ! The saw, the breeze, and the humming bees, Lull'd me into a dreamy reverie, Till the objects round me, hills, mills, trees, Seem'd grown alive all and every, By slow degrees Took life as it were, all and every! Anon the sound of the waters grew To a Mourne-ful ditty, And the song of the tree that the saw saw'd through, Disturbed my spirit with pity, . Began to subdue My spirit with tenderest pity ! " Oh, wanderer I the hour that brings the* back 1$ of all meet hours the meetest. Thou now, in sooth, art on the Track, Art nigher to Home than thou weetest; Thou hast thought Time slack, But his flight has been of the fleetest ! "For thee it is that I dree such pain As, when wounded, even a plank will : My bosom is pierced, is rent in twair:, I POEMS BY JAMES CLAKENCE MANGAN. That thine may ever bide tranquil, May ever remain Henceforward untroubled and tranquil. "In a few days more, most Lonely One! Shall I. as a narrow ark, veil Thine eyes from the glare of the world and sun 'Mong the urns in yonder dark vale, In the cold and dun Recesses of yonder dark vale ! "For this grieve not! Thou kno west what thanks The Weary-soul'd and Meek owe To Death !" — I awoke, and heard four planks Fall down with a saddening echo. I heard four planks Fall down with a hollow echo. CEAN-SALLA. The last words op Red Hugh O'Donnell on his departure prom ireland por spain. ["After this defeat at Cean-SaUa (Ktnsale), it was remarked that the Irish became a totally changed people, for they now exchanged their valour for timidity, their energy and v'gonr for Indolence, and their hopes for bitter despondency."— Annalt Iff the Four Masters, a. b. 1602.] Weep not the brave Dead ! Weep rather the Living — On them lies the curse Of a Doom unforgiving ! Each dark hour that rolls, Shall the memories they mine, Like molten hot lead, Burn into their souls A remorse long and sore! They have help'd to enthral a Great land evermore, They who fled from Cean-SaUa ! Alas, for thee, slayer Of the kings of the Norsemen ! Thou land of sharp swords, And strong kerns and swift horsemen I Land ringing with song! Land, whose abbots and lords, Whose Heroic and Fair, Through centuries long, Made each palace of thine A new western Walhalla — Thus to die without sign On the field of Cean-Salla ; My ship cleaves the wave — I depart for Iberia — But, oh ! with what grief, With how heavy and dreary a Sensation of ill ! I could welcome a grave: My career has been brief, But I bow to God's will ! Not if now all forlorn, In my green years, I fall, a Lone exile, I mourn — But I mourn for Cean-Salla ! IRISH NATIONAL HYMN. O Ireland ! Ancient Ireland ! Ancient ! yet forever young ! Thou our mother, home, and sire-land- Thou at length hast found a tongue Proudly thou, at length, Resistest in triumphant strength. Thy flag of freedom floats unfurl'd ! And as that mighty God existeth, Who giveth victory when and where lie listeth, Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nationf of the world. For this dull world still slumbers, Weetless of its wants or loves, Though, like Galileo, numbers Cry aloud, "It moves! it moves!" In a midnight dream, Drifts it down Time's wreckful stream. All march, but few descry the goal. O Ireland ! be it thy high duty To teach the world the might of Mor»l Beauty, And stamp God's image truly on the strag- gling soul. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Strong in thy self-reliance, Not in idle threat or boast, Hast thou hurl'd thy fierce defiance At the haughty Saxon host — Thou hast claim'd, in sight Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right. Upon thy hills — along thy plains — In the green bosom of thy valleys, The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies, And calls on thee to trample down in dust thy chains ! Deep, saith the Eastern story, Burns in Iran's mines a gem, For its dazzling hues and glory Worth a Sultan's diadem. But from human eyes Hidden there it ever lies ! The aye-travailing Gnomes alone, Who toil to form the mountain's treasure May gaze and gloat with pleasure without measure, Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder- stone. So is it with a nation Which ivould win for its rich dower That bright pearl, Self-Liberation — It must labor hour by hour. Strangers, who travail To lay bare the gem, shall fail ; Within itself, must grow, must glow — Within the depths of its own bosom Must flower in living might, must broadly The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's Tree can blow. Go on, then, all-rejoiceful ! March on thy career unbow'd ! Ibbland ! let thy noble, voiceful , Spirit cry to God aloud ! Man will bid thee speed — God will aid thee in thy need — The Time, the hour, the power are near — Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard Of that illustrious band, whom Heaven and Man guard ■ And these words come h^in one whom some have calVd a Seer. BROKEN-HEARTED LAYS. Weep for one blank, one desert epoch in The history of the heart ; it is the time When all which dazzled us no more can win ; When all that beam'd of starlike and sublime Wanes, and we stand lone mourners o'er the burial Of perish'd pleasure, and a pall funereal, Stretching afar across the hueless heaven, Curtains the kingly glory of the sun, And robes the melancholy earth in one Wide gloom; when friends fox whom we could have striven With pain, and peril, and the sword, and given Myriads of lives, had such been merged in ours, Requite us with falseheartedness and wrong ; When sorrows haunt our path like evil powers, Sweeping and countless as the legion throng. Then, when the upbroken dreams of boy- hood's span, And when the inanity of all things human, And when the dark ingratitude of man, And when the hollower perfidy of woman, Come down like night upon the feelings, turning This rich, bright world, so redolent of bloom, Into a lazar-house of tears and mourning — Into the semblance of a living tomb ! When, yielding to the might she cannot master, The soul forsakes her palace halls of youth, And (touch'd by the Ithuriel wand of truth, Which oft in one brief hour works wonders vaster Than those of Egypt's old magician host), Sees at a single glance that all is lost ! And brooding in her cold and desolate lair POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Over the phantom-wrecks of things that were, And asking destiny if nought remain ? Is answer'd — bitterness and lifelong pain, Remembrance, and reflection, and despair, And torturing thoughts that will not be for- bidden, And agonies that cannot all be hidden ! Oh ! in an hour like this, when thousands fix, In headlong desperation, on self-slaughter, Sit down, you droning, groaning bore ! and mix A glorious beaker of red rum-and- water ! And finally give Care his flooring blow, By one large roar of laughter, or guffaw, As in the Freischutz chorus, " Haw ! haw 1 haw !" I! affaire estfaite — you've bamm'd and both- er'd woe. THE ONE MYSTERY. BALLAD. Tis idle ! we exhaust and squander The glittering mine of thought in vain ; All-baffled reason cannot wander Beyond her chain. The flood of life runs dark — dark clonds Make lampless night around its shore : The dead, where are they ? In their shrouds — Man knows no more. Evoke the ancient and the past, Will one illumining star arise ? Or must the film, from first to last, O'erspread thine eyes ? When life, love, glory, beauty, wither, Will wisdom's page or science' chart Map out for thee the region whither Their shades depart ? Supposest thou the wondrous powers, To high imagination given, Pale types of what shall yet be ours, When earth is heaven? When this decaying shell is cold, Oh ! sayest thou the soul shall climb That magic mount she trod of old. Ere childhood's time ? And shall the sacred pulse that thrill'd, Thrill once again to glory's name ? And shall the conquering love that fill'd All earth with flame, Reborn, revived, renew'd, immortal, Resume his reign in prouder might, A sun beyond the ebon portal Of death and night ? No more, no more — with aching brow, And restless heart, and burning brain, We ask the When, the Where, the How, And ask in vain. And all philosophy, all faith, All earthly — all celestial lore, Have but one voice, which only saith — Endure — adore ! THE NAMELESS ONE. Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, That sweeps along to the mighty sea ; God will inspire me while I deliver My soul of thee ! Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last homes of youth and eld, That there was once one whose veins ran lightning No eye beheld. Tell how his boyhood was one drear night- hour, How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom, No star of all heaven sends to light oar Path to the tomb. Roll on, my song, and to after ages Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. He would have taught men, from wisdom's At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, pages, He lives, enduring what future story The way to live. Will never know. And tell how trampled, derided, hated, Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, Deep in your bosoms ! There let him He fled for shelter to God, who mated dwell ! His soul with song — He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell. With song which alway, sublime or vapid, Flow'd like a rill in the morning-beam, Perchance not deep, but intense and rajpid — A mountain stream. THE DYING ENTHUSIAST. Tell he w this Nameless, condemn'd for years long BALLAD. To herd with demons from hell beneath, Saw things that made him, with groans and Speak no more of life, tears, long What can life bestow, For even death. In this amphitheatre of strife, All times dark with tragedy and woe ? Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Knowest thou not how care and pain Betray'd in friendship, befool'd in love, Build their lampless dwelling in the brain, With spirit shipwreck'd, and young hopes Ever, as the stern intrusion blasted, Of our teachers, time and truth, He still, still strove. Turn to gloom the bright illusion, Rainbow' d on the soul of youth ? Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others, Could I live to find that this is so ? And some whose hands should have Oh ! no ! no ! wrought for him, (If children Uve not for sires and mothers), As the stream of time His mind grew dim. Sluggishly doth flow, Look how all of beaming and sublime, And he fell far through that pit abysmal, Sinks into the black abysm below. The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, Yea, the loftiest intellect, And pawn'd his soul for the devil's dismal Earliest on the strand of life is wreck'd. Stock of returns. Nought of lovely, nothing glorious, Lives to triumph o'er decay ; But yet redeem'd it in days of darkness, Desolation reigns victorious — And shapes and signs of the final wrath, Mind is dungeon wall'd by clay : When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Could I bear to feel mine own laid low? Stood on his path. Oh ! no ! no ! And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, Restless o'er the earth, And want, and sickness, and houseless Thronging millions go : nights, But behold how genius, love, and worth He bides in calmness the silent morrow, Move like lonely phantoms to and frc. That no ray lights. Suns are quench'd, and kingdoms fall, But the doom of these outdarkens all ! And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and Die they then ? Yes, love's devot'on, hoary Stricken, withers in its bloom ; *20 POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Fond affections, deep as ocean, In their cradle find their tomb : Shall I linger, then, to count each throe ? Oh ! no ! no ! Prison-bursting death 1 Welcome be thy blow ! Thine is but the forfeit of my breath, Not the spirit ! nor the spirit's glow. Spheres of beauty — hallow'd spheres, Undefaced by time, undimm'd by tears, Henceforth hail ! oh, who would grovel In a world impure as this? Who would weep, in cell or hovel, When a palace might be his ? Wouldst thou have me the bright lot forego ' Oh ! no ! no ! TO JOSEPH BRENAN. Feiend and brother, and yet more than brother, Thou endow'd with all of Shelley's soul ! Thou whose heart so burneth for thy mother, 1 That, like his, it may defy all other Flames, while time shall roll ! Thou of language bland, and manner meekest, Gentle bearing, yet unswerving will — Gladly, gladly, list I when thou speakest, Honor'd highly is the man thou seekest To redeem from ill ! Truly showest thou me the one thing needful ! Thou art not, nor is the world yet blind. Truly have I been long years unheedful Of the thorns and tares, that choked the weedful Garden of my mind ! Thorns and tares, which rose in rank pro- fusion, Round my scanty fruitage and my flowers, Till 1 almost deem'd it self-delusion, Any attempt or glance at their extrusion From their midnight bowers. Dream and waking life have now been blended Long time in the caverns of my soul — Oft in daylight have my steps descended Down to that dusk realm where all is ended, Save remeadless dole ! Oft, with tears, I have groan'd to God for pity- Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim — Oft sung unto Him a prayerful ditty — Oft, all lonely in this throngful city, Raised my soul to Him ! And from path to path His mercy track'd me— From a many a peril snatch'd He me ; When false friends pursued, betray'd, at tack'd me, When gloom overdark'd, and sickness rack'd me, He was by to save and free ! Friend ! thou warnest me in truly noble Thoughts and phrases ! I will heed thee well — Well will I obey thy mystic double Counsel, through all scenes of woe and trouble, As a magic spell ! Yes ! to live a bard, in thought and feeling ! Yes ! to act my rhyme, by self-restraint, This is truth's, is reason's deep revealing, Unto me from thee, as God's to a kneeling And entranced saint ! Fare thee well ! we now know each the other, Each has struck the other's inmost chords- Fare thee well, my friend and more than brother, And may scorn pursue me if I smother In my soul thy words ! TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO. Oh, the rain, the weary, dreary rain, How it plashes on the window-sill ! Night, I guess too, must be on the wane, Strass and Gass 1 around are grown so stilL i street and lane. POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAN G AN. Here I sit, with coffee in my cup — Ah ! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow In the tavern where I loved to sup Twenty golden years ago ! Twenty years ago, alas ! — hut stay — On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock ! After all, the hours do slip away — Come, here goes to burn another block ! For the night, or morn, is wet and cold ; And my fire is dwindling rather low : — I had fire enough, when yoimg and bold, Twenty golden years ago. Dear ! I don't feel well at all, somehow : Few in Weimar dream how bad I am ; Floods of tears grow common with me now, High-Dutch floods, that reason cannot dam. Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive If I mope at home so ; — I don't know — Am I living now f I was alive Twenty golden years ago. Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone, Not quite bookless, though, unless I choose, Left with nought to do, except to groan, Not a soul to woo, except the muse — Oh ! this is hard for me to bear, Me, who whilome lived so much en haut, Me, who broke all hearts like china-ware, Twenty golden years ago ! Perhaps 'tis better ; — time's defacing waves, Long have quench'd the radiance of my brow — They who curse me nightly from thtji giaven", Scarce could love me were they living now j But my loneliness hath darker ills — Such dun duns as Conscience, Thought and Co., Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailors' bills Twenty golden years ago ! Did I paint a fifth of what I feel, Oh, how plaintive you would ween I w«t* f But I won't, albeit I have a deal More to wail about than Kerner has ! Kerner's tears are wept for wither'd flowers, Mine for wither'd hopes ; my scroll of woe Dates, alas ! from youth's deserted bowers, Twenty golden years ago ! Tet, may Deutschland's bardlings flourish long; Me, I tweak no beak among them ; — hawks Must not pounce on hawks : besides, in song I could once beat all of them by chalks. Though you find me as I near my goal, Sentimentalizing like Rousseau, Oh ! I had a grand Byronian soul Twenty golden years ago ! Tick-tick, tick-tick !— not a sound save Time's. And the wind-gust as it drives the rain — Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes, Go to bed, and rest thine aching brain ! Sleep ! — no more the dupe of hopes or schemes ; Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow- Curious anticlimax to thy dreams Twenty golden years ago ! POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. AH ! CRUEL MAID. [Moore, In his Life of Sheridan, Bays, this song, " for deep, Impassioned feeling and natnral eloquence, has not, perhaps, Its rival through the whole range of lyric poetry."] Ah, cruel maid, how hast thou changed The temper of my mind ! My heart, by thee from love estranged, Becomes, like thee, unkind. By fortune favor'd, clear in fame, I once ambitious was ; And friends I had, who fann'd the flame, And gave my youth applause. But now, my weakness all accuse: Yet vain their taunts on me ; Friends, fortune, fame itself, I'd lose, To gain one smile from thee. And only thou should not despise My weakness, or my woe; If I am mad in others' eyes, 'Tis thou hast made me so. But days, like this, with doubting curst, I will not long endure : Am I disdain'd — I know the worst, And likewise know my cure. If false, her vows she dare renounce, That instant ends my pain ; For, oh I the heart must break at once, That cannot hate again. HOW OPT, LOUISA. FROM "THE DUENNA." How oft, Louisa, hast thou said — Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown- Thou wouldst not lose Antouio's love To reign the partner of a throne ! And by those lips that spoke so kind, And by this hand I press'd to mine, To gain a subject nation's love I swear I would not part.with thine. Then how, my soul, can we be poor, Who own what kingdoms could not buy? Of this true heart thou shalt be queen, And, serving thee — a monarch I. And thus controll'd in mutual bliss, And rich in love's exhaustless mine — Do thou snatch treasures from my lip, And I'll take kingdoms back from thine t HAT) I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. (air — "molly astoke.") Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you, For, tho' your tongue no promise claim'a, Your charms would make me true; Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you'U meet, And lovers in the young. But when they find that you have bless'd Another with your heart, They'll bid aspiring passion rest, And act a brother's part. Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And brothers in the young. In speaking of the lyrics in the Opera of" The Duenna," Moore says : "By far the greater nnmber of the songs are lull of beauty, and some of them may rank among the best models of lyric writing. The verses 'Had I a heart for falsehood framed,' notwithstanding the stiffness of this word ' framed, and one or two slight blemishes, are not unworthy of living in recollection with the matchlees air to which they are EMHSOJElf 5DOE080IMH, . POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 423 OH YIELD, PAIR LIDS. (from an unfinished ms. drama.) Oh yield, fair lids, the treasures of my heart, Release those beams, that make this man- sion bright ; From her sweet sense, Slumber! though sweet thou art, Begone, and give the air she breathes in light. Or while, O Sleep, thou dost those glances hide, Let rosy Slumbers still around her play, Sweet as the cherub Innocence enjoy'd, When in thy lap, new-born, in smiles he lay. And thou, O Dream, that com'st her sleep to cheer, Oh take my shape, and play a lover's part ; Kiss her from me, and whisper in her ear, Till her eyes heart. 'tis night within my It may be inferred from a passage in Moore's " Life of Sher- idan," that he intended the unfinished drama, whence these lines are taken, to be called "The Foresters ;" and that he was rery hopeful of it, for he was wont to exclaim occasionally, to confidential friends, "Ah, wait till my Foresters comes out 1" A BUMPER OF GOOD LIQUOR (prom "the duenna.") A bumper of good liquor Will end a contest quicker Than justice, judge, or vicar; So fill a cheerful glass, And let good humor pass : But if more deep the quarrel, Why, sooner drain the barrel Than be the hateful fellow That's crabbed when he's mellow. A bumper, &c. lUhla Is also from the same MS. drama noticed in the fore- going song of " Oh yield, fair lids."] " We two, each other's only pride, Each other's bliss, each other's guide, Far from the world's unhallow'd noise, Its coarse delights and tainted joys, Through wilds will roam and deserts rude — For, Love, thy home is solitude." ' There shall no vain pretender be, To court thy smile and torture me, No proud superior there be seen, But nature's voice shall hail thee, queen.' ' With fond respect and tender awe, I will obey thy gentle law, Obey thy looks, and serve thee still, Prevent thy wish, foresee thy will, And added to a lover's care, Be all that friends and parents are." COULD I HER FAULTS REMEMBER Could I her faults remember, Forgetting every charm, Soon would impartial Reason The tyrant Love disarm. But when, enraged, I number Each failing of her mind, Love, still, suggests each beauty, And sees, while Reason's blind BY CffiLIA'S ARBOR By Coelia's arbor, all the night, Hang, humid wreath — the lover's vow ; And haply, at the morning's light, My love will twine thee round her brow. And if upon her bosom bright Some drops of dew should fall from thee ; Tell her they are not drops of night, But tears of sorrow shed by me. In these charming lines Sheridan has wroaght to a higher degree of finish an idea to be found in an early poem of his ad- dressed to Miss Linley, beginning " Uncouth is this moss-cov- ered grotto of stone." The poem is too long for quotation at length, and, in truth, not worth it, the choice bit Sheridan re- membered, however, and reconstructed as above. The original Sidea stood thus : "And thou, stony grot, in thy arch mayst preserve Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew ; And just let them fall at her feet, and they'll serve As tears of my sorrow intrusted to you. " Or, lest they unheeded should fall at her feet. Let them fall on her bosom of snow ; and I swear The next time I visit thy moss-cover'd seat, I'll pay thee each drop with a genuine tear." POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. LET THE TOAST PASS. Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Here's to the widow of fifty ; Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty: Chorus. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. Hei e's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the maid who has none, sir, Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And here's to the nymph with but one, sir : Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, And to her that's as brown as a berry; Here's to the wife, with a face full of woe, And now to the girl that is merry • Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim. Young, or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill the pint bumper* quite up to the brim, And let e'en us toast them together : Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. O, THE DAYS "WHEN I "WAS YOUNG! (from "the duenna.") O, the days when I was young ! When I laugh'd in fortune's spite, Talk'd of love the whole day long, And with nectar crown'd the nisrht : * Those were the days of hard drinking (let us be thankful they are passed away), when they not only filled a "pint bumper." but swallowed it at a draught, if they meant to be thought "pretty fellows." I remember of hearing a witty reply which was made (as it was reported) by Sir H s L e. an Irish ion vivant of the last century, to his doctor, who had cut him down to a pint of wine daily, when he was on the sick-list. Now the convivial baronet was what was called, in those days, a "sis-bottle man,"— and, we may sup- pose, felt very miserable on a pint of wine per diem. The doctor called the day after he had issued his merciless decree, and hoped his patient was better. "I hope yen only took a pint of wine yesterday," said he. Thebaronetnoddedamelan- choly assent. "Now, don't think so badly of this injunction of mine, my dear friend," continued the doctor, "you may rely upon it. it will lengthen your days." " That I believe," returned Sir Hercules, " for yesterday seemed to me the longest *ay I ever spent in my life." Then it was, old father Care, Little reck'd I of thy frown ; Half thy malice youth could bear, And the rest a bumper drown. Truth they say lies in a well ; Why, I vow I ne'er could see, Let the water-drinkers tell — There it always lay for me ! For when sparkling wine went round Never saw I falsehood's mask: But still honest Truth I found In the bottom of each flask. True, at length my vigor's flown, I have years to bring decay : Few the locks that now I own, And the few I have are gray; Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast While thy spirits do not tire, Still beneath thy age's frost Glows a spark of youthful fire. DRY BE THAT TEAR. Dry be that tear, my gentlest love, Be hush'd that struggling sigh ; Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove, More fix'd, more true, than I : Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear — Dry be that tear. Ask'st thou how long my love shall stay When all that's new is past ? How long, ah ! Delia, can I say, How long my life shall last ? Dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh, At least I'll love thee till I die— Hush'd be that sigh. And does that thought affect thee, too, The thought of Sylvio's death, That he, who only breathed for you, Must yield that faithful breath ? Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, Nor let us lose our heaven here — Dry be that tear. POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 425 WHAT BARD, TIME, DISCOVER. What bard, O Time, discover, With wings first made thee move ! Ah ! sure he was some lover Who ne'er had left his love ! For who that once did prove The pangs which absence brings, Though but one day He were away, Could picture thee with wings ? These sweet and ingenious lines are from " The Duenna." The song does not appear in the late editions of the opera. I obtained it from an old Dublin edition, dated 17S0— where the pieee is entitled, " The Duenna, or double elopement ; a comic opera, as it is enacted at the Theatre, Smoke Alley, Dublin." (Properly called Smock Alley.) In this edition most outrageous liberties have been taken with the original test. ALAS! THOU HAST NO WINGS, OH! TIME. [In the lines that follow will be found the original form of the idea which the author so much improved in the foregoing. Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, gives numerous instances of the extreme care with which he filed and poliBhed np his shafts of wit to bring them to the finest point. In this prac- tice no one could better sympathize than Moore.] Alas ! thou hast no wings, oh ! time ; It was some thoughtless lover's rhyme, Who, writing in his Chloe's view, Paid her the compliment through you. For had he, if he truly loved, But once the pangs of absence proved, He'd cropt thy wings, and, in their stead, Have painted thee with heels of lead. I NE'ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE. I ne'eb could any lustre see, In eyes that would not look on me ; I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, But where my own did hope to sip. Has the maid, who seeks my heart, Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art ? I will own the color true, When yielding blushes aid their hue. Is her hand so soft and pure ? I must press it, to be sure ; Nor can I be certain then, 'Till it grateful press again. Must I, with attentive eye, Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? I will do so, when I see That heaving bosom sigh for ma, WHEN SABLE NIGHT. When sable night, each drooping plant re- storing, Wept o'er her flowers, her breath did cheer, As some sad widow o'er her baby deploring, Wakes its beauty with a tear — When all did sleep whose weary hearts could borrow One hour of love from care to rest ; Lo ! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow My lover caught me to his breast. He vow'd he came to save me From those that would enslave me ; Then kneeling, Kisses stealing, Endless faith he swore ! But soon I chid him thence, For had his fond pretence Obtain'd one favor then, And he had press'd again, I fear'd my treach'rous heart might grant him more. Bums, in his correspondence with Mr. George the publisher, writes thus : " There is a pretty English sonji by Sheridan, in ' The Duenna,' to this air, which is out ol sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins— 'When Bable night, each drooping plant restoring.' " The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is UM very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and lore. 1 have again gone over my song to the tune, as follows : ' Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature? Rosy morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which Nature Waters with the tears of joy.' " The idea conveyed in the words I have given in italics, 1> but the repetition of Sheridan's idea of Sable Night weeping over her flcwers. POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. THE MID-WATCH. When 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come, And chilling mists hang o'er the darken'd main, Then sailors think of their far-distant home, And of those friends they ne'er may see again; But when the fight's begun, Each serving at his gun, Should any thought of them come o'er your mind; Think, only, should the day be won, How 'twill cheer Their hearts to hear That their old companion he was one. Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind Have left on shore, some pretty girl and true, Who many a night doth listen to the wind, And sighs to think how it may fare with you: Oh, when the fight's begun, You serving at your gun, Should any thought of her come o'er your mind* Think, only, should the day be won, How 'twill cheer Her heart to hear That her own true sailor be wan one. MARKED YOU HER CHEEK r Maek'd you her cheek of rosy hue ? Mark'd you her eye of sparkling blue? That eye, in liquid circles moving ; That cheek, abash'd at Man's approving : The one, Love's arrows darting round •. The other, blushing at the wound : Did she not speak, did she not move, Now Pallas — now the queen of love ! These lines are generally supposed to have been writtsrr npon Miss Linley ; bnt Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, tells no Lady Margaret Fordyce was the object of this sparkling eulogy. They are part of a long poem in which, to ^se Moore's words, "they shine out so conspicuously, that wo. cannot wonder at their having been so soon detached, like ill- set gems, from the loose and clumsy workmanship around them." In the same poem, says Moore, we find " one of those familiar lines which so many quote without knowing whence they come ; one of those stray fragments whose parentage is doubtful, but to which (as the law says of illeg" li- mate children), 'pater est pqpulus.' " " Ton write with ease to show your breeding, But easy writing's aurst hard reading:' THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labor- ing swain, Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And parting Summer's lingering blooms delay'd ; Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please- How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm — The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I bless'd the coming day When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labor free,. Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd ; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round, And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looka reprove ! These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught even toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influ- ence shed ; These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- drawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges works its weary way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest - r Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away, thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish or may fade— A breath can make them, as a breath has- made: 428 THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs be- gan, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light labor spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more : His best companions, innocence and health, And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp re- pose ; And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peace- ful scene, Lived in each look, and brigUen'd all the green ; — These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades fov.orn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew — Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given my share — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting, by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill— Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; And, as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return — and die at home at last. bless'd retirement, friend to life's decline , Retreats from care, that never must be mine,— How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease ; Who quits the world where strong tempta- tions try— And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands, in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend — Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way — And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be pass'd. Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from be- low: The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watchdog's voice that bay'd the whis- pering wind THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 429 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind — These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, For all the blooming flush of life is fled — All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron — forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn — She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain ! Near yonder copse, where once the garden And still where many a garden flower grows wild — There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place ; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize — More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train ; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain: The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow' d ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away — Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was bis pride, And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side — But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he prav'd and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. side the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dis- may'd, The reverend champion stood. At his con- trol Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected- grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from Ms lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. The service pass'd, around the pious man With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ; Even children follow'd, with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile : His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd. To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Gut all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its hreast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay — There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view ; I knew him well, and every truant knew : Well bad the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes — for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew — 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides And even the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, For even though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; While words of learned length and thunder- ing sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around — And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew. But pass'd is all his fame ; the very spot Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the pass- ing eye, Low lies that house where nutbrown draughts inspired, Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendors of that festive place; The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when Winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendors ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart : Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Ves! let the rich deride, the proud dis- dain, These simple blessings of the lowly train — To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : THE POEMS OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH. But the long pomp, the midnight masque- rade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, In these, ere triflers half their wish ohtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain — And, even while fashion's brightest arts de- coy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy ? Ye iriends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's de- cay — 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards even beyond the Miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around ; Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied — Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robb'd the neighboring fields of half their growth ; His seat, where solitary spots are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies : While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure, all In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of kti eyes — But when those charms are pass'd, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail- She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd: In nature's simplest charms at first array'd — But verging to decline, its splendors rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; While, scourged by famine, from the smiling land The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — a garden and a grave. Where then, ah, where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd He drives his flocks to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth di- vide, And even the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped — what waits him there ? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe : Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist pbes the sickly trade ; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her mid- night reign, Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train — Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ; Sure these denote one universal joy ? Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering _. THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd, Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head — And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, "With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn ! thine, the love- liest train — Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? Even now perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes be-. tween, Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama 1 murmurs to their v, oe. Far different there from all that charm'd be- fore, The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day — Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling — Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around — Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake — Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men more murderous still than they — While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. In Georgia, North America. Mingling the ravaged landscape with tht skies. Far different these from every former scene ; The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven ! what sorrrows gloom'd that parting day, That call'd them from their native walka away ; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last — And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main — And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. , The good old sire, the first prepared to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe — But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for her father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose, And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear — Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigor not their own : At every draught more large and large they grow, THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Fass fi»m the shore, and darken all the strand : Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness are there, And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. Aud thou, 'sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame : Dear charming nymph, neglected and de- cried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide, by which the noble arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! Farewell ; and, oh, where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; Teach erring«man to spurn the rage of gain ; Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd, Though very poor, may still be very bless'd ; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. THE TRAVELLER. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slew, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; Or onward where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door, Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies — Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee; Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend : Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening) .V Blest that abode, where want and pai pair, And every stranger finds a ready chair; Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care — Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view, That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies — My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And placed on high, above the storm's career, Look downward where a hundfed realms appear — THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, Tlie pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus creation's charms around com- bine, Amidst the store should thankless pride re- pine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man ; .And wiser he whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. ' Ye glittering towns with wealth and splen- dor crown'd ; Ye fields where Summer spreads profusion round ; Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale ; Ye bending swains that dress the flowery vale ; — For me your tributary stores combine ; Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine! As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : Thus to ray breast alternate passions rise, Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies, • Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consign'd, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot be- Lw, Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease ; The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first best country ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations, makes their blessings even Nature, a mother kind alike to all; Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call With food as well the peasant is supplied On Idra's cliff as Arno's shelvy side ; And though the rocky-crested summits frown, These rocks, by custom, turn to beds ot down. From art more various are the blessings sent — Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content ; Yet these each other's power so strong con- test, That either seems destructive of the rest: Where wealth and freedom reign, content- ment fails, And honor sinks where commerce long pre- vails. Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone, Conforms and models life to that alone ; Each to the favorite happiness attends ; And spurns the plan that aims at other ends — Till, carried to excess in each domain, This favorite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies: Here, for awhile my proper cares resign'd; Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind; Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, Bright as the Summer, Italy extends : Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride, While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene. Could Natm-e's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground — Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year — Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die — These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; While sea-born gales their gelid wings ex- pand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone be- stows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows ; In florid beauty groves and fields appear — Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; And even in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind ; For wealth was theirs — nor far removed the date When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state. At her command the palace learn'd to rise, Again the long-fallen column sought the ski Th e canvas glow'd, beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display'd her sail, While naught remain'd, of all that riches gave, But towns unmann'd and lords without a slave — And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here sup- plied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride : From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; Processions form'd for piety and love — A mistress or a saint in every grove : By sports like these are all their care.- be- guiled ; The sports of children satisfy the child, Each nobler aim represt by long control. Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; While low delights, succeeding fast behin . In happier meanness occupy the mind. As in those domes, where Caesars once 1 <>< • sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race dis- play- Where the bleak Swiss their stormy man- sions tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. No product here the barren hills afford But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But Winter lingering chills the lap of May ; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short re- pose, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; With patient angle trolls the finny deep ; Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep ; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. At night returning, every labor sped, He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round sur- veys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; While his loved partner, boastful' of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board : And haply too some pilgrim thither led With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native wilds impart Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; And e'en those hills, that round his mansion rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : Dear is that shed to which his soul con- forms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast — So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states as- sign'd — Their wants but few, their wishes all con- fined — Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few: For every want that stimulates the breast Becomes a source of pleasure when redress'd. Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire, and then supplies. Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve and vibrate through the frame : Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire ; Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer On some high festival of once a year, In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow, Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son, Unalter'd, unimproved, the manners run; And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest ; But all the gentler morals, such as play Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way — These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn ; and France displays her bright do- main. Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please — How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew, And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew ! And haply, though my harsh touch, falter ing still. THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 437 But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dan- cer's skill — Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirth- ful maze ; And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms display; Thus idly busy rolls their world away. Theirs are those arts that mind to mind en- dear, For honor forms the social temper here : Honor, that praise which real merit gains, Or even imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current — paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise — They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools im- part ; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year: The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. ilethinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land : And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an ■ empire, and usurps the shore — While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile The slow canal, the yellow blossom'd vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain — A new creation rescued from his reiojn. Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from op'.lence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; But view them closer, craft and fraud ap pear, Even liberty itself is barter'd here. At gold's superior charms all freedom flies; The needy sell it, and the rich man buys: A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonorable graves ; And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. , how unlike their Belgic sires of old- Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western Spring ; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than famed Hydaspis 1 glide. 1 A river in India, now called the Jelum. THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. There, all around, the gentlest breezes stray; There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation's mildest charms are there com- bined : Extremes are only in the master's mind. Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great. Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by, Intent on high designs — a thoughtful band, By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagined right, above control ; While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured here ; Thine are those charms that dazzle and en- dear ; Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, But, foster'd e'en by freedom, ills annoy ; That independence Britons prize too high Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie: The self-dependent lordlings stand alone — All claims that bind and sweeten life un- known. Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repelPd ; Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Repress'd ambition struggles round her shore ; Till, overwrought, the general system feels Its motions stopp'd, or frenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties de- cay, As duty, love, and honor fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; Till time may come, when, stripp'd of all her charms, The land Of scholars, and the nurse of arms— Where nobk stems transmit the patriot Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame — One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die. Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatter kings, or court the great. Ye powers of truth that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feci The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel — Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt, or favor's fostering sun — Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! I only would repress them to secure; For just experience tells in every soil, That those who think must govern those that toil ; And all that freedom's highest aims can reach Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportion^ grow, Its double weight must ruin all below. Oh, then, how blind to all that truth re- quires, Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast approaching danger warns ; But, when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to stretch their own — When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves ai free — Each wanton judge new penal statu draw, Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule t law — The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam. Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home — Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. I THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour When first ambition struck at regal power ; And thus, polluting honor in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ? Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train, And over fields where scatter'd hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose ? Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, The smiling long-frequented village fall ? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, The modest matron and the blushing maid, Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main — Where wild Oswego 1 spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests and through dan- gerous ways, Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with murder- ous aim — There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise — The pensive exile, bending with his woe, To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, Casts a long look where England's glories shine, And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. ^ain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind. Why have I stray'd from pleasure and re- pose, To seek a good each government bestows ? In every government, though terrors reign, 1 Oswego, a river of N. America r : into Lake Ontario. Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ! Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, Our own felicity we make or find. With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy; The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Zeck's iron crown, and Damiens" bed of steel, To men remote from power but rarely known — Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all oar THE HERMIT. "Tukn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. For here, forlorn and lost, 1 tread, With fainting steps and slow, Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. Here, to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And, though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows — My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn — 1 George and Luke Zeck headed an insurrectio 1514 ; George usurped the sovereignty, and was punished by a red-hot iron crown. Damiens, who attempted the assassi- nation of Louis XV. of France, in 1757. was tortured to death THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them. Eut from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego, — All earth-born cares are wrong : Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell; The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far, in a wilderness obscure, The lonely mansion lay, — A refuge to the neighboring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care; The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer'd his pensive guest ; And spread his vegetable store, And gayly press'd and smiled; And, skill'd in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguiled. Around, in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, — The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling fagot flies. But, nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe — For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied — With answering care oppress'd ; " And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, " The sorrows of thy breast ? From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love ? Alas, the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they. And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep — A shade that follows wealth or fame, And leaves the wretch to weep ? And love is still an emptier sound — The modern fair one's jest ; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. For shame, fond youth, thy sorrowt hush, And spurn the sex," he said ; But, while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray' d : Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view — Like colors o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms: The lovely stranger stands confest, A maid in all her charms. " And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried — " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude "Where heaven and you reside. But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray — Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. My father lived beside the Tyne — A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine : He had but only me. To win me from his tender arms Unnumber'd suitors came ; THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Who praised me for imputed charms, " Turn, Angelina, ever dear — And felt or feign'd a flame. My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Each hour a mercenary crowd Restored to love and thee. With richest proffers strove ; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd — Thus let me hold thee to my heart, But never talk'd of love. And every care resign : And shall we never, never part, In humble simplest habit clad, My life — my all that's mine ? No wealth or power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had, No ; never, from this hour to part, But these were all to me. We'll live and love so true — The sigh that rends thy constant heart And when beside me in the dale Shall break thy Edwin's too." He caroll'd lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove. The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refined, Could naught of purity display THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. To emulate his mind. A TALE. The dew, the blossoms of the tree, Secluded from domestic strife, With charms inconstant shine : Jack Bookworm led a college life ; Their charms were his ; but, woe to me, A fellowship, at twenty-five, Their constancy was mine. Made him the happiest man alive ; He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, For still I tried each fickle art, And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch'd my heart, Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, I triumph'd in his pain. Could any accident impair ? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Till, quite dejected with my scorn, Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ? He left me to my pride ; Oh, had the archer ne'er come down And sought a solitude forlorn To ravage in a country town ! In secret, where he died. Or Flavia been content to stop At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop ! But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze, And well my life shall pay; Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! I'll seek the solitude he sought, Oh ! — But let exclamation cease; And stretch me where he lay. Her presence banish'd all his peace : So with decorum all things carried, And there, forforn, despairing, hid, Miss frown'd and blush'd, and then w*8 — I'll lay me down and die : married. 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." Need we expose to vulgar sight The raptures of the bridal night ? " Forbid it, heaven !" the Hermit cried, Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, And clasp'd her to his breast: Or draw the curtains closed around ? The wondering fair one turn'd to chide — Let it suffice, that each had charms : 'Twas Edwin's self that prest. He clasp'd a goddess in his arms ; THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. And though she felt his usage rough, Yet in a man 'twas well enough. The honeymoon like lightning flew; The second brought its transports too ; A third, a fourth, were not amiss ; The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss; But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, Jack found his goddess made of clay; Found half the charms that deck'd her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; But still the worst remain'd behind — That very face had robb'd her mind. Skill'd in no other arts was she But dressing, patching, repartee ; And, just as humor rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle. 'Tis true, she dress'd with modern grace — Half-naked at a ball or race ; But when at home, at board or bed, Plve greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend? Could any curtain-lectures bring To decency so fine a thing ? In short — by night 'twas tits or fretting, By day 'twas gadding or coquetting. Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee; The squire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations. Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke ; While all their hours were pass'd between Insulting repartee or spleen. Thus, as her faults each day were known, He thinks her features coarser grown ; He fancies every vice she shows Or thins her lip or points her nose; Whenever rage or envy rise, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ! He knows not how, but so it is, Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; And, though her fops are wondrous civil, He thinks her ugly as the devil. Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, As each a different way pursues — While sullen or loquacious strife Promised to hold them on for life — That dire disease, whose ruthless power Withers the beauty's transient flower — Lo, the small-pox, whose horrid glare Levell'd its terrors at the fair, And, rifling every youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face. The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright. Each former art she vainly tries To bring back lustre to her eyes ; In vain she tries her paste and creams To smooth her skin, or hide its seams: Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; The squire himself was seen to yield, And even the captain quit the field. Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old. With modesty her cheeks are dyed ; Humility displaces pride ; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean ; 3STo more presuming on her sway, She learns good-nature every day : Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. Amidst the clamor of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raDtures which from pleas- ures start. Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart- wrung tear. THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Alive the foe thy dreadful vigor fled, And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes EPITAPH ON EDWARD PTTRDON. [This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier ; jrrowin,? tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, ind became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire'u Henrtade.] Here lies poor Ned Pnrdon, from misery freed, Who long was a booksellei-'s hack ; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll wish to come back. STANZAS ON WOMAN. WiaEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is — to die. AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word — From those who spoke her praise The needy seldom pass'd her door. And always found her kind ; She freely lent to all the poor — Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighborhood to please, With manners wondrous winning ; And never follow'd wicked ways — Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew — But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more ; The king himself has follow'd her — When she has walk'd before. But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all ; The doctors found, when she was dead — Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more- She had not died to-day. EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parn ell's name, May speak our gratitude, butfnot his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flow- ery way ? Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; And heaven, that lent him genius, was re- paid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow, The transitory breath of fame below : More lasting rapture from his work shall rise, While converts thank their poet in the skies- THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. A PROLOGUE, WBITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABE- BIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CfiSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. (PKE8EBTKD BY MACBOBITJS.) What! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, And save from infamy my sinking age ? Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year, What, in the name of dotage, drives me here? A time there was, when glory was my guide, Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear, With honest thrift I held my honor dear: But this vile hour disperses all my store, And all my hoard of honor is no more; For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline, Caesar persuades, submission must be mine ; Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys, Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. Here then at once I welcome every shame, And cancel at threescore a life of fame ; No more my titles shall my children tell, The old buffoon will fit my name as well : This day beyond its term my fate extends, For life is ended when our honor ends. EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." Well, having Stooped to Conquer with suc- cess, And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, As I have conquer' d him, to conquer you : And let me say, for all your resolution, That pretty bar-maids have done execution. Our life is ail a play, composed to please, " We have our exits and our entrances." The first act shows the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ; Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action, " I hope as how to give you satisfaction." Her second act displays a livelier scene — Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, Who whisks about the house, at market caters, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, The chop-house toasts of ogling connoisseurs. On squires and cits she there displays her arts, And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts : And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, Even common-councilmen forget to eat. The fourth act shows her wedded to the squire, And madam now begins to hold it higher; Dotes upon dancing, and in all her pride Swims round the room the Heinelle of Cheapside ; Ogles and leers with artificial skill, Till having lost in age the power to kill, She sits all night at cards, and ogles at Spadille. Such, through our lives, the eventful history: The fifth and last act still remains for me. The bar-maid now for your protection prays, Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays. EMMA. In all my Emma's beauties blest, Amidst profusion still I pine ; For though she gives me up her brea*t, Its panting tenant 's not mine THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. SONG. Love laid down his golden head On his mother's knee ; — " The world runs round so fast," he said, " None has time for me." Thought, a sage unhonor'd, turn'd From the on-rushing crew; Song her starry legend spurn'd ; Art her glass down threw. Roll on, blind world, upon thy track Until thy wheels catch fire ! For that is gone which comes not back To seller nor to buyer ! CREEP SLOWLY UP THE WILLOW- WAND. Cbeep slowly up the willow-wand, Young leaves ; and in your lightness Teach us that spirits which despond May wear their own pure brightness ! Into new sweetness slowly dip, O May ! advance, yet linger ; Nor let the ring too swiftly slip Down that new-plighted finger ! Thy bursting blooms, O Spring, retard: — While thus thy raptures press on, How many a joy is lost or marr'd, How many a lovely lesson ! For each new grace conceded, those The earlier-loved are taken ; In death their eyes must violets close Before the rose can waken. Ye woods with ice-threads tingling late, Where late we heard the robin, Your chants that hour but antedate When autumn winds are sobbing. Ye gummy buds in silken sheath, Hang back content to glisten ! Hold in, O Earth, thy charmed breath ; Thou air, be still, and listen ! SPENSER. One peaceful spot in a storm-vex'd isle Shall wear forever the past's calm smile: — Kilcoleman Castle ! There Spenser sate ; There sang, unweeting of coming fate. The song he sang was a life-romance Woven by Virtues in mystic dance, Where the gods and the heroes of Grecian story Themselves were virtues in allegory. True love was in it, but love sublimed, Occult, high-reason'd, bewitch'd, be-rhymed ! The knight was the servant of ends trans- human, The women were seraphs, the bard half THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. Time and its tumults, stern shocks, hearts wrung, To him were mad words to sweet music sung, History to him an old missal quaint Border'd round with gold angel and azure saint. Creative indeed was that eye, sad Mary, That hail'd in thy rival a queen of faery, And in Raleigh, half statesman, half pirate, could see But the shepherd of ocean's green Arcady. 'Under groves of Penshurst his first notes rang: As Sidney lived so his Spenser sang. From the well-head of Chaucer one stream found birth, Like an Arethusa, on Irish earth. Prom the court he had fled, and the courtly lure : — One virgin muse in an age not pure Wore Florimel's girdle, and mourn'd in song (Disguised as Irena's) Ierne's wrong. 1 Roll onward, thou western Ilyssus, roll, "Mulla," far kenn'd by "old mountain Mole !" With thy Shepherds a Calidore loved to dwell ; And beside him an Irish Pastorel. Dead are the wild-flowers she flung on thy tide, Bending over thee, giftless — that well-sung bride :" The flowers have pass'd by, but abideth the river ; And the genius that hallow'd it haunts it forever. HOLY CROSS ABBEY. Not dead, but living still and militant, With things dead-doom'd wrestling in con- quering war, 1 Fairy Queen, Book V. Canto i. > " Song made in lieu of many ornaments. JSpithalamion. More free for chains, more fair for every s^nr, How well, huge pile, that forehead gray uud gaunt Thou lift'st our world of fleeting shapes to daunt ! The past in thee surviveth petrified : Like some dead tongue art thou, some tongue that died To live ; — for prayer reserved, of flatteries scant. The age of Sophists takes on thee no hold : From thine ascetic breast the hollow jibe Falls flat, and cavil of the blustering scribe: Thine endless iron winter mocks the gold Of our brief autumns. God hath press'd on thee The impress of His own eternity. SELF-DECEPTION Like mist it tracks us wheresoe'er we go, Like air bends with us ever as we bend ; And, as the shades at noontide darkest grow, With grace ascending it too can ascend : Weakness with virtue skill'd it is to blend, Breed baser life from buried sins laid low, Empty our world of God and good, yet lend The spirit's waste a paradisal glow. O happy children simple even in wiles ! And ye of single eye thrice happy poor ! Practised self-love, the cheat which slaye with smiles, Weaves not for you the inevitable lure. Men live a lie : — specious their latest breath : — Welcome, delusion-slayer, truthful Death ! OUR KINGS SAT OF OLD LN EMANL\ AND TARA Oue kings sat of old in Emania and Tara : — Those new kings whence are they ? Their names are unknown ! Our saints lie entomb'd in Ardmagh and Cilldara; Their relics are healing ; their graves are grass-grown. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE 447 ■Our princes of old, when their warfare was over, As pilgrims forth wander'd; as hermits found rest: — Shall the hand of the stranger their ashes uncover In Bennchor the holy, in Aran the blest ? ' 2Jot so, by the race our Dalriada planted ! — In Alba were children ; we sent her a 1 There is no other example of a nation devoting itself to -spiritual things with an ardor and a success comparable to that which distinguished Ireland. During the first three cen- turies after her conversion to Christianity she resembled one yast monastery. Statements so extraordinary that if they •came from Irish sources they might be supposed to have ■originated in national vanity, have reached us in such num- bers from the records of those foreign nations under whose ■altars the relics of Irish saints and founders repose, that upon this point there remains no difference of opinion among the learned. For ordinary readers the subject is sufficiently Illustrated in the more recent Irish histories. Mr. Moore remarks (Hist, of Ireland, vol i. p. 27(i) : "In order to convey to the reader any adequate notion of the apostolic labors of that great crowd of learned missionaries whom Ireland sent foi th , in the course of this century, to all parts of Europe, it would, be necessary to transport him to the scenes of their respective missions ; to point out the difficulties they had to encounter, and the admirable patience and courage with which they surmounted them ; to show how inestimable was the service they rendered, during that dark period, by •keeping the dying embers of learning awake, and how grate- fully their names are enshrined in the records of foreign lands, though but faintly, if at all. remembered in their own, win- Tiing for her that noble title of the " island of the holy and the learned,' which throughout the night that overhung the rest of Europe she so long and bo proudly wore. Thus the labors of the great missionary, St. Columhanus, were after his death still vigorously carried on, both in France and Italy, by those disciples who had accompanied or joined him from -Ireland ; and his favorite Gallus. to whom in dying he bequeathed his pastoral staff, became the founder of an abbey in Switzerland, which was in the thirteenth century erected into a princedom, while the territory belonging to it, through al! changes, bore the name of St. Gall. * * * This pious Irishman has been called, by a foreign martyrologist, the apostle of the Allema- nian nation. Another disciple and countryman of St. Colum- banus, named Deicola. or in Irish Dichuill, enjoyed like his ■master the patronage and friendship of the monarch Clotaire n., who endowed the monastic establishment formed by him at Luthra with considerable grants of land." He proceeds to enumerate many other monuments of early Irish devotion, as the tomb of the Irish priest Caidoc, in the monastery of Oentula in Ponthieu, and the hermitage of St. Fiacre, to which Anne of Austria, in the year 1641, made her pilgrimage on foot. He records the labors of St. Fursa among the East Angles, and afterward in France, and of his brothers TJltan and Foillan in Brabant ; of St. Livin in Ghent ; of St. Fridolin beside the Rhine. He refers to the two Irish- men successively bishops of Strasburg, St. Arbogast, and St. Elorentius ; to the two brothers Erard and Albeit, whose tombs were long shown at Ratisbon ; to St. Wiro, to whom Pepin used to confess, barefooted ; to St. Kilian, the great apostle of Franconia, who consummated his labors by martyr- dom, and who is still honored at Wurtzburg as its patron ■saint. He proceeds to commemorate Cataldus, patron of Tarenlum, and at on< period an ornament of the celebrated Battles won in Argyle in Dunedin they chanted : King Kenneth completed what Fergus began. Our name is her name : she is Alba no longer : Her kings are our blood, and she crowns them at Scone : Strong-hearted they are ; and strong-handed ; but stronger When throned on our Lia Fail, Destiny's stone ! school of Lismore, and Virgilius, or Feargal, denounced to the Pope by Boniface as a heretic for having anticipated at that early period the discovery of the "antipodes," and main- tained " that there was another world, and other men under the earth." This great man propagated the Gospel among the Carinthians. He then records the selection by Charle- magne of two Irishmen, Clement and Albinus, one of whom ho placed at the head of a seminary founded by him in France, while the other presided over a similar institution at Pavia ; a third Irishman, Dungal, being especially consulted by the same prince on account of his astronomical knowledge. This celebrated teacher carried on a controversy with Claudius Bishop of Turin, who had revived the heterodox opinions ot Vigilantius against the veneration of the saints. He be- queathed to the monastery ofBobiohis library, the greater part of which is still preserved at Milan. Mr. Moore next illustrates the remarkable knowledge of Greek possessed by the early Irish ecclesiastics, a circum- stance accounted for by the fact that the fame of the Irish churches and schools had attracted many Greeks to Ireland. Advancing to the ninth century he records Sedulius and Do- natus, the former of whom had become so celebrated from his writings that the Pope created him Bishop of Oreto, and de- spatched him to Spain in order that he might compose the differences which had arisen among the clergy there, while the latter was made Bishop of Fiesole. Of his writings noth- ing remains except the Latin verses in which he celebrates his native land under its early name of Scotia. " Finibus occiduis describitur optima tellus Nomine et antiquis Scotia dicta libris. Insula dives opum, gemmarnm, vestis et auri : Commoda corporibns, aere, sole, solo," &c. He next gives an account of the far-famed John Scotns Erigena, and remarks upon the influence of the early Irish writers on the scholastic philosophy.— (Moore's History, vol. i. pp. 976-307.) From the latter part of the fifth century to the latter part of the eighth was Ireland's golden age. The Danish invasions reduced her to the comparatively low condition in which she was found by the Normans in the twelfth. The progress of Ireland's Christianity is briefly but com- prehensively narrated also in Mr. Haverty's recent History cf Ireland, Farrell & Son:— "Among the great ecck-siasiical schools or monasteries founded in Ireland about this time (the fifth century), were those of St. Ailbe of Emly, of St. Benignns of Armagh, of St. Fiech of Sletty. of St. Mel of Ardagh, of St. Mochay of Antrim, of St. Moctheus of Louth, of St. Ibar of Beg-Erin, of St. Asicus of Elphin, and of St. ©lean of Derkan."— P. 75. " * * * The most celebrated of them, fonnded early in the sixth century, were Clonard in Meath founded by St. Finan or Finian ; Clonmacnoise, on the banks of the Shannon, in the King's county, founded in the same century by St. Kiaran, called the Carpenter's Son ; Bennchor, or Bangor, in the Ards of Ulster, founded by St. Oomgall in the year 558. and Lismore in Wftferford, founded by St. Carthach. or Mochuda, about th i year 633, Tl se a" i THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERB. THE MALISON. The Curse of that land which in ban and in blessing Hath puissance, through prayer and through penance alight On the False One who whisper'd, the traitor's hand pressing, "I ride without guards in the morning, — good-night !" O beautiful serpent! O woman fiend- hearted ! Wife false to O'Ruark ! queen base to thy trust ! The glory of ages forever departed That hour from the isle of the saintly and just. The Curse of that land on the monarchs dis- loyal, Who welcomed the invader, and knelt at his knee ! False Derraod, false Donald — the chieftains once royal Of the Deasies and Ossory, cursed let them be ! Their name>an oft their shame make eternal. Engrave them On the cliff's which the great billows buffet and stain : Like billows the nations, when tyrants en- slave them, Swell up in their fury — not always in vain ! many other Irish schools attracted a vast concourse of stu- dentB, the pnpils of a single school ofien numbering from one to three thousand, several of whom came from Britain, Gaul, and other countries, drawn thither by the reputation for sanc- tity and learning which Ireland enjoyed throughout Europe." —P. 87. " * * * Scarcely an island round the coast, or in the »akes of the interior, or a valley, or any solitary spot, could be found which, like the deserts of Egypt and Palestine, was not inhabited by fervent ccenobites and anchorites."— P. 88. After various quotations from eminent foreign authorities, as Erie of Auxerre, and Tierry. Mr. Haverty proceeds :— ■' Stephen White (Apologia, p. 24) thus sums up the labors of the Irish saints on the continent:— 'Among the names of saints wl.om Ireland formerly sent forth there were, as I have learned from the .rnstworthy writings of the ancients, 150 now honored as pa- trons of places in Germany, of whom 3fi were martyrs ; 45 Irish patrons in the Gauls, of whom 6 were martyrs ; at least 30 in Belgium ; 44 in England ; 13 in Italy ; and in Norway and Ice- land 8 martyrs, besides many others.' It has been calculated that the ancient Irish monks had 13 monastic foundations in Scotland, 12 in England, 7 in France, 12 in Armoric Ganl, 7 in Lotharingia, 11 in Burgundy, 9 in Belgium, 10 in Alsatia, 16 in Bavaria, 6 in Italy, and 15 in Rhetia, Helvetia, and Suavia, be- But praise in the churches, and worship and honor To him who, betray'd and deserted, fought on! All praise to King Roderick, the prince of Clan Connor, The king of all Erin, and Cathall his son! May the million-voiced chant that in end- less expansion Sweeps onward through heaven his praises prolong ; May the heaven of heavens this night be the mansion Of the good king who died in the cloisters of Cong! HYMN, ON THE FOUNDING OF THE ABBEY OF ST. THOMAS 1HE MARTYR (a. BECKEf), IN DUBLIN, A. D. 1177. "The celebrated Abbey of St. Thomas the Martyr waa founded in Dublin by Fitz-Adelm, by order of Henry Second. The site was the place now called Thomas' Conrt. In the presence of Cardinal Vivian and St. Laurence O'Toole the deputy endowed it with a carucate of land called Donore." Hateett's Hist, of Ireland, Farrell & Son's edition, 205. Rejoice, thou race of man, rejoice ! To-day the Church renews her boast Of England's Thomas ; and her voice Is echo'd by the heavenly host. sides many in Tharingia, and on the left margin ol the Rhine between Gueldres and Alsatia."— Note, p. 103. Evan after the Danish invasion Ireland continued to found her religions es- tablishments in foreign countries: — "A few Irish monks settled at Glastonbury, and for their support began to teach the rudiments of sacred and secular knowledge. One of the earliest and most illustrious of their pupils was the great St. Dunstan, who, under the tuition of these Irishmen became skilful in philosophy, mu6ic, and other accomplishments. * * * St. Cadroc, the son of a king of the Albanian Scoti, wa« at the same time in Ireland, studying in the schools of Armagh." — P. 144. Mr. Haverty gives also an interesting account of the Culdees of Ireland, "religions persons resem- bling very much members of the tertiary orders of St. Dominic and St. Francis in the Catholic Church at the present day, or one of the great religious confraternities of modern times."— P. 105. He also explains those abuses, the cause of so mnch misconception, by which the great chiefs occasionally usurped and transmitted, though not in holy orders, the titles and es- tates of the richer bishoprics, the spiritual duties of whlefc were vicariously discharged by churchmen, as has happened more frequently at a later time in the case of paiishes appro- priated by lay rectors. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 449 Rejoice, whoever loves the right ; Rejoice, ye faithful men and true : The Prince of Peace o'errules the fight ; The many fall before the few. Behold a great high priest with rays Of martyrdom's red sunset crown'd ! No other like him in the days Wherein he trod the earth was found. The swords of men unholy met Above him clashing, and he bled : But God, the God he served, hath set A wreath unfading on his head. Great is the priestly charge, and great The line to whom that charge is given ! It comes not, that pontificate, Save from the great Hiarh Priest in A frowning king no equal brook'd : — " Obey," he cried, " my will, or die." Thomas, like Stephen, heavenward look'd And saw the Son of Man on high. 1 Nuad " of the Silver Hand" was the leader of the Tuatha de Danann who are said by the hards to have landed in Ire- land a. M. 3303, i. e. according to the chronology of the Septu- agint, adopted by the Four Masters. Eochy, the last of the Firholgic kings, was slain by them ; and a cairn still shown on the seacoast near Sligo is said to be his grave. The first proceeding of the invaders was to burn their fleet, so as to render retreat impossible. u According to the superstitious ideas of the hards these Tuatha de Danann were profoundly skilled in magic, and rendered themselves invisible to the in- habitants until they had penetrated into the heart of the country. In other words, they landed under the cover of a fog or mist ; and the Firbolgs, at first taken by surprise, made no regular stand, until the new-comers had marched almost across Ireland, when the two armies met face to face on the plain of Moyturey, near the shore of Lough Corrib, in part of the ancient territory of Partry. Here a battle was fought, in which the Firbolgs were overthrown, 'with the greatest slaughter,' says an old writer, ' that was ever heard of in Ire- land at one meeting.' * * * The scattered fragments of his (Eochy's) army took refuge in the nothern isle of Aran, Rath- lin Island, the Hebrides, the Isle of Man, and Britain."— Far- rell & Son's Haveety's Ireland, p. 12. "The victorious Nuad lost his hand iu this battle, and a silver hand was made for him by Credne Cerd, the artificer, and fitted on him by the Physician Diencecht, whose son, Miach, improved the work, according to the legend, by infusing feeling and motion into every joint of the artificial hand, as if it had been a nat- ural one."— Farrell & Son's Haveety's Hist, of Ireland, p. 13. Twenty-seven years later Nuad was killed in battle by Balor "of the mighty blows," a Fomorian. The sway of the Tuatha de Danann is said to have lasted for 197 years, when it was terminated by the immigration of the Milesian race. Farrell & Son's Haveett's Ireland, p. 13. Dr. O'Donovan says (Four Masters, vol. i. p. 24) : — u From the many monu- ments ascribed to this colony by tradition, and in ancient Irish historical tales, it is quite evident that they were a real people : and from their having been considered gods and ma- Blest is the People, blest and strong, That 'mid its pontiffs counts a saint J His virtuous memory lasting long Shall keep its altars pure from taint. The heathen plot, the tyrants rage; But in their Saint the poor shall find A shield, or after many an age A light restored to guide the blind. Thus with expiatory rite The Roman priest and Laurence sang, And loud the regal towers that night With music and with feasting rang. DEAD IS THE PRINCE OF THE SILVER HAND. 1 i. Dead is the Prince of the Silver Hand, And dead Eochy the son of Ere ! Ere lived Milesius they ruled the land Thou hast ruled and lost in turn, O'Ruark ! gicians by the Gaedhil, or Scoti, who Bubdued them, it maybe inferred that they were skilled in arts which the latrer did not understand. * * * It appears from a very curious and ancient Irish tract, written in the shape of a dialogue between St. Patrick and Caoilte MacHonain, that there were very many places in Ireland where the Tuatha de Danann were then supposed to live as sprites or fairies, with corporeal and ma- terial forms, but endued with immortality. The inference naturally to be drawn from these stories is that the Tuatha de Danann lingered in the country for many centuries after their subjection by the Gaedhil, and that they lived in retired situations, where they practised abstruse arts, which induced the others to regard them as magicians." The Tuatha de Danann are chiefly remembered in connec- tion with two circumstances. They are asserted to have carried into Ireland the far-famed "LiaFail," or "Stone of Destiny," on which the kings of Ireland were crowned for ages, and which was afterward said to have been removed to Scone in Scotland; and they gave Ireland her name. The throe names by which Ireland was called in early years, Eire, Banba, and Fodhla, were assigned to her in consequence of their belonging to the wives of the three last kings of the Tuatha de Danann race, each of whom reigned successively during a single year. These three queens were slain in the battle fought by the Milesians against the Tuatha de Danann at Tailtinn, or Teltovvn, in Meath ; the Irish queens beins accustomed in the Pagan times to lead their armies to battle. The Tuatha de Dananns seem to have easily kept the Firbolgs, a pastoral people, in subjection, being, though inferior to them in numbers, far superior in civilization. "It. is proba- ble," says Mr. Haverty, " that by the Tuatha de Dananns mines were first worked in Ireland; and it is generally be- lieved that they were the artificers of those beautifully-shaped bronzed swords and spear-heads that have been fouud in Ire- land, and of which so many fine specimens may be seen in the Museum of the Royal Irish Academy. * * * There is evi- dence to show that the vast mounds or artificial hills of Drogh- eda, Knowth, Dowth, and New Grange, along the banks of THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. Two thousand years have pass'd since then, And clans and kingdoms in blind com- motion Have butted at heaven and sunk again As the great waves sink in the depths of Last King of the Gaels of Eire, be still! What God decrees must come to pass: There is none that soundeth His Way or Will: His hand is iron, and earth is glass. Where built the Firbolgs there shrieks the owl; The Tuatha bequeath'd but the name of Eire:— Roderick, our last of kings, thy cowl -Outweighs the crown of thy kingly sire I THE FAITHFUL NORMAN. Prai&e to the valiant and faithful foe ! Give us noble foes, not the friend who lies! We dread the drugg'd cup, not the open blow ; — We dread the old hate in the new dis- guise. To Ossory's King they had pledged their word : He stood in their camp, and their pledge they broke ; Then Maurice the Norman upraised his sword ; The cross on its hilt he kiss'd, and spoke : — ** So long as this sword or this arm hath might I swear by the cross which is lord of all, By the faith and honor of noble and knight Who touches yon Prince by this hand shall fall !" theBoyne, with several minor tumuli in the same neighbor- hood, were erected as the tombs of Tuatha de Danann kings •Dd ■chieftains; and as such they only rank alter the pyramids of Egypt for the stupendous efforts which were required to raise them. As to the Firbolgs, it is doubtful whether there So side by side through the throng they pass'd ; And Eire gave praise to the just and true. Brave foe! Wrongs past truth heals at last ; — There is room in the great heart of Eire for you ! ST. PATRICK AND THE BARD. The land is sad, and dark our days : Sing us a song of the days that were ! — Then sang the bard in his Order's praise This song of the chief bard of king Laeg haire. The King is wroth with a greater wrath Than the wrath of Nial or the wrath of Conn! From his heart to his brow the blood makes path, And hangs there, a red cloud, beneath hig crown. Is there any who knows not, from south to north, That Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday keeps ? No fire may be lit upon hill or hearth Till the King's strong fire in its kingly mirth Leaps upward from Tara's palace steeps I Yet Patrick has lighted his paschal fire At Slane, — it is holy Saturday, — And bless'd his font 'mid the chanting choir ! From hill to hill the flame makes way : While the King looks on it, his eyes with ire Flash red, like Mars, under tresses gray. are any monumeuts remaining of their first sway in Ireland; but the famous Dun Angus, and other great stone forts in the islands of Aran, are well authenticated remnants of their mil- itary structures of the period of the Christian era, or the»- abouts."— P. 2a THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. The great King's captains with drawn swords rose; To avenge their Lord and the State they swore; The Druids rose and their garments tore ; "The strangers to us and our gods are foes !" Then the King to Patrick a herald sent, Who said, " Come np at noon, and show Who lit thy fire, and with what intent ? — These things the great King Laeghaire would know." But Laeghaire conceal'd twelve men in the way, Who swore by the sun the saint to slay. When the waters of Boyne began to bask, And the fields to flash, in the rising sun, The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch, And Erin her grace baptismal won : Her birthday it was ; — his font the rock, He bless'd the land, and he bless'd his flock. Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly : The Staff of Jesus was in his hand ; Eight priests paced after him chanting slowly, Printing their steps on the dewy land. It was the Resurrection morn ; The lark sang loud o'er the springing corn ; The dove was heard, and the hunter's horn. The murderers stood close by on the way ; Tet they saw naught save the lambs at play. A trouble lurk'd in the King's strong eye When the guests that he counted for dead drew nigh. He sat in state at his palace gate; His chiefs and his nobles were ranged around ; The Druids like ravens smelt some far fate ; Their eyes were gloomily bent on the ground. Then spake Laeghaire : "He comes — beware ! Let none salute him, or rise from his chair !" Like some still vision men see by night, Mitred, with eyes of serene command, Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly- white : The Staff of Jesus was in his hand. His priests paced after him unafraid, And the boy, Benignus, more like a maid, Like a maid just wedded he walk'd and smiled, To Christ new-plighted, that priestly child. They enter'd the circle; their hymn they The Druids their eyes bent earthward still : On Patrick's brow the glory increased, As a sunrise brightening some breathless hill. The warriors sat silent: strange awe they felt;— The chief bard, Dubtach, rose up, and knelt ! Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be When time gives way to eternity, Of kingdoms that cease, which are dreams not things, And the Kingdom built by the King of kings. Of Him he spake who reigns from the Cross ; Of the death which is life, and the life which is loss ; And how all things were made by the Infant Lord, And the small hand the Magian kings adored. His voice sounded on like a throbbing flood That swells all night from some far-off wood, And when it was ended — that wondrous strain — Invisible myriads breathed low, "Amen !" While he spake, men say that the refluent tide On the shore beside Colpa ceased to sink ; And they say the white deer by Mulla's side O'er the green marge bending forebore to drink: THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar ; That no leaf stirr'd in the wood by Lee. — Such stupor hung the island o'er, For none might guess what the end would be. Then whisper' d the King to a chief close by, " It were better for me to believe than die !" Yet the King believed not; but ordinance gave That whoso would might believe that word : So the meek believed, and the wise, and brave, And Mary's Son as their God adored. Ethnea and Fethlimea, his daughters twain, That day were in baptism born again ; And the Druids, because they could answer naught, Bow'd down to the faith the stranger brought. That day upon Erin God pour'd His Spirit, — Yet none like the chief of the bards had merit, Dubtach ! — He rose and believed the first, Ere the great light yet on the resi had burst. It was thus that Erin, then blind but strong, To Christ through her chief bard paid homage due : And this was a sign that in Erin song Should from first to last to the cross be true! 'TWAS A HOLY TIME WHEN THE KING'S LONG FOEMEN.' Twas a holy time when the king's long foe- men Fought, side by side, to uplift the serf; !N ever triumph'd in old time Greek or Roman As Brian and Malachi at Clontarf. > Malachi, who fought under the great Brian Borumha at Clontarf, where the Danish power in Ireland was overthrown forever, had himself been King of all Ireland, but allowed himself to be deposed, a. d. 1003, and his rival to be elevated There was peace in Eire for long years after; Canute in England reign'd and Sweyii ; But Eire found rest, and the freeman's laughter Rang out the knell of the vanquish'd Dane. Praise to the king of ninety years Who rode round the battle-field, cross in hand! But, the blessing of Eire and grateful tears To him who fought under Brian's com- mand ! A crown in heaven for the king who brake, To stanch old discords, his royal wand ; Who spurn'd his throne for his people's sake, Who served a rival and saved the land ! KING LAEGHAIRE AND SAINT PATRICK. Thus sang to the princess the bard Maelmire; But the princess received not the words he said : There was ever great feud and great hate in Eire: Yet O'Donnell wept when O'Neill was dead. " Thou son of Calphurn, in peace go forth !* This hand shall slay them whoe'er shall slay thee ! The carles shall stand to their necks in earth Till they die of thirst who mock or stay thee! in his place. Mr. Moore remarks on this subject (History of Ireland, vol. ii. p. 101) : — " The ready acquiescence with which, in general, so violent a change in the polity of the country was submitted to, may be in a great degree attributed to the example of patience and disinterestedness exhibited by the immediate victim of this revolution, the deposed Malachi him- self. Nor, in forming our estimate of this Prince's character, from a general view of his whole career, can we well hesitate in coming to the conclusion that not to any backwardness in the field, or want of vigor in council, is his tranquil submis- sion to the violent encroachments of his rival to be attributed ; but to a regard, rare at such an unripe period of civilization, for the real interests of the public weal." 2 The following statement is extracted by Dr. Petrie. in his History and Antiquities of Tara Hili, from the Annotations of the Life of St Patrick, by Tireehan :— " And Patrick repaired again to the City of Tara to Laeghaire the son of Nial, because he (the King) had ratified a league with him that he should THE POEMS OF AUBEET DE VERE. " But my father, Nial, who is dead long since, Permits not me to believe thy word ; For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly Prince, Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interr'd ; But we are as men through dark floods that wade ; — We stand in our black graves undismay'd : Our faces are turn'd to the race abhorr'd, And ready beside us stand spear and sword, Ready to strike at the last great day, Ready to trample them back into clay. " This is my realm and men call it Eire, Wherein I have lived and live in hate (Like Nial before me and Ere his sire) Of the race Lagenian, ill-named the Great !" Thus spoke Laeghaire, and his host rush'd on, A river of blood as yet unshed : — At noon they fought ; and at set of sun That king lay captive, that host lay dead ! The brave foe loosed him, but bade him swear, He would never demand of them Tribute So Laeghaire by the dread God-elements swore, By the moon divine and the earth and air ; He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine That circle forever both land and sea, By the long-baek'd rivers, and mighty wine, By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree, By the boon spring shower, and by autumn's fan, By woman's breast, and the head of man, By night and the noonday Demon he swore He would claim the Boarian Tribute no more. net be slain in his kingdom; — hut he could not believe, saying, 'Nial, my father, did not permit me to believe, but that I should be interred in the top of Tara, like men standing up in war. For the Pagans are accustomed to be buried armed, with their weapons ready, face to face, I to the Day of Erdathe, among the Magi, i. e. the Day of Judgment of the Lord. 1 " Dr. Petrie in the same work But with years wrath wax'd ; and he brake his faith ; — Then the dread God-elements wrought his death ; For the wind and sunshine by Cassi's side Came down and smote on his head that he died. Death -sick three days on his throne he sate: Then he died, as his father died, great in hate. They buried the king upon Tara's hill, In his grave upright ; — there stands he stilh Upright there stands he as men that wade By night through a castle -moat, undis- may'd ; On his head is the gold crown, the spear in his hand, And he looks to the hated Lagenian land. Patrick the Apostle, the son of Calphurn, These pagan interments endured uo krager ; And Eire he commanded this song to learn, "Though hate is strong yet love is stronger !" To the Gaels of Eire he gave a Creed : He bade them to fear not Fate, Demon, or Faery ; But to fast in Lent, and by no black deed To insult God's Son, and His mother Mary. Thus sang to the princes the bard Maelmire : — Oh ! when will it leave me, that widow's. wail? My heart is stone and my brain is fire For the men that died in thy woods, Imayle ! taken in the battle, and he gave the Lageniaus guarantees, that is, the Sun and Moon, the Water and the Air, Day and Night, Sea and Land, that he would never during his life demand the Bora Tribute. But Laeghaire went again with a great army to the LagenianB to demand tribute of them ; for he did not pay any regard to his oaths. But. by the side of Casi, he was killed by the Sun and the Wind, and THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. THE BIER THAT CONQUERED O'DONNELL'S ANSWER. OR, Land which the Norman would make his own! ' (Thus sang the Bard 'mid a host o'erthrown, While their white cheeks some on the clench'd hand propp'd, And from some the life-blood scarce heeded dropp'd) There are men in thee that refuse to die, And that scorn to live, while a foe stands nigh ! O'Donnell lay sick with a grievous wound : The leech had left him ; the priest had come ; The clau sat weeping upon the ground, Their banners furl'd and their minstrels dumb. Then spake O'Donnell, the king : "Although My bour draws nigh, and my dolors grow; And although my sins I have now confess'd, And desire in the land, my charge, to rest, Yet leave this realm, nor will I nor can, While a stranger treads on her, child or man. " I will languish no longer a sick man here : My bed is grievous; build up my Bier. The white robe a king wears over me throw ; Bear me forth to the field where he camps — your foe, With the yellow torches and dirges low. The heralds his challenge have brought and fled: The answer they bore not I bear instead. My people shall fight my pain in sight, And I shall sleep well when their wrong stands right." i Maurice Fitz Gerald, Lord Justice, marched to the north- west, and a furious battle was fought between him and God- frey O'Donnell, Prince of Tirconnell, at Creadran-Killu, north of Sligo, a. d. 1257. The two leaders met in single combat and severely wounded each other. It was or the wound he then received that O'Donnell died soon after, after trium- (hantly defeating his great rival potentate in Ulster. O'Neill. Then the clan to the words of their Chief j gave ear, And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a || bier; Its plumes from the eagle's wing were shed, And the wine-black samite above it they Inwoven with sad emblems and texts divine, And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine, And all that is meet for the great and brave When past are the measured years God gave, And a voice cries " Come" from the waiting grave. When the Bier was ready they laid him thereon ; And the army forth bare him with wail and moan : With wail by the sea-lakes and rock abysses ; With moan through the vapor-trail'd. wil- dernesses ; And men sore wounded themselves drew nigh And saiil, " We will go with our king and die ;" And women wept as the pomp pass'd by. The sad yellow torches far off were seen ; No war-note peal'd through the gorge* green ; But the black pines echo'd the mourners* What said the Invader, that pomp in sight ? "They sue for the pity they shall not win." But the sick king sat on the Bier upright, And said, " So well ! I shall sleep to-night : — J Rest here my couch, and my peace begin." Then the war-cry sounded — " Bataillah Aboo !" And the whole clan rush'd to the battle plain : The latter, bearing that O'Donnell was dying, demandea hostages from the Kinel Conneli, The messengers wh-> brought this insolent message fled in terror the moment they had delivered it;— and the answer to it was brought by O'DnnneU on bis bier. Maurice Fitz Gerald flually retired ta the Franciscan monastery which he had founded at Youghal and died peacefully in the habit of that order- THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. They were thrice driven back, but they form'd anew That an end might come to their king's great pain. 'Twas a people not army that onward rush'd ; 'Twas a nation's blood from their wounds that gush'd : Bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy were slain ; Till evening their blood fell fast like rain ; But a sbout swell'd up o'er the setting sun, And O'Donnell died for the field was won. So they baiied their king upon Aileach's shore ; And in peace he slept ; — O'Donnell More. PECCATUM PECCAVIT. Where is thy brother ? Heremon, speak !' Heber, the son of Milesius, where ? The orphans' wail and their mother's shriek Forever they ring upon Banba's air ] And whose, oh whose was the sword, Here- mon, That smote Amergin, thy brother and bard? 'Twas the Fate of thy house or a mocking Demon That raised thy hand o'er his forehead scarr'd ! Woe, woe to Banba ! That blood of brothers Wells up from her bosom renew'd each year ; 'Twas hers the shriek — that desolate moth- er's : — 'Twas Banba wept o'er that first red bier ! 1 Between the brothers who founded the great Milesian or Gaelic dynasty in Ireland there was strife, as between the brothers who founded Rome. Heremon and Heber divided Ireland between them. A dispute having arisen between them, a battle was fought at GeashiU, in the present King's County, in which Heber fell by his brother's hand. In the second year of his reign Heremon also slew his brother Amergin, in battle. To Amergin no territory was assigned. He is said to have constructed the causeway or tocliar of Invcr Mor, or the mouth of the Ovoca in Wicklow. There are some excellent remarks in Mr. Haverty's History on the absurdity of disparaging the authentic part of Irish history on account of other portions having been but Bardic The priest has warn'd, and the bard lament- ed: But warning and wailing her sons despised; The head was sage, and the heart halt sainted ; But the sword-hand was evermore unbap- tized ! THE DrRGE OF ATHUNREE. A. D. 1316. [This great battle marked an epoch in Irish history. In it tha Norman power at last triumphed over that of the Gael, whiob had long been enfeebled by the divisions in the royal honae of O'Connor. Prom this period also the Norman Barons more rapidly than before became Irish Chiefs. As such they were accepted by Ireland. The power of the English Crown on the other hand gradually declined till it became unknown beyond the narrow limits of a part of the Pale. It rose again after the accession of Henry VTI.l Athuneee ! Athunree ! Erin's heart, is broke on thee ! Ne'er till then in all its woe Did that heart its hope forego. Save a little child — but one— The latest regal race is gone. Roderick died again on thee, Athunree ! Athunree! Athunree! A hundred years and forty-three Winter-wing'd and black as night O'er the land had track'd their flight: In Clonmacnoise from earthy bed Roderick raised once more his head : — Fedlim floodlike rush'd to thee, Athunree ! Athunree ! Athunree ! The light that struggled i Legends :— " The ancient Irish' attributed the utmost impor- tance to their historical compositions for social reasons— every question as to the rights of property turned upon the descent of families, and the principle of clanship. *** Again, when we arrive at the period of Christianity in Ireland, we find that our ancient annals stand the test of verification by science, with a success which not only establishes their char- acter for truthfulness at that period, but vindicates the records of preceding dates." He refers especially to the eclipses re- corded. " * * * Shortly after the establishment of Christian ity in Ireland the Chronicles of the Bards were replaced ny regular Annals, kspt in several of the monasteries." — FarreL & Son's edition, p. 23. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. Ne'er since Cathall the red-handed Barren be thou as the tomb ; Such a host till then was handed. May the night-bird haunt thy gloom, Long-hair'd Kerne and Galloglass And the wailer from the sea, Met the Norman face to face ; Athunree ! The saifron standard floated far O'er the on-rolling wave of war ; VIII. Bards the onset sang o'er thee, Athunree ! Athunree ! Athunree ! All my heart is sore for thee, It was Erin died on thee, IV. Athunree ! Athunree! Athunree! The poison tree took root in thee ! What might naked breasts avail 'Gainst sharp spear and steel-ribb'd mail ? Of our Princes twenty-nine, BETWEEN TWO MOUNTAINS. Bulwarks fair of Connor's line, Of our clansmen thousands ten i- Slept on thy red ridges. Then — Between two mountains' granite walls one Then the night came down on thee, star Athunree ! Shines in this sea-lake quiet as the grave ; The ocean moans against its rocky bar ; v. That star no reflex finds in foam or wave. Athunree ! Athunree ! Strangely shone that moon on thee! n. Like the lamp of them that tread Saints of our country ! if, no more a nation, Staggering o'er the heaps of dead, Vain are henceforth her struggles, from ou Seeking that they fear to see. high Oh, that widow's wailing sore I Fix in the bosom of her desolation On it rang to Oranmore; So much the more that hope which cannot Died, they say, among the piles die! That make holy Aran's isles ; — It was Erin wept on thee, Athunree ! vx ODE. Athunree ! Athunree ! The heart of Erin burst on thee ! i. Since that hour some unseen hand The unvanquish'd land puts forth each year On her forehead stamps the brand. New growth of man and forest ; Her children ate that hour the fruit Her children vanish ; but on her, That slays manhood at the root ; Stranger, in vain thou warrest ! Our warriors are not what they were ; She wrestles, strong through hope sublime Our maids no more are blithe and fair ; (Thick darkness round her pressing). Truth and honor died with thee, Wrestles with God's great Angel, Time — Athunree ! And wins, though maim'd, the blessing. VII. Athunree ! Athunree ! ii. As night draws in what day sent forth, Never harvest wave o'er thee ! As Spring is born of Winter, Never sweetly-breathiug kine As flowers that hide in parent earth Pant o'er golden meads of thine ! Reissue from the centre. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. Our land takes back her wasted brood, Our land, in respiration, Breathes from her deep heart unsubdued A renovated nation ! Man's mortal frame, for heaven design'd, In caves of earth must wither ; Of all its myriad atoms join'd No twain may cleave together. Our land is dead. Upon the blast Far forth her dust is driven ; But the glorified shape shall be hers at last, And the crown that descends from heaven ! Her children die ; the nation lives : — Through signs celestial ranging The nation's Destiny still survives . Unchanged, yet ever changing. The many-centuried Wrath goes by ; But while earth's tumult rages " In Ccelo quies." Burst and die, Thou storm of temporal ages ! Burst, and thine utmost fury wreak On things that are but seeming ! First kill ; then die ; that God may speak, And man surcease from dreaming ! That Love and Justice strong as love May be the poles unshaken Round which a world new-born may move ; And Truth that slept may waken I THE STATUE OF KILKENNY. 1 A. D. 1367. Of old ye warr'd on men : to day On women and on babes ye war; The Noble's child his head must lay Beneath the peasant's roof no more ! i A striking, and, in its admissions, a yery teaching picture of the condition of things in Ireland in the fourteenth cen- tury is presented by the following extracts from the remon- strance despatched to Pope John XXII. by O'Neill, King of Ulster, and the other princes of that province. It is given in Plowden's History of Ireland with the following remarks : — "The disastrous prospect of affairs in Ireland drove the English government to the unchristian and scandalous shift of prostituting the spiritual powers of th*e Church to the profane use of state policy. * * * So powerfully therefore did I saw in sleep the Infant's hand His foster-brother's fiercely grasp ; His warm arm, lithe as willow wand, Twines me each day with closer clasp ! O infant smiler ! grief beguilerj Between the oppressor and the oppress'd, O soft, unconscious reconciler, Smile on ! through thee the land is bless'd. Through thee the puissant love the poor ; His conqueror's hope the vancMiish'd shares ; For thy sake by a lowly door The clan made vassal stops and stares. Our vales are healthy. On thy cheek There dawns, each day, a livelier red : Smile on ! Before another week Thy feet our earthen floor will tread ! Thy foster-brothers twain for thee Would face the wolves on snowy fell : Smile on ! the Irish Enemy Will fence their Norman nursling well. The nursling as the child is dear ; — Thy mother loves not like thy nurse ! That babbling Mandate steps not near Thv cot, but o'er her bleeding corse ! THE TRUE KING. A. D. 1399. He came in the night on a false pretence ; As a friend he came — as a lord remains : His coming we noted not — when or whence ; We slept : we woke in chains. the English agents press the mutual interests of both courts to resist the erection of a new Scotch dynasty in Ireland., that a solemn sentence of excommunication was published from the Papal chair against all the enemies of Edward II., and nominally against Eobert and Edward Bruce, who were then invading Ireland for the purpose of securing to the latter the throne, to which the generality of that nation had called him."— Vol. i. p. 131. He proceeds—" This remonstrance" (sent to neutralize the effect of Edward's appeal to Home) il produced so strong an effect upon Pope John XXII., that his Holiness immediately transmitted a copy of it to tha King, earnestly exhorting him to redress the grievances complained of, as the only sure expedient to bring back tha Irish to their allegiance." — P. 133. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. Ere a year they had chased us to dens and caves ; Our streets and our churches lay drown'd in bloed ; The race that had sold us their sons as slaves In our land .our conquerors stood! Who were they, those princes that gave away What was theirs to keep, not theirs to give? A king holds sway for a passing day ; The kingdoms forever live ! The tanist succeeds when the king is dust :' The king rules all; yet the king hath naught. They were traitors not kings who sold their trubt ; They were traitors not kings who bought ! Brave Art MacMurrough ! — Arise, 'tis morn ! For a true king the nation waited long. Hi is strong as the horn of the unicorn, This true king who rights our wrong ! He rules in the fight by an inward right ; From the heart of the nation her king is grown ; He rules by right ; he is might ot her might ; Her flesh, and bone of her bone! QUEEN MARGARET'S FEASTING. A. D. 1451. Fair she stood — God's queenly creature !' Wondrous joy was in her face Of her ladies none in stature Like to her, and none in grace - According to the Irish law the king, far from being able to alienate his. kingdom, had but a life-interest in the sove- reignty. His son did not by necessity succeed to the crown. The sovereignty was vested in a particular family as repre- senting the clan or race. Within certain limits of kin- dred in that family the king was chosen by election ; and at the same period his Tanist, or successor, was chosen also. Such was the immemorial usage : and the transactions by which Irish princes occasionally pretended to transfer their rights to a foreign power were traitorous proceedings on the part of both the sides concerned ic them. These frauds On the church-roof stood they round hec^ Cloth of gold was her attire ; They in jewell'd circle wound her; — Beside her Ely's king, her sire. Far and near the green fields glitter'd Like to poppy-beds in Spring, Gay with companies loose-scatter'd Seated each in seemly ring Under banners red or yellow : There all day the feast they kept From chill dawn and noontide mellow,. Till the hill-shades eastward crept. On a white steed at the gateway Margaret's husband, Calwagh sate ; Guest on guest, approaching, straightway Welcomed he with love and state. Each pass'd on with largess laden, Chosen gifts of thought and work, Now the red cloak of the maiden, Now the minstrel's golden torque. On the wind the tapestries shifted ; From the blue hills rang the horn ; Slowly toward the sunset drifted Cboral'song and shout breeze-borne. Like a sea the crowds unresting Murmur'd round the gray church-tower j Many a prayer, amid the feasting, For Margaret's mother rose that hour! On the church-roof kerne and noble At her bright face look'd half dazed ; Naught was hers of shame or trouble ; — On the crowds far off she gazed : posed to be favorable for the assertion of the new claim. a A singularly picturesque narrative of this event is given in an old Iri.-h Chronicle translated by Duald MacFcrbis, «ne of Ireland's "chief bards," for Sir James Ware, in the year 1666. and republished in the Miscellany of the Irish Archaeo- logical Society, vol. i. 1846. The chronicler thus concludes : " God's blessing, the blessing of all the saints, and every one, blessing from Jerusalem to Inis Glaaire. be on her going to heaven ; and blessed be he who will reade and h~are this for blessing her soul ; and cursed be that sore in her breast that killed Margaret." See Fan-ell & Son's editiou of Haveett's History of Ireland. QUEEN MARGARET'S FEASTING. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. Once, on heaven her dark eyes bending, Her hands in prayer she flung apart ; Unconsciously her arms extending, She bless'd her people in her heart. Thus a Gaelic queen and nation At Imayn till set of sun Kept with feast the Annunciation, Fourteen hundred fifty-one. Time it was of solace tender ; — 'Twas a brave time strong yet fair I Blessing, O ye angels, send her From Salem's towers and Inisglaaire ! PLORANS PLORAVIT. She sits alone on the cold grave-stone And only the dead are nigh her ; In the tongue of the Gael she makes her wail : The night wind rushes by her. " Few, oh few are leal and true, And fewer shall be, and fewer ; The land is a corse ;— no life, no force — O wind, with sere leaves strew her ! " Men ask what scope is left for hope To one who has known her story: — I trust her dead ! Their graves are red ; But their souls are with God in glory." WAR-SONG OF MacCARTHY. Two lives of an eagle, the old song saith, Make the life of a black yew-tree ; For two lives of a yew-tree the furrough's path Men trace, grass-grown on the lea ; Two furroughs they last till the time is past God willeth the world to be ; For a furrough's life has MacCarthy stood fast, MacCarthy in Carbery. Up with the banner whose green shall live While lives the green on the oak ! And down with the axes that grind and nve Keen-edged as the thunder-stroke ! And on with the battle-cry known of old, And the clan-rush like wind and wave ;— On, on ! the Invader is bought and sold ; His own hand has dug his grave ! FLORENCE MacCARTHY'S FARE- WELL TO HIS ENGLISH LOVE.* My pensive-brow'd Evangeline ! What says to thee old Windsor's pine Whose shadow o'er the pleasance sways? It says, " Ere long the evening star Will pierce my darkness from afar : — I grieve as one with grief who plays." Evangeline ! Evangeline ! In that far distant land of mine There stands a yew-tree among tombs ! For ages there that tree has stood, A black pall dash'd with drops of blood — O'er all my world it breathes its glooms. England's fair child, Evangeline ! Because my yew-tree is not thine, Because thy Gods on mine wage war, Farewell ! Back fall the gates of brass ; The exile to his own must pass ;— I seek the land of tombs once more. 1 There is a striking description of Florence MacCarthy to the Pacata Hibernia. He " was contented (tandem aliquando) to repaire to the president, lying at Moyallo, bringing some fourty horse in his company; and himself in the middest of his troope (like the great Turke among his janissaries) dr:r,v toward the house, the nine-and-twentieth of October,, like Saul higher by the head and shoulders than any of his followers."— P. 170. The moral indignation constantly expressed by the author of the Pacata Hibernia at Florence JIai-Oarthy's method of countermining the far darker intrigues of the Lord President, recorded in that work, with intrigues of his own, is curious. Before the period he describes, Florence had been for eleven years detained a prisoner in England. In 1601 he was again arrested at a time when he possessed the "Queen's protection," and tent to the Tower— where he' j passed the rest of his life. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. WAR-SONG OF TIRCONNELL'S BARD AT THE BATTLE OF BLACKWATER, A. D. 1597. [At thin battle the Irish of Ulster were commanded by " Bed Hugh" O'Neill, Prince of Tirone, and by Hugh O'Don- Iiel; (called ako "Red Hugh"), Prince of Tirconnell. Queen ■Elizabeth's army was led by Marshal Bagnal, who fell in the tout with 2,500 of the invading force. Twelve thousand gold pieces, thirty-four standards, and all the artillery of the Tanquished army were taken.] Glory to God, and to the powers that fight For Freedom and the Right ! We have them then, the Invaders ! There they stand Once more on Oriel's land ! They have pass"d the gorge stream-cloven, And the mountain's purple bound ; Now the toils are round them woven, Now the nets are spread around ! Give them time : their steeds are blown; — Let them stand and round them stare Breathing blasts of Irish air. Our clouds are o'er them sailing ; Our woods are round them wailing ; Our eagles know their own ! Thrice we've met them — race and brood! First at Clontibret they stood : — * How soon the giant son of Meath' Roll'd from his horse upon the heath ! Again we met them — once again ; Portmore and Banburb's plain know where : There fell de Burgh ; there fell Kildare : (His valiant foster-brothers twain Died at his feet, but died in vain ;) There Waller, Turner, Vaughan fell, Vanqnish'd, though deem'd invincible ! • This battle was fought in 1 597. Lord de Burgh command- ing the English. * Red Hugh O'Donnell, when but a boy of fifteen, was already celebrated for his beauty, his courage, and his strtll in warlike accomplishments. To prevent him from assuming the headship of Tirconnell the following device was resorted to by Sir John Perrot, Lord President of Munster. During the summer of 1587 Red Hugh with MacSwyne of the batlle-axes, ©'Gallagher of Ballyshannon, and some other Irish chiefs, nad gone to a monastery of Carmelites situated on the western shore of Lough Swilly, and facing the mountains of Inish- nwen, the church of which had long been a famous place of ollgrimage. Ono day a 6hip, in appearance a merchant vessel, We raised that hour a battle-axe That dinn'd the iron on your backs ! Vengeance, that hour, a wide-wing'd Fury, On drave you to the gates of Newry: There rest ye found ; by rest restored, Sang there your song of Battleford ! Thou rising su-n, fair fall Thy greeting on Armagh's time-honor'd wall, And on the willows hoar That fringe thy silver waters, Avonmore ! See ! on that hill of drifted sand The far-famed Marshal holds command, Bagnal, their bravest : — to the right That recreant neither chief nor knight " The Queen's O'Reilly," he that sold His country, clan, and Church for gold ! " Saint George for England !" — Rebel crew ! What are the Saints ye spurn to you ? They charge ; they pass yon grassy swell ; They reach our pitfall's hidden well. On, warriors native to the sod, Be on them in the power of God ! Twin stars ! Twin regents of our righteous war! This day remember whose, and who ye are — Thou that o'er green Tir-owen's tribes hast sway! Thou whom Tir-connell's vales obey ! The line of Nial, the line of Conn, So oft at strife, to-day are one ! Both Chiefs are dear to Eire ; to me Dearest he is and needs must be, My Prince, my Chief, my child, on whom So early fell the dungeon's doom. 4 O'Donnell ! hear this day thy Bard ! sailed np the bay, cast anchor opposite Rathmullan, and offered for sale her cargo of Spanish wine. Young Red Hugh was among those who went on board during the night. The next morning he and his companions found themselves secured under hatches. He was thrown into prison in Dublin, where he languished for three years and three months. At the end of that time he made his escape, and flying to the south took refuge with Felim O'Toole, who surrendered him to the English. "He remained again in irons," says the Chronicle, "until the Feast of Christmas, 1592, when it seemed to the Son of the Virgin time for him to escape." Once more he fled, accompanied by two sons of Shane O'Neill, to the mountains of Wicklow. then covered with snow. After wandering abuut for three days and nights O'Donnell and one of his conipuniona (the other had perished) were found by 6ome of O'Byrne's clansmen beneath the ehelter of a cliff, benumbed and almost THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 461 By those young feet so maim'd and scarr'd, Bit by the winter's fangs when lost Thou wander'dst on through snows and frost, Remember thou those years in chains thou worest, Snatch'd in false peace from unsuspecting halls, And that one thought, of all thy pangs the sorest, Thy subjects groan'd the upstart alien's thralls ! That thought on waft thee through the fight : On, on. for Erin's right ! Seest thou yon stream whose tawny waters glide Through weeds and yellow marsh lingeringly and slowly ? Blest is that spot and holy ! There, ages past, Saint Bercan stood and cried, * This spot shall quell one day the Invaders' pride !" He saw in mystic trance The blood-stain flush yon rill : — On, hosts of God, advance ; Your country's fates fulfil! On, clansmen, leal and true, Lambdearg ! Bataillah-aboo ! Be Truth this day your might ! Truth lords it in the fight ! O'Neill ! That day be with thee now When, throned on Ulster's regal seat of stone, Thou satt'st, and thou alone ; While flock'd from far the Tribes, and to thy hand Was given the snow-white wand, Erin's authentic sceptre of command ! Kingless a People stood around thee ! Thou Didst dash the British bauble from thj brow, And for a coronet laid down dead from hunger ; for during those three days their food had consisted of grass and forest leaves. On the restoration of his strength O'Donnell succeeded, with the assistance of O'Neill, in making his way to his native mountains. From that mo- ment the two great Northern Princes of Tirconnell and Tirone, renouncing the ancient rivalries of their several Honses, That People's love became once more thy crown ! True King alone is he In whom summ'd up his People share the throne : — Fair from the soil he rises like a tree : Rock-like the stranger presses on it, prone ! Strike for that People's cause ! For Tanistry ; for Brehon laws : The sage traditions of civility ; Pure hearths, and faith set free ! Hark ! the thunder of their meeting ! Hand meets hand, and rough the greeting ! Hark ! the crash of shield and brand ; They mix, they mingle, band with band, Intertwisted, intertangled, Mangled forehead meeting mangled, Like two horn-commingling stags Wrestling on the mountain crags ! Lo ! the wavering darkness through I see the banner of Red Hugh ; Close beside is thine, O'Neill ! Now they stoop and now they reel,. Rise once more aud onward sail, Like two falcons on one gale ! — O ye clansmen past me rushing Like mountain torrents seaward gushing, Tell the Chiefs that from this height Their Chief of bards beholds the fight ; That on theirs he pours his spirit ; Marks their deeds and chants their merit; While the Priesthood evermore, Like him that ruled God's host of yore, With arms outstreteh'd that God implore I VIII. Mightiest of the line of Conn, On to victory ! On, on, on ! It is Erin that in thee Lives and works right wondrously ! Eva from the heavenly bourne Upon thee her eyes doth turn, She whose marriage couch was spread' 'Twixt the dying and the dead ! Parcell'd kingdoms one by one entered into that common alliance against the invader, th» effects of which were irresistible until that reverse at Kinsale of which the cause has never been explained. 1 The celebrated picture of an Irish artist, Mr. Maclise, ha» rendered well known this incident, one of the most touching ii hiBtory. After the capture of Waterford the King of THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. For a prey to traitors thrown ; Pledges forfeit, broken vows, Roofless fane, and blazing house ; All the dreadful deeds of old Rise resurgent from the mould, For their judgment peal is toll'd ! All our Future takes her stand Hawk-like on thy lifted hand. States that live not, vigil keeping In the lirnbo of long weeping; Palace-courts and minster-towers That shall make this isle of ours Fairer than the star of morn, Wait thy mandate to be born ! Chief elect 'mid desolation, Wield thou well the inspiration Thou drawest from a new-born nation ! Sleep no longer Bards that hold Ranged beneath me harps of gold ! Smite them with a heavier hand Than vengeance lays on axe or brand ! Pour upon the blast a song Linking litanies of wrong, Till, like poison-dews, the strain Eat into the Invader's brain. On the retributive harp Catch that death-shriek shrill and sharp* Which she utter'd, she whose lord Perish'd, Essex, at thy board ! Peerless chieftain ! peerless wife ! From his throat, and hers, the knife Drain'd the mingled tide of life ! Sing the base assassin's steel By Sussex hired to slay O'Neill !' Sing, fierce Bards, the plains sword-wasted, Sing the cornfields burnt and blasted, That when raged the war no longer Kernes dog-chased might pine with hunger I Pour around their ears the groans Of half-human skeletons From wet cave or forest-cover Foodless deserts peering over : j Or upon the roadside lying, I Infant dead and mother dying, ; On their mouths the grassy stain I Of the wild weed gnaw'd in vain ; — [ Look upon them, hoary Head j Of the last of Desmonds dead ; | His that drew — too late — bis sword ■ Religion and his right to guard ; • Head that evermore dost frown | From the tower of London down ! She that slew him from her barge Makes that Head this hour the targe Of her insults cold and keen, England's caliph, not her queen ! — Portent terrible and dire Whom thy country and thy sire* Leins ter led forth his daughter and married her to the Nor- man, Strongbow. This was on St. Bartholomew's Day, 1170. " The marriage ceremony was hastily performed, and the wedding cortege passed through streets reeking with the still warm blood of the brave and unhappy citizens." — Hayerty's Hist., p. ITT, Parrell & Son's edition. 1 " Another and equally unsuccessful attempt to plant Ulster was made in 1573 by a more distinguished minion of the Queen, Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex. Elizabeth embarked with that noble Earl in his project of colonizing Clandeboy in Ulster. * * * Lingard says that the agreement was that the Queen and the Earl should furnish each half the expense, and thonH divide the colony when it should be peopled with two thousand settlers. This bargai n of fraud and crime was sealed by Essex witli a desperate act of villainy. On his arrival in TJl It was in the parish church of Dnngannon that the TolttB teers of 1783 proclaimed the constitutional independence of the Irish Parliament. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. That yon white bird on homeward wing Soft-sliding without motion, And now in blue air vanishing Like snow-flake lost in ocean, Beyond our sight might never flee, Yet forward still be flying : And all the dying day might be Immortal in its dying. Pellucid thus in saintly trance, Thus mute in expectation, What waits the earth ? Deliverance ? Ah no ! Transfiguration ! She dreams of that new earth divine, Conceived of seed immortal ; She sings, " Not mine the holier shrine, Yet mine the steps and portal 1" THE LAST MacCARTHYMORE. [The last great chief of the MaoCarthy family, which had reigned in South Desmond ever since the second centuiy, went into exile with James II. He spent the last years of his fife on a wad island strewu with wrecks in the mouth of the Elbe] On thy woody heaths, Muskerry — Carbery, on thy faniish'd shore, Hands hurl'd upward, wordless wailings, clamor for MacCarthymore ! He is gone ; and never, never shall return to wild or wood Till the sun burns out in blackness and the moon descends in blood. He, of lineage older, nobler, at the latest Stuart's side Once again had drawn the sword for Charles, in blood of traitors dyed ; Once again the stranger fattens where Mac- Carthys ruled of old, For a later Cromwell triumphs in the Dutch- man's muddier mould. Broken boat and barge around him, sea-gulls piping loud and shrill, Sits the chief where bursts the breaker, and laments the sea-wind chill ; In a barren northern island dinn'd by ocean's endless roar, Where the Elbe with all his waters i between the willows hoar. Earth is wide in hill and valley; — palace courts and convent piles Centuries since received thine outcasts, Ire- land, oft with tears and smiles ; Wherefore builds this gray-hair'd exile on a rock-isle's weedy neck ? — Ocean unto ocean calleth; inly yearneth wreck to wreck ! He and his, his church and country, king and kinsmen, house and home, Wrecks they are like broken galleys strangled by the yeasty foam ; Nations past and nations present are or shall be soon as these — Words of peace to him come only from the breast of roaring seas. Clouds and sea-birds inland drifting o'er the sea-bar and sand-plain ; Belts of mists for weoks unshifting ; plunge of devastating rain ; Icebergs as they pass uplifting agueish gleams through vapors frore, These, long years, were thy companions, O thou last MacCarthymore ! When a rising tide at midnight rush'd against the downward stream, Rush'd not then the clans embattled, meet- ing in the chieftain's dream ? When once more that tide exhausted died in murmurs toward the main, Died not then once more his slogan ebbing far o'er hosts of slain ? Pious river! let us rather hope the low monotonies Of thy broad stream seaward toiling and the willow-bending breeze Charm'd at times a midday slumber, tran- quillized tempestuous breath — Music last when harp was broken, requiem sad and sole in death. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. HYMN FOR THE FEAST OF ST. STEPHEN. Princes sat and spake against me ; Sinners held me in their net ; Thou, O Lord, shalt save thy servant, For on thee his heart is set. Strong is he whose strength Thou art ; Plain his speech and strong his heart. Blessed Stephen stood discoursing In the bud of spotless youth With his judges. Love, not malice, Edged his words and arm'd with truth. They that heard him gnash'd their teeth ; Heard him speak, and vow'd his death. Gather'd on a thousand foreheads Dark and darker grew the frown, Broad'ning like the pinewood's shadow While a wintry sun goes down. On the Saint that darkness fell : — At last they spake : it was his knell. As a maid her face uplifteth Brightening with an inward light, When the voice of her beloved Calls her from some neighboring height, So his face he raised on high, And saw his Saviour in the sky ! Dimm'd a moment was. that vision : — O'er him burst the stony shower ; Stephen with his arms Extended For his murderers pray'd that hour. To his prayer Saint Paul was given : Then he 6lept and woke in heaven. Faithful deacon, still at Christmas Decking tables for the poor ! Martyr, at the bridal banquet Guest of God for evermore ! In the realms of endless day For thine earthly clients pray 1 GRATTAN. God works through man, not hills or snows ! In man, not men, is the God-like power ; The man, God's potentate, God foreknows ; He sends him strength at the destined hour. His Spirit He breathes into one deep heart; His cloud He bids from one mind depart, A Saint ! — and a race is to God re-born ! A Man ! One man makes a nation's morn ! A man, and the blind land by slow degrees Gains sight ! A man, and the deaf land hears ! A man, and the dumb land, like wakening seas, Thunders low dirges in proud, dull ears 1 One man, and the People a three days' corse, Stands up, and the grave-bands fall off per- force ; One man, and the Nation in height a span To the measure ascends of the perfect man. Thus wept unto God the land of Eire : Yet there rose no man, and her hope was dead : In the ashes she sat of a burn'd-out fire ; And sackcloth was over her queenly head. But a man in her latter days arose ; Her deliverer stepp'd from the camp of her foes: He spake; — the great and the proud gave way, And the dawn began which shall end in day ! ADDUXIT IN TENEBRIS. They wish thee strong: they wish tl great ! Thy royalty is in thy heart ! Thy children mourn thy widow'd state In funeral groves. Be what thou art ' s THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. Across the world's vainglorious waste, As o'er Egyptian sands, in thee, God's hieroglyph, His shade is cast — A bar of black from Calvary. Around thee many a land and race Have wealth or sway or name in story ; But on that brow discrown'd we trace The crown expiatory. THE CAUSE. The kings are dead that raised their swords In Erin's right of old ; The bards that dash'd from fearless chords Her name and praise lie cold : Bat flx'd as fate her altars stand ; Unchanged, like God, her faith ; Her Church still holds in equal hand The keys of life and death. As well call up the sunken reefs Atlantic waves rush o'er, As that old time of native chiefs And Gaelic kings restore ! Things heavenly rise : things earthly sink: — God works through Nature's laws ; Sad Isle, 'tis He that bids thee link Thine Action with thy Cause ! GRAY HARPER, REST! Gray Harper, rest ! — O maid, the Fates On those^sad lips have press'd their seal ! Thy song's sweet rage but indicates That mystery it can ne'er reveal. Take comfort ! Vales and lakes and skies, Blue seas, and sunset-girdled shore, Love-beaming brows, love-lighted eyes. Contend like thee. What can they more 5 SONNET. SABSFIELD AND CLARE. Silent they slumber in the unwholesome shade : And why lament them? Virtue, too, can die: Old wisdom labors in extremity ; And greatness stands aghast, and cries for aid Full often : Aye, and honor grows dis- mayed ; And all those eagle hopes, so pure and high, Which soar aloft in youth's unclouded sky, Drop dustward, self-subverted, self-betray'd. Call it not joy to walk the immortal floor Of this exulting earth, nor peace to lie Where the throng'd marbles awe the passer by: True rest is this ; the task, the mission o'er, To bide God's time, and man's neglect to bear — Hail, loyal Sarsfield ! Hail, high-hearted Clare ! SONG. A brighten'd Sorrow veils her face, Sweet thoughts with thoughts forlorn, And playful sadness, like the grace Of some autumnal morn ; When birds new-waked, like sprightly elves, The languid echoes rouse, And infant Zephyrs make themselves Familiar with old boughs. All round our hearts the Maiden's hair Its own soft shade doth fling : Her sigh perfumes the forest air, Like eve — but eve in Spring ! When Spring precipitates her flow; And Summer, swift to greet her, Breathes, every night, a warmer glow Half through the dusk to meet her. THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VEllE. ST. COLUMKILL'S FAREWELL TO THE ISLE OF ARRAN, ON SETTING SAIL FOR IONA. 1 {From the Gaelic.) Farewell to Arran Isle,' farewell ! I steer for Hy :' my heart is sore : — The breakers burst, the billows swell 'Twixt Arran Isle and Alba's' shore. Thus spake the Son of God, "Depart !" Arran Isle, God's will be done ! By Angels throng'd this hour thou art : 1 eit within my bark alone. O Modan, well for thee the while ! Fair falls thy lot, and well art thou ! Thy seat is set in Arran Isle : Eastward to Alba turns my prow. O Arran, Sun of all the West ! My heart is thine ! As sweet to close Our dying eyes in thee, as rest Where Peter and where Paul repose ! O Arran, Sun of all the West ! My heart in thee its grave hath found : 'He walks in regions of the blest The man that hears thy church-bells' sound ! O Arran blest, O Arran blest ! Accursed the man that loves not thee I The dead man cradled in thy breast — No demon s-cares him: well is he. Each Sunday Gabriel from on high (For so did Christ our Lord ordain) Thy masses comes to sanctify, With fifty Angels in his train. Each Monday Michael issues forth To bless anew each sacred fane : ILach Tuesday cometh Raphael To bless pure hearth and golden grain. • From the prose translation in vol. i. of the Transactions of Jie Gaelic Society, Dublin, 1808. ' In the Bay of Galway. It was one of the chief retreats of the Itish monks and missionaries, and still abounds in relig- ions memorials. Each Wednesday cometh Uriel, Each Thursday Sariel, fresh from God ; Each Friday cometh Ramael To bless thy stones and bless thy sod. Each Saturday comes Mary, Comes Babe oh arm, 'mid heavenly hosts ! O Arran, near to heaven is he That hears God's Angels bless thy coasts I SONNET. CHRISTIAN EDUCATION. What man can check the aspiring life that thrills And glows through all this multitudinous wood ; That throbs in each minutest leaf and bud, And, like a mighty wave ascending, tills More high each day with flowers the encir- cling hills ? — From earth's maternal heart her ancient blood Mounts to her breast in milk ! her breath doth brood O'er fields Spring-flush'd round unimpris- on'd rills ! Such life is also in the breast of Man ; Such blood is at the heart of every Nation, Not to be chain'd by Statesman's frown oi ban. Hope and be strong: fear and be weak! The seed Is sown : be ours the prosperous growth to feed With food, not poison — Christian Education I DEATH. God's creature, Death ! thou art not God's compeer ! An Anarch sceptred in primordial night ; Immortal Life's eternal opposite : — Nor art thou some new Portent sudden and drear Blotting, like sea-born cloud, a noontide sphere : THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. Thou art but Adam's forfeit by the might Of Calvary sunset-steep'd, and changed to light ; To God man's access through the gates of Fear! Penance thou art for them that penance need; To souls detach'd a gentle ritual ; Time's game reiterate, and with lightning speed Play'd o'er; through life a desert Baptist's call. Judgment and Death are woful things, we know: Yet Judgment without Death were tenfold woe ! THE GRAVES OF TYRCONNEL AND TYRONE, ON SAN PIBTBO, IN MONTOEIO. Withtn Saint Peter's fane, that kindly hearth Where exiles crown'd their earthly loads down cast, The Scottish Kings repose, their wanderings past, in death more royal thrice than in their birth. Near them, within a church of narrower girth But with dilated memories yet more vast, Sad Ulster's Princes find their rest at last, Their home the holiest spot, save one, on earth. This is that Mount which saw Saint Petei die! Where stands yon dome stood once thai Cross reversed : From this dread Hill, a Western Calvary, The Empire and that Synagogue accurst Clash'd two ensanguined hands — fike Cain — in one. Sleep where the Apostle slept, Tyrconnel and Tyrone ! WAYSIDE FOUNTAINS. As o'er the marble brink you lean, This Well, glad guest, becomes your mirror : — May every glass in which are seen Your spirit's face, your moral mien,* Cause you as little terror. In this cool shadow, grateful guest ! Repose, and humbly drink ; And muse on Him who found no rest: And now, and always think Of that, His last great thirst, which He Endured for those thou lov'st, and thee. POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. THE HERMIT. Far in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well: Remote from men, with God he pass'd the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd Heaven itself, till one suggestion rose — That Vice should triumph, Virtue, Vice obey. This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway: His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost. So when a smooth expanse receives imprest Calm Nature's image on its watery breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colors glow : But if a stone the gentle sea divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, And glimmering fragments of a broken Sun, Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books, or swains, report it right, (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew), He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fix'd the scallop in his hat before; Then with the Sun a rising journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; But when the southern Sun had warm'd the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. Then near approaching, " Father, hail !" he cried, "And hail, my son," the reverend sire re- plied ; Words followed words, from question answer flow'd, And talk of various kind deceived the road ; Till each with other pleased, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. Now sunk the Sun ; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; Nature in silence bid the world repose ; When near the road a stately palace rose : There by the Moon through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering strati' ger's home • THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive : the liveried servants wait ; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. The table groans with costly piles of food, And all is more than hospitably good. Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes ■ creep, And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall ; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go : And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe: His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise The younger guest purloin'd the glittering pfize. As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray, Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear, So seem'd the sire; when far upon the road, The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trem- bling heart, And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part: Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the Sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ; A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat, To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimproved around ; Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began, And e'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran. Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. At length some pity warm'd the master's breast, ('Twas then his threshold first received a guest) ; Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, And Nature's fervor through their limbs re- calls : Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine, (Each hardly granted), served them both to dine; And when the tempest first appealed to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark the pondering hermit view'd, In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; " And why should such," within himself he cried, " Lock the lost wealth a thousand want be- side?" But what new marks of wonder soon take place In every settling feature of his face ; When from his vest the young companion bore That cup, the generous landlord own'd be- fore, And paid profusely with the precious bowl The stinted kindness of this churlish soul. But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ! The Sun emerging opes an azure sky ; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: 474 THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. The weather courts them from the poor re- treat, And the glad master bolts the wary gate. While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travel of uncertain thought; His partner's acts without their cause ap- pear, 'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here: Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, Lost and confounded with the various shows. Now Night's dim shades again involve the sky, Again the wanderers want a place to lie, Again they search, and find a lodging nigh, The soil improved around, the mansion neat, And neither poorly low, nor idly great : It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind. Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, Then bless the mansion, and the master greet : Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies : " Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part ; From him you come, for him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, Then talk of virtue till the time of bed, When the grave household round his hall repair, Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. At length the world, renew'd by calm re- pose, Was strong for toil, the dappled Morn arose ; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, And writhed his neck : the landlord's little pride, O strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd, and died. Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! How look'd our hermit when the fact was done; >V Hell, though Hell's black jaws in sunder part, And breathe blue fire, could moie assault his heart. Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, Ho flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed. His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way. A river cross'd the path ; the passage o'er Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin T Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in ; Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, " Detested wretch !" — But scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seem'd no longer His youthful face grew more serenely i His robe turn'd white, and fiow'd upon his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair , Celestial odors breathe through purpled air ; And wings, whose colors glitter'd on the day, Wide at his back their gradual plumes dis- play. The form ethereal burst upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light. Though loud at first the pilgrim's passioD grew, Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, And in a calm his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke, (The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke). "Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, In sweet memorial rise before the throne : These charms, success in our bright region find, And force an angel down, to calm thy mind ; THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. For this, commission'd, I forsook the sky : Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. "Then know the truth of government divine, And let these scruples be no longer thine. "The Maker justly claims that world he made, In this the right of Providence is laid ; Its sacred majesty through all depends • On using second means to work his ends : 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, The power exerts his attributes on high, Your actions uses, nor controls your will, And bids the doubting sons of men be still. " What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wonder- ing eyes ? Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty j ust, And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust ! " The great, vain man, who fared on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine, Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. " The mean, suspicious) wretch, whose bolted dooi Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon his head; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And loose from dross the silver runs below. " Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half-wean'd his heart from God ; (Child of his age) for him he lived in pain, And measured back his steps to Earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run ? But God, to save the father, took the son. To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, (And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow :) The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns in tears the punishment was just. " But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, Had that false servant sped in safety back ; This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, And what a fund of charity would fail ! Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er, Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." On sounding pinions here the youth with- drew; The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high, His master took the chariot of the sky ; The fiery pomp ascending left to view ; The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow too. The bending hermit here a prayer begun, "Lord! as in Heaven, on Marth thy will be done." Then gladly turning sought his ancient place, And pass'd a life of piety and peace. A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH. By the blue taper's trembling light, No more I waste the wakeful night, Intent with endless view to pore The schoolmen and the sages o'er : Their books from wisdom widely stray, Or point at best the longest way. I'll seek a readier path, and go Where wisdom's surely taught below. How deep yon azure dyes the sky ! Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide. The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire : The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves. THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass with melancholy state By all thp solemn heaps of Fate, And think, as softly-sad you tread Above the venerable dead, Time icas, like thee, they life possest, And time shall be, that thou shalt rest. Those with bending osier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground, Qr'ck to the glancing thought disclose Wnere toil and poverty repose. The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel's slender help to fame, (Which ere our set of friends decay Their frequent steps may wear away), A middle race of mortals own, Men, half-ambitious, all unknown. The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones, These, all the poor remains of state, Adorn the rich, or praise the great ; Who, while on Earth in fame they live, Are senseless of the fame they give. Ha ! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, The bursting earth unveils the shades ! All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, They rise in visionary crowds, And all with sober accent cry, " Think, mortal, what it is to die." Now from yon black and funeral yew, That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks, I hear a voice begin ; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, Te tolling clocks, no time resound O'er the long lake and midnight ground 1) It sends a peal of hollow groans, Thus speaking from among the bones : " When men my scythe and darts supply, How great a king of fears am I ! They view me like the last of things ; They make, and then they draw, my strings. Fools ! if you less provoked your fears, No more my spectre-form appears. Death's but a path that must be trod, If man would ever pass to God ; A port of calms, a state to ease From the rough rage of swelling seas." Why then thy flowing sable stoles, Deep pendent cypress, mourning poleB, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weedo, Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds, And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o'er the escutcheons of the dead ? Nor can the parted body know, Nor wants the soul these forms of woe ; As men who long in prison dwell, With lamps that glimmer round the tell. Whene'er their suffering years are mil, Spring forth to greet the glittering Sun . Such joy, though far transcending sense. Have pious souls at parting hd^ce. On Earth, and in the body pl/.ced, A few, and evil years, they .vaste : But when their chains are ^ast aside, See the glad scene unfoldiug wide, Clap the glad wing, and tjwer away, And mingle with the blase of day. AN ALLEGORY ON MAN. A thoughtfux being, long and spare, Our race of mortals call him Care, ( Were Homer living, well he knew What name the gods have call'd him too), With fine mechanic genius wrought, And loved to work, though no one bought. This being, by a model bred In Jove's eternal sable head, Contrived a shape empower'd to breathe, And be the worldling here beneath. The man rose, staring like a stake ; Wondering to see himself awake ! Then look'd so wise, before he knew The business he was made to do — That, pleased to see with what a grace He gravely show'd his forward face, Jove talk'd of breedinsr him on high, An under-something of the sky. But ere he gave the mighty nod, Which ever binds a poet's god, (For which his curls ambrosial shake, And mother Earth's obliged to quake), He saw old mother Earth arise, She stood confess'd before his eyes ; But not with what we read she wore, A castle for a crown before, Nor with long streets and longer roads Dansjlinsr behind her, like commodes: THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. As yet with wreaths alone she drest, And trail'd a landscape-painted vest. Then thrice she raised, as Ovid said, And thrice she boW*d her weighty head : Her honors made, " Great Jove," she cried, " This thing was fashion'd from my side : His hands, his heart, his head are mine ; Then what hast thou to call him thine ?" " Nay, rather ask," the monarch said, ' " What boots his hand, his heart, his head ? Were what I gave removed away, Thy part's an idle shape of clay." " Halves, more than halves !" cried honest Care, " Tour pleas would make your titles fair. You claim the body, you the soul, But I, who join'd them, claim the whole." Thus with the gods debate began, On such a trivial cause as man. And can celestial tempers rage ? Quoth Virgil, in a later age. As thus they wrangled, Time came by ; (There's none that paint him such as I, For what the fabling ancients sung Makes Saturn old, when Time was youngj. As yet his winters had not shed Their silver honors on his head ; He just had got his pinions free From his old sire, Eternity. A serpent girdled round he wore, The tail within the mouth, before; By which our almanacs are clear That learned Egypt meant the year. A stair he carried, where on high A glass was fix'd to measure by, As amber boxes made a show For heads of canes an age ago. His vest, for day and night, was pied ; A bending sickle arm'd his side ; And Spring's new months his train adorn : The other seasons were unborn. Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause. O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, Where since his hours a dial made ; Then leaning heard the nice debate, And thus pronounced the words of Fate: " Since body from the parent Earth, And soul from Jove received a birth, Return they where they first began ; But since their union makes the man, Till Jove and Earth shall part the.se two, To Care who join'd them, man is due." He said, and sprung with swift career To trace a circle for the yea»r : Where ever since the seasons wheel, And tread on one another's heel. " 'Tis well," said Jove, and for consent Thundering he shook the firmament. " Our umpire Time shall have his way, With Care I let the creature stay : Let business vex him, avarice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, Let error act, opinion speak, And want afflict, and sickness break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy distract, and sorrow kill, Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long destructive blow ; And wasted man, whose quick decay Comes hurrying on before his day, Shall only find by this decree, The soul flies sooner back to me." HYMN TO CONTENTMENT. Lovely, lasting peace of mind, Sweet delight of human kind ! Heavenly born, and bred on high, To crown the favorites of the sky With more of happiness below Than victors in a triumph know ! Whither, oh whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek contented head ; What happy region dost thou please To make the seat of calms and ease? Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state to meet thee there. Increasing avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrined. The bold adventurer ploughs his way Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love, and then perceives Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart, which grief assails, Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks (as I have vainly done) THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. Amusing thought ; but learns to know That solitude's the nurse of woe. No real happiness is found In trailing purple o'er the ground: Or in a soul exalted high, To range the circuit of the sky, Converse with stars above, and know All nature in its forms below: The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. Lovely, lasting peace, appear: This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden blest, And man contains it in his breast. 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 1 sung my wishes to the wood, And, lost in thought, no more perceived The branches whisper as they waved: It seem'd as all the quiet place Confess'd the presence of His grace. ■ When thus she spoke : Go, rule thy will, Bid thy wild passions all be still, Know God — and bring thy heart to know The joys which from religion flow: Then every grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest. Oh ! by yonder mossy seat, In my hours of sweet retreat. Might I thus my soul employ, With sense of gratitude and joy ; Raised as ancient prophets were, In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer, Pleasing all men, hurting none, Pleased and bless'd with God alone : Then while the gardens take my sight With all the colors of delight : While silver waters glide along, To please my ear and court my song : I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, And thee, great Source of nature, sing. The sun that walks his airy way, To light the world and give the day; The moon that shines with borrow'd light ; The stars that gild the gloomy night; The seas that roll unnumber'd waves; The wood that spreads its shady leaves; The field whose ears conceal the grain, The yellow treasure of the plain ; — All of these, and all I see, Should be sung, and sung by me : They speak their Maker as they can, But want and ask the tongue of man. Go search among your idle Your busy or your vain extremes And find a life of equal bliss, Or own the next begun in this. POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. INTRODUCTION" AND MEMOIR BY JOHN MITCHEL. At Mallow, on the river Blackwater, in the county of Cork, and some time in the jear 1814, Thomas Osbobne Davis was born. His father was by birth a Welshman, but long settled in the south of Ireland, and Davis, ever proud of his Cymric blood, and of his kindred with the other Gaelic family of Milesians, named himself through life a Celt. "The Celt" was his nom de plume; and the Celtic music and literature, the Celtic lan- guage, and habits, and history, were always his fondest study. Partly from the profound sympathy of his nature with the fiery, vehement, affectionate, gentle, and bloody race that bred him, — his affinity with "the cloudy and lightning genius of the Gael," — partly from his hereditary aversion to the coarser and more energetic Anglo-Saxon, — and partly from the chivalry of his character, which drew him to the side of all oppressed nations every- where over the earth, — he chose to write Celt upon his front; he would live and die a Celt. The scenes of his birth and boyhood nursed and cherished this feeling. Amongst the hills of Munster — on the banks of Ireland's most beauteous river, the Avondlieu, Spenser's " Auniduff," — and amidst a simple people who yet retained most of the venerable usages of olden time, their wakes and funeraWflomes, their wedding merrymakings, and simple hospitality with a hundred thousand welcome^ he imbibed that passionate and deep love, not for the people only, but for the very soil, rocks, woods, waters, and skies of his native land, which gives to his writings, both in prose and poetry, their chief value and charm. He received a good education, and entered Trinity College, Dublin. During his ■university course his reading was discursive, omnivorous, by no means confined within the text-books and classic authors prescribed for study within the current terms of the college curriculum. Therefore he was not a dull, plodding, blockhead " premium-man." He came through the course creditably enough, but without distinction; and Wallis, an early friend and comrade of Davis, and the author of the first tribute to his memory and his genius, in the " Introduction " prefixed to this edition of his Poems, says that "during his college course, and for some years after, while he was very generally liked, he had, unless, perhaps, with some few who knew him intimately, but a moderate reputation for high ability of any kind." In short, his moral and intellectual growth was slow; he had no personal ambition for mere distinction, and never through all his life did anything for effect. Thus he spent his youth in storing his own mind and training his own heart; never wrote or spoke for the public till he approached his thirtieth year; exerted faculty after faculty (unsuspected by himself as well as by others) just as the occasion for their exertion arose, and nobody else was at hand able or willing to do the needful work; and "when he died at the age of thirty-one, those only who knew him best felt that the world had been permitted to see but the infancy of a great genius. INTRODUCTION AND .MEMOIR. His poetry is but a fragment of the man. lie was no boy-rhymer; and brimful as his eye and soul were of the beauties and glories of Nature, he never felt a necessity to utter them in song. In truth he did not himself suspect that he could make verses until the establishment of the " Nation" newspaper, in which, from the first, he was the principal writer; and then, from a calm, deliberate conviction that amongst other agencies for arousing national spirit, fresh, manly, vigorous, national songs and ballads must by no means be neglected, he conscientiously set to work to manufacture the article wanted. The result was that torrent of impassioned poesy which flashed through the columns of the " Nation," week by week, and made many an eager boy, from the Giant's Causeway to Cape Clear, cut open the weekly sheet with a hand shaken by excitement, — to kindle his heart with the glowing thought of the nameless " Celt." The defeat of Ireland and her cause, and the utter prostration into which she has fallen, may, in the minds of many, deprive the labors of Davis of some portion of their interest. If his aspirations had been made realities, and his lessons had ripened into action; if the British standard had gone down, torn and trampled before the green banner, in this our day, as it had done before on many a well-fought field, — then all men would have loved to trace the infancy and progress of the triumphant cause, — the lives and actions of those who had toiled in the sweat of their brows to make its triumph possible. It is the least, indeed, of the penalties, yet it is one of the surest penalties of defeat — that the world will neglect you and your claims; will not care to ask why you were defeated, nor care to inquire whether you deserved success. Yet to some minds it will be always interesting to understand instead of misunder' standing even a baffled cause. And to such, the Poems of Davis are presented as the fullest and finest expression of the national sentiment that in 1843 shook the British empire to its base, and was buried ignominiously in the Famine-graves of '48 — not without hope of a happy resurrection. To characterize shortly the poetry of Davis — its main strength and beauty lies in its simple passion. Its execution is unequal; and in some of the finest of his pieces any magazine-critic can point out weak or unmusical verses. But all through these ringing lyrics there is a direct, manly, hearty, humaji feeling, with here and there a line or passage of such passing melody and beauty that once read it haunts the ear and heart forever. " What thoughts were mine in early youth ! Like some old Irish song. Brimful of love, and life, and truth, My spirit gushed along." And in that exquisite song, " The Rivers." Let any one who has an ear to hear, and a tongue to speak, read aloud the fifth stanza — "But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore, And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lismore ; There the stream, like a maiden With love overladen, Pants wild on each shore." Who that has once seen will ever forget old Lord Clare rising at the head of his mess-table in the " Battle-eve of the Brigade" — "The veteran arose, like an uplifted lance, Saying, Comrades, a health to the monarch of France ! " ■ INTRODUCTION AND MEMOIE. His " Lament for the death of Owen Eoe " is the very heart and soul of a musical, wild, and miserable Irish caoine (the coronach, or noeniee) — " Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep for our pride ! "Would that on the battle-field our gallant, chief had died ! Weep the victor of Benburb — weep him, young men and old ; Weep for him, ye women— your Beautiful lies cold ! " We thought you would not die — we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow — Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky— Oh ! why did you leave us, Owen 1 Why did you die ? " For his battle-ballads maybe instanced "Fontenoy," and the " Sack of Baltimore." And his love-songs are the genuine pleadings of longing, yearning, devouring passion. Perhaps, however, the most characteristic, though far from the finest of all these songs, is that be- ginning " Oh ! for a steed !" There he gives bold and broad expression to that feeling which we have already described as a leading constituent of his noble nature, — sympathy with conquered nations, assertion and espousal of their cause against force and fate, — anoT- a mortal detestation and defiance of that conquering " energy" which impels the civilizing; bullies of mankind to " bestride the narrow world like a Colossus." This sympathy it- was, which so strongly attracted him to the books of Augustin Thierry, whose writings he- often recommended as the most picturesquely faithful and heartily human of all historical works. Space would fail us to give anything like an adequate narrative of Davis's political toils through the three last busy years of his life. It is not detracting from any man's just claims to assert, what all admit, that he, more than any one man, inspired, created, f and moulded the strong national feeling that possessed the Irish people in '43, made O'Connell a true uncrowned king, and "Placed the strength of all the land Like a falchion in his hand." The " government," at last, with fear and trembling, came to issue with the " Eepeal Conspirators" in the law courts. Well they might fear and tremble. One movement of O'Connell's finger — for only he could give the signal — and within a month no vestige of British power could have remained in Ireland. For O'Connell's refusal to wield that power, then unquestionably in his hands, may God forgive him ! He went into prison on the 30th of May, 1844, stayed there three months — came out in a triumph of perfect paroxysm of popular enthusiasm stronger than ever. Yet from that hour the cause de- clined; nothing answering expectation, or commensurate with the power at his command, was done or attempted. " Physical force " was made a bugbear to frighten women and children; priests were instructed to denounce "rash young men" from their altars; and " Law " — London law, was thrust down the national throat. Davis saw this, vainly resisted it, and made head against it for awhile. He labored in the "Nation" more zealously than ever; but his intimate comrades perceived him changed; and after a short illness he died at his mother's house, Baggot- street, Dublin, on the 16th of September, 1845. The " Nation " lost its strength and its inspiration. The circle of friends and comrades, — the "Young Ireland party," as they were called, — that revolved around this central figure, INTRODUCTION AND MEMOIR. that were kept in their spheres by the attraction of his strong nature, taking their literary tasks from his hands, drawing instruction from his varied accomplishments, and courage and zeal from his kindly and cheerful converse, soon fell into confusion, alienation, helplessness. ■Gloom gathered round the cause, and famine, wasting the bone and vigor of the nation, made all his friends feel, as the confederate Irish felt when Owen Roe died of poison, like " Sheep without a shepherd, when snow shut out the sky." MaeNevin, who idolized him, was cut suddenly from all his moorings, and like a rudderless ship drifted and whirled, until he died in a mad-house. Of others, it would be invidious to trace the career in this place. Enough to say, that the most dangerous foe English dominion in Ireland has had in our generation is buried in the cemetery of Mount Jerome, in the southern suburbs of Dublin. Fragmentary and hasty as are the compositions in prose or verse which Davis left behind him, they are the best and most authentic exponent of the principles and aspira- tions of the remnant of his disciples. w^m 1 - « 1 I ! . 1 sua THE PATRIOT BISHOP OF ROSS. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. :pa.:rt i. Staiional §allabs aitir Songs. " If atiohai. Fsstbt ta the very flowering of the soul, the great- ait evldenoe of Its health, the greatest excellence of its beauty. Its melody la balsam to the senses. It Is the playfellow of Child- b*o£, '.793a aio th3 companion of Manhood, consoles Age. It presents the most dramatio events, the largest characters, the most impressive scenes, and the deepest passions, in the language most familiar to us. It magnifies and ennobles our hearts, our In- tellects, oiir country, and our countrymen ; binds uBtothe land by Ha condensed and gem-like history— to the future by example and by aspiration. It solaces us in travel, flres us in action, prompts •ur Invention, sheds a grace beyond the power of luxury round ear homes, is the recognized envoy or our minds among all man- kind, and to all time."— Davis's Essays. THE MEN OF TIPPERAEY. Let Britain boast her British hosts, About them all right little care we ; Not British seas nor British coasta Can match the man of Tipperary I Tall is his form, his heart is warm, His spirit light as any fairy ; His wrath is fearful as the storm That sweeps The Hills of Tipperary ! > VUU -Spirit of tbe Nation," 4to, p. 84, Lead him to fight for native land, His is no courage cold and wary ; The troops live not on earth would stani The headlong Charge of Tipperary ! Yet meet him in his cabin rude, Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary You'd swear they knew no other mood But Mirth and Love in Tipperary 1 You're free to share his scanty meal, His plighted word he'll never vary- In vain they tried with gold and steel To shake The Faith of Tipperary ! Soft is his cailin's sunny eye, Her mien is mild, her step is airy, Her heart is fond, her soul is high — Oh ! she's the pride of Tipperary ! Let Britain brag her motley rag ; We'll lift the Green more proud and any ; Be mine the lot to bear that flag, And head The Men of Tipperary I THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Though Britain boasts her British hosts, About them all right little care we ; Give us, to guard our native coasts, The Matchless Men of Tipperary ! THE KIVERS. Aib— Kathleen O'More. Tmre's a far-famed Blackwater that runs to Loch Neagh, There's a fairer Blackwater that runs to the sea, The glory of Ulster, The beauty of Munster, These twin rivers be. From the banks of that river Benburb's towers arise; This stream shines as bright as a tear from sweet eyes ; This, fond as a young bride ; That, with foeman's blood dyed — Both dearly we prize. Deep sunk in that bed is the sword of Monroe, Since, 'twixt it and Donagh, he met Owen Roe, And Charlemont's cannon Slew many a man on These meadows below. The shrines of Armagh gleam far over yon lea, Nor afar is Dungannon that nursed liberty, And yonder Red Hugh Marshal Bagenal o'erthrew On Beal-an-atha-Buidhe. 1 But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore, And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lis- more; There the stream, like a maiden With love overladen, Pants wild on each shore. lVvlgo, mouth of the yellow ford. Its rocks rise like statues, tall, stately, and fair, And the trees, and the flowers, and the moun- tains, and air, With Wonder's soul near you, To share with, and cheer you, Make Paradise there. I would rove by that stream, ere my flag 1 rolled ; I would fly to these banks, my betrothed to fold— The pride of our sire-land, The Eden of Ireland, More precious than gold. May their borders be free from oppression and blight; May their daughters and sons ever fondly unite — The glory of Ulster, The beauty of Munster, Our strength and delight GLENGARIFF. Ant — CSvllivan'e March. I wandered at eve by Glengariff s sweet water, Half in the shade, and half in the moon, And thought of the time when the Sacsanacb slaughter Reddened the night and darknened the noon ; Mo nuar ! mo nuar ! mo nuar /* I said — When I think, in this valley and sky — Where true lovers and poets should sigh — Of the time when its chieftain O'Sullivan fled.* Then my mind went along with O'Sullivan inarching Over Musk'ry's moors and Ormond's plain, His curachs the waves of the Shannon o'erarch- ing, And his pathway mile-marked with the slain : THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Mo nuar ! mo nuarf mo nuar! I said — Yet 'twas better far from you to go, And to battle with torrent and foe, Than linger as slaves where your sweet waters spread. But my fancy burst on, like a clan o'er the border, To times that seemed almost at hand, When grasping her banner, old Erin's Lamh Laidir Alone shall rule over the rescued land ; Obaotho! Obaotho! baotho ." I said — Be our marching as steady and strong, And freemen our valleys shall throng, When the last of our foemen is vanquished and THE WEST'S ASLEEP. Ira— Th* Brink of the White Socla. When all besides a vigil keep, The West's asleep, the West's asleep- Alas! and well may Erin weep, When Connaught lies in slumber deep. There lake and plain smile fair and free, 'Mid rocks — their guardian chivalry — Sing oh ! let man learn liberty From crashing wind and lashing sea. That chainless wave and lovely land Freedom and Nationhood demand — Be sure, the great God never planned, For slumbering slaves, a home bo grand. And, long, a brave and haughty race Honored and sentinelled the place — Sing oh ! not even their sons' disgrace Can quite destroy their glory's trace. For often, in O'Connor's van', To triumph dashed each Connaught dan- Am] fleet as deer the Normans ran Through Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan. And later times saw deeds as brave ; And glory guards Clanricard's grave — Sing oh! they died their land to save, At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave. And if, when all a vigil keep, The West's asleep, the West's asleep — Alas ! and well may Erin weep, That Connaught lies in slumber deep. But — hark ! — some voice like thunder spake, " The West's awake, the West's awake" — " Sing oh ! hurra ! let England quake, We'll watch till death for Erin's sake !" OH! FOR A STEED. Am— Original. I. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a blazing scimitar, To hunt from beauteous Italy the Austrian's red hussar. To mock their boasts, And strew their hosts, And scatter their flags af&«. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and dear Po- land gathered aroujd, To smite her circle jf savage foes, and smash them upon the ground ; Nor hold my hand While on the land, A foreigner foe was found. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that never failed, And a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate valor mailed, 'Till "stripes and stars," And Bussian czars, Before the Red Indian quailed. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains of Hindustan, And a hundred thousand cavaliers, to charge like a single man, Till our shirts were red, And the English fled, Like a cowardly caravan. 486 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, with the Greeks at Marathon, Or a place in the Switzer phalanx, when the Morat men swept on, Like a pine-clad hill By an earthquake's will Hurled the valleys upon. Oh 1 for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian smote down the Dane, Or a place beside great Aodh O'Neill, when Bagenal the bold was slain, Or a waving crest And a lance in rest, With Bruce upon Bannoch plain. VII. Oh 1 for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Curragh of Kildare, And Irish squadrons ready to do, as they are ready to dare — A hundred yards, And Holland's guards Drawn up to engage me there. VIII. Oh 1 for a steed, a rushing steed, and any good cause at all, Or else, if you will, a field on foot, or guarding a leaguered wall For freedom's right ; In flushing fight To conquer if then to fall. CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS.' Aik— The March of the Men of Harlech. 1 Once there was a Cymric nation: Few its men, but high its station — Freedom is the soul's creation, Not the work of hands. Coward hearts are. self-subduing; Fetters last by slaves' renewing — Edward's castles are in ruin, Still his empire stands. Still the Saxon's malice Blights our beauteous valleys ; Ours the t*>il, but his the spoil, and his the lawi we writhe in ; Worked like beasts, that Saxon priests may riot in our tithing; Saxon speech and Saxon teachers Crush our Cymric tongue ! Tolls our traffic binding, Rents our vitals grinding — Bleating sheep, we cower and weep, when, by one bold endeavor, We could drive from out our hive the Saxoa for ever. " Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers" - Pass along the word ! We should blush at Arthur's glory- Never sing the deeds of Rory — Caratach's renowned story Deepens our disgrace. By the bloody day of Banchor! By a thousand years of rancor ! By the wrongs that iu us canker! Up ! ye Cymric race — Think of Old Llewellyn- Owen's trumpets swelling : Then send out a thunder shout, and every tra« man summon, Till the ground shall echo round from Severn to Plinlimmon, "Saxon foes, and Cym.'ic brothers, "Arthur's con.e again !" Not his bone and smew, But his soul wiVnin you, Prompt and true fc plan and do, and firm a.» Monmouth ion For our cause though crafty laws and charging troops environ — "Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers""- Pass along the word ! 1 Tide Appendix. A BALLAD OF FREEDOiM. The Frenchman sailed in Freedom's name ts smite the Algerinc, The strife was short, the crescent sunk, and then his guile was seen ; For, nestling iu the pirate's hold — a fiercer pirate far— THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 487 He bade the tribes yield up their flocks, the towns their gates unbar. Right on he pressed with freemen's hands to subjugate the free, The Berber in old Atlas glens, the Moor in Titteri ; And wider have his razzias spread, his cruel con- quests broader, But God sent down, to face his frown, the gallant Abdel-Kader— The faithful Abdel-Kader! unconquered Abdel- Kader ! Like falling rock, Or fierce siroc — No savage or marauder — Son of a slave ! First of the brave ! Hurrah for Abdel-Kader! 1 The Englishman, for long, long years, had ravaged Ganges' side — A dealer first, intriguer next, he conquered far and wide, Till, hurried on by avarice, and thirst of endless rule, His sepoys pierced to Candahar, his flag waved in Cabul ; But still within the conquered land was one unconquered man, The fierce Pushtani 2 lion, the fiery Akhbar Khan- He slew t'he sepoys on the snow, till Scindh's 3 full flood they swam it Right rapidly, content to flee the son of Dost Mohammed, The sou of Dost Mohammed, and brave old Dost Mohammed — Oh ! long may they Their mountains sway, Akhbar and Dost Mohammed ! Long live the Dost ! "Who Britain crost, Hurrah for Dost Mohammed ! The Russian, lord of million serfs, and nobles serflier still, 1 This name is pronounced Cawder. The French say that their great foe was a Blave's son. Be it so— he has a hero's and freeman's heart. " Hurrah for Abdel-Kader !"— Abthor's Note. 2 This is the name by which the Affghans call themselves. A«gh«n is a Persian name.— Id. 3The real name of the Indus, which is a Latinized word.— Id. Indignant saw Circassia's sons bear up against his will ; With fiery ships he lines their coast, his armies cross their streams — He builds a hundred fortresses — his conquests done, he deems. But steady rifles — rushing steeds — a crowd of nameless chiefs — The plough is o'er his arsenals! — his fleet is on the reefs! The maidens of Kabyntica are clad in Moscow His slavish herd, how dared they beard the msuntain-bred CherkeSses ! The lightening Cherkesses! — the thundering Cherkesses ! May Elburz top In Azov drop, Ere Cossacks beat Cherkesses ! The fountain head Whence Europe spread — Hurra! for the tali Cherkesses! 4 But Russia preys on Poland's fields, where So- bieski reigned, And Austria on Italy — the Roman eagle ' chained — Bohemia, Servia, Hungary, within her clutches, gasp; And Ireland struggles gallantly in England's loosening grasp. O ! would all these their strength unite, or battle on alone, Like Moor, Pushtani, and Cherkess, they soor would have their own. Hurrah ! hurrah ! it can't be far, when from the Scindh to Shannon Shall gleam a line of freemen's flags begirt by freemen's cannon ! The coming day of Freedom — the flashing flags of Freedom ! The victor glaive — The mottoes brave, May we be there to read them ! T»hat glorious noon, God send it soon — Hurrah for human Freedom ! 4 Cherkesses or Abdyes is the right name of the so-called Cir- cassians. Kabyntica is a town in the heart of the Caucasus, of which Mount Elburz is the summit Blumenbach, and other physiologists, assert that the finer European races descend from a Circassian stock — Id. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS THE IRISH HURRAH. Am — Nach m-baineann tin do. Hate you hearkened the eagle scream over the sea? Have you hearkened the breaker beat under your lee ? A something between the wild waves, in their play, And the kingly bird's scream, is The Irish Hurrah ! How it rings on the rampart when Saxons assail, How it leaps on the level, and crosses the vale, Till the talk of the cataract faints on its way, And the echo's voice cracks with The Irish Hurrah ! How it sweeps o'er the mountain when hounds are on scent, How it presses the billows when rigging is rent, Till the enemy's broadside sinks low in dismay, As our boarders go in with The Irish Hurrah! IV. Oh ! there's hope in the trumpet and glee in the fife, But never such music broke into a strife, As when at its bursting the war-clouds give way, And there's cold steei along with The Irish i Hurrah ! What joy for a death-bed, your banner above, And round you the pressure of patriot love, As you're lifted to gaze on the breaking array Of the Saxon reserve at The Irish Hurrah 1 A SONG FOR THE HUSH MILITIA. Am— The Peacock. The tribune's tongue and poet's pen May sow the seeds in prostrate men ; But 'tis the soldier's sword alone Can reap the crop so bravely sown! No more I'll sing nor idly pine, But train my soul to lead a line — A soldier's life's the life for me — A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! No foe would fear your thunder words If 'twere not for our lightning swords — If tyrants yield when millions pray, 'Tis lest they link in war array ; Nor peace itself is safe, but when The sword is sheathed by fighting A soldier's life's the life for me — A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! The rifle brown and sabre bright Can freely speak and nobly write — What prophets preached the truth so well As Hofer, Brian, Bruce, and Tell! God guard the creed those heroes t-uight,- That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought A soldier's life's the life for me — A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! Then, welcome be the bivouac, The hardy stand, and fierce attack, Where pikes will tame their carbineer* And rifles thin their bay'neteers, And every field the island through Will show " what Irishmen ce\a do !" A soldier's life's the life fo.T vw — A soldier's death, so Ireland free ! Yet, 'tis not strength, and 'tis rot steel Alone can make the English real ; But wisdom, working day by day, Till comes the time for passion's sway— The patient dint, and powder shock, Can blast an empire like a rock. A soldier's life's the life for me — A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! The tribune's tongue and poet's pen May sow the seed in slavish men ; But 'tis the soldier's sword alone Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown. No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine, But train my soul to lead a line — A soldier's life's the life for me — A soldier's death, so Ireland's free! THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. OUR OWN AGAIN. Aik — Original. 2 Let the coward shrink aside, We'll have our own again ; Let the brawling slave deride, Here's for our own again — Let the tyrant bribe and lie, March, threaten, fortify, Loose his lawyer and his spy, Yet we'll have our own again. Let him soothe in silken tone, Scold from a foreign thro-ne ; Let him come with bugles blown, We shall have our own again. Let us to our purpose bide, We'll have our own again — Let the game be fairly tried, We'll have our own again. ii. Send the cry throughout the land, " Who's for our own again ?" Summon all men to our band, — Why not our own again ? Rich, and poor, and old, and young, Sharp sword, and fiery tongue — Soul and sinew firmly strung, All to get our own again. Brothers thrive by brotherhood — Trees in a stormy wood — Riches come from Nationhood — Sha'n't we have our own again f Munster's woe is Ulster's bane ! Join for our own again — Tyrants rob as well as reign, — We'll have our own again. in. Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred, " Rise for our own again !" Often passed the signal word, " Strike for our own again !" Rudely, rashly, and untaught, Uprose they, ere they ought, Failing, though they nobly fought, Dying for their own again. Mind will rule and muscle yield, In senate, ship, and field- When we've skiM our strength to wield Let us take our own again. By the slave his chain is wrought, — Strive for our own again. Thunder is less strong than thought,- We'll have our own again. Calm as granite to our foes, Stand for our own again ; Till his wrath to madness grows Firm for our own again. Bravely hope, and wisely wait, Toil, join, and educate ; Man is master of his fate ; We'll enjoy our own again. With a keen constrained thirst — Powder's calm ere it burst- Making ready for the worst, So we'll get our own again. Let us to our purpose bide, We'll have our own again. God is on the righteous side, We'll have our own again. CELTS AND SAXONS. s We hate the Saxon and the Dane, We hate the Norman men — We cursed their greed for blood and gain, We curse them now again. Yet start not, Irish born man, If you're to Ireland true, We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan— We have no curse for you. We have no curse for you or yours, But Friendship's ready grasp, And faith to stand by you and yours Unto our latest gasp — To stand by you against all foes, Howe'er or whence they come, With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows, From England, France, or Rome. What matter that at different shrines We pray unto one God— ''Evening Mail," deprecating and defying the assumed blatUity of i printed la the the Irish Celts to the Irish Saxons.— Adtbob's Note. 490 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. What matter that at different times Our fathers won this sod — In fortune and in name we're bound By stronger links than steel ; And neither can be safe nor sound But in the other's weal. As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand Long drifting down the Nile, Bnijt up old Egypt's fertile land For many a hundred mile; So Pagan clans to Ireland came, And clans of Christendom, Yet joined their wisdom and their f To build a nation from. Here came the brown Phoenician, The man of trade and toil — Here came the proud Milesian, Ahungering for spoil ; And the Firbolg and the Cymry, And the hard, enduring Dane, And the iron Lords of Normandy, With the Saxons in their train. And oh ! it were a gallant deed To show before mankind, How every race and every creed Might be by love combined — Might be combined, yet not forget The fountain whence they rose, As, filled by many a rivulet The statelv Shannon flows. Nor would we wreak our ancient feud On Belgian or on Dane, Nor visit in a hostile mood The hearths of Gaul or Spain ; But long as on our country lies The Anglo-Norman yoke, Their tyranny we'll signalize, And God's revenge invoke. We do not hate, we never cursed, Nor spoke a foeman's word Against a man in Ireland nursed, Howe'er we thought he erred ; So start not, Irish bc-rn man, If you're to Ireland true, We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan, We've hearts and hands for vou. ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY THE DAY. Aih — The Protestant Boys. Ireland ! rejoice, and, England ! deplore— Faction and feud are passing away. 'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar, " Orange and green will carry the day." Orange ! Orange ! Green and Orange ! Pitted together in many a fray — Lions in fight ! And linked in their might, Orange and Green will carry the day. Orange ! Orange ! Green and Orange ! Wave together o'e mountain and bay. Orange and Green ! Our King and our Queen! " Orange and Green will carrv the day !" ii. Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed — William and James are turned to clay — Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed ; Red was the crop, and bitter the pay ! Freedom fled us 1 Knaves misled us ! Under the feet of the foemen we lay — Riches and strength We'll win them at length, For Orange and Green will carry the day ! Landlords fooled us ; England ruled us, Hounding our passions to make us their prey But, in their spite, The Irish Unite, And Orange and Green will carry the day ! Fruitful our soil where honest men starve ; Empty the mart, and shipless tire bay; Out of our want the Oligarchs carve ; Foreigners fatten on our decay ! Disunited, Therefore blighted, THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Ruined and.rent by the Englishman's sway, Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore, Party and creed "Orange and Green must carry the day !" For once have agreed — Orange ! Orange ! Orange and Green will carry the day ! Bless the Orange ! Bovne's old water, Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay Red with slaughter! When, from the North, Now is as pure as an ; nfant at play ; Burst the cry forth, So, in our souls, " Orange and Green will carry the day ;" Its history rolls. No surrender ! And Orange and Green will carry the day. No Pretender Never to falter and never betray — IV. With an Amen, English deceit can rule us no more, We swear it again, Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray — Orange and Green shall carry the dat. FA.RT II. Jtdioiral Songs anb Jalkbs. "The greatest achievement of the Irish people is their music. It tells their history, climate, and character; but it too much loves to weep. Let us, when so many of our chains have been broken — while our strength is great, and our hopes high— culti- vate its bolder strains— its raging and rejoicing ; or if we weep, let It be like men wIk-jo eyes are lifted, though their tears fall. u Music is the first faculty of the Irish ; and scarcely any thing has snch power for good over them. The use of this faculty and this power, publicly and constantly, to keep up their spirits, re- fine their tastes, warm their courage, increase their union, and renew their zeal— is the duty of every patriot"— Davis's Essays, THE LOST PATH. Am—Gradk mo Chroide. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort 1 All comfort else has flown : For every hope was false to me, And here I am, alone. What thoughts were mine in early youth ! Like some old Irish song, Brimful of love, and life, and truth, My spirit gushed along. I hoped to right my native isle, I hoped a soldier's fame, I hoped to rest in woman's smile, And win a minstrel's name. Oh ! little have I served my land, No laurels press my brow, I have no woman's heart or hand, Nor minstrel honors now But fancy has a magic power, It brings me wreath and crown, And woman's love, the self-same hour It smites oppression down. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort b«, I have no joy beside ; Oh ! throng around, and be to me Power, country, fame, and bride. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. J LOVE'S LONGINGS. To the conqueror his crowning, First freedom to the slave, And air unto the drowning, Sunk in the ocean's wave — And succor to the faithful, Who fight tlieir flag above, Are sweet, but far less grateful Than were my lady's love. I know I am not worthy Of one so young and bright ; And yet I would do for thee Far more than others might; I cannot give you pomp or gold, If you should be my wife, But I can give you love untold, And true in death or life. Methinks that there are passions Within that heaving breast To scorn their heartless fashion, And wed whom you love best. Methinks you would be prouder As the struggling patriot's bride, Than if rank your home should crowd, or Cold riches round you glide. Oh ! the watcher longs for morning, And the infant cries for light, And the saint for heaven's warning, And the vanquished pray for might ; But their prayer, when lowest kneeling, And their suppliance most true, Are cold to the appealing Of this longing heart to you. HOPE DEFERRED. Aia—Oh/ art thou gone, my Mary dtart Tis long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my grief, For sorrow wearies us like time, but ah it brings not time's relief; As in our days of tenderness, before me still she seems to glide ; And, though my arms are wide as then, yet she will not abide. The daylight and the starlight shine, as if her eyes were in their light, And, whispering in the panting breeze, her love- songs come at lonely night; While, far away with those less dear, she tries to hide her grief in vain, For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her to give pain. I know she never spoke her love, she never breathed a single vow, And yet I'm sure she loved me then, and still doats on me now ; For when we met, her eyes grew glad, and heavy when I left her side, And oft she said she'd be most happy as a poor man's bride ; I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it ready by the spring; The spring is past — what season now my girl unto our home will bring? I'm sick and weary, very weary — watching, morning, night, and noon ; How long you're coming — I am dying — will yon not come soon ? ED3HLIN A RtlN. Ara— Eibhlin a ruin. When I am far away, Eibhlin a ruin, Be gayest of the gay, Eibhlin a ruin, Too dear your happiness, For me to wish it less — Love has no selfishness, Eibhlin a ruin. And it must be our pride, Eibhlin a ruin, Our trusting hearts to hide, Eibhlin a ruin. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. They wish, our love to blight, We'll wait for Fortune's light, The flowers close up at night, Eibhlin a ruin. And when we meet alone, Eibhlin a ruin, Upon my bosom thrown, Eibhlin a ruin ; That hour, with light bedecked, Shall cheer us and direct, A beacon to the wrecked, Eibhlin a ruin. Fortune, thus sought, will come, Eibhlin a ruin, We'll win a happy home, Eibhlin a ruin. And, as it slowly rose, Twill tranquilly repose, A rock 'mid melting snows, Eibhlin a ruin. THE BANKS OF THE LEE. Am— A THp to the Cottage. Oh! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for, Marj and me ; There's not in the land a lovelier tide, And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my bride. She's modest and meek, There's a down on her cheek, And her skin is as sleek As a butterfly's wing — Then her step would scarce show On the fresh-fallen snow, And her whisper is low, But as clear as the spring. Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me, I know not how love is happy elsewhere, I know not how any but lovers are there ! Oh ! so green is the grass, so clear is the stream, So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam, That beauty should ne'er to other lands roam, But make on the banks of the river its home. When dripping with dew, The roses peep through, 'Tis to look in at you They are growing so fast ; While the scent of the flowers Must be hoarded for hours, 'Tis poured in such showers When my Mary goes past. Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me — Oh, Mary for me — oh, Mary for me ! And 'tis little I'd sigh for the banks of the THE GIRL OF DUNBWY 'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy Stepping the mountain statelily — Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet, No lady in Ireland to match her is meet. Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies — Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of ne» eyes; The child of a peasant — yet England's pioud Queen Has less rank in her heart, and less gra-.e in her mien. Her brow 'neath her raven haii gleams, just as if A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff — And love, and devotion, and energy speak From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion- pale cheek. But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her "P, And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip, And her form and her step, like the red-deer'e go past — As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye, And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by, The saint of the wayside — she granted my prayer, Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there. I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills, But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills ; And I whisper her softly, " Again, love, we'll meet, And Til lie in your bosom, and live at your feet." DUTY AND LOVE. An — My lodging is on the cold ground. Oh ! lady, think not that my heart has grown cold, If I woo not as once I could woo ; Though sorrow has bruised it, and long years have rolled, It still doats on beauty and you , And were I to yield to its inmost desire, I would iabor by night and by day, Till I won you to flee from the home of your sire, To live with your love far away. But it is that my country's in bondage, and I Have sworn to shatter her chains ! By my duty and oath I must do it, or lie A corse on her desolate plains : Then, sure, dearest maiden, 'twere sinful to sue, And crueller far to win, But, should victory smile on my banner, to you I shall fly without sorrow or sin. ANNIE, DEAR. Am— Maidt in May. Oub mountain brooks were rushing, Annie, dear, The Autumn eve was flushing, Annie, dear ; But brighter was your blushing, When first, your murmurs hushing, I told my love outgushing, Annie, dear. Ah 1 but our hopes were splendid. Annie, dear; How sadly they have ended, Annie, dear ! The ring betwixt us broken, When our vows of love were spoken, Of your poor heart was a token, Annie dear. The primrose flowers were shining Annie, dear, When, on my breast reclining, Annie, dear, Began our Mi-na-meala ; And many a month did follow Of joy — but life is hollow, Annie, dear. For once, when home returning, Annie, dear, I found our cottage burning, Annie, dear; Around it were the yeomen, Of every ill an omen, The country's bitter foemen, Annie, dear. But why arose a morrow, Annie, dear, Upon that night of sorrow, Annie, dear! Far better, by thee lying, Their bayonets defying, Than live an exile sighing, Annie, dear. BLIND MART. Am— Blind Mary. There flows from her spirit such lore and delight, That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light — THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. As the gleam from a homestead through dark- m. ness will show, Oh ! the banks of the stream are Cr the moon glimmer soft through the fast fall- Than emeralds greener : ing snow. And how should they wean her From loving the earth ? ii. While the' song-birds so sweet, Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at And the waves at their feet, times, And each young pair they meet, As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes ; Are all flushing with mirth. And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends, IV. And the starlight, as love, that nor changes nor And she listed his talk, ends. And he shared in her walk — And how could she baulk in. One so gallant and true ? Ah ! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun, But why tell the rest ? For the mountains that tower, or the rivers that Her love she confest, run— And sunk on his breast, For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light, Like the eventide dew. Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight. IV. Ah ! now her cheek glows In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and With the tint of the rose, shade, And her healthful blood flows, In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade ; Just as fresh as the stream ; While the darkness that seems your sweet being And her eye flashes bright, to bound And her footstep is light, Is one of the guardians, an Eden around ! And sickness and blight Fled away like a dream. VI. And soon by his side THE BRIDE OF MALLOW. She kneels a sweet bride, In maidenly pride '■ And maidenly fears; Twas dying they thought her, And their children were fair, And kindly they brought her And their home knew no care, To the banks of Blackwater, Save that all homesteads were Where her forefathers lie ; Not as happy as theirs. 'Twas the place of her childhood, And they hoped that its wild wood, And air soft and mild would Soothe her spirit to die. THE WELCOME. ii. Am — An buuchailin buidh*. But she met on its border A lad who adored her — I. No rich man, nor lord, or Comb in the evening, or come in the morning, A coward, or slave ; Come when your looked for, or come without But one who had worn warning, A green coat, and borne Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, A pike from Slieve Mourne, And the oftener you come here the more I'll With the patriots brave. adore you. THE POEMS OF TFIOMAS DAVIS. Light is my heart since tiie day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the .innets are singing, "True lovers I don't sever." I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ; Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. Oh ! your step's like the rain to the summer- vexed farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the eyrie, We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy, We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. Oh ! she'll whisper you : "Love as unchange- ably beaming, And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming, Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." So come in the evening, or come in the morn- ing, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more Til adore youl Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lover* I don't sever !" THE Mt-NA-MEALA. Like the rising of the sun, Herald of bright hours to follow, Lo ! the marriage rites are done, And begun the Mi-na-meala. Heart to heart, and hand to hand, Vowed 'fore God to love and cherish, Each by each in grief to stand, Never more apart to flourish. m. Now their lips, low whisp'ring, speak Thoughts their eyes have long been saying, Softly bright, and richly meek, As seraphs first their wings essaying. Deeply, wildly, warmly love — 'Tis a heaven-sent enjoyment, Lifting up our thoughts above Selfish aims and cold employment. Yet, remember, passion wanes, Romance is parent to dejection ; Naught our happiness sustains But thoughtful care and firm affection. VI. When the Mi-na-meala 's flown, Sterner duties surely need you ; Do their bidding, — 'tis love's own,— Faithful love will say God speed yon. Guard her comfort as 'tis worth, Pray to God to look down on her; And swift as cannon-shot go forth To strive for freedom, truth, and honor. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. VIII. Mild is M&ire bh&n a stdir, Oft recall — and never swerve — Mine is M&ire bhan a stdir. Your children's love and hers will follow; Saints will watch about the door Guard your home, and there preserve Of my M&ire bh&n a stdir. For you an endless Mi-na-meala. 1 OH ! THE MARRIAGE. MAIRE BHAN A STOIR. Air — The Swaggering Jig. Am — Original. j I. Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, In a valley, far away, With love and mo bhuackaill for me, With my M&ire "bh&n a stdir* The ladies that ride in a carriage Short would be the summer-day, Might envy my marriage to me ; Ever loving more and more ; For Eoghan 4 is straight as a tower, Winter-days would all grow long, And tender and loving and true, With the light her heart would pour, He told me more love in an hour With her kisses and her song, Than the 'Squires of the county could do. And her loving maith go ledr. 3 Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. Fond is M&ire bh&n a stdir, Fair is M&ire bh&n a stdir. ii. Sweet as ripple on the shore, His hair is a shower of soft gold, Sings my M&ire bh&n a stdir. His eye is as clear as the day, His conscience and vote were unsold ii. When others were carried away ; Oh ! her sire is very proud, His word is as good as an oath, And her mother cold as stone ; And freely 'twas given to me : But her brother bravely vowed Oh ! sure 'twill be happy for both She should be ray bride alone ; The day of our marriage to see. For he knew I loved her well, Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. And he knew she loved me too, So he sought their pride to quell, in. But 'twas all in vain to sue. His kinsmen are honest and kind, True is M&ire bh&n a stdir, The neighbors think much of his skill, Tried is M&ire bh&n a stdir, And Eoghan's the iad to my mind, Had I wings I'd never soar Though he owns neither castle nor mill. From my M&ire bh&n a stdir. But he has a tilloch of land, A horse and a stocking of coin, in. A foot for the dance, and a hand There are lands where manly toil In the cause of his country to join. Surely reaps the crop it sows, Then, Oh ! the marriage, «fce Glorious woods and teeming soil, Where the broad Missouri flows; IV. Through the trees the smoke shall rise, We meet in the market and fair — From our hearth with maith go ledr, We meet in the morning and night — There shall shine the happy eyes He sits on the half of my chair, Of my M&ire bh&n a stdir. And my people are wild with delight. 1 Honeymoon. it is. Really it Is time for tbe inhabitants of Ireland to lean Irlak 2 Which means " fair Mary my treasure. 1 * If we are to write S Much plenty, or In abundance.— Adtbob's Note. gibberish to enable Borne of our readers to |>rommnce this, we 4 Vulao Owen ; but tbat is, properly, a name among the Cymry tout do so thus, Maur^/a vaun aetlvai-e, and pretty looking staff (WeUh).-7oem Of Giolla Iosa ilor Mac Flrbislgh in Tlie Genealogies, Tribes. Oh I sweet were the minstrels of kind Inis- Fail! As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! Whose music, nor ages nor sorrow can spoil ; As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! But their sad stifled tones are like streams flowing hid, Their caoine 3 and their piopracht* were chid, And their language, " that melts in music," forbid ; As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! How fair were the maidens of fair Inis-Fail ! As truagh gan oidhir 'na bh-farradh ! As fresh and as free as the sea-breeze from soil, As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! Oh ! are not our maidens as fair and as pure ? Can our music no longer allure ? And can we but sob, as such wrongs we en- dure ? As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh f Their famous, their holy, their dear Inis-Fail ! As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! Shall it still be a prey for the stranger to spoil ? As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh I Sure, brave men would labor by night and by day To banish that stranger away ; Or, dying for Ireland, the future would say As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! Oh ! shame — for unchanged is the face of our isle; As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! That taught them to battle, to sing, and to smile ; As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! We are heirs of their rivers, their sea, and their land, — Our sky and our mountains as grand — We are heirs — oh ! we're not — of their heart and tlieir hand ; As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bhfarradh! and Customso/the Vi Fiachrack or O'Dvbhda's Country, print' ert for the Irish Arch. Soc. p. 230 line 2. and note d. Also, O'Reillus Diet voce—farradh.- 3 AngHce keen. 4 Anglice. pibroch. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. THE FATE OF KING DATHI. 1 (a. d. 428.)' Darkly their glibs o'erhang, Sharp is their wolf-dog's fang, Bronze spear and falchion clang — Brave men might shun them Heavy the spoil they bear — Jewels and gold are there — Hostage and maiden fair — How have they won them! From the soft sons of Gaul, Roman, and Frank, and thrall, Borough, and hut, and hall, — These have been torn. Over Britannia wide, Over fair Gaul they hied, Often in battle tried, — Enemies mourn ! Fiercely their harpers sing, — Led by their gallant king, They will to Em£ bring Beauty and treasure. Britain shall bend the knee — Rich shall their households be- When their long ships the sea Homeward shall measure. Barrow and Rath shall rise, Towers, too, of wondrous size, Tailtin they'll solemnize, Feis-Teamhrach assemble. Samhain and Beal shall smile On the rich holy isle — Nay ! in a little while QStius shall tremble !* Up on the glacier's snow, Down on the vales below, Monarch and clansmen go- Bright is the morning. lTtais and the remaining poems in Part I. have been arranged IS nearly as possible in chronological sequence, — Ed. S Vide Appendix. I The consul (Etius, the shield of Italy, and terror of " the bar- Never their march they slack, Jura is at their back, When falls the evening black, Hideous, and warning. Eagles scream loud on high ; Far off the chamois fly ; Hoarse comes the torrent's cry, On the rocks whitening. Strong are the storm's wings ; Down the tall pine it flings; Hailstone and sleet it brings — Thunder and lightning. Little these veterans mind Thundering, hail, or wind ; Closer their ranks they bind — Matching the storm. While, a spear-cast or more, On, the front ranks before, Dathi the sunburst bore — Hauglity his form. Forth from the thunder-cloud Leaps out a foe as proud — Sudden the monarch bowed — On rnsh the vanguard ; Wildly the king they raise — Struck by the lightning's blaze- Ghastly his dying gaze, Clutching his standard ! Mild is the morning beam, Gently the rivers stream, Happy the valleys seem ; But the lone Islanders — Mark how they guard their kingl Hark to the wail they sing 1 Dark is their counselling — Helvetia's higlilanders. Gather, like ravens, near — Shall Dathi's soldiers fear ! Soon their home-path they clear- Rapid and daring; barian," was a contemporary of King Dathi. Feis-Teamnraa* the Parliament of Tara. Tailtin, games held at Tailite, county Meath. Samhain and Beal, the moon and sun, which Ireland worshipped.— Authob'8 Note. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. On through the pass and plain, Until the shore they gain, And, with their spoil, again, Landed in Eirinn. Little does Eire 1 care For gold or maiden fair — "Where is King Dathi ? — where, Where is my bravest ?" On the rich deck he lies, O'er him his sunburst flies — Solemn the obsequies, Eire ! thou gavest. See ye that countless train Crossing Ros-ComainV plain, Crying, like hurricane, Uile liu ai ?— Broad is his carris base — Nigh the " King's burial-place," Last of the Pagan race, Lieth King Dathi ! ARGAN MOP,.' Air— Argan Mor. The Danes rush around, around ; To the edge of the fosse they bound ; Hark ! hark, to their trumpets' sound, Bidding them to the war ! Hark ! hark, to their cruel cry, As they swear our hearts' cores to dry, And their Raven red to dye ; Glutting their demon, Thor. Leaping the Rath upon, Here's the fiery Ceallachan — He makes the Lochlonnach 6 wan, Lifting his brazen spear ! Ivor, the Dane, is struck down, For the spear broke right through his crown. Yet worse did the battle frown — Anlaf is on our rere ! 1 The true ancient and mod-em name of this island. — Ed. 2 Angl. Roscuuuuon. 3 HU>erniee y Roilig na Riogh ; vulgo, Relignaree— " A. famous burial-place near Oruachan, in Connacht, where the kings were See ! see ! the Rath's gates are broke, And in — in, like a cloud of smoke, Burst on the dark Danish folk, Charging us everywhere — Oh ! never was closer fight Than in Argan Mor that night — How little do men want light, Fighting within their lair 1 Then girding about our king, On the thick of the foes we spring — Down — down we trample and fling, Gallantly though they strive J And never our falchions stood, Till we were all wet with their blood, And none of the pirate brood Went from the Rath alive 1 THE VICTOR'S BURIAL. Wrap him in his banner, the best shroud of the brave — Wrap him in his onchu, 1 and take him to his grave — Lay him not down lowly, like bulwark over- thrown, But, gallantly upstanding, as if risen from his throne, With his craiseacK 1 in his hand, and his sword on his thigh, With his war-belt on his waist, and his cath- bharr* on high- Put his fleasg* upon his neck — his green flag round him fold, Lite ivy round a castle wall — not conquered, but grown old — 'Mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! ochon /" Weep for him ! Oh ! weep for him ; but re- member, in your moan, That he died, in his pride, — with his foes about hira strown. usually interred, hefore the establishment of the Christian relhrios in Ireland."— OSriens h: Hid. 4 Vide Appendix. 5 Northmen. 6 Flag. 1 Spear 8 Helmet. 9 Collar. 10 Anglict, Wirrasthrue, ochon* THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Oh ! shrine him in Beinn-Edair, 1 with his face towards the foe, As an emblem that not death our defiance can lay low — Let him look across the waves from the prom- ontory's breast, To menace back The East, and to sentinel The West; Sooner shall these channel waves the iron coast cut through, Than the spirit he has left, yield, Easterlings ! to you — Let his coffin be the hill, let the eagles of the sea Chorus with the surges round, the tuireamh* of the free ! 'Mhuire as truagh ! A mhuire as truagh ! A mhuire as truagh !' ochon ! Weep for him ! Oh ! weep for him, but re- member, in your moan, That he died, in his pride — with his foes about him strown ! THE TRUE IRISH KING.' The Caesar of Rome has a wider demesne, And the Ard Righ of France has more clans in his train ; The sceptre of Spain is more heavy with gems, And our crowns cannot vie with the Greek diadems ; But kinglier far before heaven and man Are the Emerald fields, and the fiery-eyed clan, The sceptre, and state, and the poets who sing, And the swords that encircle A True Irish King ! For he must have come from a conquering race — The heir of their valor, their glory, their grace ; His frame must be stately, his step must be fleet, His hand must be trained to each warrior feat, 1 Howth. a 8 Vide Appendix. tAnglVKagm, O'Shiel. 8 Angl. O'Cahan, or Kane, O'Hanlon. ( Aral. The Ards. 7 Angl. Donegal His face, as the harvest-moon, steadfast and clear, A head to enlighten, a spirit to cheer ; While the foremost to rush where the battle- brands ring, And the last to retreat is A True Irish Kino ! Yet, not for his courage, his strength, or his name, Can he from the clansmen their fealty claim. The poorest, and highest, choose freely to-day The chief, that to-night they'll as truly obey ; For loyalty springs from a people's consent, And the knee that is forced had been better un- bent — The Sacsauach serfs no such homage can bring As the Irishmen's choice of A True Irish King ! Come, look on the pomp when they " make an O'Neill ;" The muster of dynasts — O'h- Again, 4 O'Shiad- hail, O'Cathain, 0'h-Anluain, s O'Bhreislein, and all, From gentle Aird Uladh 6 to rude Dun na n-gall; 1 " St. Patrick's comharba"* with bishops thir- teen, And ollamhs' and breitheamhs, 10 and minstrels, are seen, Round Tulach-Og" Rath, like the bees in the spring, All swarming to honor A True Irish Kino ! TJnsandalled he stands on the foot-dinted rock; Like a pillar-stone fixed against every shock, Round, round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill; Like his blemishless honor, and vigilant will. The graybeards are telling how chiefs by the score Have been crowned on " The Rath of the Kings" heretofore, While, crowded, yet ordered, within its green ring, Are the dynasts and priests round The True Irish Kino! 8 Successor — comharba Phadruig — the Archbishop of (Ard* macha) Armagh. 9 Doctors or learned men. 10 Judges. Angl. Brehonk 11 In the county (Tir-Eoghain) Tyrone, between CookstowlK and Stewartstowa. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. The chronicler read him the laws of the clan, And pledged him to bide by their blessing and ban; His skian and his sword arc unbuckled, to show That they only were meant for a foreigner foe; A white willow wand has been put in his hand — A type of pure, upright, and gentle command — While hierarchs are blessing, the slipper they fling, And O'Oathain proclaims him A True Irish Kino ! Thrice looked he to Heaven with thanks and with prayer — Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare — To the waves of Loch n-Eathach, 1 the heights of Strathbhan ;» And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan — One clash on their bucklers ! — one more — they are still — What means the deep pause on the crest of the hill? Why gaze they above him ? — a war-eagle's wing ! " "lis an omen ! — Hurrah ! for Tub True Irish King!" God aid him ! — God save him ! — and smile on his reign — The terror of England — the ally of Spain. May his sword be triumphant o'er Sacsanach arts ; Be his throne ever girt by strong hands, and true hearts ! May the course of his conquests run on till he see The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea ! May minstrels forever his victories sing, And saints make the bed of The True Irish King! THE GERALDINES. The Geraldines ! the Gcraldincs ! — 'tis full s thousand years Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed their battle-spears ; 1 JLngl Lougb Seagb. 1 AngL. Strabao*. When Capet seized the crown of France, theif iron shields were known, And their sabre-dint struck terror on the flanks of the Garonne : Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by William's side, And the gray sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they dyed ; — But never then, nor thence, till now, have false- hood or disgrace Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle in his face. The Geraldines! the Geraldines! — 'tis true, in Strongbow's van By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reigo began ; And, oh ! through many a dark campaign they proved their prowess stern, In Leinsier's plains, and Munster's vales, on king, and chief, and kerne : But noble was the cheer within the halls so rudely won, And generous was the steel-gloved hand that had such slaughter done ; How gay their laugh, how proud their mien! you'd ask no herald's sign — Among a thousand you had known the princely Geraldine. These Geraldines! these Geraldines! — not long our air they breathed ; Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water seethed ; Not often had their children been by Irish mothers nursed, When from their full and genial hearts an Irish feeling burst! The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, and force, and bribe, To win from Irish thoughts and ways this " more than Irish" tribe ; For still they clung to fosterage, to breilheam'k, cloak, and bard : What king dare say to Geraldine, " Your Irish wife discard J" Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! how royally ye reigned O'er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and English arts disdained : , THE POEMS OF THOMAS 1>AVIS Your sword made knights, your banner waved, free was your bugle call By Gleann's 1 green slopes, and DaingeanV tide, from BearbliaV banks to Eochaill. 4 ' What gorgeous shrines, what breitheamh 6 lore, what minstrel feasts there were In and around Magh Nuadhaid's 6 keep, and palace filled Adare ! But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend or kin were pressed ; And focinen fled, when " Crom Abu" ' bespoke your lance in rest. Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! — since Silken Thomas flung King Henry's sword on council board, the Eng- lish thanes among, Ye never ceased to battle brave against the English sway, Though axe and brand and treachery your proudest cut away. Of Desmond's blood, through woman's veins passed on th' exhausted tide ; His title lives — a Sacsanach churl usurps the lion's hide ; And, thong! Kildare tower haughtily, there's ruin at the root, Else why, sin^e Edward fell to earth, had such a tree no fruit ? True Geraldines ! brave Geraldines ! — as torrents mould the earth, You channelled deep old Ireland's heart by con- stancy and worth : When Ginckle 'leaguered Limerick, the Irish sol- diers gazed To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's ban- ner blazed ! And still it is the peasant's hope upon the Cuir- reachV mere, "Tjey live who'll see ten thousand men with good Lord Edward here" — So let them dream till brighter days, when, not by Edward's shade, But by some leader true as he, their lines shall be arrayed ! 1 Angl. Glj-n. 2 Angl. ninsjie. 8 Angl. Barrow. iAngl. YoughaL 5 Angl. Brelion. 6 Angl. Mnynoo 1 Formerly tin- war-cry of ihc Geraldines and now their mot 8 Angl. Currash. 9 The concluding stanza, now first published, was found am he rathor'a papers.— Ed. These Geraldines ! these Geraldines ! — rain wean away the rock, And time may wear away the tribe that stood the battle's shock, But, ever, sure, while one is left of all that honored race, In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzgerald's place : And, though the last were dead and gone, how many a field and town, From Thomas Court to Abbeyfeile, would cherish their renown, And men would say of valor's rise, or ancient power's decline, "'Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the Geraldine." The Geraldines! the Geraldines! — and are there any fears Within the sons of conquerors for full a thou- sand years ? Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with martyrs' blood? Or has that grown a purling brook, which long rushed down a flood ? — By Desmond swept with sword and fire, — by clan and keep laid low, — By Silken Thomas and his kin, — by sainted Edward! No! The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish line Command their son to take the post that fits the Geraldine !' O'BRIEN OF ARA. 10 Aib— The Piper of BUssington. Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh" — Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh"- Desmond feeds five hundred men a day; Yet, here's to O'Briain 13 of Ara! 10 Ara is a small mountain tract, south of Loch Delrgdheirc, and north of the Oamailte {vidi/n, the Keeper) hills. It was the seat oJ a branch of the Thomund princes, called the O'Briens of Ara, wh« hold an important place in the Munster Annals.— Adtuok's Nom 11 Vulgo, O'Kennedy. 12 VuL M'Carthy. 18 TuL O'Brien. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, 1 Down from the top of Caraailte, Clansman and kinsman are coming here To give him the cead mile failte. See you the mountains look huge at eve — So is our chieftain in battle — Welcome he has for the fugitive, — Uisce-beatha* fighting, and cattle! Up from the Oastle of Druim-amar, Down from the top of Camailte, Gossip and ally are coming here To give him the cead mile failte. Horses the valleys are tramping on, Sleek from the Sacsanach manger — Creach>i the hills are encamping on, Empty the bans of the stranger ! Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, Down from the top of Camailte, Ceitheam 3 and buannachl are coming hero To give him the cead mile failte. He has black silver from Cill-da-lua 4 Rian' and Cearbhall 8 are neighbors — 'N Aonach 1 submits with nfuililiu — Butler is meat for our sabres ! Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, Down from the top of Camailte, Rian and Cearbhall are coming here To give'him the cead mile failte. 'Tis scarce a week since through Osairghe* Chased he the Baron of Durmhagh' — Forced him five rivers to cross, or he Had died by the sword of Red Murchadb. !'• Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, Down from the top of Camailte, All the Ui Bhriain are comrng here To give him the cead mile failte. Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh — Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh- Desmond feeds five hundred men a day ; Yet, here's to O'Briain of Ara ! Up from the Castle of. Druim-aniar, Down from the top of Camailte, Clansman and kinsman are coming here To give him the cbad mile failte. EMMELINE TALBOT. a ballad of the pale. (The Scene Is on the borders of Dublin and Wloklow.J 'Twas a September day- In Glenismole," Emmeline Talbot lay On a green knoll. She was a lovely thing, Fleet as a Falcon's wing, Only fifteen that spring- Soft was her soul. Danger and dreamless sleep Much did she scorn, And from her father's keep Stole out that morn. Towards Glenismole she hies:- Sweetly the valley lies, Winning the enterprise — No one to warn. Till by the noon, at length, High in the vale, Emmeline found her strength Suddenly fail. Panting, yet pleasantly, By Dodder side lay she — Thrushes sang merrily, " Hail, sister, hail !" Hazel and copse of oak Made a sweet lawn, Out from the thicket broke Rabbit and fawn. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Green were the eiicirs round, March-men, all stanch and stout, Sweet was the river's sound, Shouting their Belgard shout — Eastwards flat Ciuach frowned, " Down with the Irish rout, South lay Sliahh Ban. Prets d'accomplir." 5 v. Looking round Barnakeel, 1 X. Taken thus unawares, Like a tall Moor Some fled amain — Full of impassioned zeal, Fighting like forest bears, Peeped brown Kippure.' Others were slain. Dublin in feudal pride, To the chief clung the maid — And many a hold beside, How could he use his blade ?— Over Finn-ghaill" preside — That night, upon him weighed Sentinels sure ! Fetter and chain. VI. Is that a roebuck's eye XI. Oh ! but that night was long, Glares from the green ? — Lying forlorn, Is that a thrush's cry Since, 'mid the wassail song, Rings in the screen? These words were borne — Mountaineers round her sprung, " Nathless your tears and cries, Savage their speech and tongue, Sure as the sun shall rise, Fierce was their chief and young- Connor O'Byrne' dies, Poor Emmeline ! Talbot hath sworn." VII. XII. a Hurrah, 'tis Talbot's child," Brightly on Tamhlacht' hill Flashes the sun ; Shouted the kerne, u Off to the mountains wild, Strained at his window-sill, Faire* O'Byrne !" How his eyes run Like a bird in a net, From lonely Sagart slade Strove the sweet maiden yett, Down to Tigh-bradan glade, Praying and shrieking, " Let — Landmarks of border raid, Let me return." Many a one. VIII. XIII. After a moment's doubt, Too well the captive knows Forward he sprung, Belgard's main wall With his sword flashing out- Will, to his naked blows, Wrath on his tongue. Shiver and fall, " Touch not a hair of hers — Ere in his mountain hold Dies he, who finger stirs!" He shall again behold Back fell his foragers — Those whose proud hearts are cold, To him she clung. Weeping his thrall. IX. XIV. Soothing the maiden's fear, " Oh ! for a mountain side, Kneeling was he, Bucklers and brands ! When burst old Talbot's spears Freely I could have died Out on the lea. Heading my bands, 1 Bib. Bearna-chaeL 2 Bib. Keap-iubhalr. S The motto and cry of the Talbotn. • Tnlg FingaL * Vulg. Farrab. 6 Bib. Conchobhar O'Broin. 1 Vulg. Tallajbt 510 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. But on a felon tree"— Bearing a fetter key, By him all silently Emmclinc stands. Late rose the castellan, He had drunk deep, — Warder and serving-man Still were asleep, — Wide is the castle-gate, Open the captive's grate, Fetters disconsolate Flung in a heap. * * xvr. Tis an October day, Close by Loch Dan Many a creach lay, Many a man. 'Mongst them, in gallant i Connor O'Biyne's seen Wedded to Emmeline, Girt by his clan ! O'SULLIVAN'S RETURN. 1 Air — An crulegin Idn. 1 O'Suillebhain has come Within sight of his home, He had left it long years ago; The tears are in his eyes, And he prays the wind to rise, As he looks towards his castle, from the prow, from the prow ; As he looks towards his castle, from the prow. ii. For the day had been calm, And slow the good ship swam, And the evening gun had been fired; He knew the hearts beat wild Of mother, wife, and child, And of, clans, who to see him long desired, long desired ; And of clans, who to see him long desired. 1 Vide Appendix. 2 Slow time. 8 The standard bearings of 0'3nllf van. See O'Donovan'a edition f the Banquet of Dun na n-Geilh, and the Battle of Mngh Uatb, Drthe ArchBological Society, App, p. 349— " Bearings of O'Sul- ivan at the Battle of Citl-glinn." ** I see, mightily advancing on the plain, The banner of the race of noble Finghin ; Of the tender ones the elasp, Of the gallant ones the grasp, He thinks, until his tears fall warm ; And full seems his wide hall, With friends from wall to wall, Where their welcome shakes the banners, like a storm, like a storm ; Where their welcome shakes the banners like a storm. Then he sees another scene — Norman churls on the green — " O'S'iilleabhain abu" is the cry; For filled is his ship's hold With arms and Spanish gold, And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high, wave on high ; And he sees the snake-twined spear ware on high.' " Finghin's race shall be freed From the Norman's cruel breed — My sires freed Bear' once before, When the Barn wells were strewn On the fields, like hay in June, And but one of them escaped from our shore, from our shore ; And but one of them escaped from our shore." 4 And, warming in his drearr, He floats on victory's stream, Til! Desmond— till all Erin is free! Then, how calmly ho'll go down, Full of years and of renown, To his grave near that castle by the sea, by th sea ; To his grave luar that castle by the sea ! Lut the wind heard his word, As though he were its lord, And tiic ship is dashed up the Bay. Hl9 spear with a venomous adder (entwined), Ilia host all fiery champions." Finghin was one of their ino-t famous progenitors,— A othok*8 Note. 4 The Barnvvells were Normans, who seized part of Beara in the reign of Henry 1 1. ; but the O'Sullivans came down on tliem, and cutoff all save one— a young man who settled at Driiunagli Castle Co. Dublin, and was ancestorto the Barn we lis, Lords of Trluleetone end Klngsland. — Id, THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Alas ! for that proud bark, The night has fallen dark, Tis too late to Eadarghabhal 1 to bear away, bear away ; Tis too late to Eadarghabhal to bear away. Black and rough was the rock, And terrible the shock, As the good ship crashed asunder ; And bitter was the cry, And the sea ran mountains high, And the wind was as loud as the thunder, the thunder ; And the wind was as loud as the thunder. There's woe in Beara, There's woe in Gleann-garbh, 3 And from Beanntraighe 3 kiarain ;* All Desmoud hears their grief, And wails above their chief — u Is it thus, is it thus, that you return, you re- turn — T» it thus, is it thus, that you return 3" Dun- THE FATE OF THE O'SULLIVANS. 5 " A badt in the mountain gap — Oh ! wherefore bring it hither? Restore it to its mother's lap, Or else 'twill surely wither. A baby near tlie eagle's nest ! How should their talons spare it ? Oh 1 take it to some woman's breast, And she will kindly care it." " Fear not for it," M'Swiney said, And stroked his cul-fionn 6 slowly, 1 Vui, Adragoole. 2 Yul. Glengarrlff. 8 Vol. Bantry. 4 Vol. Dunkerron. 5 After the taking of Dunbwy, ami the ruin of the O'SulIivan's Country, the chit-f mari-hed right through Muskerry anil Ortnond, hotly pursued. He crossed the Shannon in curavhg made of his horse*' skins, lie then defeated the English forces and slew their •ominander. Manny, and finally fought his way into O'Ruarc's aoumry During his absence his lady (Beuntighearna) and in- tun were supported in the mountains by one of his clansmen, And proudly raised his matted head. Yet spoke me soft and lowly — " Fear not for it, for, many a day, I climb the eagle's eyrie, And bear the eaglet's food away To feed our little fairy. " Fear not for it, no Bantry bird Would harm our chieftain's baby" — He stopped, and something in him stirred- 'Twas for his chieftain, may be. And then he brushed his softened eyes, And raised his bonnet duly, And muttered, "The Beantighearna lies Asleep in yonder buaili." ' He pointed 'twixt the cliff and lake, And there a hut of heather, Half hidden in the craggy brake, Gave shelter from the weather; The little tanist shrieked with joy, Adown the gully staring — The clansman swelled to see the boy, O'Sullivan-like, daring. Oh ! what a glorious sight was there, As from the summit gazing, O'er winding creek and islet fair, And mountain waste amazing; The Caha and Dunkerron hills Cast half the gulfs in shadow, While shone the sun on Culiagh's rills, And Whiddv's emerald meadow — The sea a sheet of crimson spread, From Foze to Dursey islands ; While flashed the peaks from Mizenhead To Musk'ry's distant highlands — I saw no kine, I saw no sheep, I saw nor house nor furrow ; But round the tarns the red deer leap, Oak and arbutus thorough. M'Swiney, who, tradition says, used to rob the eagles' nests of their prey for his charge O'Suliivan was excepted from James the First's amnesty on account of his persevering resistance. He went to Spain, and was appointed governor of Corunna and Vis- count Berehaveu. Bis march from Olengarrlff to Leltrim Is, per- haps, the most romantic and gallant achievement of his age.— Author's Note. 6 Vulgo, couiin. T Vulgo, boulle. 512 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Oli ! what a glorious sight was there, That paradise o'ergazing— When, sudden, burst a smoky glare, Above Glengarriif blazing — The clansman sprung upon his feet — Well might the infant wonder — His hands were clenched, his brow was knit, His hard lips just asunder. Like shattered rock from out the ground, He stood there stiff and silent — Our breathing hardly made a sound, As o'er the baby I leant ; His figure then went to and fro, As the tall blaze would flicker- And as exhausted it sunk low, His breath came loud and thicker. Then slowly turned he round his head And slowly turned his figure, His eye was fixed as Spanish lead, His limbs were full of rigor — Then suddenly he grasped the child, And raised it to his shoulder, Then pointing where, across the wild, The fire was seen to smoulder : — 14 Look, baby ! — look, there is the sign, Your father is returning, The ' generous hand' of Finghin's line Has set that beacon burning. ' The generous hand' — Oh ! Lord of Hosts — Oh, Virgin, ever holy ! There's naught to give on Bantry's coasts — Dunbwy is lying lowly. "The halls, where mirth and minstrelsy Than Beara's wind rose louder, Are flung in masses lonelily, And black with English powder — The sheep that o'er our mountains ran, The kine that filled our valleys, Are gone, and not a single claa O'Sullivan now rallies. ' He, long the Prince of hill and bay I The ally of the Spaniard! Has scarce a single ath to day, Nor seamen left to man yard" — M'Swiney ceased, then fiercely 3trode Bearing along the baby, Until we reached the rude abode Of Bantry's lovely lady. XIII. We found her in the savage shed — A mild night in midwinter — The mountain heath her only bed, Her dais the rocky splinter! The sad Beantighearti 1 had seen the fire— 'Twas plain she had been prating— She seized her son, as we came nigher, And welcomed me, thus saying — " Our gossip's friend I gladly greet, Though scant' ly I can cheer hiui ;' Then bids the clansman fly to meet And tell her lord she's near him. M'Swiney kissed his foster son, And shouting out lusfaire — " 0' Suillebhain abu" — is gone Like Marchman's deadly arrow ! An hour went by, when, from the shore The chieftain's horn winding, Awoke the echoes' hearty roar — Their fealty reminding : A moment, and he faintly gasps — " These — these, thank heaven, are left me" And smiles as wife and child he clasps — " They have not quite bereft me." I never saw a mien so grand, A brow and eye so fearless — There was not in his veteran band A single eyelid tearless. His tale is short — O'Ruarc's strength Could not postpone his ruin, And Leitrim's towers he left at length. To spare his friend's undoing. To Spain — to Spain, he now will sail, His destiny is wroken — An exile from dear Inis-fail,— Nor yet his will is broken; THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. For still he hints some enterprise, When fleets shall bring them over Dunbwy's proud keep again shall rise, And mock the English rover. * * * I saw them cross SHeve Miskisk o'er, The crones around them weeping — I saw them pass from Culiagh's shore, Their galleys' strong oars sweeping, I saw their ship unfurl its sail — I saw their scarfs long waven — They saw the hills in distance fail — They never saw Berehaven ! THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 1 Dhk summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles — The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles — Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane loeks like a moulting bird ; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard ; The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children cease their play ; The gossips leave the little inn ; the households kneel to pray — And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily labor o'er — Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there ; sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. 1 Baltimore is a Binall seaport Id the barony of Carbery, in South Monster. It grew np round a Caatle of O'D' iscoll's. and was. after bis ruin, colonized by the English, On the '20th of June. 1631, the arew of two Alzerine "alleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all w ho were not too old. or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the Intricate channel by one Haokett, a Dungarvan nabermau, whom The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem con- scious of the calm ; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide, Must trust their oars — methinks not few — against the ebbing tide — Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore — They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore ! All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gen- tle gliding feet — A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "the roof is in a flame !" From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame — And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleam- ing sabre's fall, And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl — The yell of " Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar — Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Balti- Then flung the youth his naked hand against, the shearing sword ; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored ; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand- babes clutching wild ; Then fled the maiden'moaning faint, and nestled with the child ; But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel — Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore ! they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbor- hood Is most lnteresting.-8ee "The Ancient and Present State o. tho County and City of Cork," by Charles Smith, M. D., toL 1 p. 270. 8ocond edition. Dublin, 1774.— Aothoe'sNotk. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Midsummer morn, in woodland nigb, the birds began to sing — They see not now the milking maids — deserted is the spring ! Midsummer day — this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town — These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skin from Affadown ; They only found the smoking walls, with neigh- bors' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went — Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cleire, and saw five leagues before The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Balti- Oh ' some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed — This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ; And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey — She's sate — she's dead — she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai; And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, She only smiled— O'Driscoll's child— she thought of Baltimore. Tis two long years since sunk the town that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen — Tis Hackett of Dungarvan — he, who steered the Algerine! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, Far be had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there — 1 Commonly called Owen Boe O'Neill Tide Appendix. Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er — Some cursed him with Iscariot^ that day in Baltimore. LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O'NEILL. 1 [Time— 10th November, 1649. Scene— Ormonil's Camp, County Waterford. Speakers— A Veteran of Eoghan O'Neill's clan, and one of the horsemen j&st arrived with an aoconnt of his death.) " Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill ?" "Yes, they slew with poison him, they feared to meet with steel." " May God wither up their hearts ! May their blood cease to flow ! May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh ! " Though it break my heart to hear, say agaiD the bitter words." " From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords ; But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way, And he died at Cloeh Uachtar, 8 upon Saint Leonard's day." m. " Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One ! Wail, wail ye for the Dead ; Quench the hearth, and hold the breath — with ashes strew the head. How tenderly we loved him ! How deeply we deplore ! Holy Saviour ! but to think we shall never set him more ! IV. " Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the Hall : Sure we never wod a battle- -'tw&s Eoghan won them all. Had he lived — had be lived — our dear country had been free ; But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'ti» slave* we'll ever be. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 51S • O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MaoMahon — ye are valiant, wise, and true ; But — what, what are ye all to our darling who is gone ? The Rudder of our ship was he, our Castle's corner-stone ! "Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride ! Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died ! Weep the Victor of Beann-bhorbh 1 — weep him, young man and old ; Weep for him, ye women — your Beautiful lies cold ! " We thought you would not die — we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow — Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky — Oh ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? Why did vou die ? "Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye, Oh ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? why did you die ? Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high ; But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan ! — why did you die ?" A RALLY FOR IRELAND.' [mat, 1689.] 8 Shout it out, till it ring From Beann-mhor to Cape Cleire, For our country and king, And religion so dear. Rally, men ! rally — Irishmen ! rally ! Gather round the dear flag, that, wet with our tears, And torn, and bloody, lay hid for long years, And now, once again, in its pride reappears. See ! from The Castle our green banner waves, Bearing fit motto for uprising slaves — For Now ok nevkr ! NOW AND FOREVER ! Bids you to battle for triumph or graves — Bids you to burst on the Sacsanach knaves — Rally, then, rally ! Irishmen, raHy ! Shout NOW OR NEVER ! NOW AND FOREVEli! Heed not their fury, however it raves, Welcome their horsemen with pikes and with staves, Close on their cannon, their bay'nets, and glaives, Down with their standard wherever it waves ; Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves ! Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves ! ii. Gallant Sheldon is here, And Hamilton, too, And Tircbonaill so dear, And Mac Carrthaigh, so true. And there are Frenchmen; Skilful and stanch men — ■ De Rosen, Pontee, Pusignan, and Boisseleau, And gallant Lauzun is a coming, you know, With Balldearg, the kinsman of great Eoghan Ruadh. From Sionainn to Banna, from Life to Laoi, 4 The country is rising for Libertie. Though your arms are rude, If your courage be good, As the traitor fled will the stranger flee, At another Drommor, from " the Irishry." Aim, peasant and lord ! Grasp musket and sword ! Grasp pike-staff and slcian ! Give your horses the rein ' March, in the name of his Majesty — Ulster and Munster unitedly— 516 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Townsman and peasant, like waves of the i Leinster and Connacht to victory — Shoulder to shoulder fur Liberty, Shoulder to shoulder lor Liberty. Kirk, Schomberg, and Churchill Are coming— what then ? We'll drive them and Dutch Will To England again ; We can laugh at each threat, For our Parliament's met — De Courcy, O'Briain, Mac Domhnail, Le Poer, O'Neill and St. Lawrence, and others go lenr, The choice of the land from Athluain 1 to the shore ! They'll break the last link of the Sacsanach chain — They'll give us the lands of our fathers again ! Then up ye ! and fight For your King and your Right, Or ever toil on, and never complain, Though they trample your root-tree, and rifle your fane. Rally, then, rally ! Irishmen, rally — Fight Now OK. NEVER, Now and forevkk! Laws are in vain without swords to maintain ; So, muster as fast as the fall of the rain : Serried and rough as a field of ripe grain, Stand by your flag upon mountain and plain ; Charge till yourselves or your foemen are slain ! Fight till yourselves or your foemen are slain ! THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.' [August 27, 1690.] Am — Oarradh Eaghain. 1 Oh, hurrah 1 for the men who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 1 Fulgo, Athlone. 2 Vide Appendix. King William's men round Limerick lay, His cannon crashed from day to day, Till the southern wall was swept away At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.* 'Tis afternoon, yet hot the sun, When William fires the signal gun, And, like its flash, his columns run On the city of Luimneach Linn-ghlas. Yet, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger it nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye, Hnrrah ! for the men who laept Limerick's wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. The breach gaped out two perches wide, The fosse is filled, the batteries plied ; Can the Irishmen that onset bide At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. Across the ditch the columns dash, Their bayonets o'er the rubbish flash, When sudden comes a rending crash From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. Then, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. The bullets rain in pelting shower, And rocks and beams from wall and tower ; The Englishmen are glad to cower At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. But, rallied soon, again they pressed, Their bayonets pierced full many a breast, Till they bravely won the breach's crest At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. Yet, hurrah ! for the men who, when nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. Then fiercer grew the Irish yell, And madly on the foe they fell, Till the breach grew like the jaws of hell — Not the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. See "The Circuit of Ireland , * THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 517 The women fought before the men, Each man became a match for ten, So back they pushed the villains then, From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. Then, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. But Bradenburgh the ditch has erost, And gained our flank at little cost — The bastion's gone — the town is lost ; Oh ! poor city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. When, sudden, Sarsfield springs the mine, Like rockets rise the Germans fine, And come down dead 'mid smoke and shine. At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. VI. So, hurrah! for the men who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsflel.l, the bravest of all. Out, with a roar, the Irish sprung, And back the beaten English flung, TSsll William fled, his lords among, From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 'Twas thus was fought that glorious fight, By Irishmen, for Ireland's right — May all such days have such a night As the battle of Luimneach linn-ghlas. F^RT IV. gallaas anfo jiongs illustrative of Jrisjj Jpstorg. "By a Ballad History we do not mean a metrical chronicle, or any continued work, bat a string of ballads chronologically arranged, and illustrating the main events of Irish History, its characters, cnstoms, scenes, and passions. "Exact dates, subtle plots, minute connections and motives, rarely appear in Ballads; and for these enils the worst prose his- tory is superior to the best BalU-d series; but these are not the highest ends of history. To hallow or accurse the scenes of glory and honor, or of shame and sorrow — to give to the imagination the arms, and homes and senates, and buttles of other days — to rouse and soften and strengthen and enlarge us with the passions of great periods — to lead us into love of self-denial, of justice, of beauty, of valor, of generous life and proud death— and to set up in our souls the memory of great men, who shall then be as models and judges of our actions— these are the highest duties of History, and these are best taught by a Ballad History."— Davis's Essays. THE PENAL DAYS. Aut—Tfa Wheelwright. Oh ! weep those days, the penal days, When Ireland hopelessly complained Oh ! weep those days, the penal days, When godless persecution reigned ; When, year by year, For serf and peer, Fresh cruelties were made by law, And, filled with hate, Our senate sate To weld anew each fetter's flaw ; Oh ! weep those days, those penal days — Their memory still on Ireland weighs. They bribed the flock, they bribed the son, To sell the priest and rob the sire ; Their dogs were taught alike to run Upon the scent of wolf and friar. Among the poor, Or on the moor, Were hid the pious and the true- While traitor knave, And recreant slave, Had riches, rank, and retinue : And, exiled in those penal days, Our banners over Europe blaze. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. A. stranger held the land and tower Of many a noble fugitive ; No popish lord had lordly power, The peasant scarce had leave to live : Above his head A ruined shed, No tenure but a tyrant's will — Forbid to plead, Forbid to read, Disarmed, disfranchised, imbecile — What wonder if our step betrays The freedman, born in penal days? They're gone, they're gone, those penal days! All creeds are eq,ual in our isle ; Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace, Our ancient feuds to reconcile. Let all atone For blood and groan, For dark revenge and open wrong, Let all unite For Ireland's right, And drown our griefs in freedom's song; Till time shall veil in twilight haze, The memory of those penal days. THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD.' A CHANT OF THE BRIGADE. Sarsfield has sailed from Limerick Town, He held it long for country and crown ; And ere he yielded, the Saxon swore To spoil our homes and our shrines no more. Sarsfield and all his chivalry Are fighting for France in the low coun-trie— At his fiery charge the Saxons reel, They learned at Limerick to dread the steel. As he lay on the lit I.I unheln breast When he took it a\vaj Vlf at it sadly wnh an eye in Sarsfield is dying on Landen's plain ; His corslet hath met the ball in vain — As his life-blood gushes into his hand, He says, " Oh ! that this was for father-land !" is dead, yet no tears shed we — For he died in the arras of Victory, And his dying words shall edge the brand, When we chase the foe from our native land t THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA. (1702.) From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode, And soft are the beds in his princely abode ; In billet and barrack the garrison sleep, And loose i< the watch which the sentinels keep: 'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze Of that midwinter night on the flat Cremonese; A fig for precaution ! — Prince Eugene sits down In winter cantonments round Mantua town. Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain. Horse, foot, and dragoons are defiling amain. " That flash !" said Prince Eugene, " Count Merci, push on" — Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone. Proud mutters the prince — " That is CassioU'fc sign: Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona '11 bi» mine — For Merci will open the gate of the Po, But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemon; will show !" Through gate, street, and square, wiU his keen cavaliers — A flood through a gully — Count Merci careers; fore, he eald faintly, for a brief 6ketch of the services of the Irish ji.ist or the allusions in these and several of th« i explained. — Ed. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 519 They ride without getting or giving a blow. Nor halt 'till they gaze on the gate of the Po : " Surrender the gate" — but a volley replied, . For a handful of Irish are posted inside. By ray faith, Charles Vandemont will come rather late, If he stay till Count Merci shall open that gate ! But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians pour, And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore; Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain — There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villeroy's rein — "A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse — Release me, MacDonnell !" — they hold on their course. Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall, Prince Eugene's headquarters are in the Town- hall ! v. Here and there, through the city, some readier band, For honor and safety, undauntedly stand. At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke Is Major O'Mahony, fierce as a Turk. His sabre is flashing — the major is drest, But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest! Yet they rush to the ramparts— the clocks have tolled ten — A.nd Count Merci retreats with the half of his men. VI. " In on them," said Friedberg, — and Dillon is broke, Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak ; Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers g°;— But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow. Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball, Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall- Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel, And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel. Oh! hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene ? In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succor you The bridge has been broken, and, mark ! how pell-mell Come riderless horses, and volley and yell ! — He's a veteran soldier — he clenches his hands, He springs on his horse, disengages his bands — He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid, He is chased through the gates by the Irish Brigade. News, news, in Vienna ! — King Leopold's sad. News, news, in St. James's ! — King William is mad. News, news, in Versailles — " Let the Irish Brigade Be loyally honored, and royally paid." News, news, in old Ireland — high rises her pride, And high sounds her wail for her children who died, And deep is her prayer, — " God send I may seo MacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me." THE FLOWER OF FINAE. Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin, A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is steal- ing, While fair round its islets the small ripples play, But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae. Her hair is like night, and her eyes like gray morning, She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May- day, Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae. But who down the hill-side than red deer runs fleeter ? And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her ? Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay, The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae? 520 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of Ah ! why do they change on a sudden to sad- ness ? — : He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay, He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land, And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland ; He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae VI. He fought at Cremona— she hears of his story ; He fought at Cassano — she's proud of his glory, Yet sadly she sings Siubhail a ruin 1 all the day, " Oh, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae." Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken-hearted, Her red and her rod, and her flax she has parted ; She sails with the "Wild Geese" to Flanders away, And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae. Lord Clare on the field of Eamillies is charging — Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging — Behind him the Cravats their sections display — Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae. On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying; Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array; And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae. In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying ; That flag's the sole trophy of Rainillies' fray; This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae. THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. Am— The girl I left behinl me. The dames of France are fond and free, And Flemish lips are willing, And soft the maids of Italy, And Spanish eyes are thrilling; Still, though I bask beneath their smile, Their charms fail to bind me, And my heart flies back to Erin's idle, To the girl I left behind me. For she's as fair as Shannon's side, And purer than its water, But she refused to be my bride Though many a year I sought her ; Yet, since to France I sailed away, Her letters oft remind me That I promised never to gainsay The girl I left behind me. She says — " My own dear love, come home, My friends are rich and many, Or else abroad with you I'll roam A soldier stout as any ; If you'll not come, nor let me go, I'll think you have resigned me." My heart nigh broke when I answered — No ! To the girl I left behind me. For never shall my true love brave A life of war and toiling ; And never as a skulking slave I'll tread my native soil on ; But, were it free, or to be freed, The battle's close would find me To Ireland bound — nor message need From the girl I left behind me. CLARE'S DRAGOONS.' Ant— Viva la. When, on Ramillies' bloody field, The baffled French were forced to yield 2 Vide Appendix. 1 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. The victor Saxon backward reeled Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons. The Flags, we conquered in that fray, Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say ; We'll win them company to day, Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons. CHORUS. Viva la, for Ireland's wrong ! Viva la, for Ireland's right ! Viva la, in battle throng, For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright ! The brave old lord died near the fight, But, for each drop he lost that night, A Saxon cavalier shall bite The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons. For never, when our spurs were set, And never, when our sabres met, Could we the Saxon soldiers get To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons. CHORUS. Viva la, the New Brigade ! Viva la, the Old One, too ! Viva la, the rose shall fade, And the Shamrock shine forever new 1 Another Clare is here to lead, The worthy son of such a breed ; The Frencli expect some famous deed, When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons. Our Coionel comes from Brian's race, His wounds are in his breast and face, The bearna baoghail ' is still his place, The foremost of his bold Dragoons. CHORUS. Viva la, the New Brigade ! Viva la, the Old One, too ! Viva la, the rose shall fade, And the Shamrock shine forever new I There's not a man in squadron here Was ever known to flinch or fear; Though first in charge and last in rere, Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons ; 2 Gap of danger. But, see ! we'll soon have work to do, To shame our boasts, or prove them true, For hither comes the English crew, To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons. Viva la, for Ireland's wrong ! Viva la, for Ireland's right ! Viva la, in battle throng, For a Spauish steed and sabre bright ! Oh ! comrades ! think how Ireland pines Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines, Her dearest hope, the ordered lines, And bursting charge of Clare's Dragooni. Then bring your Green Flag to the sky, Be Limerick your battle-cry, And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high, Around the track of Clare's Dragoons ! CHORUS. Viva la, the New Brigade ! Viva la, the Old One, too ! Viva la, the rose shall fade, And the Shamrock shine forever new 1 WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW. Air— The gentle Maiden. Why sits the gentle maiden there, While surfing billows splash around ? Why doth she southwards wildly stare And sing with such a tearful sound — " The Wild Geese fly where other walk ; The Wild Geese do what others talk — The way is long from France, you know — He'll come at last when south winds blow.' Oh ! softly was the maiden nurst In Castle Connell's lordly towers, Where Skellig's billows boil and burst, And, far above, Dunkerron towers : And she was noble as the hill — Yet battle-flags are nobler still : And she was graceful as the wave — Yet who would live a tranquil slave i THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. in. And, 60, her lover went to France, To serve the foe of Ireland's foe; Yet deep he Bwore — " Whatever chance, I'll come some day when south winds blow.' And prouder hopes he told beside, How she should be a prince's bride, How Louis would the Wild Geese 1 set.d, And Ireland's weary woes should end. "But, surely, that light cannot come from out lamp? ' And that noise — are they all getting drut.k in «toe camp ?" " Ilurrah ! boys, the morning of battle is come, And the f/enerale's beating on many a drum." So they rush from the revel to join the parade; For the van is the right of The Irish Brigade. But tyrants quenched her father's hearth, And wrong and absence warped her mind; The gentle maid, of gentle birth, Is moaning madly to the wind — " He said he'd come, whate'er betide : He said I'd be a happy bride : Oh ! long the way and hard the foe — He'll come when south — when south wi blow !" ; They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and true, I And, though victors, they left on the field not a few ; And they, who survived, fought and drank as of yore, | But the land of their heart's hope they never saw more ; For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Bel- J grade, Lie the soldiers and chiefs of The Irish Brigade. THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE Am— Contented I am. The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set, And the gallant Count Thomond is president y et ; The vet'ran arose, like an uplifted lance, Crying — " Comrades, a health to the monarch of France !" With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade, For King Louis is loved by The Irish Brigade. "A health to King James," and they bent as they quaffed ; " Here's to George the Elector" and fiercely they laughed; "Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago, Where Shannon, and Barrow, and Blackwater flow ;" " God prosper Old Ireland," — you'd think them afraid, So pale grew the chiefs of The Irish Brigade. 1 The recruiting for the Brigade was enrried on in the French fttid southwestern coasts. Their return cursors -aviv recruits for the Brigade, ami were entered In tholr bookb a» Wild ileese. Henoa FONTENOY. 1 (1745.) Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed, And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed ; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminish- ed and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try ; On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his genemli ride ! And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. this became the common name in Ireland for the Irish (ervlng in the Brigade. The recruiting was chiefly from Olgrt, Limerick Cork. Kerry, and Gulway.— Autiiok'S Noxn 2 Vide Appendix. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 523 Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head ; Steady they step a-down the slope — steady they climb the hill ; Steady they load — steady they fire, moving right onward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast ; And on the open plain above they rose, aud kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force : Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks — They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round ; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground ; Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired — Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltiguer retired. " Push on, my household cavalry !" King Louis madly cried : To death they rush, but rude their shock— not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trod — King Louis turns his rein : "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the irish troops remain ;" And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. " Lord Clare," he says, " you haVe your wish, there are your Saxon foes !" The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes ! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay 1 The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day — The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry, Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry, Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown, — Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else- where, Bushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, " Fix bay'nets," — " Charge," — Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands ! Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind — Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like' rocks, the men behind ! One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza ! " Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the Sacsanach !" Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang : Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore ; Through shattered ranks, and severed flies, and trampled flags they tore : The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled — The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon theif track. 624 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought and won ! THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION. (1782.) The church of Dungannon is full to the door, And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor, While helmet and shako are ranged all along, Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng. In the front of the altar no minister stands, But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands ; And though solemn the looks and the voices around, Tou'd listen in vain for a litany's sound. Say ! what do they hear in the temple of prayer ? Oh ! why in the fold has the lion his lair? Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle, By English oppression, and falsehood, and guile? Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered, To guard it for England the North volunteered. From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast — Still they stood to their guns when the danger had past, For the voice of America came o'er the wave, Crying — Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the slave ! Indignation and shame through their regiments speed, XUey have arms in their hands, and what more do they need ? O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are spread, The cities of Leinster resound to their tread, The valleys of Munster with ardor are stirred, And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles have heard ; A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere — For — forbidden the arms of freemen to bear — Yet foemen and friend are full sure, if need be, The slave for his country will stand by the free. By green flags supported, the Orange flags wave, And the soldier half turns to unfetter the slave ! More honored that church of Dungannon is now, Than when at its altar communicants bow ; More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayer, Are the rites and the thoughts of the warriors there ; In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore : " We've suffered too long, and we'll suffer no more — TJnconquered by Force, we were vanquished by Fraud ; And now, in God's temple, we vow unto God, That never again shall the Englishman bind His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our mind." The church of Dungannon is empty once more — No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor, But the counsels of England are fluttered to see, In the cause of their country, the Irish agree ; So they give as a boon what they dare net withhold, And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old, With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her own, And an army to fight for the people and throne. But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fears She surrender the guns of her brave Volunteers ! OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782. Am— Boyne Water. Hurrah ! 'tis done — our freedom's won- Hurrah for the Volunteers ! No laws we own, but those alone Of our Commons, King, and Peers. The chain is broke — the Saxon yoke From off our neck is taken ; Ireland awoke — Dungannon spoke— With fear was England shaken. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. II. When Grattan rose, none dared oppose 11. Within that host were seen The claim he made for freedom : The Orange, Blue, and Green — They knew our swords, to back his words, The Bishop for its coat left his lawn — Were ready, did he need them. The peasant and the lord Then let us raise, to Grattan's praise, Ranked in with one accord, A proud and joyous anthem ; Like brothers at a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, And wealth, and grace, and length of days, Like brothers at a cr&isgin lan ! May God, in mercy, grant him ! in. in. With liberty there came Bless Harry Flood, who nobly stood Wit, eloquence, and fame ; By us, through gloomy years ! Our feuds went like mists from the dawn ; Bless Charlemont, the brave and good, Old bigotry disdained — The Chief of the Volunteers ! Old privilege retained — The North began ; the North held on Oh! sages, fill a criiisgin lan, lan, lan, The strife for native land ; And, boys, fill up a cruisgin lan ! Till Ireland rose, and cowed her foes — God bless the Northern land ! IV. The trader's coffers filled, IV. The barren lands were tilled, And bless the men of patriot pen — Our ships on the waters thick as spawn — Swift, Molyneux, and Lucas ; Prosperity broke forth, Biess sword and gun, which "Free Trade" won — Like summer in the north — Bless God ! who ne'er forsook us ! Ye merchants ! fill a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, And long may last, the friendship fast, Ye farmers ! fill a cruisgin lan ! Which binds us all together ; While we agree, our foes shall flee v. Like clouds in stormy weather. The memory of that day Shall never pass away, V- Though its fame shall be yet outshone ; We'll grave it on our shrines, Remember still, through good and ill, How vain were prayers and tears — We'll shout it in our lines — How vain were words, till flashed the swords Old Ireland ! fill a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, Of the Irish Volunteers. Young Ireland ! fill a cruisgin lan ! By arms we've got the rights we sought Through long and wretched years — VI. Hurrah ! 'tis done, our freedom's won — And drink — The Volunteers, Hurrah for the Volunteers ! Their generals, and seers, Their gallantry, their genius, and their brawn ; With water, or with wine — The draught is but a sign — THE MEN OF 'EIGHTY-TWO. The purpose fills the cruisgin lan, lan, lan, Aib— An Orwitgm Lan. This purpose fills the cruisgin lan ! :. VII. To rend a cruel chain, That ere Old Ireland goes, To end a foreign reign And while Young Ireland glows, The swords of the Volunteers were drawn. The swords of our sires be girt on, And instant from their sway, And loyally renew Oppression fled away ; The work of 'Eighty-two — 80 we'll drink them in a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, Oh ! gentlemen — a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, We'll drink them in a cruisgin lan! Our freedom ! in a cruisgin lan I THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. NATIVE SWORDS. (a volunteer song. — 1st July, 1792.) Am — Boyne Water. We've bent too long to braggart wrong, While force our prayers derided ; We've fought too long, ourselves among, By knaves and priests divided ; United now, no more we'll bow, Foul faction, we discard it; And now, thank God ! our native sod Has Native Swords to guard it. ii. Like rivers which, o'er valleys rich, Bring ruin in their water, On native land, a native hand Flung foreign fraud and slaughter. From Dermod's crime to Tudor's time Our clans were our perdition ; Religion's name, since then, became Our pretext for division. in. But, worse than all, with Lim'rick's fall Our valor seemed to perish ; Or o'er the main, in France and Spain, For bootless vengeance flourish. The peasant, here, grew pale for fear He'd suffer for our glory, While France sang joy for Fontenoy, And Europe hymned our story. IV. But now, no clan, nor factious plan, The East and West can sunder — Why Ulster e'er should Munster fear, Can only wake our wonder. Religion's crost, when union's lost, And "royal gifts" retard it; But now, thank God ! our nat : ,ve sod Has Native Swords to guard it. TONE'S GRAVE. In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave, And wildly along it the winter winds rave; Small shelter, 1 ween, are the ruined walls there, When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare, Once I lay on that sod — it lies over Wolfe Tone — And I thought how he perished in prison alone, His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed- " Oh, bitter," I said, " is the patriot's meec For in him the heart of a woman combined With a heroic life, and a governing mind — A martyr for Ireland — his grave has no stone — His name seldom named, and his virtues un- I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread Of a band, who came into the home of the dead ; They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone, And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone. There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave, And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave. And children who thought me hard-hearted; for they, On that sanctified sod were forbidden to pla^. But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said : " We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid ; And we're going to raise him a monument, too— A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true." My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand, And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band ; " Sweet ! sweet ! 'tis to find that such faith can remain To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain." In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a greeh grave, And freely around it let winter winds rave — Far better they suit liim — the ruin and gloom, — Till Ireland, a Nation, can build him a Tomb. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. "Hationautt is no longer »n nnmeaning or despised name among as. It is welcomed by the higher ranks, it is the inspiration or the bold, and Hie hope of the ocnte. It is the summary name for many tilings. It seeks a Literati.™ made by Irishmen, and colored b7 our scenery, manners, and a.iraeter. It desires to see Art applied to express Irish thoughts ai.i belief It would make our Mus c sound in every parish at twilight, our Pictures sprinkle the walls of every house, and our Poetry and History sit at every hearth. '• It would thus create a race of men full of a more intensely Irish character and knowledge, and to that race it would give Ire- land. It would give them the seas of Ireland to sweep with their nets and launch on with their navy; the harbors of Ireland, to receive a greater commerce than any island in the world ; the soil of Ireland to live on, by more millions than starve here now; the fame of Ireland to enhance by their genius and valor; the Independence of Ireland to guard by laws and arms."— Davis's Essays. NATIONALITY. A nation's voice, a nation's voice — It is a solemn thing ! It bids the bondage-sick rejoice — 'Tis stronger than a king. 'Tis like the light of many stars, The sound of many waves ; Which brightly look through prison-bars; And sweetly sound in caves. Yet is it noblest, godliest known, When righteous triumph swells its tone. A nation's flag, a nation's flag — If wickedly unrolled, May foes in adverse battle drag Its every fold from fold. But, in the cause of Liberty, Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell; Guard it till Death or Victory — Look you, you guard it well ! No saint or king has tomb so proud, As he whose flag becomes his shroud. A nation's right, a nation's right- God gave it ; and gave, too, A nation's sword, a nation's might, Danger to guard it through. 'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke, 'Tis just and equal laws, Which deal unto the humblest folk, As in a noble's cause. On nations fixed in right and truth, God would bestow eternal youth. May Ireland's voice be ever heard Amid the world's applause ! And never be her flag-staff stirred, But in an honest cause ! May Freedom be her very breath, Be Justice ever dear; And never an ennobled death May son of Ireland fear ! So the Lord God will ever smile, With guardian grace, upon our isle. SELF-RELIANCE. Though savage force and subtle schemes, And alien rule, through ages lasting, Have swept your land like lava streams, Its wealth, and name, and nature blasting, Rot not, therefore, in dull despair, Nor moan at destiny in far lands : Face not your foe with bosom bare, Nor hide your chains in pleasure's garlands ! The wise man arms to combat wrong, The brave man clears a den of lions, The true man spurns the Helot's song ; The freeman's friend is Self-Reliance I THE P>EMS OF THOMAS DAVIS Though France, that gave your exiles bread, Yom priests a home, your hopes a station, Or that young land, where first was spread The starry flag of Liberation, — Should heeil your wrongs some future day, And send you voice or sword to plead 'em, With helpful love their help repay, Bat trust not even to them for Freedom. A Nation freed by foreign aid Is but a corpse by wanton science Convul-ed like life, then flung to fade — Tte life itself is Self-Reliance ! Oh ! see your quailing tyrant run To courteous lies, and Roman agents; His terror, lest Dungannon's sun Should rise again with riper radiance. Oh ! hark the Freeman's welcome cheer, And hark your brother sufferers sobbing ; Oh ! mark the universe grow clear, And mark your spirit's royal throbbing,— 'Tis Freedom's God that sends such signs, As pledges of bis blest alliance ; He gives bright hopes to brave designs, And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance ! Then, flung alone, or hand-in-hand, In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn; In lowly toil, or high command, In social hall, or charging column ; In tempting wealth, and trying woe, In struggling with a mob's dictation; In bearing back a foreign foe, In training up a troubled nation : Still hold to Truth, abound in Love, Refusing every base compliance — Your Praise within, your Prize above, And live and die in Self-Relianoe ! SWEET AND SAD. A PRISON SERMON. Tis sweet to climb the mountain's crest, And run, like deer-hound, down its breast ; Tis sweet to snuff the taintless air, And sweep the sea with haughty stare : And, s;id it is, when iron bars Keep watch between yon and the stars ; And sad to rind your footstep stayed By prison-wall and palisade : But 'twere better be A prisoner forever, With no destiny To do, or to endeavor; Better life to spend A martyr or confessor, Than in silence bend To alien and oppressor. 'Tis sweet to rule an ample realm, Through weal and woe to hold the helm ; And sweet to strew, with plenteous hand, Strength, health, and beauty round your land And sad it is to be unprized, While dotards rule unrecognized; And sad your little ones to see Writhe in the gripe of poverty : But 'twere better pine In rags and gnawing hunger, While around you whine Your elder and your younger ; Better lie in pain, And rise in pain to-morrow, Than o'er millions reign, While those millions sorrow. 'Tis sweet to own a quiet hearth, Begirt by constancy and mirth ; 'Twere sweet to feel your dying clasp Returned by friendship's steady grasp : And sad it is, to spend your life, Like sea-bird in the ceaseless strife — Your lullaby the ocean's roar, Your resting-place a foreign shore : But 'twere better live, Like ship caught by Lofoden Than your spirit give To be by chains corroden : Best of all to yield Your latest breath, when lying On a victor field, With the green flag flying ! Hnman joy and human sorrow, Light or shade from conscience borrow; THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. The tyrant's crown is lined with flame, Life never paid the coward's shame : The miser's lock is never sure, The traitor's home is never pure ; While seraphs guard, and cherubs tend The good man's life and brave man's end : But their fondest care j, Is the patriot's prison, Hymning through its air — " Freedom hath arisen, Oft from statesmen's strife, Oft from battle's flashes, Oft from hero's life, Often est from his ashes !" THE BURIAL.' Wet rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines? Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines ? With tear and sigh they're passing by, — the matron and the maid ; Has a hero died — is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid ? With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on — Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites are done ! THE CHANT. " Ululu ! ululu ! high on the wind, There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind. Woe, woe to his slayers" — comes wildly along, With the trampling of feet and the funeral song. And now more clear It swells on the ear ; Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear. '• Ululu ! ululu! wail for the dead. Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head ; And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere ap- pearing, And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin. Written cm the funeral of the Eev. P. J. Tyrrell, P. P. of ik ; one of those indicted with O'Connell in the government aecnti ms of 1843.— Ed. Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dew On the feet and the - head of the martyred For awhile they tread In silence dread — Then muttering and moaning go the crowd, Surging and swaying like mountain cloud, And again the wail comes fearfully loud. THE CHANT. " Ululu ! ululu ! kind was his heart ! Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part. The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord, His pilgrimage over, he has his reward. By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling, To God with the raised cross appealing — He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray, And the sins of the dying seem passing away. cell, and the cabin so " In the prisoner's dreary, Our constant consoler, he never grew weary; But he's gone to his rest, And he's now with the blest, Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest — Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead ! Ululu ! ululu ! here is his bed." Short was the ritual, simple the prayer, Deep was the silence and every head bare ; The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around, Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground. Kneeling and motionless — " Dust unto dust." "He died as becoineth the faithful and just — Placing in God his reliance and trust;" Kneeling and motionless — "Ashes to ashes" — Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes ; Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray, But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they — Stern and standing — oh ! look on them now, Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow; Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow : the vow. " We have bent and borne, though we saw him torn from his home by the tyrant's crew — And we bent and bore, when he came once more, though suffering had pierced him through : -,:;o THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. " And now he is laid beyond oar aid, because to Ireland true — A martyred man — the tyrant's ban, the pious patriot slow. " And shall we bear and bend forever, And shall no time our bondage sever, And shall we kneel, but battle never, For our own soil ? 14 And shall our tyrants safely reign On thrones built up of slaves and slain, And naught to us and ours remain, But chains and toil ? " No ! round this grave our oath we plight, To watch, and labor, and unite, l^ill banded be the nation's might — It's spirit steeled. " And then collecting all our force, We'll cross oppression in its course, And die — or all our rights enforce, On battle-field." Like an ebbing sea that will come again, Slowly retired that host of men ; Mcthinks they'll keep some other day The oath they swore on the martyr's clay. WE MUST NOT FAIL. We must not fail, we must not fail, However fraud or force assail ; By honor, pride, and policy, By Heaven itself! — we must be free. Time had already thinned our chain, Time would have dulled our sense of pain; By service long, and suppliance vile, We might have won our owner's smile. We spurned the thought, our prison burst, And dared the despot to the worst ; Renewed the strife of centuries, And flung our banner to the breeze. We called the ends of earth to view The gallant deeds we swore to do ; They knew us wronged, they knew us brave, And, all we asked, they freely gave. We took the starving peasant's mite To aid in winning back his right, We took the priceless trust of youth ; Their freedom must redeem our truth. We promised loud, and boasted high, " To break our country's chains, or die;" And, should we quail, that country's name Will be the synonym of shame. Earth is not deep enough to hide The coward slave who shrinks aside ; Hell is not hot enough to scathe The ruffian wretch who breaks his faith. But — calm, my soul ! — we promised true, Her destined work our land shall do ; Thought, courage, patience will prevail 1 We shall not fail — we shall not fail ! O'CONNELL'S STATUE. (links to hooan.) Chisel the likeness of The Chief, Not in gayety, nor grief ; Change not by your art to stone, Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan. Dark her tale, and none can tell Its fearful chronicle so well. Her frame is bent — her wounds are deep-- Who, like him, her woes can weep? He can be gentle as a bride, While none can rule with kinglier pride. Calm to hear, and wise to prove, Yet gay as lark in soaring love. Well it were posterity Should have some image of his glee; That easy humor, blossoming Like the thousand flowers of spring ! / Vy////'< 7//f^//7/ THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 531 Glorious the marble which could show His bursting sympathy for woe, Could catch the pathos, flowing wild, Like mother's milk to craving child. And oh ! how princely were the art Could moul 1 his mien, or tell his heart, When sitting sole on Tara's hill, While hung a million on bis will! Yet, not in gayety, nor grief, Chisel the image of our Chief; Nor even in that haughty hour When a nation owned his power. But would you by your art unroll His own, and Ireland's secret soul, And give, to other times to scan The greatest greatness of the man ? Fierce defiance let him be Hurling at our enemy.— From a base as fair and sure As our love is true and pure, Let his statue rise as tall And firm as a castle wall ; On his broad brow let there be A type of Ireland's history; Pious, generous, deep, and warm, Strong and changeful as a storm ; Let whole centuries of wrong Upon his recollection throng — Strougbovv's force, and Henry's wile, Tutor's wrath, and Stuart's guile, And iron Strafford's tiger jaws, And brutal Brunswick's penal laws ; Not forgetting Saxon faith, Not forgetting Norman scaith, Not forgetting William's word, Not forgetting Cromwell's sword. Let the Union's fetter vile — The shame and ruin of our isle — Let the blood of 'Ninety-eight And our present blighting fate — Let the poor mechanic's lot, And the peasant's ruined cot, Plundered wealth and glory flown, Ancient honors overthrown — Let trampled altar, rifled urn, Knit his look to purpose stern. Mould all this into one thought, Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught ; Still let our glories through it gleam, Like fair flowers through a flooded stream, Or like a flashing wave at night, Bright, — 'mid the solemn darkness bright. Let the memory of old days Shine through the statesman's anxious face — Dathi's power, and Brian's fame, And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame, And the spirit of Red Hugh, And the pride of 'Eighty-two. And the victories he won, And the hope that leads him on 1 Let whole armies seem to fly From his threatening hand and eye; Be the strength of all the land Like a falchion in his hand, And be his gesture sternly grand. A braggart tyrant swore to smite A people struggling for their right — O'Connell dared him to the field, Content to die, but never yield. Fancy such a soul as his, In a moment such as this, Like cataract, or foaming tide, Or army charging in its pride. Thus he spoke, and thus he stood, Proffering in our cause his blood. Thus his country loves him best — To image this is your behest. Chisel thus, and thus alone, If to man you'd change the stone. THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED.' Am.— Irish Molly Ot Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green, They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike, and scian, And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead, They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red. But in the end, throughout the land, the sham ful sight was seen — The English Red in triumph high above the Irish green ; 1 This and the throe following pieces are properly street ballads The reader must not expect depth or finish In verses of this de- scription, written for a temporary purpose. — Ed. 632 THE POEMS OF IHOUAS DAVIS. But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled, VIII. Still saw the Green maintain its place above the We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and English Red. blesses those who lean On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly HI. And they who saw, in after times, the Red above king or queen ; And, freely as we lift our "hands, we vow our the Green, blood to shed Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a Once and forever more to raise the Green above forest screen ; the Red ! Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed, That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er the Red. THE VOW OF TIPPERARY. Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe A IB — Tipperary. Tone sunk serene — Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green ; And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sars- field nobly bled — Because their eyes were hot to see the Green From Carrick streets to Shannon shore, From Slievenamon to Ballindeary, From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mor, Come hear The Vow of Tipperary. above the Red. ii. v. Too long we fought for Britain's cause, So, when the strife began again, our darling And of our blood were never chary ; Irish Green She paid us back with tyrant laws, Was down upon the earth, while high the Eng- And thinned The Homes of Tipperary. lish Red was seen ; Yet still we hold our fearless course, for some- m. thing in us said, Too long, with rash and single arm, " Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green The peasant strove to guard his eyrie. above the Red." Till Irish blood bedewed each farm, VI. And Ireland wept for Tipperary. And 'tis for this we think and toil, and know- IV. ledge strive to glean, But never more we'll lift a hand — That we may pull the English Red below the We swear by God and Virgin Mary ! Irish Green, Except in war for Native Land, And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling And that's The Vow of Tipperary I plenty spread Above the land once dark with blood — the Green above the Red ! VII. A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS. The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish Green, !- And forced us to conceal it like a something " Base Bog-trotters," says the " Times," foul and mean ; " Brown with mud, and black wkh crimet, But yet, by Heavens ! he'll sooner raise his vic- Turf and lumpers dig betimes tims from the dead (We grant you need 'em), Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and But never lift your heads sublime, cotton to the Red ' Nor talk of Freedom." THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 53a Yet, Bog-trotters, sirs, be sure, Are strong to do, and to endure, Men- whose blows are hard to cure — Brigands ! what's in ye, That the fierce man of the moor Can't stand again ye ? The common drains in Mushra moss Are wider than a castle fosse, Connaught swamps are hard to cross, And histories boast That Allen's Bog has caused the loss Of many a host. Oh ! were you in an Irish bog, Full of pikes, and scarce of prog, You'd wish your " Times"-ship was incog. Or far away, Though Saxons, thick as London fog, Around you lay. A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG- TROTTERS. The " Mail" says, that Hanover's King Twenty Thousand men will bring. And make the " base bog-trotters" sing A pillileu; And that O'Connell high shall swing, And others too. There is a tale of Athens told, Worth at least its weight in gold To fellows of King Ernest's mould (The royal rover), Who think men may be bought and sold, Or riden over. Darius (an imperial wretch, A Persian Ernest, or Jack Ketch) Bid his knaves from Athens fetch " Earth and water," Or else the heralds' necks he'd stretch, And Athens slaughter. The Athenians threw them in a well, And left them there to help themsel', And when his armies came, pell-mell, They tore his banners, And sent his slaves in shoals to hell, To mend their manners. Let those who bring and those who send Hanoverians, comprehend Persian-like may be their end, And the " bog-trotter" May drown their knaves, their banners rend Their armies slaughter. A SCENE IN THE SOUTH. I was walking along in a pleasant place, In the county Tipperary ; The scene smiled as happy as the holy face Of the Blessed Virgin Mary ; And the trees were proud, and the sward wa» green, And the birds sang loud in the leafy scene. Yet somehow I felt strange, and soon I felt sad, And then I felt very lonely ; ' I pondered in vain why I was not glad, In a place meant for pleasure only : For I thought that grief had never been there, And that sin would as lief to heaven repair. And a train of spirits seemed passing me by The air grew as heavy as lead; I looked for a cabin, yet none could I spy In the pastures about me spread ; Yet each field seemed made for a peasant's cot, And I felt dismayed when I saw them not. As I stayed on the field, I saw — Oh, my God The marks where a cabin had been : Through the midst of the fields, some feet to the sod Were coarser and far less green, 534 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. And three or four trees in the centre stood, But they seemed to freeze in their solitude. Surely there was the road that led to the cot, For it ends just beneath the trees, And the trees like mourners are watching the spot, And cronauning with the breeze ; And their stems are bare with children's play, But the children — where, oh ! where are they ? An old man unnoticed had come to my side, His hand in my arm linking — A reverend man, without histe or pride — And he said: "I know what you're thinking; A cabin stood once underneath the trees, Full of kindly ones — but alas ! for these ! u A loving old couple, and tho' somewhat poor, Their children had leisure to play; And the piper, and stranger, and beggar were sure To bless them in going away ; But the typhus came, and the agent too — Ah I need I name the worst of the two ? " Their cot was unroofed, yet they strove to hide In its walls till the fever was passed; Their crime was found out, and the cold ditch side Was their hospital at last : Slowly they went to poorhousc and grave, But the Lord tkey bent to, their souls will save. " And thro' many a field you passed, and will pass, In this lordling's ' cleared' demesne, 2 Just before the i e actual landscape which I s urrecttnn which expelled tlu Lake consulting I'nr lil.crry : mid while they were * genius of Switzerland appeired in iln-ni, and she weeping. •' Why weep you, mother 1" said Tell; Where households as happy were one — Hut, alas! They too are scattered or slain." Then he pressed my hand, and he went away ; I could not stand, so I knelt to pray. "God of justice !" I sighed, " send your spirit down On these lords so cruel and proud, And soften their hearts and relax their frown, Or else," I cried aloud — " Vouchsafe thy strength to the peasant's hand To drive them at length from off the land !"' WILLIAM TELL AND THE GENIUS OF SWITZERLAND' Tell. — You have no fears, My native land ! Then dry your tears, And draw your brand. A million made a vow To free yon. — Wherefore, now, Tears again, my native land ? Genius. — I weep not from doubt, I weep not for dread ; There's strength in your shout, And trust in your tread. I weep, for I look for the coining dead, Who for Liberty's cause shall die; And I hear a wail from the widow's bed Come mixed with our triumph — cry. Though dire my woes, yet how can I Be calm when I know such suffering's nigh I Tell. — Death conies to all, My native land ! Weep not their fall— A glorious band ! i her brow, and she gave him a spear and bade him conquer.- THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS Famine and slavery Slaughter more cruelly Than Battle's blood-covered hand ! Gekius. — Yes, and all glory Shall honor their grave, With shrine, song, and story, Denied to the save. Thus pride shall so mingle with sorrow, Their wives half their weeping will stay; Arid their sons long to tempt on the morrow The death they encounter to-day. Then away, sons, to battle away ! Draw the sword, lift the flag, and away ! THE EXILE. (PARAPHRASED FROM THE FRENCH.] I've passed through the nations unheeded, un- known ; Though all looked upon me, none called me their own. I shared not their laughter — they oared not my moan — For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. At eve, when the smoke from some cottage uprose, How happy I've thought, at the weary day's close, With his dearest around, must the peasant repose ; But, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. in. Where hasten those clouds ? to the land or the sea — Driven on by the tempest, poor exiles, like me? What matter to either where either shall flee? For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. Those trees they are beauteous — those flowers they are fair; But no trees and no flowers of my country are there They speak not unto me — they heed not my care ; For ah! the poor exile is always alone. That brook murmurs softly its way through the plain ; But the brooks of my childhood had not the same strain. It reminds me of nothing— it murmurs in vain ; For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. Sweet are those songs, but their sweetness or sorrow No charm from the songs of my infancv borrow. I hear them to-d;iy and forget them to-morrow ; For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. They've asked me, " Why weep yon ?" I've told them my woe — They listed my words, as the rocks feel the snow. No sympathy bound us; how could their tears flow ? For, sure the poor exile is always alone. When soft on their chosen the young maidens smile, Like the dawn of the morn on Erin's dear isle, With no love-smile to cheer me, I look on the while; For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. Like boughs round the tree are those babes round their mother, And these friends like its roots, clasp and grow to each oiher; But, none call me child, and none call me brother ; For, ah ! the poor exile is ever alone. Wives never clasp, and friends never smile, Mothers ne'er fondle, nor maidens beguile ; And happiness dwells not, except in our isle And so the poor exile is always alone. Poor exile, cease grieving, for all are like you — Weeping the banished, the lovely, and true. Our country is heaven —'twill wek-ome you, too; And cherish the exile, no longer alone ! 536 THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. MY HOME. I have dreamt of a home — a happy home — The ficklest from it would not care to roam : 'Twas a cottage home on native ground, Where all things glorious clustered round — For highland glen and lowland plain Met within that small demesne. In sight is a tarn, with cliffs of fear, "Where the eagle defies the mountaineer, And the cataract leaps in mad career, And through oak and holly roam the deer. On its brink is a ruined castle, stern, — The mountains are crowned with rath and cam, Robed with heather, and bossed with stone, And belted with a pine-wood lone. Thro' that mighty gap in the mountain chain, Oft, like rivers after rain, Poured our clans on the conquered plain. And, there upon their harassed rear, Oft pressed the Norman's bloody spear ; Men call it " the pass of the leaping deer." Wild is the region, yet gentle the spot — As you look on the roses, the rocks are forgot ; For garden gay, and primrose lawn Peep through the rocks, as thro' night comes dawn. And see, by that burn the children play ; In that valley the village maidens stray, Listing the thrush and the robin's lay, Listing the burn sigh back to the breeze, And hoping — guess whom ? 'mong the thorn-trees. Not yet, dear girls — on the uplands green £ hepherds and flocks may still be seen. Freemen's toils, with fruit and grain, The valley fill, and clothe the plain. There's the health which labor yields — Labor tilling its own fields. Freed at length from stranger lord — From his frown, or his reward — Each the owner of his land, Plenty springs beneath his hand. Meet these men on land or sea — Meet them in council, war, or glee ; Voice, glance, and mien, bespeak them free. Welcome greets you at their hearth ; Reverent they to age and worth ; Yet prone to jest, and full of mirth. Fond of song, and dance, and crowd ' — Of harp, and pipe, and laughter loud ; Their lay of love is low and bland, Their wail for death is wild and grand; Awful and lovely their song of flame, When they clash the chords in their country a They seek no courts, and own no sway, Save the counsels of their elders gray ; For holy love, and homely faith, Rule their hearts in life and death. Yet their rifles would flash, and their sabres smite, And their pike-staffs redden in the fight, And young and old be swept away, Ere the stranger in their land should sway. But the setting sun, ere he sink in the sea, Flushes and flashes o'er crag and tree, Kisses the clouds with crimson sheen, And sheets with gold the ocean's green. Where the stately frigate lies in the bay, The friendly fleet of the Frenchman lay. Yonder creek, and yonder shore Echoed then the battle's roar ; Where, on slope after slope, the west sun shines, After the fight lay our conquering lines. The triumph, though great, had cost us dear ; And the wounded and dead were lying near — When the setting sun on our bivouac proud, Sudden burst through a riven cloud, An answering shout broke from our men — Wounds and toils were forgotten then, And dying men were heard to pray The light would last till they passed away — ■ They wished to die on our triumph day. We honored the omen, and thought on times gone, And from chief to chief the word was passed on. The " harp on the green" our land-flag should be, And the sun through clouds bursting, our flag at sea, The green-borne harp o'er yon battery gleams, From the frigate's topgallant the "sunburst" sage In that far-off isle a s Built a lowly hermitage, Where ages gone made pilgrimage. 1 Correctly emit, I i for the violin.— Adthoe'b Note. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. Over his grave, with what weird delight, The gray trees swim in the flooding light ; How a halo clasps their solemn head, Like heaven's breath on the rising dead Longing and languid as prisoned bird, With a powerless dream my heart is stirred, And I pant to pierce beyond the tomb, And see the light, or share the gloom. But vainly for such power we pray, God wills — enough — let man obey. Two thousand years, 'mid sun and storm, That tall tower has lifted its mystic form. The yew-tree shadowing the aisle, Twixt airy arch and mouldering pile, And nigh the hamlet that chapel fair Show religion has dwelt, and is dwelling there. While the Druid's crom-leac up the vale Tolls how rites may change, and creeds may fail, Creeds may perish, and rites may fall, But that hamlet worships the God of all. In the land of the pious, free, and brave, Was the happy home that sweet dream gave. But the mirth, and beauty, and love that dwell Within that home — I may not tell. FANNY POWER. The lady's son rode by the mill : The trees were murmuring on the hill, But in the valley they were still, And seemed with heat to cower : They said that he should be a priest, For so had vowed his sire deceased ; They should have told him too, at least, To fly from Fanny Power. ii. The lonely student fell his breast Was like an empty linnet's nest, Divinely moulded to be blest, Yet pining hour by hour : For, see, amid the orchard trees, Her green gown kirtled to her knees, Adown the brake, like whispering breeze, Went lightsome Fanny Power. Her eyes cast down a mellow light Upon her neck of glancing white, Like starshine on a snowy night, Or moonshine on a tower She sang — he thought her songs were hymua, An angel's grace was in her limbs ; The swan that pn Lough Erne swims Is rude to Fanny Power. Returned, he thought the convent dull, At best a heavy heartless lull — No hopes to cheer, no flowers to cull, No sunshine and no shower. The Abbot sent him to his cell, And spoke of penance and of hell ; But nothing in his heart to quell The love of Fanny Power. He dreamed of her the livelong day, At evening, when he tried to pray, Instead of other Saints, he'd say, holy — Fanny Power ! How happier seemed an exile's lot Than living there, unlov'd, forgot; And, oh, best joy ! to share his cot His own dear Fanny Power. 'Tis vain to strive with Passion's might- He left the convent walls one night, And she was won to join his flight Before he wooed an hour ; So, flying to a freer land, He broke his vow at Love's command, And placed a ring upon the hand Of happy Fanny Power. MARIE NANGLE ; OR, THE SEVEN SIS- TERS OF NAVAN. FRAGMENT Oh ! there were sisters, sisters seven, As bright as any stars in heaven ; Save one, they all weie snowy white, And she like oriental night : Yet she was like unto the rest, Had all their softness in her breast, Their lights and shadows in her face, And in her figure all their grace ; The brightest she of all the seven, Yet all were bright, as stars in heaven. THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. They had true lovers, every one, Except the fairest— she had none; Or rather say that she returned Their love to none who for her burned ; For Marie's timid, Marie's mild, And on her spirit undefiled St. Brigid's' nuns their thoughts have bent; She flies her sister's merriment. They say they'll marry, every one, But Marie says she'll be a Nun. " Oh ! wait a while," her father said, " Sweet Marie, wait till I am dead." The Nuns, for this, more firmly sought To wean her from each earthly thought. Oh ! you were made for God, not man, — 'Twas thus their pious plea began ; For much these pale recluses feared, As her gay sisters' nuptials neared. " Oh ! wait awhile," the Baron said, " Sweet Marie wait till they are wed." A novice now, sweet Marie dwells Within dark Odder's sacred cells ; Yet on ber sisters' wedding day She joins the chivalrous array. The brides were sweeter than their flowers, The bridegrooms came from haughty towers, For Nangle's 2 daughters are beneath No lordly hand in lordly Meath. The novice heart of Marie swells, "Oh, dark," she sighs, " are Odder's cells 1" Yet vainly on that wedding day Her sisters and their gay grooms pray— She grieves to part with those so dear, But she is filled with pious fear ; While Tuite and Tyrrell urged in vain, Her tears fell down like Minister rain — Malone and Bellew, Taaffe and Dease 3 — " Oli, cease," she says, "in pity cease, Or I must leave your wedding gay, In Odaer's walls to fast and pray." The marriage rites are bravely done ; But what ails her, the novice Nun ? Oh ! never had she seen an eye Look into hers so tenderly. "Methinks that deep and mellow voice Would make the Abbess' self-rejoice ; He's sure the Saint I dreamt upon — Not Barnewell of Trimleston. In holy Land his spurs he won — What aileth me, a novice Nun 1" [It Is but are sore wa ever printed] MY GRAVE. Shall they bury me in the deep, Where wind-forgetting waters sleep f Shall they dig a grave for me, Under the green-wood tree } Or on the wild heath, Where the wilder breath Of the storm doth blow ? Oh, no ! oh, no ! Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs, Or under the shade of Cathedral domes i Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore ; Yet not there — nor in Greece, though I love it more. In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find ? Shall my ashes career on the world seeing wind? Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound, Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground f Just as they fall they are buried so — Oh, no ! oh, no ! No ! on an Irish green hill-side, On an opening lawn — but not too wide; For I love the drip of the wetted trees — I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze, To freshen the turf — put no tombstone there, But green sods decked with daisies fair; Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew, The matted grass-roots may trickle through. Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind, " He served his country, and loved his KIND." Oh ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go, If one were sure to be buried so. : APPENDIX. i. Dttp sunk in that bed is the tword of Monroe, Since, twixi it and Donaoh, 1 lie met Owen Roe. Page 484. The Blackwater, in Ulster, is especially remarkable as the scene of tke two most remarkable victories ob- tained by the Irish over the English power for several centuries past. The particulars of these battles are so little known, that it is hoped the following ac- counts of them, taken from the best accessible sources, will be acceptable to the reader. The first is from the pen of Mr. Davis. The Battle of Benbtjhb. (5th June, 1646.) The battle of Benburb was fought upon the slopes of ground, now called the Thistle Hill, from being the property of the Thistles, a family of Scotch farm- ers, now represented by a fine old man of over eighty years. This ground is two and a quarter miles in a right line, or three by the road, from the Church of Benburb, and about sis miles below Caledon, in the county Tyrone ; in the angle between the Blackwater and the Oonagh, on the Benburb side of the latter, and close to Battleford Bridge. We are thus particu- lar in marking the exact place, because of the blun- ders of many writers on it. Major-General Robert Monro landed with several thousand Scots at Carrickfergus, in the middle of April. 1642, and on the 28th and 29th was joined by Lord Conway and Colonel Chichester, &c, with 1,S00 foot, five troops of horse, and two of dragoons. Early in May, a junction was effected between Monro and Tichborne, and an army of 12,000 foot, and between 1.000 and 2.000 horse, was made up. Yet, with this vast force, Monro achieved nothing but plunder, un- less the treacherous seizure of Lord Antrim be an ex- ception. Thus was the spring of 1642 wasted. Yet, 1 So this line run3, as originally published, snd likewise in the ;l of the present edition. But 1 have a strong suspicion that the •rOonmgh Vide description of the battle, especially the first so overwhelming was Monro's force, that the Irish Chiefs were thinking of giving up the war, win n, on the 13th of July, Owen Roe Mac-Art O'Neill land- ed at Doe Castle, county Donegal, and received the command. Owen Roe was born in Ulster, and at an early ago entered the Spanish — the imperial — service, influ enced, doubtless, by the same motives that led Mar- shal MacDonald into the French — that " the gates of promotion were closed at home." Owen, from trig great connexions, and greater abilities, rose rapidly, and held a high post in Catalonia. We have heard, through Dr. Gartland, the worthy head of the Sala- manca College, that Eugeuio Rufo is still remem- bered there. He held Arras in 1640 against the French, and (says Carte) " surrendered it at last upon honorable terms, yet his conduct in the defence was such as gave him great reputation, and procured him extraordinary respect even from the enemy." Owen was sent for at the first outbreak in 1641, but it was not till the latter eud of June, 1642, that he embarked for Dunkirk, with many of the officers and men of his own regiment, and supplies of arms. He sailed round the north of Scotland to Donegal, while another frigate brought similar succors to Wexford, under Henry O'Neill and Richard O'Far- rell. Owen was immediately conducted to Charle- mont, and invested with the command of Ulster. Immediately on Owen's landing, Lesley, Earl of Leven, and General of the Scotch troops, wrote to him, saying, " He was sorry a man of his reputation and experience abroad, should come to Ireland for the maintaining of so bad a cause ;" and advising his return ! O'Neill replied, " He had more reason to come to relieve the deplorable state of his country, than Lesley had to march at the head of an army into England against his king, at a time when they (the Scots) were already masters of all Scotland." No contrast could be greater or better put. Lord Levan immediately embarked for Scotland, telling Monro, whom he left in command, " that he would certainly paragraph. I would not. however, alter the text, without soma search after the original MS.; or, in default of that, a critical ex- amination of the topography of a district, iu the description of which so many errors have been committed. — Ed. be ousted, if O'Neill once got an army together." And so it turned out. Owen sustained himself for four years against Monro on one side and Ormond on the other — harassed by the demands of the other provincial generals, and distressed for want of pro- visions — defying Monro by any means to compel him to fight a battle until he was ready for it. But at length, having his troops in fine fighting order, he fought i\nd won the greatest battle fought in Ireland since the " Yellow Ford." But we must tell how this came about. Throughout 1G42, and in the summer of 1643, Monro made two attempts to beat up O'Neill's quar- ters ; and though the Irish General had not one-tenth of Monro's force, he compelled him to retire with loss into Antrim and Down. Assailed by Stewart's army on the Donegal side, Owen Roe retreated into Long- ford and Leitrim, hoping in the mgged districts to nurse up an army which would enable him to meet Monro in the field. By the autumn of 1643, after having suffered many trifling losses, he had got together a militia army of 3.000 men, and the cessation having beer, concluded, he marched into Meath, joined Sir James Dillon, and reduced the entire district. In 1044, Monro's army amounting to 13,000 men, — O'Neill, after having for a short time occupied a great part of Ulster, again re- turned to North Leinster. Here he was joined by Lord Castlehaven with 6,000 men ; but except trifling skirmishes, no engagement took place, and Castle- haven returned, disgusted with a war, which he had not patience to value, nor profundity to practise. 1645 passed over in similar skirmishes, in which the country suffered terribly from the plundering of Monro's army. The leaders under Owen Boe were. Sir Phelim O'Neill, and his brother Turlough ; Con, Corniac, Hugh, and Brian O'Neill ; and the following chief- tains with their clans : Bernard MacMahon, the son of Hugh, chief of Monaghau, and Baron of Dartry ; Colonel MacMahon, Colonel Patrick MacNeny (who was married to Helen, sister of Bernard MacMahon) ; Colonel Richard O'Ferrall of Longford, Roger Ma- guire of Fermanagh; Colonel Philip O'Reilly of Ballynacargy castle in the county of Cavan (who was married to Rose O'Neill, the sister of Owen Roe) ; and the valiant Maolmora O'Reilly (kinsman to Phil- ip), who, from his great strength and determined bravery, was called Miles the Slasher. The O'Reillys brought 200 chosen men of their own name, and of the AlaeBradys, MacCabes, MacGowans, Fitzpatricks, mid Fitzsimons, from Cavan. Some fighting men were also brought by MacGauran of Templeport, and iiaeTernan of Croghan ; some Connaught forces came with the O'Rorkes, MacDermotts, O'Connors, and O'Kelleys ; there came also some of the O'Don- neils and O'Doghertys of Donegal ; Manus O'Cane of Derry ; Sir Constantine Magennis, county of Down ; the O'Hanlons of Armagh, regal standard-bearers of Ulster ; and the O'Hagans of Tyrone. Lords Blaney, Conway, and Montgomery com- •nanded under Monro. In the spring of 1646, Owen Roe met the Nuncio at Kilkenny, and received from the council an am pier provision than heretofore ; and by May he had completed his force under it. to 5,000 foot and 000 horse. This army consisted partly of veterans trained by the four preceding campaigns, and partly of new levies, whom he rapidly brought into discipline by his organizing genius and his stern punishments. With this force he marched into the county of Ar magh, and Monro, hearing of his movements, ad- vanced against him by rapid marches, hoping to sur- prise him in Armagh city. Monro's forces consisted, according to all the best authorities, of 6,000 foot, 800 horse, and 7 field-pieces ; though some accounts raise his foot to 8,500, and he himself lowers it in his apol- ogetic dispatch to 3,400, and states his field-pieces at 6. Simultaneously with Monro's advance, his brother, Colonel George Monro, marched from Coleraine, along the west shore of Loch Neagh, with three troops of horse ; and a junction was to have been effected between the two Monrns and the Tyrconnell forces at Glasslough, a place in the county Mona- ghan, but only a few miles S. W. of Armagh. On the 4th of June, Owen Roe marched from Glasslough to Benburb, confident, by means of the river and hilly country, that he could prevent the intended junction. Monro bivouacked the same night at Hamilton's Bawn, four miles from Armagh. Before dawn on Friday, the oth, Monro marched to Armagh town, burning houses, and wasting crops as he ad- vanced. Fearful lest his brother, who had reached Dungannon, should be cut off, he marched towards Benburb, and on finding the strength of the Irish position there, advanced up the right bank of the Blackwater, hoping to tempt Owen from his ground. In the mean time a body of Irish horse, detached against George Monro, had met him near Dungan- non, and checked his advance, though with some loss. A good part of the day was thus spent, and it was two o'clock, in the afternoon before Monro crossed the Blackwater at Kinaird (now Caledon), and led his army down the left bank of the river against O'Neill. Tliis advance of Owen's to Ballykilgavin was only to consume time, and weary the enemy, for he shortly after retreated to Knocknacliagh, where he had de- termined to fight. It was now past four o'clock, when the enemy's foot advanced in a double line of columns. The first line consisted of five, and the second of four columns, much too close for manoeu- vring. The Irish front consisted of four, and the j serve of three divisions, with ample room. O'Neill's position was defended on the right by a wet bog, and on the left by the junction of the Black- water and the Oonagh. In his front was rough, hillocky ground, covered " with scrogs and bushes." Lieutenant-Colonel Richard O'FarreU occupied some strong ground in advance of Owen's position, but Colonel Cunningham, with 500 musketeers and the field-pieces, carried the pass, and O'Far- rell effected his retreat with little loss, and no dis- order. The field-guns were pushed iu advance by THE BATTLE OF BfiAL-A.N-ATHA-BUIDHE. Monro with most of his cavalry, but Owen kept the main body of his horse in reserve. A good deal of skirmishing took place, and though the enemy had gained much ground, his soldiers were growing weary ; it was five o'clock, and the evening sun of a clear and fiery June glared in their faces. While in this state, a body of cavalry was seen advancing from the northwest ; Monro declared them to be his brother's squadrons, and became confident of success. But a few minutes sufficed to undeceive him — they were the detachments, under Colonels Bernard MacMahon, and Patrick MacNeney, return- ing from Oungannon, after having driven George Monro back upon his route. The Scotch musketeers continued for some time to gain ground along the banks of the Oonagh, and threatened Owen's left, till the light cavalry of the Irish broke in among them, sabred many, drove the lest across the stream, and returned without any loss. The battle now became general. The Scotch eannon' posted on a slope, annoyed O'Neill's centre, and there seemed some danger of Monro's manoeu- vring to the west sufficiently to communicate with George Monro's corps. Owen, therefore, decided on a general attack, keeping only Rory Maguire's regi- ment as a reserve. His foot moved on in steady columns, and his horse in the spaces between the first and second charge of his masses. In vain did Monro's cavalry charge this determined infantry ; it threw back from its face squadron after squadron, and kept constantly, rapidly, and evenly advancing. In vain did Lord Blaney take pike in hand, and stand in the ranks. Though exposed to the play of Monro's guns and musketry, the Irish infantry charged up hill without firing a shot, and closed with sabre and pike. They met a gallant resistance. Blaney and his men held their ground long, till the superior vivacity and freshness of the Irish clansmen bote hira down. An attempt was made with the columns of the rear line to regain the ground ; but from the confined space in which they were drawn up, the attempt to manoeuvre them only produced disorder ; and just at this moment, to complete their ruin, O'Neill's cavalry, wheeling by the flanks of his columns, charged the Scotch cavalry, and drove them pell-mell upon the shaken and confused infantry. A total rout followed. Monro, Lord Conway, Captain Burke, and forty of the horsemen escaped across the Blackwater, but most of the foot were cut to pieces, or drowned in the river ; 3,423 of the enemy were found on the battle- field, and Lord Montgomery, with 21 officers, and 150 men, were taken prisoners. O'Neill lost 70 kiUed including Colonel Manns, MacNeill, and Garve O'Donnell), and 200 wounded (including Lieutenants Colonel O'Farrell and PheUm MacTuohill O'Neill). He took all the Scots artillery, twenty stand of colors, and all the arms, save those of Sir James Mont- gomery, whose regiment, being on Monro's extreme right, effected its retreat in some order. 1,500 draft horses, and two months' provisions were also taken, but, unfortunately, Monro's ammunition blew up shortly after the battle was won. Monro fled without coat or wig to Lisburn. Moving from thence, he commanded every household to furnish two musket- eers ; he wrote an apologetic and deceptious dispatch to the Irish committee in London, burnt Dimdrum, and deserted most of Down. But all his efforts would have been in vain ; for O'Neill, having increased his army by Scotch deserters and fresh levies, to 10,000 foot and 21 troops of horse, was in the very act of breaking in on him, with a certainty of expelling the last invader from Ulster, when the fatal command of the Nuncio reached Owen at Tanderagee, ordering him to march southward to support that factious ecclesiastic against the peace. O'Neill, in an un- happy hour, obeyed the Nuncio, abandoned the fruits of his splendid victory, and marched to Kilkenny. And Charlemonfs cannon Slew many a man on These meadows below. — Page 484. The following passage will sufficiently explain this allusion : " Early in June (1602) Lord Mountjoy marched by Dundalk to Armagh, and from thence, without inter- ruption, to the banks of the Blackwater, about five miles to the eastward of Portmore, and nearer to Loch Neagh. He sent Sir Richard Moryson to tho north bank of the river, commenced the building of a bridge at that point, and a castle, which he named Charlemont, from his own christian name, and sta- tioned a garrison of one hundred and fifty men there under the command of Captain Toby Caulfield — the founder of a noble family, which has held that spot from that day to this ; but which afterwards (as is usual with settlers in Ireland) became more Irish than many of the Irish themselves." — MUchel's Lift of Aodh ffNeii, p. 219 ; vide Irish Penny Journal for 1841-2, p. 317. And yonder Red Hngh^ Marshal Bagenal d'erthrew On, Beal-an-atha-buidhe. — Page C-o The Battle op Beal-an-atha-buidhe. (10th August, 1595.) "The tenth morning of August rose bright and serene upon the towers of Armagh, and the silver waters of Avonmore. Before day dawned, the Eng- lish army left the city in three divisions, and at sun- rise they were winding through the hills and woods behind the spot where now stands the little church of Grange. The sun was glancing < n the corsleta and spears of their glittering cavalry ; their banners waved proudly, and their bugles rang clear in the morning air ; when, suddenly from the thickets on both sides of their path, a deadly volley of musketry swept through the lbremost ranks. O'Neill had sta- tioned here five hundred light-armed troops to guard the defiles ; and in the shelter of thick groves of fir- trees they had silently waited for the enemy. Now they poured in their shot, volley after volley, and killed great numbers of the English ; but the first division, led by Bagnal in person, after some hard fighting, carried the pass, dislodged the marksmen from their position, and drove them backwards into the plain. The centre division, under Cosby and Wiuglield, and the rear-guard, led by Cuin and Billing, supported in flank by the cavalry under Brooke, Montacute, and Fleming, now pushed for- ward, sp?edily cleared the difficult country, and *brmed in the open ground in front of the Irish lines. It was not quite safe.' says an Irish chronicler (in admiration of Bagnal's disposition of his forces) ' to attack the nest of griffins and den of lions in which were placed the soldiers of London.' Bagnal, at the head of his first division, and aided by a body of cavalry, charged the Irish light-armed troops up to the very intrenchments, in front of which O'Neill's foresight had prepared some pits, covered over with wattles and grass ; and many of the English cavalry, rushing impetuously forward, rolled headlong, both men and horses, into these trenches, and perished. Still the Marshal's chosen troops, with loud cheers, and shouts of ' St.. George, for merry England !' res- olutely attacked the intrenchments that stretched acros3 the pass, battered them with cannon, and in one place succeeded, though with heavy loss, in forcing back their defenders. Then first the main body of O'Neill's troops was brought into action ; and with bagpipes sounding a charge, they fell upon the English, shouting their fierce battle-cries, Lamh- deary! and O'DhomJmaill Abu! O'Neill himself, at the head of a body of horse, pricked forward to seek out Bagnal amidst the throng of battle ; but they never met : the marshal, who had done his devoir that day like a good soldier, was shot through the brain by some unknown marksman ; the division he had led was forced back by the furious onslaught of the Irish, and put to utter rout ; and, what added to their confusion, a cart of gunpowder exploded amidst the English ranks, and blew many of their men to atoms. And now the cavalry of Tyr-connell and Tyr-owen dashed into the plain, and bore down the remnant of Brooke's and Fleming's horse; the col- umn.- of Wingfield and Cosby reeled before their rushing charge— while in front, to the war-cry of Biltuilla Abu! the swords and axes of the heavy- armed galloglasses were raging amongst the Saxon ranks. By this time the cannon were all taken ; the cries of St. George' had failed, or turned into death- shrieks ; and once more, England's royal standard sunk before the Red Hand of Tyr-owen. " The last who resisted was the traitor O'Reilly ; twice he tried to rally the flying squadrons, but was slaiu in the attempt : and at last the whole of that •fine army was utterly routed, and fled uellmell to- wards Armagh, with the Irish hanging fiercely on their rear. Amidst the woods and marshes all , on- nection and order were speedily lost ; and as O'Don noil's chronicler has it, they were ' pursued in couples, in threes, in scores, in thirties, and in hundreds.' and so cut down in detail by their avenging pursu- ers. In one spot, especially, the carnage was ter- rible, and the country people yet point out the lane where that hideous rout passed by, and call it to this day the ' Bloody Loaning.' Two thousand five hun- dred English were slain in the battle and flight, including twenty-three superior officers, besides lieu- tenants and ensigns. Twelve thousand gold pieces, thirty-four standards, all the musical instruments and cannon, with a long train of provision wagons, were a rich spoil for the Irish army. The confed' erates had only two hundred slain and six hundred wounded. MUcJieVs Life of AooVi O'NeUl, pp. 141-144. Cymric Role and Cymric Rulers. — Page 486. This poem has less title than any other in Part 1 to be ranked among National (i. e., either in subject, or by aim or allusion, Irish) Ballads aud Songs, un- less the affinity of the Cymric with the Irish Colts, and the fact that the author himself was of Welsh extraction by the father's side, be considered a suf- ficient justification. Mr. Davis was very fond of the air — " The March of the Men of Harlech," to which this poem is set. To evince his strong partiality for, and sympathy with the Welsh people, it is enough to quote the following passage from one of his political essays : "We just now opened M'Cuttoch's Geographical Dictionary to ascertain some Welsh statistics, and found at the name ' Wales' a reference to ' England and Wales,' and at the latter title nothing distinct on the Principality ; and what was there was rather inferior to the information on Cumberland, or most English counties. " And has time, then, we said, mouldered away that obstinate and fiery tribe of Celts, which baffled the Plantagenets, which so often trod upon the breastplates of the Norman, which sometimes bent in the summer, but ever rose when the fierce ele- ments of winter came to aid the native 1 Has that race passed away, wluch stood under Llewellyn, and rallied under Owen Glendower, and gave the Dragon flag and Tudor kings to England? Is the prophecy of twelve hundred years false— are the people and tongue passed away ? " No ! spite of the massacre of bards, and the burning of records— spite of political extinction, there is a million of these Kymrja in Wales and its marches ; and nine out of ten of these speak their old tongue, follow their old customs, sing the songs which the sleepers upon Snowdon made, have thei THE FATE OF KING DATHI. 543 religious rites in Kyrnric, and hate the Logrian as much as ever their fathers did. . . . " Twenty-nine Welsh members could do much if united, more especially if they would co-operate with the Irish and Scotch members in demanding their enare of the imperial expenditure ; or what would be safer and better, in agitating for a local council to administer the local affairs of the Principality. A million of the Kyniry, who are still apart in their mountains, who have immense mineral resources, and some good harbors, one (Milford) the best in Britain, and who are of our blood, nearly of our old and un-English language, have as good a right to a local senate as the 700,000 people of Greece, or the half million of Cassel or Mecklenburgh have to inde- pendence, or as each of the States of America has to a local congress. Localization by means of Federal- ism seems the natural and best resource of a country like Wales to guard its purse, and language, and character from imperial oppression, and its soil from foreign invasion. As powers run, it is not, like Ire- land, qftite able, if free, to hold her own ; but it has importance enough to entitle it to a local congress for its local affairs." The Irish Hurrah.— Page 488. The second stanza of this poem, as it appears in the text, was omitted by the author in a later copy ; it would seem, with a view of adapting it better to the air to which it is set. A Christmas Scene. — Page 499. The first sketch of this poem differs a good deal from that in the text. It is so pleasing, that it is given here as originally published. It was then en- titled • A CHRISTMAS CAROL. it comes howling from leaf-rifted trees, vere us harp-strings to each gentle breeze ; en have parted, the blue-stockings gone, ; happy-hearted — together, alone. j through the window 1 ve o, the light and the shade, pets of lake, bill, and glade; our eye, and your soft wavy form, j by the hearth bright and warm. My Kate, I'm so happy, your voice whispers soft, And your cheek flushes wilder by kisBins so oft ; Should our kiss grow less fond, or the weather serene, Forth together we'll wander to see each loved scene. And at eve, as the sportsmen and pedants will say, As they swallow their dinner, how they spent the day, Your eye, roguish-smiling, to me only will say That more sweetly than any, you and I spent the day. The Pate King Dathi. — Page I The real adventures of this warlike king, the lasl of the Pagan monarchs of Ireland, and likewise the last who extended his conquests to the continent of Europe, are, like too much of the ancient annals of the country, obscured by the mixture of pious or ro- mantic legends with authentic history. An accurate account of Dathi, and his immediate predecessors will be found in the addenda to Mr. O'Donovan's ex- cellent edition of tiie "Tribes and Customs of the Ui-Fiachrach," printed for the Irish Archaeological Society ; from which the following passages are extracted. "In the lifetime of Niall of the Nine Hostages, Brian, his brother of the half-blood, became King of Connaught, and his second brother of the half-blood, Fiachra, the ancestor of the O'Dowds and all the Ui-Fiachrach tribes, became chief of the district ex- tending from Cam Fearadhaigh, near Limerick, to Magh Mucroime, near Athenry . But dissensions soon arose between Brian and his brother Fiachra, and th6 result was that a battle was fought between them, in which the latter was defeated, and delivered as a host- age into the hands of Ms half-brother, Niall of the Nine Hostages. After this, however, Dathi, a very warlike youth, waged war on his Uncle Brian, and challenged him to a pitched battle, at a place called Damh-cluain, not far from Knockmea-hill, near Tuam. In this battle, in which Dathi was assisted by Crim- thann, son of Enna Cennseloch, King of Leinster, Brian and his forces were routed, and pursued from the field of battle to Fulcha DomhnaOl, where he was overtaken and slain by Crimthann. . . . " After the fall of Brian, Fiachra was set at liberty and installed King of Connaught, and enjoyed that dignity for twelve years, during which period he was general of the forces of his brother Niall. According to the book of Lecan, this Fiachra had five sons, of which the most eminent were Dathi, and Amhalgaidh (vulgo, Awley), King of Connaught, who died in the year 449. The seven sons of this Amhalgaidh, to- gether with twelve thousand men, are said to have been baptized in one day by St. Patrick, at Forrach Mac n* Amhalgaidh, near Killala. " On the death of his father Fiachra, Dathi becam« King of Connaught, and on the death of his unde, Niall of the Nine Hostages, he became Monarch of Ireland, leaving the government of Connaught to hi* less wir'ilp ; r the* Amlnlgaidh. Kin-.: Dathi, foJ- [owing the example of Ilia predecessor, NiaH, not only Invaded the coasts of Gaul, but forced hia way to the y foot of the Alps, where he was killed by a flash r>f lightning, leaving the throne of Ireland to be filled by a. line of Christian kings." Tribes and Customs of the UirMachntc?i— Addenda, pp. 844-6. Argan M6r.— Page 504. Mr. Davis was very fond of the air for which this poem was composed, and which suggested its name. It is a simple air, of great antiquity, preserved in Bunting's Third Collection, where it is No. V. of the. airs marked " very ancient." The following is Mr. Bunting's account of it : "Argan M6r. — An Ossianic air, still sung to the words preserved by Dr. Young, and published in the first volume of the Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy. The editor took down the notes from the singing, or rather recitation, of a native of Murloch, in the county of Antrim. This sequestered district lies along the seashore, between Tor Point and Fair Head, and is still rife with traditions, both musical and legendary. From the neighboring ports of Cushendun and Cushendall was the principal line of communication with Scotland ; and, doubtless, it was by this route that the Ossianic poems themselves found their way into that country." — Ancient Music of Ireland.— Preface, p. 88. The True Irish King.— Page 505. In an essay on Ballad History, Mr. Davis refers to this poem, as an attempt to show how the materials and hints, scattered through antiquarian volumes, may be brought together and presented with effect in a poetical form. The subject is one involved in unusual obscurity, considering its importance in Irish History. The chief notices of the custom have been collected by Mr. O'Donovan in the Addenda to his edition of the Tnbes and Customs of the Ui-Machrach, pp. 425-452, to which work the reader is referred ( who may wish to trace the disjecta membra poematis, in the scattered hints and traditions of which Mr. Davis has availed himself. O'Suijuvan's Return.— Page 610. The following description was prefixed to this ballad by the author, on its first publication : 1 u Among other place* which were neither yielded nor taken to the end they should be delivered to the English. Don Juan tied himself to deliver my castle and haven, the only key of mine aheritance whereupon the living of many thousand person " "".,» ballad is founded on an ill-remembered s of an Irish chief, returning after long absence on t Continent, and being wrecked and drowned i his own castle. " The scene is laid in Bantry Bay, which runs into the county of Cork, in a northeasterly directio A few miles from its mouth, on your left hand i go up, lies Beare Island (about seven miles long), i between it and the mainland of Beare lies Haven, one of the finest harbors in the World. boy Castle, near the present Castletown, was on j main, so as to command the southwestern ent to the haven. " Further up, along the same shore of Beare, i Adragoole, a small gulf off Bantry Bay. "The scene of the wreck is at the suutheuste shore of Beare Island. A ship steering from Sp by Mizenhead for Dunboy, and caught by a soutlie gale, if unable to round the point of Beare and make the Haven, should leave herself room to run t the bay, towards Adragoole, or some other shelter." — Dunbwy is lying lowly. Tlie halls where mirth and minstrelsy Than Beards wind rose Uivder, Arefiung in maizes lonelily, And black with English powder. Page 512. The destruction of O'Sullivan's Castle of Dunboy or Dunbwy (correctly Dunbaoi or Dunuuidhe) is well described by Mr. Mitchel : " Mountjoy spent that spring in Munster, with the President, reducing those fortresses which still re- mained in the hands of the Irish, and fiercely crush- ing down every vestige of the national war. Richard Tyrrell, however, still kept the field ; and O'Sullivaa Beare held his strong castle of Dun-buidlie. which he wrested from the Spaniards after Don Juan had stipulated to yield it to the enemy. 1 This castle commanded Bantry Bay, and was one of the most important fortresses in Munster, and therefore Carew determined, at whatever cost, to make himself master of it. Dun-buidhe was but a square tower, with a courtyard and some outworks, and had but 140 men ; yet it was so strongly situated, and so bravely defended, that it held the Lord President and an army of four thousand men, with a great train of artillery and some ships of war, fifteen days before its walls. After a breach was made, the storming parties were twice driven back to their lines ; and even after the great hall of the castle was carried , the garrison, under their indomitable commander, Mac Geohegan, held their ground in the vaults under- neath for a whole day, and at last fairly beat the doth rest, that live some twenty leagues upon the seacost, into the hands of my cruel, cursed, misbelieving enemies." — Letuw of Donald O'Sullivan Beare to the King of Bpcin.— Pae A RALLY FOR IRELAND. \ besiegers out of the hall. The English cannon then played furiously upon the walls ; and the President : to bury these obstinate Irish under the ruins. Again a desperate sortie was made by forty men — they were all slain : eight of them leaped into the e themselves by swimming ; but Carew, anticipating this, had stationed Captain Harvy ' with three boats to keep the sea, but had the killing of 1 all ;' and at last, after Mac Geohegan was mortal- ly wounded, the remnant of the garrison laid down their arms. Mac Geohegan lay, bleeding to death, on the floor of the vault ; yet when he saw the besiegers admitted, he raised himself up, snatched a lighted torch, and staggered to an open powder-barrel — one moment, and the castle, with all it contained, would have rushed skyward in a pyramid of flame, when suddenly an English soldier seized him in his arms ; he was killed on the spot, and all the rest were shortly after executed. ' The whole number of the ward,' gays Carew, ' consisted of one hundred and forty- three selected men, being the best choice of all their 'orces, of which not one man escaped, but were either slain, executed, or buried in the ruins ; and so obsti- nate a defence hath not been seen within this king- dom.' Perhaps some will think that the survivors of so brave a band deserved a better fate than hang- ing." MUchel's life ofAodh O'JfeiU, pp. 216-218. Lament for Owen Roe O'Neill.— Page 514. The m- -it notable events in the career of this great thieftain .vill be found in the account of the Battle of Benburb, ante, p. 539. The closing scenes of his life were briefly narrated as follows, by Mr. Davis, In a little sketch, published with this poem when it first appeared : " In 1649, the country being exhausted, Owen made a truce with Monk, Coote, and the Indepen- dents—a truce observed on both sides, though Monk was severely censured by the English Parliament for it.— (Journals, 10th August, 1649.) On its expiration, O'Neill concluded a treaty with Ormond, 12th Oc- tober, 1649 ; and so eager was he for it, that ere it was signed he sent over 3,000 men, under Major- General O'Farrell, to join Ormond (which they did October 25th). Owen himself strove with all haste to follow, to encounter Cromwell, who had marched south after the sack of Drogheda. But fate and an un- scrupulous foe forbade. Poison, it is believed, had been given him either at Derry, or shortly after. His con- stitution struggled with it for some time ; slowly and Binking, he marched through Tyrone and Monaghan into Cavan, and — anxiously looked for by Ormond, O'Farrell, and the southern corps and army — lingered till the 6th of November (St. Leonard's feast), when he died at Clough Oughter Castle — then the seat of Maelmorra O'Reilly, and situated on a rock in Lough Oughter, some six miles west of Cavan. He was buried, says Carte, in Cavan Abbey ; but report says his sepulchre was concealed, lest it should be violated by the English. The news of his death reached Or- mond's camp when the duke was preparing to fight Cromwell — when Owen's genius and soldiers were most needed. All writers (even to the sceptical Dr. O'Conor, of Stowe) admit that, had Owen lived, he would have saved Ireland. His gallantry, his influ- ence, his genius, his soldiers, all combine to render it probable. The rashness with which the stout bishop, Ebher Mac Mahon, led 4,000 of Owen's veterans to death at Letterkenny, the year after ; and the way in which Ormond frittered away the strength of O'Far- rel's division (though 1,200 of them slew 2,000 of Cromwell's men in the breach at Clonmel) — and the utter prostration which followed, showed Ireland how great was her loss when Owen died. "O'Farrell, Red Hugh O'Neill, and Mac Mahon were Ulster generals ; Audley, Lord Castlehaven, and Preston commanded in the south and east ; the Marquis of Clanricarde was president of Counaught." A Rally for Ireland.— Page 515. There is no period in Irish, or in English History, which has been so much misrepresented, or of which so utterly discordant opinions are still entertained,, as the Revolution of 1688-91. The English history of that revolution has been elaborately sifted, and its hidden causes successively dragged to light by men of remarkable eminence in literature and in politics. It is sufficient to mention, in England, Mr. Fox, Sir James Mackintosh, Mr. Hallam, Dr. Lingard, and Mr. Ward ; — in France, M. Thierry (Historical Essays. No. VI.), M. Carrel, and M. De Mazire— and among Irishmen, Mr. W. Wallace (Continuation of Mackin- tosh's History), and Mr. Torrens Mac Cullagh (articles in the " North of England Magazine" for 1842, and in the " Dublin Magazine" for 1843). A minute study of some, at least, of these writers — Mr. Wallace's history is, perhaps, on the whole, the fairest and most com- prehensive — is indispensable to a correct understand- ing of the Irish question. In the "Dublin Magazine" for 1843, January to April, Mr. Davis devoted a series of papers to a critical examination of some of the Irish authorities on this subject, principally in regard to the Irish Parliament of 1689. His aim was to vindicate the character of that legislature, and to refute some of the most glar ing falsehoods which had hitherto, by dint of impu- dent reassertion, passed almost unquestioned by Irishmen of every shade of political opinion. False- hoods of a more injurious tendency have never been current among a people ; and the effort to expose them was with Mr. Davis a labor of zeal and love ; for he knew well how much of the religious dissen sion which has been, and is the ruin of Ireland, took its rise from, and stands rooted in erroneous concep tions of that time. To these papers the reader if APPENDIX. referred, who is anxious to form an accurate, and witlml a national judgment of the cardinal crisis in Irish History. How high the hopes of Ireland were at the com- mencement of this struggle, and how she cherished afterwards the memories and hopes bequeathed from it, is abundantly illustrated by the Jacobite Relics in Mr. Hardman's Irish Minstrelsy, and in the more recent collection of Mr. Daly. Ballads ajTO Songs op the Brigade. Pp. 518-524. 3o OoiiBiderable a space in this volume is occupied "by poems, founded on the adventures and services of ►he Irish Brigade, that it seemed right to include here the following sketch, written by Mr. Davis in the year 1844 : HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. INTRODUCTION. The foreign military achievements of the Irish began on their own account. They conquered and colonized Scotland, frequently overrun England dur- ing and after the Roman dominion there, and more than once penetrated into Gaul. During the time of the Danish invasion they had enough to do at home. Tile progress of the English conquest brought them 'again to battle on foreign ground. It is a melan- choly fact, that in the brigades wherewith Edward I. ravaged Scotland, there were numbers of Irish and Welsh. Yet Scotland may be content ; Wales and Ireland suffered from the same baseness. The sacred heights of Suowdou (the Parnassus of Wales) were first forced by Gascon mountaineers, whose indepen- dence had perished ; and the Scotch did no small share of blood-work for England here, from the time of Monro's defeats in the Seventeenth Century, to the Fencible victories over drunken peasants in 1798. In these levies of Edward I., as in those of his son. were numbers of native Irish. The Connaught clans in particular seem to have served these Plantagenets. From Edward Bruco'siuvasion, the English control was so broken that the Irish clans ceased to serve al- together, and, indeed, shortly after made many of the Anglo-Irish pay them tribute. But the lords of the Pale took an active and prominent part in the wars of the Roses ; and their vassals shared the victories, the defeats, and the carnage of the time. In the Continental wars of Edward III. and Henry V., the Norman-Irish served with much distinction. Henry VIII. demanded of the Irish government 2,000 men, 1,000 of whom were, if possible, to be gunners — i. e,, armed with matchlocks. The services of these Irish during the short war in France, and especiaUy at the 6iege of Boulogne, are well known. At Ae submission of Ireland in 1003, O'Sullivan 8 if a, and some others excepted from the amnesty, took service and obtained high rank in Spain : and after the flight of O'Neill and O'Donnell in 1607, numbers of Irish crowded into all the Continental ser- vices. We find them holding commissions in Spain, France, Austria, and Italy. Scattered among " Strafford's Letters," various in- dications are discoverable of the estimation in which the Irish were held as soldiers in foreign services during the early part of the seventeenth century. The Spanish government, in particular, seems to have been extremely desirous of enlisting in Ireland, tiieir own troops at that time being equal, if not superior, to any in the world, especially their infantry. Nor were the Irish troops less active for the English king. Strafford had increased the Irish army. These he paid regularly, clothed well, and frequently " drew out in large bodies." He meant to oppress, but dis- cipline is a precious thing, no matter who teaches it — a Strafford or a Wellington ; and during the wars which followed 1641, some of these troops he had raised served Ireland. In 1639, when the first row with the Scotch took place, Wentworth was able to send a garrison of 500 Irish to Carlisle, and other forces to assist Charles. And the victories of Mon- trose were owing to the valor and discipline of the Irish auxiliaries under Colkitto (left handed) Alislt-r Mac Donnell. Many of the Irish who had lost their fortunes by the Cromwellian wars, served on the Continent. Tyrconnell increased the Irish army, but with less judgment than Strafford. Indeed, numbers of his regiments were ill-officered mobs, and, when .-eal work began in 1689, were disbanded as having neither arms nor discipline. His sending of the Irish troops to England hastened the Revolution by excit- ing jealousy, and they were too mere a handful to resist. They were forced to enter the service of German princes, especially the Prussian. [An account of the formation of the Irish Brigade, with the names and numbers of the regiments, etc., is omitted here, as more accurate details will be found in The History of the Irish Brigade, which is to appear in the Library of Ireland] SERVICES OP THE IRISH BRIGADE. The year before the English Revolution of 88, William effected the league of Augsburg, and com- bined Spain, Italy, Holland, and the empire, against France ; but except some sieges of imperial towns, the war made no great progress till 1690. In that year France blazed out ruin on all sides. The Pala- tinate was overrun and devastated. The defeat of Humieres at Valeourt was overweighed by Luxem- burgh's great victory over Prince Waldech at Fleurus. But, as yet, no Irish troops served north of the Alps. It was otherwise in Italy. The Duke of Savoy having joined the Allies, Marshal Catinat entered his territories at the head of 18,000 men. Mountcashel's brigade, which landed in May and had seen service, formed one-third of this corps. Catinat, a disciple of Turenne, relied on his infantry ; nor did he err in this instance. On the 8th of August, 1690. he met the Duke of Savoy and Prince Eugene at BALLADS AND SONGS OF THE BRIGADE. 547 Staflardo, near Saluoco. The battle began by a feigned attack on the Allies' right wing. The real attack was made by ten battalions of infantry, who ■crossed some marshes heretofore deemed impassable, turned the left wing commanded by Prince Eugene, drove it in on the centre, and totally routed the enemy. The Irish troops ("bog-trotters," the " Times" calls us ' now) proved that there are more qualities in a soldier ! than the light step and hardy frame which the Irish bog gives to its inhabitants. But the gallant Mountcashel received a wound, of ' which he died soon after at Bareges. This same brigade continued to serve under Cati- nat throughout the Italian campaigns of '91, '92, and '93. The principal action of this last year was at Mar- siglia, on the 4th October. It was not materially different in tactic from Staffardo. Catinat, cannonad- ing the Allies from a height, made a feigned attack in the centre, while his right wing lapped round Savoy's left, tumbled it in, and routed the army with a loss of 8,000, including Duke Schomberg, son to him who died at the Boyne. On this day, too, the JIunster soldiers had their full share of the laurels. They continued to serve during the whole of this war against Savoy ; and when, in 1696, the duke changed sides, and, uniting his forces with Catinat's, laid siege to Valenza in North Italy, the Irish dis- tinguished themselves again. No less than six Irish regiments were at this siege. While these campaigns were going on in Italy, the garrison of Limerick landed in France, and the second Irish Brigade was formed. The Flanders campaign of '91 hardly went beyond ■skirmishes. Louis opened 1692 by besieging Namur at the head of 120,000 men, including the bulk of the Irish Brigade. Luxeniburgh was the actual commander, and Vauban the engineer. Namur, one of tke great- est fortresses of Flanders, was defended by Coehorn, the ail-but equal of Vauban ; and William advanced to its relief at the head of 100,000 men, — illustrious players of that fearful game. But French and Irish valor, pioneered by Vauban and manoeuvred by Lux- emburgh, prevailed. In seven days Namur was taken, and shortly after the citadel surrendered, though within shot of William's camp. Louis returned to Versailles, and Luxemburgh con- tinued his progress. On the 24th of July, 1692, William attempted to steal a victory from the marshal who had so repeat- edly beaten him. Having forced a spy to persuade Luxemburgh that the Allies meant only to forage, he made an attack on the French camp, then placed between Steenkirk and Enghien. Wirtemburg and Mackay had actually penetrated the French camp ere Luxemburgh mounted his horse. But so rapid were his movements, so skilfully did he divide the Allies and crash Wirtemburg ere Count Solmes could help him, that the enemy was driven off with the loss of 3,000 men, and many colors and can- non. Sarsfield, who commanded the Brigade that day, was publicly thanked for his conduct. In Maich, 1693, he was made a MareBchal de Camp. But his proud career was drawing to a close. He was slain on the 29th July, 1693, at Landen, heading his countrymen in the van of victory, King William flying. He could not have died better. His last thoughts were for his country. As he lay on the field unhelmed and dying, he put his hand to his breast. When he took it away, it was full of his best blood. Looking at it sadly with an eye in which victory shone a moment before, he said faintly, " Oh ' that this were for Ireland." He said no more ; and history records no nobler saying, nor any more be- lt is needless to follow out the details of the Italian and Flanders campaigns. Suffice, that bodies of the Irish troops served in each of the great armies, and maintained their position in the French ranks during years of hard and incessant war. James II. died at St. Germains on the 16th Septem- ber, 1701, and was buried in the church of the Eng - lish Benedictines in Paris. But his death did not affect the Brigade. Louis immediately acknowledged his son James HI., and the Brigade, upon which tli6 king's hopes of restoration lay, was continued. In 1701, Sheldon's cavalry, then serving under Catinat in Italy, had an engagement with the cavalry corps under the famous Count Merci, and handled them so roughly that Sheldon was made a lieutetant- general of France, and the supernumeraries of his corps were put on full pay. In January, 1702, occurred the famous rescue of Cremona. Villeroy succeeded Catinat in August, 1701, and having, with his usual rashness, attacked Eugene's camp at Chiari, he was defeated. Both parties retired early to winter-quarters, Eugene en- camping so as to blockade Mantua. While thus placed, he opened an intrigue with one Cassoli, a priest of Cremona, where Villeroy had his headquarters. An old aqueduct passed under Cassoli's house, and he had it cleared of mud and weeds by the authorities, under pretence that his house was injured for want of drainage. Having opened this way, he got several of Eugene's grenadiers into the town disguised, and now at the end of January all was ready. Cremona lies on the left bank of the river Po. 2 It was then five miles round, was guarded by a strong castle and by an enceinte, or continued fortification all around it, pierced by five gateB. One of these gates led almost directly to the bridge over the Po. This bridge was fortified by a redoubt. Eugene's design was to surprise the town at night. He meant to penetrate on two sides, south and north Prince Charles of Vandemont crossed the Po at Firenzola, and marching up the right bank with 1 According to Mr. O'Conor (Military History of the Irish Nation, p. '2'23), " there was no Irish corps in the army of Lnx- einburgb. and Sarsfield fell leading on a charge of strangers." Bur this only makes his death, and the regrets which accompanied it, the mure affecting. — Ed. 2 In talking of right or left banks of rivers, yon are supposed to be looking down the stream. Thus, Connaught is on the right bank of the Shannon ; Loinster and Munster on its left bank. APPENDIX. 2,500 foot and 500 horse, «vas to assault the bridge and gate of the Po as soon as Eugene had entered on the north. As this northern attack was more complicated, and as it succeeded, it may be best de- scribed in the narrative of events. On the 31st of January, Eugene crossed the Oglio at Ustiano, and approached the north of the town. Marshal Villeroy had that night returned from a war- council at Milan. At three o'clock in the morning of the 1st of Feb- ruary, the allies closed in on the town in the follow- ing order : 1,100 men under Count Kufstein entered by the aqueduct ; 300 men were led to the gate of St. Margaret's, which had been walled up, and hn- mediately commenced removing the wall from it ; meantime, the other troops, under Kufstein, pushed on, and secured the ramparts to some distance, and as soon as the gate was cleared, a vanguard of horse, under Count Merci, dashed through the town. Eugene, Staremberg, and Prince Commerci followed with 7,000 horse and foot. Patrols of cavalry rode the streets ; Staremberg seized the great square ; the barracks of four regiments were surrounded, and the men cut down as they appeared. Marshal Villeroy, hearing the tumult, hastily burned his papess, and rode out, attended only by a page. He was quickly snapped up by a party of Eugene's cavalry, commanded by an Irishman named MacDonnell. Villeroy, seeing himself in the hands of a soldier of fortune, hoped to escape by bribery. He made offer after offer. A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse were refused by this poor Irish captain ; and Villeroy rode out of the town with Ms captor. The Marquis of Mongon, General Crenant, and other officers, shared the same fate ; and Eugene as- sembled the town council to take an oath of alle- giance, and supply him with 14,000 rations. All seemed lost. All was not lost. The Po gate was held by 35 Irishmen, and to Merci's charge and shout they answered with a fire that forced their assailant to pass on to the rampart, where he seized a battery. This unexpected and almost rash resistance was the very turning point of the attack. Had Merci got this gate, he had only to ride on and open the bridge to Prince Vaudemont. The entry of 3,000 men more, and on that side, would have soon ended the contest. Not far from this same gate of the Po were the quarters of two Irish regiments, Dillon (one of Mountcashel's old brigade) and Burke (the Athlone regiment.) Dillon's regiment was, in Colonel Lacy's absence, commanded by Major Mahony. He had ordered his regiment to assemble for exercise at day- break, and lay down. He was woke by the noise of the Imperial Cuirassiers passing his lodgings. He jumped up, and finding how things were, got off to the two corps and found them turning out in their shirts to check the Imperialists, who swarmed round their quarters. He had just got his men together when General D'Arenes came up, put himself at the head of these regiments, who had nothing but their musket*, shirts, and cartouches about them. He instantly led them against Merci's force, and, aftei a sharp struggle, drove them from the ramparts, killing large numbers, and taking many prisoners, amongst others MacDonnell, who returned to fight after scour- ing Villeroy. In the mean time, Estrague's regiment bad made a post of a few houses in the great square ; Count Revel had given the word, " French to the ram- parts," and retook All-Saints' Gate, while M. Prasiin made head against the Imperial Cavalry patrols. But when Revel attempted to push further round the ramparts, and regain St. Margaret's Gate, he was repulsed with heavy loss, and D'Arenes. who seems to have been everywhere, was wounded. It was now ten o'clock in the day, and Mahony had received orders to fight his way from the Po to the Mantua Gate, leaving a detachment to guard the rampart from which he had driven Merci. He pushed on, driving the enemy's infantry before him, but suffering much from their fire, when Baron Frei- berg, at the head of a regiment of Imperial Cuiras- siers, burst into Dillon's regiment. For a while their case seemed desperate ; but, almost naked as they were, they grappled with their foes. The linen shirt and the steel cuirass — the naked footman, and xhe harnessed cavalier met, and the conflict wag desperate and doubtful. Just at this moment Ma- hony grasped the bridle of Freiberg's horse, and bid him ask quarter. " No quarter to-day," said Irei- berg, dashing his spurs into his horse. He was in- stantly shot. The cuirassiers saw and paused ; the Irish shouted and slashed at them. The volley came better, and the sabres wavered. Few of the cuiras- siers lived to fly ; but all who survived did fly ; and there stood those glorious fellows in the wintry streets, bloody, triumphant, half-naked. Bourke lost seven officers and forty-two soldiers killed, and nine officers and fifty soldiers wounded. Dillon had one officer and forty-nine soldiers killed, and twelve officers and seventy-nine soldiers wounded. But what matter for death or wounds ! Cremona is saved. Eugene waited long for Vaudemont, but the French, guarded from Merci's attack by the Irish picket of 35, had ample time to evacuate the redoubt, and ruin the bridge of boats. On hearing of Freiberg's death, Eugene made an effort to keep the town by frightening the council. On hearing of the destruction of the bridge he de- spaired, and effected his retreat with consummate skill, retaining Villeroy and 100 other officers pris- oners. Europe rang with applause. Mr. Forman men- tions what we think a very doubtful saying of King William's about this event. There is no such ques- tion as to King Louis. He sent his public and for- mal thanks to them, and raised their pay forthwith We would not like to meet the Irishman who knowing these facts, would pass the north of Italy,, and not track the steps of the Irish regiments through the streets and gates and ramparts of Cre- mona. BALLADS AND SONGS OF THE BRIGADE. In the campaigns of 1703, the Irish distinguished themselves under Vendome in Italy, at Vittoria, Luz- zara, Cassano, and Calcinate-, and still more on the Rhine. When Villars won the battle of Freidlin- gen, the Irish had their share of the glory. At Spires, when Tallard defeated the Germans, they had more. Tallard had surprised the enemy, but their commander, the Prince of Hesse, rallied his men, and, although he had three horses shot under him. he repelled the attack, and was getting Ms troops well into hand. At this crisis Nugent's regiment of horse was ordered to charge a corps of German cuirassiers. They did so effectually. The German cavalry was tut up ; the French infantry, thus covered, returned to their work, and Hesse was finally defeated with nmense loss. And now the fortunes of France began to waver, but the valor of the Brigade did not change. It is impossible, in our space, to do more than glance at the battles in which they won fame amid general defeat. At the battle of Hochstet, or Blenheim, in 1704, Marshal Tallard was defeated and taken prisoner by Marlborough and Eugene. The French and Bava- is lost 10,000 killed, 13,000 prisoners, and 90 pieces of cannon. Yet, amid this monstrous disaster, Clare's dragoons were victorious over a portion of Eugene's famous cavalry, and took two standards. And in the battle of Ramillies, in 1706, where Ville- roy was utterly routed, Clare's dragoons attempted to cover the wreck of the retreating French, broke through an English regiment, and followed them into the thronging van of the Allies. Mr. Forman states that they were generously assisted out of this predicament by an Italian regiment, and succeeded in carrying off the English colors they had taken. At the sad days of Oudenarde and Malplaquet, some of them were also present ; but to the victories tvhich brightened this time, so dark to France, the Brigade contributed materially. At the battle of Al- manza (13th March, 1707), several Irish regiments served under Berwick. In the early part of the day the Portuguese and Spanish auxiliaries of England were broken, but the English and Dutch fought suc- cessfully for a long time ; nor was it till repeatedly charged by the elite of Berwick's army, including the Irish, that they were forced to retreat : 3,000 killed, 10,000 prisoners, and 120 standards attested the magnitude of the victory. It put King Philip on the throne of Spain. In the siege of Barcelona, Dil- lon's regiment fought with great effect. In their ranks was a boy of twelve years old ; he was the son of a Gal way gentleman, Mr. Lally, or O'Lally, of Tul- loch na Daly, and his uncle had sat in James's par- liament of 1689. This boy, so early trained, was afterwards the famous Count Lally de Tollendal, whose services in every part of the globe make his execution a stain upon the honor as well as upon the justice of Louis XVI. And when Villars swept off lie whole of Albemarle's battalions at Denain, in 1712, the Irish were in his van. The treaty of Utrecht, and the dismissal of Marl- borough put an end to the war in Flanders, but still many of the Irish continued to serve in Italy and Germany, and thus fought at Parma, Guastalla, and Philipsburg. In the next war their great and pecu liar achievement was at the battle of Fontenoy. Louis in person had laid siege to Tournay ; Marshal Saxe was the actual commander, and had under him 79,000 men. The Duke of Cumberland advanced at the head of 55,000 men, chiefly English and Dutch, to relieve the town. At the duke's approach, Saxe and the King advanced a few miles from Tournay with 45,000 men, leaving 18,000 to continue the siege, and 6,000 to guard the Scheld. Saxe posted his army along a range of slopes thus : his centre was on the village of Fontenoy, his left stretched off through the wood of Barri, his right reached to the town of St. Antoine, close to the Scheld. He fortified his right and centre by the villages of Fontenoy and St. Antoine, and redoubts near them. His extreme left was also strengthened by a redoubt in the wood of Barri, but his left centre, between the wood and the village of Fontenoy, waB not guarded by any thing save slight lines. Cumberland had the Dutch, under Waldeck, on his left, and twice they attempted to carry St. Antoine, but were repelled with heavy loss. The same fate attended the English in the centre, who thrice forced their way to Fontenoy, buf returned fewer and sadder men. Ingoldsby was then ordered to attack the wood of Barri with Cum- berland's right. He did so, and broke into the wood, when the artillery of the redoubt suddenly opened on him, which, assisted by a constant fire from the French tirailleurs (light infantry), drove him back. The duke resolved to make one great and final effort. He selected his best regiments, veteran Eng- lish corps, and formed them into a single column of 6,000 men. At its head were six cannon, and as many more on the flanks, which did good service. Lord John Hay commanded this great mass. Every thing being now ready, the column advanced Blowly and evenly, as if on the parade-ground. It mounted the slope of Saxe's position, and pressed on between the woods of Barri and the village of Fonte- noy. In doing so, it was exposed to a cruel fire of artillery and sharp-shooters ; but it stood the storm, and got behind Fontenoy. The moment the object of the column was seen, the French troops were hurried in upon them. The cavalry charged ; but the English hardly paused to offer the raised bayonet, and then poured in a fatal fire. They disdained to rush at the picked infantry of France. On they went till within a short distance, and then threw in their balls with great precision, the officers actually laying their canes along the muskets, to make the men fire low Mass after mass of infantry was broken, and on went the column, reduced, but still apparently invincible. Due Richelieu had four cannon hurried to the front, and he literally battered the head of the column, while the hoiisehold cavalry surrounded them, and, in repeated charges, wore down their strength, but these French were fearful sufferers. Louis was about to leave the field. In this juncture Saxe ordered up his last reserve — the Irish Brigade. It consisted, that day, of the regiments of Clare, Lally, Dillon, Berwick, Roth, and Buckley, with Fitzjaines's horse, O'Brien. Lord Clare was in command. Aided by the French regiments of Normandy and Vaisseany, they were or- dered to charge upon the flank of the English with fixed bayonets, without firing. Upon the approach of this splendid body of men, the English were halted on the slope of a hill, and up that slope the Brigade rushed rapidly and in fine order. "They were led to immediate action, and the stimulating cry of 'Cuimhnigidh ar Luimneac agus ar ffieiie na Sacsanach' 1 was re-echoed from man to man. The fortune of the field was no longer doubtful, and victory the most decisive crowned the arms of France." The English were weary with a long day's fight- ing, cut up by cannon, charge, and musketry, and dispirited by the appearance of the Brigade — fresh, and consisting of young men in high spirits and discipline — still they gave their fire well and fatally : but they were literally stunned by the shout and shattered by the Irish charge. They broke before the Irish bayonets, and tumbled down the far side 1 " Remember Limerick and British filth." of the hill, disorganized, hopeless, and falling by hundreds. The Irish troops did not pursue them far : the French cavalry and light troops pressed on till the relics of the column were succored by some English cavalry, and got within the batteries of their camp. The victory was bloody and complete. Louis is said to have ridden down to the Irish bivouac, and personally thanked them ; and George II., on hi-aring it, uttered that memorable imprecation on the Penal Code, " Cursed be the laws which deprived me of such subjects." The one English volley, and the short struggle on the crest of the hill, cost the Irish dear. One-fourth of the officers, including Colonel Dillon, were killed, and one-third of the men. Their history, after Fontenoy.may be easily given] In 1747 they carried the village of Laufeld, after three attacks, in which another Colonel Dillon. 130 other officers, and 1,600 men were killed ; and in 1751 they were at Maestricht. Lally's regiment served in India, and the other regiments in Germany, during the war from 1756 to 1762 ; and during the American war, they fought in the French West India Islands. At this time they were greatly reduced, and at the Revolution completely broken up. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN, THE RECLUSE OP INCHIDONT. (Ir will be at once seen that these Poems have all been written long before the passing of the Relief Bill. To none more than to the writer could the pleasing prospects opened up by the enact- ment of this healing measure be more truly or sincerely gratifying. To behold the unworthy fetters of a noble and gallant nation riven, her energies unbound, her centuries of strife and disunion termi- nated, and the day of her liberation and repose arrived, was a consummation which, though devoutly desired, was scarcely to be looked for in his generation ; and were these Poems to be now re- written, doubtless the tone of sorrow and despondency which per- haps too much pervades them would give place to one more cheerful and congenial to the altered circumstances of Ireland. In the east, as well as in the west, of Europe, the prospect is equally cheering. While Ireland has been unsealing and purging her long-abusod vision, the cause of freedom has not stood still in « country too much akin to her in fate and misrule. Greece has happily shaken off her iron bondage; her independence may now be considered as achieved, and the shout of Freedom once more be heard on the mountains of Hellas— in the pass of Thermopylae. This is a pleasing state of things ; but how shall we speak of tj'ose degenerate nations of the south, of Naples and of the PeniDBnla? They have permitted the young hope of their freedom to be stran- gled in its cradle, and submitted their necks to a yoke as baneful ftnd contemptible as ever bowed down a people. In thesa conn- tries, the tide of liberty was setting in with impetuous strength when these Poems were written. That it has been partially checked, he must lament; but that it must eventually prevail, need admit of little fear or question.) Once more I'm free — the city's din is gone, And with it wasted days and weary nights ; But bitter thoughts will sometimes rush upon The heart that ever loved its sounds or sights. To you I fly, lone glens and mountain heights, From all I hate and much I love — no more Than this I seGk, amid your calm delights, To learn my spirit's weakness to deplore, To strive against one vice, and gain one virtue more. How firm are our resolves, how weak our strife ! We seldom man ourselves enough to brave The syren tones that o'er the sea of life Breathe dangerously sweet from Pleasure's False are the lights she kindles o'er the wave. Man knows her beacon's fatal gleam nor flies, But as the bird which flight alone could save Still loves the serpent's fascinating eyes, Man seeks that dangerous light, and in the en- joyment dies. But even when Pleasure's cup the brightest glow'd, And to her revel loudest was the call, I felt her palace was not my abode, I fear'd the handwriting upon the wall, And said, amidst my blindness and my thrall, Could I, as he of Nazareth did do, But grasp the pillars of her dazzling hall And feel again the strength that once I knew, I'd crumble her proud dome, though I should perish too. Is it existence, 'mid the giddy throng Of those who live but o'er the midnight bowl, To revel in the dance, the laugh, the song, And all that chains to earth the immortal soul — To breathe the tainted air of day; that roll In one dark round of vice — to hear the cries Indignant virtue lifts to Glory's goal, When with unfetter'd pinion she would rise To deeds that laugh at death and live beyond the skies ? Not such at least should be the poet's life, Heaven to his soul a nobler impulse gave : His be the dwelling where there is no strife, Save the wild conflict of the wind and wave ■ His be the music of the ocean cave, When gentle waves, forgetful of their wai, THE POEMS OF J. J. (JALLANAN. Its rugged breast with whispering fondness lave ; And as he gazes on the evening star, His heart will heave with joys the world can never mar. O Nature, what art thou that thus canst pour Such tides of holy feeling round the heart? — Tn all thy various works at every hour. How sweet the transport which thy charms impart! But sweetest to the pensive soul thou art, In this calm time to man in mercy given, When the dark mists of Passion leave the heart, And the free soul, her earthly fetters riven, Spreads her aspiring wing and seeks her native heaven. There is a bitterness in man's reproach, Even when his voice is mildest, and we deem That on our heaven-born freedom they en- croach, And with their frailties are not what they seem ; But the soft tones in star, in flower, or stream, Over the unresisting bosom gently flow, Like whispers which some spirit, in a dream, Brings from her heaven to him she loved below, To chide and win his heart, from earth, and sin, Who, that e'er wander'd in the calm blue night, To see the moon upon some silent lake, And as it trembled to her kiss of light, Heard low soft sounds from its glad waters break — Who that look'd upward to some mountain peak, That rose disdaining earth — or o'er the sea Sent eye, sent thought in vain its bounds to seek — Who thus could gaze, nor wish his soul might be Like those great works of God, sublime and pure and free ? Do I still see them, love them, live at last Alone with nature here to walk unseen ! To look upon the storms that I have pass'd, And think of what I might be or have been? To read my life's dark page ? — beauteoui queen, That won my boyish heart and made me be Thy inspiration's child — if on this green And sea-girt hill I feel my spirit free, Next to yon ocean's God, the praise be aH thee. Spirit of Song ! since first I wooed thy smile, How many a sorrow hath this bosom known, How many false ones did its truth beguile, From thee and nature ! While around it strown Lay shatter'd hopes and feelings, thou alone Above my path of darkness brightly rose, Yielding thy light when other light was gone : Oh, be thou still the soother of my woes, 'Till the low voice of Death shall call me to re- pose. I've seen the friend whose faith I thought was proved, Like one he knew not, pass me heedless by ; I've marked the coldness of the maid I loved, And felt the chill of her once beaming eye; The bier of fond ones has received my sigh : Yet I am not abandon'd, if among The chosen few whose names can never die, Thy smile shall light me life's dark waste along, No friend but this wild lyre — no heritage but song. 'Tis a delightful calm ! there is no sound, Save the low murmur of the distant rill ; A voice from heaven is breathing all around, Bidding the earth and restless man be still ; - Soft sleeps the moon on Inchidony's' hill ; And on the shore the shining ripples break Gently and whisperingly at Nature's will, Like some fair child that on its mother's cheek Sinks fondly to repose in kisses pure and meek 'Tis sweet, when earth and heaven such si- lence keep, With pensive step to gain some headland's height, And look across the wide extended deep, . To where its farthest waters sleep in light ; Or gaze upon those orbs so fair and bright, Stiil burning on in heaven's unbounded space, THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 553 Like Seraphs bending o'eT life's dreary night, And with their look of love, their smile of peace, Wooing the weary soul to her high resting- place. Such was the hour the harp of Judah pour'd Those strains no lyre of earth had ever rung, When to the God his trembling soul adored O'er the rapt chords the minstrel monarch hung. Such was the time when Jeremiah sung With more than Angel's grief the sceptre torn From, Israel's land, the desolate streets among: Ruin gave back his cry 'till cheerless morn, " Keturn thee to thy God, Jerusalem, return." loved thee Fair moon, 1 too still, Though life to me hath been a chequered scene Since first with boyhood's bound I climb'd the hill To see the dark wave catch the silvery sheen ; ' Or when I sported on my native green With many an innocent heart beneath thy ray, Careless of what might come or what had been, — "When passions slept and virtue's holy ray Shed its unsullied light round childhood's lovely Yes, I have loved thee, and while others spent This hour of heaven above the midnight bowl, Oft to the lonely beach my steps were bent, That I might gaze on thee without control, That I might watch the white clouds round thee roll Their drapery of heaven thy smiles to veil, As if too pure for man, 'till o'er my soul Came that sweet sadness none can e'er reveal, But passion'd bosoms know, for they alone can feel. Oh that I were once more what I was then, With soul uusullied and with heart unsear'd, Before I mingled with the herd of men In whom all trace of man had disappear'd ; Before the calm pure morning star that cheer'd And sweetly lured me on to virtue's shrine Was clouded — or the cold green turf was rear'd Above the hearts that warmly beat to mine ! Could I be that once more, I need not now re- What form is that in yonder anchor'd bark, Pacing the lonely deck, when all beside Are hush'd in sleep ? — though undefined and dark, His bearing speaks him one of birth and pride. Now he leans o'er the vessel's landward side. This way his eye is turn'd — Hush, did I hear A voice as if some loved one just had died ? 'Tis from yon ship that wail comes on mine ear, And now o'er ocean's sleep it floats distinct and clear. On Cleada's' hill the moon is bright, Dark Avondu 4 still rolls in light, All changeless is that mountain's head, That river still seeks ocean's bed, The calm bine waters of Loch Lene Still kiss their own sweet isles of green, But where's the heart as firm and true As hill, or lake, or Avondu ? It may not — be the firmest heart From all it loves must often part, i Oleada and Cahlrbearoa (the Mil of the four gaps) form part of the chain of mountains which stretches westward from Mill- street to Klllarney. 3 Avondu, the Blackwater (Avunduff of Spenser). There are several rivers of this name in the counties of Cork and Kerry, but the one here mentioned is by far the most considerable. It rises in a boggy mountain called Meenganine, in the latter county, and discharges itself into the sea at Toughal. For the length of its course and the beauty and variety of scenery through which it lows, it is superior I believe to any river in Monster. It is sub- ject to very high floods, and from its great rapidity and the havoe which it commits on those occasions, sweeping before it corn, cattle, and sometimes even cottages, one may not inaptly apply to it what Virgil says of a more celebrated river: Proluit insario contorqnens vortice silvas, Eex fluviorum Eridanus. Spenser thus beautifully characterizes some of our principal Irish rivers, though he has made a mistake with regard 1o tba Alio; it is the Blackwater that passes through Sliav-logher There was the Lime rolling down the lea, The sandy Siane, the stony Au-brian, The spacious Shenan, spreading like a sea, The pleasant Foyne, the fishy, fruitful Ban, Sweet AwnidufiF, which of the Englishman I-s called Blackwater, and the Liflar deep, Sad Trowis, that once his people overran, Strong Alio tumbling from Slew-logher steep, And Mull»raine whose waves I whilom taught to weep. 554 THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. A look, a word will quench the flame That time or fate could never tame ; And there are feelings proud and high That through all changes cannot die, That strive with love, and conquer too : I knew them all by Avondu ! How cross and wayward still is fate I've learn'd at last, but learn'd too late. I never spoke of love, 'twere vain — I knew it, still I dragg'd my chain : I had not, never had a hope, But who 'gainst passion's tide can cope ? Headlong it swept this bosom through, And left it waste by Avondu. Avondu, I wish I were Ab once upon that mountain bare, Where thy young waters laugh and shine On the wild breast of Meenganine ! 1 wish I were by CHeada's hill, Or by Glenluachra's rushy rill ! But no ! I never more shall view Those scenes I loved by Avondu. Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks Of evening on the beauteous Reeks !' Farewell, ye mists that loved to ride On Cahir-bearna's stormy side! Farewell November's moaning breeze, Wild Minstrel of the dying trees ! Clara ! a fond farewell to you — No more we meet by Avondu. No more — but thou, O glorious hill, Lift to the moon thy forehead still ; Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river Upon thy free wild course forever ; Exuit, young hearts, in lifetime's spring, And taste the joys pure love can bring ; But, wanderer, go— they're not for you ! Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondu. To-morrow's breeze shall swell the sail That bears me far from Innisfail, But, lady, when some happier youth Shall see thy worth and know thy truth, Some lover of thy native land Shall woo thy heart and win thy hand, Oh think of him who loved the'e too, And loved in vain my Avondu. > Maogillacuddy's Reeks, in the neighborhood of F the highest mountains in Munster. For a deseript and of the celebrated hikes of that place, see Weld's : Uj the best and ino.-.t correct work on ttie subject. n of these, illarney, by One hour, my bark and I shall be All friendless on the unbounded sea. No voice to cheer me but the wave And winds that through the cordage rave, No star of hope to light me home, No track but ocean's trackless foam. — 'Tis sad — no matter, all is gone — Ho ! there, my lads, weigh quick, and on ! Stranger, thy lay is sad : I too have felt That which for worlds I would not feel again. At beauty's shrine devoutly have I knelt, And sigh'd my prayer of love, but sigh'd in vain. Yet 'twas not coldness, falsehood, or disdain That crush'd my hopes and cast me far away, Like shatter'd bark upon a stormy main ; 'Twas pride, the heritage of sin and clay, Which darkens all that's bright in young Love's sunny day. 'Tis past — I've conquer'd, and my bonds are broke, Though in the conflict well-nigh broke my heart. Man cannot tear him from so sweet a yoke Without deep wounds that long will bleed ana smart. Loved one but lost one ! — yes, to me thou art As some fair vision of a dream now flown, A wayward fate hath made us meet and part, Yet have we parted nobly ; be mine own The grief that e'er we met — that e'er 1 live alone I But man was born for suffering, and to bear Even pain is better than a dull repose. 'Tis noble to subdue the rising tear, 'Tis glorious to outlive the heart's sick throes. Man is most man amidst the heaviest woes, And strongest when least human aid is given; The stout bark flounders when the tempeet blows, The mountain oak is by the lightning riven, But what can crush the mind that lives alone with Heaven ? Deep in the solitude of his own heart With his own thoughts he'll hold communion high, Though with his fortune's ebb false friends de- part And leave him on life's desert shore to lie. Though all forsake him and the world belie — The world, that fiend of scandal, stiitL-, and crime — THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 555 .Yet has he that which cannot change or die, His spirit still, through fortune, fate, and time, Lives like an Alpine peak, lone, stainless, and sublime. Well spoke the Moralist, who said, " The more I mix'd with men the less a man I grew :" Who can behold their follies nor deplore The many days he prodigally threw Upon their sickening vanities ! Ye few In whom I sought for men, nor sought in vain, Proud without pride, in friendship firm and true, Oh that some far-off island of the main Held you and him you love ! The wish is but a pain. My wishes are all such — no joy is mine, Save thus to stray my native wilds among, On some lone hill an idle verse to twine Whene'er my spirit feels the gusts of song. They come but fitfully, nor linger long, And this sad harp ne'er yields a tone of pride ; Its voice ne'er pour'd the battle-tide along Since freedom sunk beneath the Saxon's stride, And by the assassin's steel the gray-hair'd Des- mond' died. Ye deathless stories and immortal songs, That live triumphant o'er the waste of time, To whose inspiring breath alone belongs To bid man's spirit walk on earth sublime, Know his own worth, and nerve his heart to climb The mountain steeps of glory and of fame — How vainly would my cold and feeble rhyme Burst the deep slumber, or light up the shame, Of men who still are slaves amid your voice of 1 Gerald, Earl of Desmond. The vast estate of this nobleman la Desmond (South Munster) was the cauBe of his ruin. It held ont to his enemies too strong a temptation to be resisted, and the chief governors of Ireland determined to seize upon it by any moans. Without having committed any overt act of high trea- son, or done any thing inconsistent with the duty and peaceful demeanor of a subject (unless some private quarrels with the rival house of Ormond could be construed into such), he was declared a traitor, and driven, in his own defence, into a rebellion which, by letters expressive of his unshaken loyalty to her majesty, and by every possiblo means, lie endeavored to avoid. After having undergone incredible hardships and privations, he was surprised by night in a cabin near Tralee, by one Kelly of Morierta and twenty-flve of his kerns employed for the purpose by Orinond. Kelly struck off his head, which was sent to the Queen, by whose order it was impaled on London bridge. For this barbarous mur- der of a helpless and persecuted old man, Kelly received a pension of forty pounds a year, but was afterwards hanged at Tybnrn. Yet, outcast of the nations — lost one, yet How can I look on thee nor try to save, Or in thy degradation all forget That 'twas thy breast that nursed me, though a slave ? Still do I love thee for the life you gave, Still shall this harp be heard above thy sleep, Free as the wind and fearless as the wave : Perhaps in after days thou yet mayst leap At strains unheeded now, when I lie cold andi Sad one of Desmond, could this feeble hand But teach thee tones of freedom and of fire, Such as were heard o'er Hellas' glorious land, From the high Lesbian harp or Chian lyre, Thou shouldst not wake to sorrow, but aspire To themes like theirs : but yonder see, where hurl'd The crescent prostrate lies — the clouds retire From freedom's heaven — the cross is wide un- furl'd ; There breaks again that light — the beacon of the World ! Is it a dream that mocks thy cheerless doom! Or hast thou heard, fair Greece, her voice at last, And brightly bursting from thy mouldering tomb, Hast thou thy shroud of ages from thee cast f High swelling in Cantabria's mouutain blast, And Lusitanian hills, that summons rung Like the Archangel's voice ; and as it pass'd, Quick from their death-sleep many a nation sprung With hearts by freedom fired and hands for free- dom strung. ! 'tis a lovely soul-entrancing sight To see thy sons careering o'er that wave, Which erst in Salamis' immortal fight Bore their proud galleys 'gainst the Persian slave : Each billow then that was a tyrant's grave Now bounds exulting round their gallant way Joyous to feel once more the free, the brave, High lifted on their breast, as on that day When Hellas' shout peal'd high along her con- quering bay. Nursling of freedom, from her mountain ness She early taught thine eagle wing to soar 55G THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. With eye undazzled and with fearless breast To heights of glory never reach'd before. Far on the cliff of time, all grand and hoar, Proud of her charge, thy lofty deeds she rears With her own deathless trophies blazoned o'er, As mind-marks for the gaze of after-years — Vainly they journey on — no match for thee ap- pears. But be not thine, fair land, the dastard strife Of yon degenerate race. Along their plains They heard that call — they started into life, They felt their limbs a moment free from chains : The foe came on : — but shall the minstrel's strains Be sullied by the story ? Hush, my lyre, Leave them amidst the desolate waste that reigns Round tyranny's dark march of lava-fire — Leave them amid their shame — their bondage, to expire. Oh, be not thine such strife — there heaves no sod Along thy fields but hides a hero's head ; And when you charge for freedom and for God, Then — then be mindful of the mighty dead! Think that your field of battle is the bed Where slumber hearts that never fear'd afoe; Arid while you feel at each electric tread Their spirit through your veins indignant glow, Strong be your sabre's sway for Freedom's venge- ful blow. Oh ! sprung from those who by Eurotas dwelt, Have ye forgot their deeds on yonder plain, When, pouring through the pass, the Persian felt The band of Sparta was not there in vain — Have ye forgot how o'er the glorious slain Greece bade her bard the immortal story write ? Oh ! if your bosoms one proud thought retain Of those who perish'd in that deathless fight, Awake, like them be free, or sleep with names as bright. Relics of heroes, from your glorious bed, Amid your broken slumbers, do you feel The rush of war loud thundering o'er your head? Hear ye the sound of Hellas' charging steel, Hear ye the victor cry — The Moslem reel ! On, Greeks, for freedom, on — they fly, they fly I Heavens! how the aged mountains know that peal, Through all their echoing tops, while grand and high Thermopyla's deep voice gives back the proud reply ! Oh for the pen of him whose bursting tear Of childhood told his fame in after-days ; Oh for that Bard to Greece and freedom dear, The Bard of Lesbos with his kindling lays, To hymn, regenerate land, thy lofty praise, Thy brave unaided strife — to tell the shame Of Europe's freest sons, who 'mid the rays Through time's far vista blazing from thy name, Caught no ennobling glow from that immortal flame! Not even the deeds of him who late afar Shook the astonish'd nations with his might, Not even the deeds of her whose wings of war Wide o'er the ocean stretch their victor flight — Not they shall rise with half the unbroken light Above the waves of time, fair Greece, as thine ; Earth never yet produced in Heaven's high sight. Through all her climates, offerings so divine As thy proud sons have paid at Freedom's sacred shrine. Ye isles of beauty, from your dwelling blue, Lift up to Heaven that shout unheard too long ; Ye mountains, steep'd in gle-y's distant hue, If with you lives the memory of that song Which freedom taught you, the proud strain prolong, Echo each name that in her cause hath died, 'Till grateful Greece enrol them with the throng Of her illustrious sons, who on the tide Of her immortal verse eternally shall glide. And be not his forgot, the ocean-bard, Whose heart and harp in Freedom's causa were strung. For Greece self-exiled, seeking no reward, Tyrtseus of his time, for Greece he sung : For her on Moslem spears his breast he flung. Many bright names in Hellas met renown, But brighter ne'er in song or story rung THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. Than his, who late for freedom laid him down, And with the Minstrel's wreath entwined her martyr's crown. That Minstrel sings no more ! from yon sad isles A voice of wail was heard along the deep : Britannia caught the sound amid her smiles, Forgot her triumph songs and tuin'd to weep. Vainly her grief is pour'd above his sleep, He fee'ls it, hears it not! the pealing roar Of the deep thunder, and the tempest's sweep That call'd his spirit up so oft before, May shout to him in vain ! their Minstrel wakes no more. That moment heard ye the despairing shriek Of Missolonghi's daughters ? did ye hear That cry from all the islands of the Greek, And the wild yell of Suli's mountaineer? The Illyrian starting dropp'd his forward spear, The fierce Chimariot leant upon his gun, From his stern eye of battle dropp'd the tear For him who died that Freedom might be won For Greece and all her race. 'Tis gain'd, but he is gone. Too short he dwelt amongst us, and too long: Where is the bard of earth will now aspire To soar so high upon the wing of song? Who shall inherit now his soul of fire, His spirit's dazzling light ? Vain man, retire, 'Mid the wild heath of Albyn's loneliest glen ; Leave to the winds that now forsaken lyre, Until some angel-bard come down again And wake once more those strains, too high, too sweet for men. The sun still sets along Morea's hill, The moon still rises o'er Cithseron's height; But where is he, the bard whose matchless skill Gave fresher beauty to their march of light ? The blue ^Egean, o'er whose waters bright Was pour'd so oft the enchantment of his strain, Seeks him ; and through the wet and starless night The Peaks-of-thunder flash and shout in vain, For him who sung their strength — he ne'er shall sing again. What though, descended from a lofty line, Earth's highest honors waited his command, And bright his father's coronet did shine Around his brow ; he scorn'd to take his stand With those whose names must die — a nobler band, A deathless fame his ardent bosom fired, From Glory's mount he saw the promised land To which his anxious spirit long aspired, And then in Freedom's arms exulting he expired. You who delight to censure feeble man, Wrapt in self-love to your own failings blind, Presume not with your narrow view to scan The aberrations of a mighty mind. His course was not the path of human-kind, His destinies below were not the same : With passions headlong as the tempest-wind, His spirit wasted in its own strong flame : A wandering star of heaven, he's gone from whence he came. But while the sun looks down upon those isles That laugh in beauty o'er the ^Egean deep, Long as the moon shall shed her placid smiles Upon the fields where Freedom's children sleep — Long as the bolt of heaven, the tempest's sweep, With Rhodope or Atbos war shall wage, And its triumphant sway the Cross shall keep Above the Crescent, even from age to age Shall Byron's name shine bright on Hellas' death- less page. Bard of my boyhood's love, farewell to thee ; I little deem'd that e'er my feeble lay Should wait thy doom — these eyes so soon should see The clouding of thy spirit's glorious ray. Fountain of beauty, on life's desert way Too soon thy voice is hush'd — thy waters dried : Eagle of song, too short thy pinion's sway Career'd in its high element of pride. Weep ! blue-eyed Albyn, weep ! with him thy glory died ! Oh i could my lyre, this inexperienced hand, Like that high master-bard thy spirit sway, Not such weak tributes should its touch com- mand — Immortal as the theme should be thy lay. But meeter honors loftier harps shall pay, THE POEMS 0¥ J. J. CALLANAN. ' The harps of freeborn men : enough for me, K as I journey on life's weary way. Mourner, I rest awhile to weep with thee, O'er him who loved our land, whose voice would make her free. My country, must I still behold thy tears And watch the sorrows of thy long dark eight ? No sound of joy thy desolation cheers, Thine eyes have look'd in vain for freedom's light. Then set thy sun and wither'd all thy might, When first you stoop'd beneath the Saxon yoke, And thy high harp, that call'd to freedom's fight, Since then forgot the strains that once it woke, And like the Banshee's cry of death alone hath spoke. Is this the Atlantic that before me rolls In its eternal freedom round thy shore ? Hath its grand march no moral yet for souls ? Is there no sound of glory in its roar? Must man alone be abject evermore ? Slave ! hast thou ever gazed upon that sea? When the strong wind its wrathful billows bore 'Gainst earth, did not their mission seem to be, To lash thee into life, and teach thee to be free? But no ! thine heart is broke, thine arm is weak, Who thus could see God's image not to sigh ; Famine hath plough'd his journeys on thy cheek, Despair hath made her dwelling in thine eye ; The lordly Churchman rides unheeding by, He fattens on the sweat that dries thy brain, The very dogs that in his kennel lie Hold revels to thy fare ! but don't complain, Tie has the cure of souls — the law doth so ordain. But you're not all abandon'd ; there are some Whose tender bowels groan to see your case. Rejoice, rejoice, the men of bibles come, There's pity beaming in their meek mild face. Come, starve no longer now, poor famish'd race, A bellyful from heaven shall now be thine, Open your mouths and chew the words of grace ; — There — is not that rent, clothes, and meat nnr] wine? Thanks to the Lord's beloved — I wonder do they dine. Oh, ye who loved them faithfully and long, Even when the fagot blazed the sword did rave, In sorrow's night who bid their hearts be strong, And died defending the high truths ye gave — Ye dwellers of the mountain and the cave, If lay of mine survive the waste of time, Your praises shall be hymn'd on land and wave, Till Christ's young soldiers in each distant clime Shall guard the Cross like you, and tread your march sublime. Ye watchers on the eternal city's walls, Ye warders of Jerusalem's high towers, When have your nights been spent in luxury's halls, Or your youth's strength consumed in pleasure's bowers ? Earth's gardens have for you no fruits, no flowers — Your path is one of thorns — the world may frown And hate you, but whene'er its war-cloud lowers, Stand to your arms again, nor lay them down Till the high Chief you serve shall call you to your crown. Could England's sons but see what I have seen, Your wretched fare when home at night you go. Your cot of mud, where never sound has been But groans of famine, of disease, and woe, Your naked children shivering in the snow, The wet cold straw on which your limbs re- cline, — Saw they but these, their wealth they would forego, To know you still retain'd one spark divine, To hear your mountain shout and see your charg- ing line. England 1 thou freest, noblest of the world, Oh, may the minstrel never live to see THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. Against thy sons the flag of green unfurl'd, Or his own land thus aim at liberty ; May their sole rivalry forever be Such as the Gallic despot dearly knew, When English hearts and Irish chivalry 1 Strove who should first be where the eagle flew, And high their conquering shout arose o'er Waterloo. But inds will round their caverns sweep Until they burst them — then the hills will quake. The lava-rivers will for ages sleep, But nations tremble when in wrath they wake. Erin has hearts by mountain, glen, and lake, That wrongs or favors never can forget ; If loved they'll die for you, but trampled, break At last their long dark silence : you have met Their steel in foreign field — they've hands can wield it yet. Too loog on such dark themes my song hath run: Eugenio, 'tis meet it now should end. It was no lay of gladness, but 'tis done, — I bid farewell to it and thee, my friend. I do not hope that the cold world will lend To sad and selfish rhymes a patient ear : Enough for me, if while I darkly bend O'er my own troubled thoughts, one heart is nea.r That feels my joy or grief, with sympathy sin- cere. I have not suffer'd more than worthier men, Nor of my share of ill do I complain ; But other hearts will find some refuge, when Above them lower the gathering clouds of pain. The world has vanities, and man is vain — The world has pleasures, and to these they fly. I too have tried them, but they left a stain Upon my heart, and as their tide roll'd by, The cares I sought to drown, emerged with sterner eye. Thou hast not often seen my clouded brow : The tear I strove with, thou hast never seen, — The load of life that did my spirit bow Was hid beneath a calm or mirthful mien. The wild-flower's blossom, and the dew-drops Will fling their light and beauty o'er the spot Where, in its cold dark chamber all unseen, The water trickles through the lonely grot, And weeps itself to stone, — such long hath been my lot. It matters not what was, or is the cause, I wish not even thy faithful breast to know The grief which magnet-like my spirit draws True to itself above life's waves of woe. The gleams of happiness I feel below, Awhile may play around me and depart, Like sunlight on the eternal hills of snow, It gilds their brow but never warms their heart. Such cold and cheerless beam doth joy to me impart. The night is spent, our task is ended now. See, yonder steals the green and yellow light, The lady of the morning lifts her brow Gleaming through dews of heaven, all pure and bright, The calm waves heave with tremulous delight, The far Seven-Heads' through mists of pur- ple smile, The lark ascends from Inchidony's height : 'Tis morning — sweet one of my native Isle, Wild voice of Desmond, hush — go rest thee for awhile. 1 Seven Heads — Dundeedy, Dunowen, Dunore, Duneene, Dnn- oowlg, Dunworly, and Dimgorly. On all tl Irish had formerly dnns, or castles. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. ACCESSION OP GEORGE THE FOURTH. On Albion's cliffs the sun is bright, And still Saint George's sea : O'er her blue hills' emerging height Hover soft clouds ot silvery light, As in expectancy ; The barks that seek the sister shore Fly gallantly the breeze before, Like messengers of joy, And light is every bosom's bound, And the bright eyes that glance around Sparkle with transport high. Hark ! the cannon's thundering voice Bids every British heart rejoice, Upon this glorious day. Slowly the lengthen'd files advance Mid trumpet swell and war-horse prance, While sabre's sheen and glittering lance Blaze in the noontide ray ; Streamer and flag from each mast-head On the glad breeze their foldings fling ; The bells their merry peals ring out, And kerchiefs wave an* banners flout, And joyous thousands loudly shout, Huzza for George our King ! 'Tis night — calm night, and all around The listening ear can catch no sound. The shouts that with departing day Less frequent burst, have died away : The moon slow mounts the cloudless sk"? With modest brow and pensive eye, — Thames owns her presence with delight And trembles to her kiss of night; Far down along his course serene The liquid flash of oars is seen, Advancing on with measured sweep, — Lovely to view is the time they keep : And hark ! the voice of melody Comes o'er the waters joyously ; It is from that returning boat Those sweet sounds of triumph float, And nearer as she glides along Mingling with music swells the song. Britannia, exult on thy throne of blue waters, In the midst of thine Islands, thou queen of the sea; And loud be the hymn of thy faii-bosom'd daughters To hail the high chief of the brave and the free. While o'er the subject deep Proudly your navies sweep, Tars of old England still shout o'er the main, 'Till the green depths of ocean ring, God save great George our King, Honor and glory and length to his reign ! Hush'd be your war-song, ye sons of the moun- tain, Pibroch of Donald Dhu, mute be thy voice, Wizzard that slept by Saint Fillan's gray foun- tain, With loyalty's rapture bid Scotia rejoice; Then to your stayless spear Albyn's brave mountaineer, Should foeman awake your wild slogan again, And loud o'er the battle sing, God save great George our King, Honor and glory and length to his reign ! Strike thy wild harp, yon green Isle of the ocean, And light as thy mirth be the sound of its strain, And welcome, with Erin's own burst of emotion, The Prince that shall loose the last links of thy chain ; And like the joyous cry Hellas' sons raised on high, When they stood like their fathers all frea OS the plain, Up the glad chorus fling, God save great George our King, Honor and glory and length to his reign I Chief of the mighty and the free, Thy joyous Britain welcomes thee, THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. Her longing eyes hav0 Greece ! thou ever honor'd name, By Freedom's self, that blessed name, Even in thy bondage and thy shame Think of the fields your fathers fought, Fondly around each youthful mind Think of the rights they dying bought — By all thy classic ties entwined, Hark ! hark ! they call you from their skies. How shall this lay address the free, Sons of the mighty, wake — arise ! Nor turn aside, sweet land, to thee, And oh, my country, shall there be Mother of Arts and Liberty ? From these wild chords no prayer for thee ? From thy bright pages first I drew Land of the minstrel's holiest dream, That soul that makes me part of you; Land of young beauty's brightest beam, There caught that spark of heavenly fire, The fearless heart, the open hand, If such e'er warms the minstrel's lyre, My own — my dear — my native land ! ■If e'er it breathes one waking tone •O'er Freedom's slumbers — 'tis thine own. And can the noble and the wise A nation's rightful prayer despise ; Can they who boast of being free Oh ! after bondage dark and long, Refuse that blessed boast to thee ? CouLd I but hear young Freedom's song, See yonder aged warrior brave, Aud scatter'd see the Moslem's pride Whose blood has been on sward and wave, Before thy battle's whelming tide, Is he refused his valor's meed • On that red field I'd gladly lie— Because he loves his father's creed ? My requiem thy conquering cry. Or is there in that creed alone, i Heavens! 'mid the sons of godlike sires What Valor, Genius, should disown ; Ts there no soul whom Freedom fires? To its fond votary is there given And is the lyre of Lesbos hung Less of the mounting flame of Heaven J iln slavery's hall, unswept, unstrung ? When his young hand essays the lyre, ds every glorious relic lost Oh ! can he wake no tone of fire ? Of that immortal patriot's ashes, Does war's stern aspect blanch his cheek- That, on the winds of freedom tost Does foeman find his arm more weak, Where Salamis' blue billow dashes, His eye less bright ? Oh, let them say Floated all burning from their pile, Who saw the sabre's fearful sway And slept on continent and isle, Cleave its red path through many a fray ; As if to fire with that embrace Who saw his minstrel banner waving His native land and all her race ? Where, war's wild din was wildest raving, It cannot be — there yet remain And heard afar the onset cry Some sparks of that high spirit's flame Of hearts that know to win, or die ' Oh, wake them with thy kindling breath, Oh, call a nation back from death ! Oh, Britain, had we never known Yes, capti\*s ! yes, at his command, The kindling breath of Freedom's zone ; Methinks I see Britannia stand, Or vanquish'd, had we still remain'd Where stood and died the Spartan band, In slavery's deepest dungeon chain'd, Where, rising o'er Thermopylae, Without one ray of Freedom's sun Thessalia's mountains view the sea, To wake our sighs for glories gone, Sparkling with all its sunny isles — Such cheerless thraldom we might bear Oh, how can slavery wear such smiles ? — With the dark meekness of despair : And Marathon's, Piataea's plain, But the chain'd eagle, when he sees And Thebes, w'hose heroes died in vain, His mates upon the mountain breeze, To each immortal scene about And marks their free wing upward soar The Queen of ocean sends her shout, To heights his own oft reach'd before, While hill and plain aud isle around Again that kindred clime he seeks — Answer to Freedom's long-lost sound. Bold bird, 'tis vain, thy wild heart breaks! THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. O monarch ! by a, monarch's name, By the high line from which yoti came, By that to each proud spirit dear, The lofty name that dies not here With life's short day, but round thi Breathes Immortality's perfume, By Royalty's protecting hand, Look on my dear, my native land. RESTORATION OF THE SPOILS OF ATHENS. Raise, Athens, raise thy loftiest tone, Eastward the tempest cloud hath blown ; Vengeance hung darkly on its wing : It burst in ruin ; — Athens, ring Thy loudest peal of triumphing; Persia is fallen : in smouldering heaps Her grand, her stately city sleeps. Above her towers exulting high, Susa has heard the victor's cry ; And Ecbatana, nurse of pride, Tells where her best, her bravest died. Persia is sad, — her virgins' sighs Through all her thousand States arise. Along Arbela's purple plain Shrieks the wild wail above the slain ; Long, long shall Persia curse the day When, at the voice of despot sway, Her millions marcli'd o'er Helle's wave To chain — vain boast — the free, the brave. Raise, Athens, raise thy triumph song ! Yet, louder yet, the peal prolong ! Avenged at length our slaughter'd sires ; Avenged the waste of Persian fires; And these dear relics of the brave, Torn from their shrines by Satrap slave, The spoils of Persia's haughty king, Again are thine — ring, Athens, ring I Oh ! Liberty, delightful name, The land that once hath felt thy flame, That loved thy light, but wept its clouding, Oh ! who can tell her joy's dark shrouding? But if to cheer that night of sorrow Mem'ry a ray of thine should borrow, That on her tears and on her woes, Sheds one soft beam of sweet repose, Oh ! who can tell her bright revealing, Her deep — her holy thrills of feeling ! So Athens felt, as fix'd her gaze On her proud wealth of better days : 'Twas not the Tripod's costly frame, Nor vase that told its artist's fame ; Nor veils high wrought with skill divine, That graced the old Minerva's shrine ; Nor marble bust where vigor breathed And beauty's living ringlets wreathed. Not these could wake that joyous tone, Those transports long unfelt — unknown— 'Twas memory's vision robed in light, That rush'd upon her raptured sight, Warm from the fields where freedom strove Fresh with the wreaths that freedom wove : This bless'd her then, if that could be — If aught is blest that is not free. But did no voice exulting raise To that high Chief the song of praise, And did no peal of triumph ring For Macedon's victorious king, Who from the foe those spoils had won ; Was there no shout for Philip s son ? No — Monarch — no — what is thy name, What is thine high career of fame, From its first field of youthful pride Where Valor fail'd and Freedom died, Onward by mad ambition fired 'Till Greece beneath its march expired! Let the base herd to whom thy gold Is dearer than the rights they soli, In secret, to their Lord and King, That foul unholy incense fling ; But let no slave exalt his voice Where hearts in glory's trance rejoice : Oh, breathe not now her tyrant's name Oh, wake not yet Athense's shame ! Would that the hour when Xerxes' ire Wrapt fair Athense's walls in fire, All, all had perish'd in the blaze, And that had been her last of days, — Gone down in that bright shroud of glory, The loveliest wreck in after story ! THE l'OEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. Or when her children, forced to roam — Freedom their stars, the \v;ives their home — Near Salamis' immortal isle, Would they had slept in victory's smile ; Or Cheronea's fatal day, While fronting slavery's dark array, Had seen them bravely, nobly die, Bosom on gushing bosom lie, Piling fair Freedom's breast-work high, Ere one Athenian sliould remain To languish life in captive chain, Or basely wield a freeman's sword Beneath a Macedonian lord ! Such then was Greece, — though conquer'd, chain'd, Some pride, some virtue, yet remain'd; And as the sun when down he glides Slowly behind the mountains' sides, Leaves in the cloud that robes the hill His own bright image burning still, Thus Freedom's lingering flushes shone O'er Greece, — though Freedom's self was gone. Snch then was Greece ! how fallen, how low! Yet great even then : what is she now! Who can her many woes deplore, Who shall her freedom's spoils restore ? Darkly above her slavery's night The crescent sheds its lurid light ; Upon her breaks no cheering ray, No beam of freedom's lovely day ; But there deep, shrouded in her doom, There now is Greece — a living tomb. Look at her sons, and seek in vain The indignant brow, the high disdain, With which the proud soul drags her chain; The living spark of latent fire That smoulders on, but can't expire, That bright beneath the loweriug lashes Will burst at times in angry flashes, Like Etna, fitful slumbers taking, To be but mightier in its waking. Spirits of those whose ashes sleep For freedom's cause in glory's bed ! Oh, do you sometimes come and weep That that is lost for which ye bled, That e'er barbarian flag should float O'er your own home, in victory's pride, That e're should ring barbarian shout Where Wisdom taught and Valor died? Oh for that minstrel's soul of fire That breathed, and Sparta's arm was strong I" Oh for some master of the lyre To wake again that kindling song ! And if, sweet land, aught lives of thee, What Hellas was she yet may be, Freedom, like her to Orpheus given, May visit yet her home — her heaven. THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. *Tls midnight, and November's gale Sweeps hoarsely down GlengaravV vale, 1 The following beautiful description of Glengarav and the B»y of Bantry is taken from the Rev. Horace Townsend's Statistical Survey of the County of Cork : "The Bay of Bantry, from almost every point of view, exhibits one of the noblest prospects, on a scale of romantic magnitude, that imagination can well conceive. The extent of this great body of water, from the eastern extremity to the ocean, is about twenty- five miles; the breadth, including the islands, from six to eight It contains, besides some small, two very large inlands, differing extremely from each other in quality and appearance, but perfectly •uited to the respective purposes of their different situations. Bear Island, very high, rocky, and coarse, standing a little within the mouth of the bay, braves the fury of tbe western waves, and forms, by the shelter of its li.rge body, a most secure and spacious naven. Safe in its more retired situation, at the upper end of the bay. the Island of Whiddy presents a surface of gentle inequalities, covered by a soil of uncommon richness and fenility. The gran- deur of the scene in which this noble expanse of water bears so conspicuous a part is greatly enhanced by the rugged variety of he surrounding mountains, particularly those on tbe west side, Through the thick rain its fitful tone ;Shrieks like a troubled spirit's moan, which far exceed the rest in altitude and boldness of form. Among these, Hungry-hill, riBing with a very steep ascent from- the water, raises his broad and majestic head, easily distinguish- able from a great distance, and far surpassing all tbe other moun- tains of this country in height and grandeur. The effect produced by such an assemblage of objects can hardly be conceived, and ia impossible to be described. The mind, filled and overborne by a prospect so various, so extended, so sublime, sinks beneath ita magnitude, and feeling the utter incapability of adequate expres- sion, rests upon the scene in silent and solemn admiration. The soul must be Insensible indeed which will not be moved by snob a contemplation to adore the God of nature, from wbom such mighty works proceed. Large as the ground of this groat picture is. it comes within the scope of human sight, a circumstance upon which the powerfulness of its impression materially depends. A. greater extension of the parts, by throwing them far from view, would diminish their effect, and a n-ductinn of their scale would lessen their grandeur. Much and justly as Killarney is celebrated for the beauty of Its scenes, no single view it affords can vie with this in sublimity of character and greatness of effect THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 565 The Moon that from her cloud at eve Look'd down on Ocean's gentle heave, And bright on lake and mountain shone, Now wet and darkling journeys on ; From the veil'd heaven there breaks no ray To guide the traveller on his way, Save when the lightning gilds awhile The craggy peak of Sliav-na-goil, Or its far-streaming flashes fall . Upon Glengarav's mountain wall, " But the place most celebrated for combining the softer graces of the waving wood, with the wildest rndeness of mountain as- pect, is Giengariff (the rough glen), situated on the north side of the bay, at the head of a small harbor or cove. The hills that enclose this romantic glen rise in great variety of rooky forma, their sides and hollows being covered profusely with trees and shrubs, among which the arbutus, rarely found to adorn our native woods, appears in a nourishing state. Here, as at Killarney, nature seems to have been at wanton variance with herself, and after exciting a war between two rival powers, to have decided in favor of the weaker party. Among stones of an immense Bize, thrown together in the wildest confusion, and apparently forbid- ding the possibility of useful produce, among bare and massive rocks, that should seem destined to reign forever in barren deso- lation, ariBes a luxuriance of sylvan growth, which art would hardly hope for in the happiest situations. The extent of this woody region, winding through the mountains for some miles, is very considerable, l'ron was formerly smelted in this neighbor- hood, when timber was more abundant and less valuable. A- river, abounding with salmon and sea-trout, runs through this glen, in dry weather (as Johnson observes of a similar situation), 'fretting over the asperities of a rooky bottom,' when swollen with rains, rolling a torrent of frightful magnitude into the bay. It is passed by a good stone bridge, attributed to Cromwell, and still bearing his name. "The last of nature's uncommon and astonishing displays that remains to be mentioned is the waterfall or cataract of Hungry- hill, in comparison with which O'Sullivan's Cascade at Killarney and the waterfall at Tower's-court, near Dublin, shrink into insig- nificance. The eye accustomed to the various wonders of Alpine scenery may doubtless viewthis stupendous fall with leas emotion, but what will the lowland inhabitant think of a river tumbled from the summit of a mountain elevated more than 2,000 feet above its base and almost perpendicular in its ascent. In the first part of its progress, the side of the hill is so steep as to suffer the water to fall from a vast height, unimpeded by the rocky projections which the spreading base of the mountain opposes to its descent in approaching the bottom. It thus assumes the double charac- ter of a fall and cataract. At the back of this great mountain are several lakes, one of which supplies the water of the fall. This grand and singular spectacle, often to be plainly distinguished from the town of Bantry, fourteen miles distant, appears in full majesty only after heavy falls of rain, sufficiently frequent in this district to give the inhabitants numerous opportunities of seeing it in all its glory." Thisis very clear and graphic; but it would be injustice to the reader to omit the following picture of Giengariff, by a gentleman, a resident of Bantry, whose fine poetical feeling and almost in- tuitive perception of the beautiful in natural scenery had happily fitted him for the task of describing this magnificent region, which he had undertaken In the ninth number of "Bolster's Maga- " After visiting some of the most picturesque parts of the south- western coast, we lingered a few days amid the enchanting wilds of Giengariff. We had the advantage of reviewing its wood- crowned steeps, gleaming under a cloudless Bky, in all the rich variety of tints which the fading glory of autumn left upon the frail but beautiful foliage. Less imposing in its mountain barriers than Killarney, and lesB enriched by the fanciful variety of spark- ling islands in its sea-views, the inland scenery exhibits a character equally magical and partakes as much of the seclusion, the loneliness, and the flowery wilds of fairy-land as any portion And kindles with its angry streak The rocky zone it may not break. At times is heard the distant roar Of billows warring 'gainst the shore ; And rushing from their native hills, The voices of a thousand rills Come shouting down the mountain's side, When the deep thunder's peal hath died. How fair at sunset to the view On its loved rock the Arbutus grew ! of the country on the borders of the lakes. The summer tourist who pays a hurried visit of a few hours to the Glen is by no means competent to pronounce an opinion upon its peculiar at- tractions. His eye may wander with delight over the startling irregularity of its hills and dales, but he has not time sufficient to explore the depths and recesses of its woodland solitude, in which the witching charms of this romantio region operate most forcibly on the mind. It is by treading its tangled pathways and wander- ing amid its secret dells that the charms of Giengariff become revealed in all their power. There the most fanciful and pic- turesque views spread around on every Bide. A twilight grove, terminating in a soft vale, whose vivid green appears as if it had been never violated by mortal foot ; a bower rich in the fragrant woodbine, intermingled with a variety of clasping evergreens drooping over a miniature lake of transparent brightness ; a lonely wild suddenly bursting on the sight, girded on all sides by grim aibd naked mountains; a variety of natural avenues, leading through the embowered wood to retreats in whose breathless solitude the very genius of meditation would appear to reside, or to golden glades, sonorous with the songs of a hundred foaming rills. But what appears chiefly to impress the mind in this se- cluded region is the deep conviction you feel that there is no dramatic effect in all you behold, no pleasing illusion of art; that it is nature you contemplate, snoh as she is in all her wildness and all her beauty. " The situation of Lord Bantry'B lodge is very picturesque ; the verdant swell on which it rises, and the tasteful arbors that sur- round it, appear in fine relief to the frowning hills in the rear. But although I consider what may be called the inland beauties of Giengariff the most striking and characteristic, I am far from depreciating its coast scenery. The view of Mr. White's castel- lated mansion and demesne from the water is very imposing. The architecture of the house, which corresponds with its situation, is In admirable keeping with the mountains In the background. The demesne is laid out in very good taste, exhibiting no violent triumph of art over nature, but that inimitable carelessness, that touching simplicity, which shows that she has not been subdued and conquered, but gently wooed and won. From a wooded steep on the old Berehaven road, to the norft of Cromwell's bridge, yon may command the most comprehensive view that Is afforded by any spot in the neighborhood of the Glen. " On the left, you have the entire woodland sweep of Giengariff stretching far to the south and east, and clothing many a hill in its imposing verdure, but disclosing most agreeable vistas, through which the mountain streams may be seen wildly rushing and sparkling in their course ; to the west, you have the lofty moun- tains of Berehaven, with their graceful outline terminated by the 'waste of waters wild,' whilst Lord Bantry's demesne lies to the Bouth in dim perspective. The sunset over Goul and Hungry, the most prominent in the western chain of mountains, as seen from Giengariff, or any of the heights in the neighborhood of Bantry, is particularly grand. The waterfall, which takes a leap of some hundred feet from the crest of the former, can sometimes be plain- ly distinguished at a distance of twenty miles, with its illuminated iris. The white mists with which its brows are frequently wreathed give this mountain a peculiarly Boft and graceful char- acters On a few occasions, it has exhibited an aspect of transcend- ent glory, having its entire figure veiled in a transparent curtain of the rainbow tint As you may suppose, the majority of the mountains in the neighborhood of the Glen are crowned with lakes ; no less than S65 of these Alpine reservoirs are to be found on the summit of one of them." 566 THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. How motionless the heather laj In the deep gorge of that wild oay 1 Through the tall forest not a breese Bisturb'd the silence of the trees ; O'er the calm scene their foliage red A venerable glory shed, And sad and sombre beauty gave To the wild hill and peaceful wave. To-morrow's early dawn will find That beauty Scatter'd on the wind ; To-morrow's sun will journey on And see the forest's glory gone — The Arbutus shiver'd on the rock Beneath the tempest's angry shock, The monarch Oak all scathed and riven By the red arrowy bolt of heaven ; While not a leaf remains behind, Save some lone mourner of its kind, Wither'd and drooping on its bough, Like him who treads that valley now. Alone he treads — still on the blast The sheeted rain is driving fast, And louder peals the thunder's crash, Louder the ocean's distant dash — Amid the elemental strife He walks as reckless, as if life Were but a debt he'd freely pay To the next flash that cross'd his way : Yet is there something in his air Of purpose firm that mocks despair; What that, and whither he would go Through storm and darkness, none may know ; But his unerring steps can tell, There's not a deer in that wild dell Can track its mazy depths so well. He gains the shore — his whistle shrill Is answer'd — ready at his will ; In a small cove his pinnace lay — " Weigh quick, my lads, I cross the bay." No question ask they, but a cheer Proclaims their bosoms know not fear. Sons of the mountain and the wave, They shrink not from a billowy grave. Those hearts have oft braved death before, 'Mid Erin's rocks and Biscay's roar ; Each lightly holds the life he draws, If it but serve his Chieftain's cause ; And thinks his toil full well he pays, If he bestow one word of praise. At length they've clear'd the narrow bay — Up with the sails, away ! away ! O'er the broad surge she flies as fleet As on the tempest's wing the sleet, And fearless as the sea-bird's motion Across his own wild fields of ocean. Though winds may wave and seas o'erwhelm, There is a hand upon that helm That can control its trembling power, And quits it not in peril's hour ; Full frequently from sea to sky That Chieftain looks with anxious eye, But naught can be distinguish'd there More desperate than his heart's despair. On yonder shore what means that light That flings its murky flame through night? Along the margin of the ocean It moves with slow and measured motion. Another follows, and behind Are torches flickering in the wind. Hark ! heard you on the dying gale From yonder cliffs the voice of wail ? 'Twas but the tempest's moaning sigh, Or the wild sea-bird's lonely cry. Hush! there again— I know it well. It is the sad TJlullaV swell, That mingles with the death-bell's toll Its grief for some departed soul. Inver-na-marc, s thy rugged shore Is alter'd since the days of yore, Where once ascending from the town A narrow path look'd fearful down, ■ Though Byron has Wulwulla and Campbell Ollolla, I have no« heBltoted to use the word, as no one has a better claim to it than an Irishman. ' J Inver-na-marc (the hay of ships), the old name for Bantry Bay. Inver (properly spelled In-mar) gives name to many places in Ireland ; it signifies a creek or bay. Inverary. Inverness, .fee, in Scotland, have the same origin. This bay is so large and well sheltered that all the ships in Europe might lie there in perfect security. In 16S9, there was a partial engagement here between the English fleet under Admiral Herbert and the French com- manded by Mons. Renault, in which the former had the worst of it, owing to a sreat part of the ships being unable to come into action. (See Wilson's Naval History.) The division of the French fleet which came to anchor here in the winter of 1796 never at- tempted a landing. A Bantry pilot, who ventured on board one of their ships and remained with them for a week, said that they spent the time in every species <>f amusement; their bands were continually playing, and they were very often seen from the shore dancing on deck. It is remarkable that it was in Irish they con- versed with this person. They questioned him about the state of the roads, which some of them appeared to know very well, and the disposition of the people. He was treated with the greatest kindness, and nothing but his having a family could have induced him to leave them. By this account, whioh we have hal lately verified in the Autobiography of Napper Tandy, there were ■ great number of Irishmen in the expedition THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. O'er the bleak cliffs which wildly gave Their rocky bosom to the wave. A beauteous and rtnrivall'd sweep Of beach extends along the deep ; Above is seen a sloping plain, I With princely house and fair domain, 1 Where erst the deer from covert dark I Gazed wildly on the anchor'd bark, Or listen'd the deep copse among f To hear the Spanish' seaman's song I Come sweetly floating up the bay, I With the last purple gleam of day. — All changed, even yon projecting steep That darkly bends above the deep, And mantles with its joyless shade I The waste that man and time have made. There, 'mid its tall and circling wood, In olden times an abbey stood : It stands no more — no more at even The vesper hymn ascends to Heaven; No more the sound of Matin bell Calls forth each father from his cell, Or breaks upon the sleeping ear Of Leim-a-tagart's* mountaineer, And bids him on his purpose pause, Ere yet the foraying brand he draws. Where are they now ? Go climb that height, Whose depth of shade yields scanty light, Where the dark alders droop their head O'er Ard-na-mrahar's 3 countless dead, 1 This place was formerly much frequented by the Spaniards. It carried on a very extensive trade in pilchards with Spain, Por- tugal, and Italy, but for these last seventy or eighty years not a pilchard has appeared on the coast. The following two instances, taken from " Smith's History of Cork," prove what an inexhaust- ible source of wealth and comfort the Irish fisheries would be if properly encouraged : "In 1749, Mr. Richard Mead, of Bantry, proved to the Dublin Society that he had in that year caught and cured 380,800 fish of different kinds, six score to the hundred; and in the preceding year, Mr. James Young, of the same place, caught and cured 482, 500 herrings and 231 barrels of sprats.'" One year with another, fish is as plentiful on this coast as at the above period. 3 Leim-a-tagart (the priest's leap) is a wild and dangerous moun- tain pass from Bantry into Kerry. The people dwelling about this spot have been from time immemorial noted creaoh drivers or forayers. They go by the name of Glannies, or the Glen boys, and so unsubdued, even at this day, is the spirit of their ancestors in them, that rather than lead an inactive life, they make frequent descents upon a clan of Lowlanders called Kohanes, or boys of the mist, not for the purpose of driving cattle, for that would not be quite so safe in these times, but for the mere pleasure of fight- ing, or to revenge some old affront. This gave rise to numerous conflicts, until very lately, when the unwearied and persevering exertions of the Kev. Mr. Barry, Parish Priest of Bantry, effected what the law might attempt in vain ; for these mountaineers, though not living exactly beyond the leap, come within the ap- plication of the proverbial saying, " beyond the Leap, beyond the And nettle tall and hemlock waves In rank luxuriance o'er the graves ; There fragments of the sculptured stone, Still sadly speak of grandeur gone, And point the spot, where dark and deep The fathers and their abbey sleep. That train hath reach'd the abbey ground, The flickering lights are ranged around, And resting on th« bier, Amid the attendants' broken sighs, And pall'd with black, the coffin lies ; The Monks are kneeling near. The abbot stands above the dead, With gray and venerable head, And sallow cheek and pale. The Miserere hymn ascends, And its deep solemn sadness blends With the hoarse and moaning gale. The last "Amen" was breathed by all, And now they had removed the pall, And up the coffiu rear'd ; When a stein " Hold !" was heard sloud; And wildly bursting through the crowd, A frantic form appear'd. He paused awhile and gasp'd for breath : His look had less of life than death, He seem'd as from the grave — So all unearthly was his tread ; And high above his stately head A sable plume did wave. Clansmen and fathers look'd aghast: But when the first surprise was past, Yet louder rose their grief; For when he stood above the dead, And took the bonnet from his head, All knew IveraV Chief; No length of time could e'er erase, Once seen, that Chieftain's form and face. Calmly he stood amid their gaze, While the red torches' shifting blaze, As strong it flicker'd in the breeze, That wildly raved among the trees, Its fitful light upon him threw, And Donal Comm stood full to view. 3 Ard-na-mrahar (the brethren's, or monks', height), so callet from an abbey which once stood there. The " Hibernia Domini- cans," in its enumeration of the monasteries of Friars' Minora, thus speaks of it, " Bantry in agro Corcagienrl, Canobium fun- datum a Dermito O'Sullivan, circy A, 1460?" * Ivera— the barony of Bear. I-bera is the Irish word, the b having the sound of v. Smith thinks the place so called from the Iberi, a Spanish colony which settled originally in this quarter. 568 THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. His form was tall, but not the height Which seems unwieldy to the sight; His mantle, as it backward flow'd, An ample breadth of bosom show'd ; His sabre's girdle round his waist A golden buckle tightly braced : A close-set trews displav'd a frame You could not all distinctly name If it bad more of strength or grace ; But when tlie light fell on bis face, The dullest eye beheld a man Fit to be Chieftain of his clan. His cheek, though pale, retain'd the hue Which from Iberian blood it drew ; His sharp and well-form'd features bore Strong semblance to his sires of yore; Calm, grave, and dignified, bis eye Had an expression proud and high, And iu its darkness dwelt a flame Which not even grief like his could tame ; Above his bent brow's sad repose, A high heroic forehead rose, — But o'er its calm you mark'd the cloud That wrapp'd his spirit in its shroud; His clustering locks of sable hue, Upon ibe tempest wildly flew. Unreck'd by him the storm may blow ; His feelings are with her below. " Remove the lid," at length he cried. None stirr'd, they thought it strange; beside, Her kinsman mutter'd something — "Haste, I have not breath or time to waste In parley now — Ivera's chief May be permitted one, last, brief Farewell with her he loved, and then, Eva is yours and earth's again." At length, reluctant they obey'd : Slowly he turn'd aside his head. And press'd his hand against his brow — 'lis done at last, he knows not how : But when he heard one piercing shriek, A deadlier paleness spread his cheek; Sidelong he look'd, and fearfully, Dreading the sight he yet would see ; Trembled his knees, his eye grew dim, His stricken brain began to swim; He stagger' d back against a yew That o'er the bier its branches threw; Upon his brows the dews of death Collected, and his quick low breath Seem'd but the last and feeble strife. Ere yet it yield, of parting life. There lay his bride— death hath not quite O'ershadow'd all her beauty's light; Still on her brow and on her cheek It linger'd, like the sun's last streak On Sliav-na-goila's head of snow When all the vales are dark below — Her lids in languid stillness lay Like lilies o'er a stream-parch 'd way, Which kiss no more the wave of light That flash'd beneath them purely bright; Above her forehead, fair and youDg, Her dark-brown tresses clustering hung, Like summer clouds, that still shine on When he who gilds their folds is gone. Her features breathed a sad sweet tone Caught ere the spirit left her throne, Like that the night-wind often makes When some forsaken lyre it wakes, And minds us of the master hand That once could all its voice command. " Cold be the hand, and curst the blow," Her kinsman cried, "that laid thee low ; — ■ Curst be the steel that pierced thy heart." Forth sprang that Chief with sudden start. Tore off the scarf that veil'd her breast — That dark deep wound can tell the rest. He gazed a moment, then his brand Flash'd out so sudden in his hand, His boldest clansman backward reel'd — Trembling, the aged abbot kneel'd. "Is this a time for grief," he cried, "And thou thus low, my murder'd bride! Fool ! to such boyish feeliugs bow, Far other task hath Donal now ; Hear me, ye thunder upon high ! And thou, bless'd ocean, hear my cry! Hear me ! sole resting friend, my sword, And thou, dark wound, attest my word ! No food, no rest shall Donal know, Until he lay thy murderer low — Until each sever'd quivering limb In its own lustful blood shall swim. When my heart gains this poor relief, Then, Eva, wilt thou bless thy chief. Bless him ! — no, no, that word is o'er, My sweet one! thou can'st bless no more; No more, returning from the strife Where Donal fought to guard thy life And free his native land, shalt thou Wipe the red war-drops from his brow, THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. And hush his toils and cares to rest Upon thy fond and faithful breast." He gazed a moment on her face, And stoop'd to take the last embrace, And as his lips to hers he prest, ' The coffin shook beneath his breast, That heaved convulsive as 'twould break ; Then in a tone subdued and meek, "Take her," he said, and calmly rose, And through the friends that round him close, Unheeding what their love would say, All silently he urged his way ; Then wildly rushing down the. steep He plunged amid the breaker's sweep. Awfully the thunder Is shouting through the night, And o'er the heaven convulsed and riven The lightning-streams are bright Beueath their fitful flashing, As from hill to hill they leap, In ridgy brightness dashing Conies on loud ocean's sweep. Fearfully the tempest Sings out his battle-song, His war is with the unflinching rocks And the forests tall and strong ; His war is with the stately bark; But ere the strife be o'er. Full many a pine, on land and brine^ Shall rise to heaven no more. The storm shall sink in slumber, The lightniug fold its wing, And the morning star shall gleam afar, In the beauty of its king ; But there are eyes shall sleep in death Before they meet its ray ; Avenger ! on thine errand speed, Haste, Donal, on thy way ! Carriganassig,' from thy walls No longer now the warder calls; 1 The castle of Cariganass, situated upon the river Ouvane (the fair river), five miles from Bantry, was built by one of the O'Sul- llvans, who formerly possessed the entire of the country. It was a high structure, with four round flanking towers and a square court. In Queen Elizabeth's time, it was obstinately defended against the English forces by Daniel O'Sullivan, snrnamed Comm. In the " Pacata Hibc-rnia." its surrender is thus related : " Sir Charles (Wilmot), with the English regiments, overran all Beare and Bantry, destroying all they could find meet for the re- llefe of men, so as the countrey was entirely wasted. He sent also Captain Flemming, with his pinnace and certaine souldiers into O'Sullivan's Island; he tooke there certaine boats and an English barke, which O'Sullivan had gotten for his transportation Into Spaine, when he should be enforced thereunto ; they tooke also from thence certaine cows and sheepe, which were reserved No more is heard o'er goblets bright Thy shout of revelry at night ; No more the bugle's merry sound Wakes all thy mountain echoes round, When for the foray, or the chase, At morn rush'd forth thy hardy race And northward as it died away Boused the wild deer of Kaoim-an-e. All bare is now thy mountain's side, Where rose the forest's stately pride ; No solitary friend remains Of all that graced thy fair domains; But that dark stream still rushes on Beneath thy walls, the swift Ouvan, And kisses with its sorrowing wave The ruins which it could not save. Fair castle, I have stood at night, Wheu summer's moon gave all her light, And gazed upon thee till the past Came o'er my spirit sad and fast ; To think thy strength could not avail Against the Saxon's iron hail, And thou at length didst cease to be The shield of mountain liberty. From Carriganassig shone that night, Through storm and darkness, many a light, And loud and noisy was the din Of some high revelry within : At times was heard the warder's song, Upon the night-wind borne along, And frequent burst upon the ear The merry soldier's jovial cheer ; For their dark Chieftain in his hall That day held joyous festival. And show'd forth all his wealth and pride To welcome home his beauteous bride. Hush'd was the music's sprightly sound, The wine had ceased to sparkle round, And to their chambers, one by one, The drowsy revellers had gone ; Alone that Chieftain still remains, And still by starts the goblet drains : there as in a secure storehouse, and put that inhabited therein. The warders ol Carrikness. on the sixth of the same r master, O'Sullivan's returne, rendered b lives to the Queene's mercy, so that animum revertendi, he had neither p! might retire, nor corn nor cattle to feed hold or renew any wavre against the sti William O'Sullivan, Esq., had an id edifice of his ancestors, but its ruinous difficulties for the undertaking. The was formerly very thickly wooded, anc the churles to the sword the castles of Ardea and nonth. dispayring or their 'Oth their castles and their although he should have ice of safetiewhereunto he himselfe, much less to up- ea of restoring this noble state presented too many entire country around it had plenty of red deer. 570 THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. He paced the hall with hurried tread, Oft look'd behind and shook his head, And paused and listen'd as the gale Swell'd on his ear with wilder wail ; And where the tapers faintly flung Their light, and where the anas hung, He'd start and look with fearful glance And quivering lip, then quick advance, And laugh in mockery of his fear, And drink again. " Fitz-Eustace ! here, Close well that door and sit awhile, Some foolish thoughts I would beguile. Fill to my bride ; and say, didst e'er See form so light or face so fair ? I little deem'd this savage land Such witching beauty could command ; That rebel Eriu's mountains wild Could nurse McCarthy's matchless child. Then drink with me in brimming flow The heiress of Clan-Donal-Rce." 1 Fitz-Eustace quaff' d the cup, and said, " I saw no more — she's with the dead, You best know how." That Chieftain frown'd And dash'd the goblet to the ground : " Curse on thy tongue, that deed is past — But oue word more, and 'tis thy last : Art thou t' upbraid me, also doom'd ?" He paused awhile and then resumed — " Eustace, forgive me what I say, In sooth, I'm not myself to-day, Some demon haunts me, since my pride Urged me to stab that outlaw's bride : Each form I see, each sound I hear, Her dying threat assails my ear, Which warn'd me I should shortly feel The point of Donal's vengeful steel. I know that devil's desperate ire Would seek revenge through walls of fire. Even now, upon the bridal night, When bridegroom's heart beats ever. light, No joy within my bosom beams. Besides, yon silly maiden deems That 'twas through love I sought her hand. No, Eustace, 'twas her father's land : He hath retainers many a one Who with this wench to us are won. You know our cause, we still must aid i Carbery, once the property of As well by policy as blade. I loathe each one of Irish birth, As the vile worm that crawls the earth. But come — say, canst thou aught impart Could give some comfort to my heart ; Fell Donal Comm into our snare, Or does the wolf still keep his lair?" " Neither ; — the wolf now roams at large ; 'Twas but last evening that a barge, Well mann'd, was seen at close of day To make Glengarav's lonely bay, 'Tis said ; — but one who more can tell Now lodges in the eastern cell ; A monk, who loudly doth complain Of plunder driven and brethren slain By Donal Comm, and from the strife This night fled here with scarcely life." " Now dost thou lend my heart some cheer : Good Eustace, thou await me here; Til see him straight, and if he show Where I may find my deadly foe, That haunts my ways — the rebel's head Shall grace my walls." With cautious tread He reach'd the cell and gently drew The bolts, — that monk then met his view. Within that dungeon's furthest nook He lay ; — one hand contain'd a book, The other propp'd his weary head ; Some scanty straw supplied his bed; His order's habit coarse and gray Told he had worn it many a day, Threadbare and tiavel-soil'd ; his beads And cross hung o'er the dripping weeds, Whose ample folds were tightly braced By a rough cord around his waist : No wretch of earth seem'd lower than That outcast solitary man. He spoke not — moved not from the floor ; But calmly look'd to where the door Now closed behind th' intruding knight, Who slow advanced and held the light Close to the captive's pallid face, Who shrank not from his gaze : — a space St. Leger paused before he spoke, And thus at length his silence broke — " Father, thy lodging is but rude, Thou seem'st in need of rest and food, If but escaped from Donal's ire, And wasting brand and scathing fire ; THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 571 But prudent reasons still demand, And stern St. Leger's strict command, That every stranger, friend or foe, Be held in durance 'till he show What, whence, and whither he would go. For thee, if thou canst tell us right Where that fierce outlaw strays to-night, To-morrow's sun shall see thee freed, With rich requital for thy meed ; If false thy tale — then, father, hope For a short shrift and shorter rope." He ceased, and as the Chief he eyed With searching glance, the monk replied - " I fear no threat, no meed I crave, I ask no freedom but the grave. There was a time when life was dear ; For, Saxon, though this garb I wear, This hand could once uplift the steel, This heart could love and friendship feel. That love is sever'd, friends are gone, And I am left on earth alone. Cursed be the hand that sear'd my heart, And smote me in the tenderest part, Laid waste my lands, and left me roam On the wide world without a home ! I took these weeds;— but why relate The spoiler's ravage and my hate? Vengeance I would not now forego For saints above or man below. Yes, Donal Coram ; — but let me hear, Fling the glad story to mine ear; How fell the outlaw's beauteous bride? Say, was it by thy hand she died? 'Twill be some solace, and I swear By the all-saving sign I wear, Before to-morrow's sun to show To thine own eyes thy bitterest foe." " 'Tis well !" exclaim'd the exulting chief, " Have now thy wish, the tale is brief — Some few days since, as I pursued A stately stag from yonder wood, Straight northward did he bend his way, Through the wild pass of Kaoim-an-e; Then to tne west, with hoof of pride, He took the mountain's heathery side, And evening saw him safely sleep In far Glenrochty's forest deep. Returning from that weary chase, We met a strange and lonely place ; Dark-bosom'd in the hills around, From its dim silence rose no sound, Except the dreary dash and flow Of waters to the lake below. There was an island in that lake, — (What ai'ls thee, monk? why dost thou shake? Why blanch'd thy cheek ? )— from thence I brought A richer prey than that I sought ; It were but feeble praise to swear That she was more than heavenly fair ; I tore her from Finbarra's 1 shrine Amid her tears, and she was mine. ' The lake of Gougaune Barra, i. e., the hollow or recess o( Saint Finn Barr, in the nigged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire (th« O'Leary's country), in the west of the county of Cork, ia the parent of the river Lee. It is rather of an irregular oblong form, running from northeast to southwest, and may cover about toventy acres of ground. Its waters embrace a small but verdant island, of about half an acre in extent, which approaches its eastern shore. The lake, as its name implies, is situate in a deep | hollow, surrounded on every side (save the 6ast, where its super- abundant waters are discharged) by vast aud almost perp<.-mii< ular mountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected in its waters beneath. The names of those mountains are Dereen (the little oak' wood), where not a tree now remains; Maolagh, which signifies a country, a region, a map, perhaps so called from the wide prospect which it affords; Nad an'uiUur, the Eagle's Nest, and Faottte na Gougmme, i. e., the Cliffs of Gougaune with its steep and frowniDg precipices, the home of a hundrea echoes. Between the bases of these mountains and the margin of the lake runs a narrow strip of land, which at the northeast affords a few patches for coarse meadow and tillage, which sup- port the little hamlet of Bosmlucha, i. e.. the lake inch. Two or three houses at this place in some sort redeem the solitude of the " As we approached the causeway leading to the island," says a. wriier in the eighth number of '" Bolster's Magazine," who de- scribes this place with great minuteness, " we passed a small stated lisliing lodge; beside it lay a skiff hauled up on the strand, and at a small distance, on a little green eminence, a few lowly mounds, without stone or inscription, point out the simple bury- ing-place of the district; their number, and the small extent of ground co.vered, gave at a glance the census and the condition of a thinly-peopled mountain country; and yet this unpretending spot is as effectually the burial-place of human hopes, and feelings, and passions; of feverish anxieties, of sorrows and agitations ; it affords ss saddening a field for contemplation, as if it covered the space and was decked out with all the cypresses, the willows, and the marbles of a Pere la Chaifte. It is a meet and fitting station ' for the penitentiary pilgrim, previous to his entry on his <]evoiiun-i within the island. Some broken walls mark the grave of a clergy- man of the name of O'Mahony, who, in the beginning of last cen- tury, closed a life of religious seclusion here. Consider-in- how revered is still his memory amongst these mountains, the shame- ful state of neglect in which we found his gravr astonished us. We sought in vain for the flag mentioned by Smith in his ' History of Cork, 1 from which he copied this inscription : 'Hoc sibi et suc- cessoribus suis in eadem vocation? oomumenhnn imposuit Lfominii* Doctor Di.nii^itta O'Jfohoiio. pobytcr licet uidig- ■ii u* ,-' either it has been removed, or buried under the rubbish oi the place. " A rude artificial causeway led us into the holy island ; at the entrance stands a square, narrow, stone enclosure, flagged over- head. This encloses a portion of the water of the lake, which finds admission beneath. In the busy season of the pattern, this well is frequented by pressing crowds of men, women, and cows. The lame, the blind, the sick, and the sore, the barreD and un- profitable, the stout boccaugh of either gender repair to its heal- ing water, in the sure hope of not (retting rid of those lamentable THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. I woo'd her like a love-sick swain ; I threaten'd, — would have forced, — in vain ; She proudly scorn'd my fond embrace, She cursed my land and all its race, maims aud afflictions of person which form their best source of profit, and interest the charity of the peasantry. " We find the greater portion of the island covered by the ruins of the small chapel with its appurtenant cloisters, and a large square court containing eight cells arched over. This square face 1 * the causeway, from which a passage leads through an avenue of trees to a terrace about live feet in height, to which we ascended by a few steps. In the middle of the court, on a little mound, with an ascent on each side of four stone steps, stands the shat- tered and time-worn shaft of a wooden cross. The number of hair and hay tethers, halters, and span eels tie* round it prove that the cattle passed through the waters have done so to their advan- tage. This court is beautifully shaded with trees. Each side contains two circular cells, ten feet deep and eight feet high, by four broad. In two of these we found some poor women at their devotions, preparing to pass the night in watching and penitence, for which purpose they had lighted up fires within them, and on inquiry We found that the practice was quite common. "TV terrace leads by a few steps down to the chapel, which adjoins it at the north side. This little oratory, together with the buildings 1'i'longinc to it, are all in complete ruin ; they were built on the smallest scale, and with the rudest materials, solidity not appearing to have been at all looked to in the construction. They are evidently very ancient. How, in so remote and secluded a situation, the hand of the deseerator could have ever reached them I cannot conceive; but he has done his work well and pitilessly. Though here, we may reasonably presume, was none of the pride of the churchman, none of the world's wealth, nothing to tempt rapacity ; though In this retreat, sacred * to ever musing melan- choly.' dwelt none of the agitators of tho land, yet the hlind and reckless fury of the fanatic found its way through the wild and rocky land that encloses it, and carried his polemical rancor into the hut of the hermit. "The oratory runs east and west; the entrance is through a low, arched doorway in the eastern wall; the interior is about thirty-six feet long by fourteen broad, and the side walls by four feet high ; so that when roofed it must have been extremely low, beiiiL' at the highest, judging from the broken gables, about twelve feet, and then the entire lighted by the door and two small win- dows, one in each gable. The walls of the four small chambers adjoining are all of a similar height to those of the chapel. The entire extent is fifty-six feet in length, by thirty-six in breadth. One or two of these consist of extremely small cells ; so that when we consider their height, extent, and the light they enjoyed, we may easily calculate that the life of the successive anchorites who inhabited them was not one of much comfort or convenience, but much the reverse — of silence, gloom, and mortification. Man elsewhere loves to contend with, and, If possible, emulate nature in the greatness and majesty of her works ; but here, as if awed by the sublimity of surrounding objects, and ashamed of his own real littleness, the humble founder of this desecrated shrine con- structed it on a scale peculiarly pigmy and diminutive. "The buildings stand at the southeast side, and cover nearly half the island. The remainder, which is clothed with the most beautiful verdure, is thickly shaded to the water's edge by tall a^h-trees. Two circular furrows at the north side of the cloisters are pointed out as the sites of tents pitched here during the pat- tern, by the men of Bantry and their servants. " In this island the holy anchorite and bishop, 8t Finn Barr, who flourished, I conceive, contrary to the opinion of Ware, early in the sixth century, wishing to lead a life of pious retirement, found a situation beyond all others most suitable to his desire ; a retreat as impenetrable as the imagination could well conceive, ami seemingly designed by nature for the abode of some seques- tered anchorite, where, In undisturbed solitude, he might pour out his soul in prayer, and hold converse 'with nature's charms, and see her stores unrolled.' 8t Fin Barr, however, was reserved lor purposes more useful to society, and for a scene where the example of blB v'rtuous life might prove more extensively bone- oci.il He became the founder not only of tho cathedral but of And bade me hope for vengeance from The sure strong arm of Donal Comm. I stabb'd her ! — 'twas a deed of guilt, But "then 'twas Donal's blood I spilt." the oity of Cork, and labored successfully in the conversion or the people of the adjacent country. A long line of successive ancho- rites occupied his retreat at Gougaune, who, by their piety an virtues, rendered its name celebrated through the island, and a favorite pilgrimage and scene of devotion to the people. Tha last of these eremitical occupants was Father Denis O'Mahony, whose grave on the mainland I have Wore Bpofcen of. The suc- cession seems to have failed in him. He found this place a ruin and the times in which he lived were not calculated for its re- edification, and a ruin has it since continued. A large tombstone- shaped slab, which lies at the foot of a tree, contains, together with a short history of this hermitage, directions for the devotions of the penitent pilgrims ; but Dr. Murphy, the Catholic Bishop of Cork, and his clergy have so thoroughly discountenanced tho re- lijri"us visitations to this place, that its solitude stands little chance of much future interruption. "Old people remember with fond regret the time when Gon- gaune was inaccessible to horses and almost to man; when it was no small probationary exercise to pilgrim or palmer to overcome the difficulties of the way ; when the shores of tho lake, and even some portions of the surrounding mountains, now naked and barren, were a continued forest, which lent ita gloomy shade to deepen the natural solitude of the place. Rossalucha had then. no houses, and no clumsy whitewashed fishing-hut destroyed the effect of the surrounding solitude and scenery; but man, with his improvements, has even approached this desolate spot and famil- iarly squatted himself down beside its waters, cut down ita woods, emoothed its road, and given an air of society to its solitude, "The view from tho summit of Derreen, the highest point of the mountain-enclosure of the lake, is beautifully magnificent Though other mountains that I have seen may boast a prospect of greater extent, yet it is reserved for Derreen to take in a reach of mountain and of flood, of crag and elen, as wildly diversified, a? bold and as rugged as any over which the lofty Reeks may look down from his royal residence ; it is a splendid panoramic picture, of the grandest dimensions and outline. "From the Faoilte, on the preceding evening, we bad obtained a view of the high outline of the Killarney mountains to the northwest; but here now, from our superior height they arose before us in all their purple grandeur, visible almost from their basis in one long and splendid range from Clara to the lordly Reek- ach. To the southwest appeared, in the distant horizon, the trackless Atlantic, bounding the blue billy shores of Ivera ; and reaching inland, ibe fine estuary of Bantry, checkered with islets fair,' spread its still waters to meet the long brown valley which extends from the foot of Derreen, skirting Hungry-bill and Glen- gariff to the right Wbeeda, or Whiddy, Island appeared promi- nent in this calm and reposing picture; and near the head of the bay lay, bright and sparkling, the small mountain lake of Loch^x- derry-fadda, the lough of the long oaken wood — but the wood was gone; cultivated gardens and brown pastures covered its site. Before us lay the infant Lee, a long windiDg silver thread, stealing through sterile glens, until in the distance it reached the lakes of Inchageela, and spread itself along their rocky shores, brightening in the morning rays. Between the chain of lakes and the head of the Bay of Bantry lay three dark, disconnected, and cone-fisrured mountains: S?ie?ia, the furthest south, feeding at its base a blua lake, called Luch an bhric dearig, the loch of the red trout Oi cbarr; the other two mountains are, Douchil, i. ust sufficient to afford room for a road of moderate breadth, with a fretted channel at one side for the waters, which, in the winter season, rush down from the high places above, and meeting here, find a passage to pay a first tribute to the Lee. A romantic or creative imagination would here find a grand and ex- tensive field for the exercise of its powers. Every turn of the road brings us to some new appearance of the abrupt and shattered walls which at either side arise up darkling to a great height, and the mind is continually occupied with the quick succession and change of objects so interesting, resolving and comparing realities, sometimes giving form and substance to k airy nothings.' 'The enthusiasm of my companions was unbounded as they slowly strided along, every faculty Intent on the scene before tfietn; their classic minds found ready associations everywhere; each crag and cliff renewed classical reminiscences, and 'infamei 8copuW— i Alt(i > and ' IFemorosa? were flying out between them without intermission. They found no difficulty in fancying them- selves in Thermopylae's far-famed strait, and having decided on the resemblance, tbe location of the Polyandrium, or tomb of tho mighty Leonidas and his associate heroes, that grave 'whose dwellers shall be themes to verse forever, 1 was quickly settled, and so was the temple of Ceres Amphyctionls. The fountain where the Persian horseman found the advanced guard of the Spartans occupied in combing their hair was easily discovered in one of the placid pools of the trickling stream. The Phocian wall was also manifest; and to perfect the picture, they ascended again to the head of the pass, to catch another glimpse of the Maliac Gulf, as they called the Bay of Bantry. Time and space became annihilated before them, and a brace of thousand years were but as a day in' their imagination. Their eager eyes sought out and found everywhere monuments of the unforgotten brave of Greece, and all the burial-places of memory Bent forth their phantoms of the olden demigods to people the sceno. I confess, I could not see things in the same light The place reminded me of nearer times— our own classic middle ages— and of different people; their arches were gray ruins, keeps, and dungeons to me. I saw but 'bristling walls,' battlemented courts, turrets, and embrazures, to which their perverted judgments gave other names. and Creaghadoir and Bonnoght, Kern and Gallowglass, Tory ami At Donal's breast one plunge he made : That watchful arm threw off the blade. But hark ! what noise comes from below, Surely that cry hath roused the foe. They come, they come, with hurrying tramp And clashing steel. The fallen lamp That mountaineer snatch'd from the ground, A moment glanced his prison round, Heaved quickly back a massy bar — A narrow doorway flew ajar, A moment cast the light's red glow Upon the flood, far, far below ; " No flight is there," St. Leger cried, "Thou'rt mine." "Now, now, my murder' d bride,' Eapparee, passed before me, sweeping the encumbered pass, driving their prey of lordly cattle down the deflle ; and loudly in my mind's ear rang the hostile shouts of the wild O'Sullivans and the CLearys, their fierce hurras and far ragJts and aboos mingling with the ringing of their swords and their Insty strokes on helm and shield. It is with associations of spoil, adventure, and daring — of chasing the red deer, the wolf, or the boar — with horn and hound — that this place is properly connected. To behold it with other eye than that of an Irish senachie is a deed less worthy, as.suwdly, than to drink, as my friend Kalstaff says. "I think I may say that at its entrance from the Gougaune side this pass is seen with best effect; there its high cliffs are steepest, and Che toppling crags assume their most picturesque forms and resemblances of piles and ancient ruins. Tht-se ivceive beauty and variety from the various mosses which encrust them, and the dwarf shrubs and underwood, ivy, and creeping plimts, which lend their mellow hues to soften and give effect to the whole The arbutus, a plant most indigenous to KiHarney and Glengariff (into the first of which places it has been pl.-msibly conjectured it had been brought from the continent by the monka who settled in the islands of its lakes), is not even uncommon among the rocks of Kaoim-an-eigh. We behold itself and the asfh and' other hardy plants and shrubs with wonder growing at immense heights overhead, tufting crags inaccessible to the human? foot, where we are astonished to think how they ever got there. The London pride grows here and on the surrounding mountains, as well as amongst Che ruins of Gougaune Basra, in most astonish- ing profusion. 1 have seen it in great abundance on Turk and Maugerton, near Killarney, but its plenty in the neighborhood of the Lee far exceeds all comparison. •'A number of lesser defiles, formed by many a headlong tor- rent or shelving cascade, shoot inward from the pass in deep and gloomy hollows, as you wind along, which greatly increase tho interest of the place; and these, forming at their entrance high round headlands, thickly covered with the most luxuriant clothing of long flowering heath, have at a distance the appearance of rich overhanging woods. As we proceeded, we found the channel of the stream which winds alongwith the road blocked up in varioui places with vast fragments of rock, rent in some violent convul- sion or tempest from the cliffs around, or hurled downward in wild sport by the presiding genius of the scene. Trophied evi- dences of his giant energies long choked up the now unencumbered defile, and told the history of his fierce pastime during the many ages that he continued its uninterrupted lord. But the roadmaker has successfully encroached upon its savage dominions, and crum- bled his ponderous masses, and smoothed down the difficulties which he had accumulated. The present diminished number of these vast fragments remain, however, as a sufficient record of the rocky chaos which Smith spoke of eighty years ago, and which long remained the astonishment of successive travellers." Dr. Smith's description of this place is far from being correct, and is too highly colored ; a person visiting tbe place after having read it would feel a little disappointed, though it is, in reality, a* may be seen from the above extracts, one of the wildest and moat romantic retreats that can well be imagined. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. He answer'd, and with furious bound One arm had clasp'd his foeman round : A moment, with a giant's might, He shook him o'er that dmadfnl height; " Saxon ! 'tis Eva gives this grave," He said, and plunged him in the wave. One piercing shriek was heard, no more; Up flash'd the billow dyed with gore, When in they burst. Oh, where to fly ! He fix'd his foot and strain'd his eye, And o'er that deep and fearful tide Sprang safely to the farther side. Above they crowd in wild amaze, And by the hurrying torches' blaze They saw where fearlessly he stood, And down, far tost upon the flood, St. Leger's body : "Quick! to horse — Pursue the fieud with all your force, 'Tis Dona! Comm." Light held he then Pursuit, while mountain, wood, and glen Before him lay. A moment's space He ran, and in th' appointed place His courser found. Then as his hand Drew from the copse his trusty brand, "Twas well I left thee here, my blade, That search my purpose had betray'd ; But here they come — now, now, ray steed, Son of the hills ! exert thy speed," He said, and on the moaning wind Heard their faint foot-tramp die behind. 'Tis morniDg, and the purple light On Noc-na-ve 1 gleams coldly bright, And from his heathery brow the streams Rush joyous in the kindling beams ; O'er hill, and wave, and forest red, One wide blue sea of mist is ; Save where more brightly, deeply blue, Ivera's mountains meet the view, And falls the sun with mellower streak On Sliav-na-goilas* giant peak. Still as its dead, is now the breeze In Ard-na-mrahir's weeping trees — So deep its silence, you might tell Each plashing rain-drop as it fell. Beneath its brow the waters wild Are sleeping, like a merry child That sinks from fretful fit to rest, On its fond mother's peaceful breast On yonder grave cold lies the turf Besprent with rain and ocean's surf, So purely, freshly green ; And kneeling by that narrow bed. With pallid cheek and drooping head, A lonely form is seen. Long kneels he there in speechless woe, Silent as she who lies below In her cold and silent room ; The trees hang motionless above, There's not a breath of wind to move The dripping eagle plume ; Well might you know that man of grief To be Ivera's widow'd chief. He rose at last, and as he took Of that dear spot his last sad look, Convulsive trembled all his frame — He strove to utter Eva's name ; Then wildly rushing to the shore, Was never seen or heard of more. 8 i Noc-na-ve (the hill of toe deer), 1b the name of the hill over ? town of Bantry. > Sllav-na-goll (the mountain of the wild people), now Sugar loaf hill, appears, from its proximity and conical form, to be the highest of that chain of mountains which runs all along the west. era side of Bantry Bay, and divides the counties of Cork ».' Kerry. ' Dnnal Comm made his escape into Spain. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. httlhntQM ||(rems. GOUGANE BARRA. There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow ; In deep-valley'd Desmond — a thousand wild foun- tains Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains. There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow. As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorn- ing. It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morn- in g- And its zone of dark hills — oh! to see them all bright'ning, When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning ; And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's deep rattle, Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle ; And brightly tha fire-crested billows are gleam- ing, And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are scream- ing. Oh ! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island ! How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivora, Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, A.nd thought of thy bards, when assembling to- gether, In the cleft of thy rocks or the depth of thy heather, They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, And waked their last song by the rush of thy water ! High sons of the lyre, oh ! how proud was the feeling, To think while alone through that solitude steal- ing, Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number, I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains, The songs even echo forgot on her mountains, And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was mist and the rain o'er their was creeping ! Least bard of the hills ! were it mine to inherit The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit, With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me ; Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me, Still, still in those wilds may young Liberty rally, And send her strong shout over mountain and valley ; The star of the west may yet rise in its glory, And the land that was darkest be brightest in story. I too shall be gone ; but my name shall be spoken When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken : Some minstrel will come, in the summer e»e's gleaming, When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming, And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, Where calm Avon Buee seeks the kisses of ocean, Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river, O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping for- ever. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN TO A SPRIG OF MOUNTAIN HEATH. Thou little stem of lowly heath ! Nursed by the wild wind's hardy breath, Dost thou survive, unconquer'd still, Thy stately brethren of the hill ? No more the moruing mist shall break Around Clogh-grenan's towering peak; The stag no more wilh glance of pride Looks fearless from its hazel side ; But there thou livest lone and free, The hermit plant of Liberty. Child of the mountain ! many a storm Hath ilreneh'd thy head and shoo'k thy form, Since in thy depths Clon-muire lay, To wait the dawning of that day ; And many a sabre, as it beam'd Forth from its heather scabbard, gleam'd When Lelx its vengeance hot did slake In yonder city of the lake, And its proud Saxou fortress' bore The banner green of Riery More. Thou wert not then, as thou art now, Upon a bondsman-minstrel's brow ; But wreathing round the harp of Leix, When to the strife it fired the free, Or from the helmet battle-sprent Waved where the cowering Saxon bent. Yet blush not, for the bard you crown Ne'er stoop'd his spirit's homage down, And he can wake, though rude his skill, The songs you loved on yonder hill. Repine not, that no more the spring Its balmy breath shall round thee fling : No more the heathcock's pinion sway Shall from thy bosom dash the spray. More sweet, more blest thy lot shall prove : Go — to the breast of her I love, And speak for me to that blue eye ; Breathe to that heart my fondest sigh ; And tell her in thy softest tone That he who sent thee is — her own. Tbe fortress «lladed to is the Castle of Carlow, bnllt in the time of Kirg John, and still an imposing ruin. Riery Mom was the Chieftain of Leix (the present Queen's County) In the time of Elizabeth. He was brave, politic and accomplished above bia ri'der countrymen of that period; he stormed the Castle of Carlow, w*iich, being within tbe pale, belonged to the English ; they never i,ail a more skilful enemy in tbe country. Riere, Anglice Roger. —Carlow, or Cabir-longb, literally tbe City of the Lake— Clough. frenna, the sunny bill. It is near *'arlow, but in the Queen's County and was formerly thiokly oovered with oak. SPANISH WAR-SONG. Ye sons of old Iberia, brave Spauiaids, up, arise ; Along your hills, like distant rills, the voice of battle flies ; Once more, with threats of tyranny, come on the host of France. Ye men of Spain, awake again, to Freedom's fight advance. Like snow upon your mountains, they gather from afar, | To launch upon your olive-fields the avalanche of war ; Above the dark'ning Pyrenees their cloud of battle flies, To burst in thunder on your plains ; — brave Spaniards, up, arise. sons of Viriatus, Hispania's boast and prid<-, Who long withstood, in fields of blood, the Roman's battle-tide, Arise again to match his deeds and kindle at his name, And let its light, through Freedom's fight, still guide you on to feme. Descendants of those heroes in Roman song renown'd, Whose glorious strife for Liberty with deathless name was crown'd — Come down again, unconquer'd men, like Biscay's ocean roar, And show yourselves the Cantabers your fathers were of yore. Saguntum's tale of wonder shines bright upon your page, And old Numantia's story shall live through every age : Her children sung their farewell song, their own loved homes they fired, And in the blaze, 'mid Freedom's rays, all gloriously expired. ( Too verses of the Spanish War-song, not in the printed copy.) Long, long each Spanish father his kindling boys shall tell, How gallantly Gerona fought, how Saragoza fell ; Long, long, above the waves of time those death- less names shall be A beacon light to all who fight for home or liberty. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 577 Ok, offspring of that hero by Spanish hearts adored, Who on the proud Morescoe bands his mountain vengeance pour'd, Once more to waste your lovely fields come on the hordes of France — Descendants of Pelayo, to Freedom's fight ad- Songs, Jgrical |jh«s, #c. «SI JE TE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU." These straws were suggested by an impress on a Seal, repre- senting a boat at sea, and a man at tbe holm looking np at a •oUtary Btar, with a motto— Si jete perde, je suit perdu. Shine on, thou bright beacon, Unclouded and free, From thy high place of calmness O'er life's troubled sea ; Its morning of promise, Its smooth waves are gone, And the billows rave wildly — Then, bright one, shine on. The wings of the tempest May rush o'er thy ray ; But tranquil thou smilest, Undimm'd by its sway : High, high o'er the worlds Where storms are unknown, Thoc dwellest all-beauteous, All-glorious, — alone. From the deep womb of darkness The lightning flash leaps, O'er the bark of my fortunes Each mad billow sweeps, — From the port of her safety, By warring winds driven, And no light o'er her course But yon lone one of heaven. Tet fear not, thou frail one, The hour may be near, When our own sunny headland Far off shall appear : When the voice of the storm Shall be silent and past, In some island of heaven We may anchor at last. But, bark of Eternity, Where art thou now ? The wild waters shriek O'er each plunge of thy prow : On the world's dreary Ocean, Thus sbatter'd and tost-- Then, lone one, shine on, " If I LOSE THEE, I'M LOST." HOW KEEN THE PANG. How keen the pang when friends must part, And bid the unwilling last adieu ; When every sigh that rends the heart, Awakes the bliss that once it knew ! He that has felt, alone can tell The dreary desert of the mind, When those whom once we loved so well Have left us weeping here behind • When every look so kindly shed, And every word so fondly °poken, And every smile, is faded, fled, And leaves the heart alone and broken. Yes, dearest maid ! that grief was mine, When, bending o'er thy shrouded bier, I saw the form that once was thine — My Mary was no longer there. But on the relics pale and cold, There sat a sweet seraphic smile, A calm celestial grace, that told Our parting was but for a while. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY ON ENTERING A CONTENT. Tis the rose of the desert — So lovely, so wild ; In the lap of the desert Its infancy smiled : In the languish of beauty It droops o'er the thorn, And its leaves are all wet With the bright tears of morn. Yet 'tis better, thou fair one, To dwell all alone, Than recline on a bosom Less pure than thine own : Thy form is too lovely To be torn from its stem, And thr breath is too sweet For the children of men. Bloom on thus in secret, Sweet child of the waste, Where no lips of profaner Thy fragrance shall taste ; Bloom on where no footstep Unhallow'd hath trod, And give all thy blushes And sweets to thy God. LINES ON A DECEASED CLERGYMAN. Breathe not his honor'd name, Silently keep it ; Hush'd be the sadd'ning theme, In secrecy weep it ; Call not a warmer flow To eyes that are aching ; Wake not a deeper throe In hearts that are breaking. Oh, 'tis a placid rest ; Who should deplore it ? Trance of the pure and blest — Angels watch o'er it : Sleep of his mortal night, Sorrow can't break it ; Heaven's own morning light Alone shall awake it. Nobly thy course is run — Splendor is round it ; Bravely thy fight is won — Freedom hath crown'd it ; In the high warfare Of heaven grown hoary, Thou'rt gone like the summer-sun, Shrouded in glory. Twine — twine the victor wreath, Spirits that meet him ; Sweet songs of triumph breathe, Seraphs, to greet him ! From his high resting-place Who shall him sever ? With his God face to face, Leave him forever. LINES ON THE DEATH OF AN AMIABLE AND HIGHLY TALENTED TOUNG MAN, WHO FELL A VICTIM TO FEVER IN THE WEST INDIES. All rack'd on his feverish bed he lay, And none but the stranger were near him ; No friend to console, in his last sad day, No look of affection to cheer him. 1 deep were the groans he drew, On that couch of torture turning ; And often his hot wild hand he threw O'er his brows, still wilder burning. But, oh ! what anguish his bosom tore, How throbb'd each strong pulse of emotion, When he thought of the friends he should never see more, In his own green Isle of the Ocean ! — When he thought of the distant maid of nil heart, — Oh, must they thus darkly sever — No last farewell, ere his spirit depart — Must he leave her unseen, and forever ? One sigh for that maid his fond heart heaved, One prayer for her weal he breathed ; And his eyes to that land for whose woes he had grieved, Once look'd — and forever were sheathed. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. On a cliff that by footstep is seldom prest, Far seaward its dark head rearing, A rude stone marks the place of his rest ; — " Here lies a poor exile of Erin." Yet think not, dear Youth, though far, far sway From thy own native Isle thou art sleeping, That no heart for thy slumber is aching to-day, That no eye for thy mem'ry is weeping. Oh ! yes — when the hearts that have wailed thy young blight, Some joy from forgetfulness borrow, The thought of thy doom will come over their light, And shade them more deeply with sorrow. And the maid who so long held her home in thy breast, As she strains her wet eye o'er the billow, Will vaioly embrace, as it comes from the west, Every breeze that has swept o'er thy pillow. AND MUST WE PART. And must we part ? then fare thee well ; But he that wails it — he can tell How dear thou wert, how dear thou art, And ever must be to this heart : But now 'tis vain — it cannot be ; Farewell ! and think no more on me. Oh ! yes — this heart would sooner break, Than one unholy thought awake ; I'd sooner slumber into clay, Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray : Go free as air — as Angel free, And, lady, think no more on me. Oh, did we meet when brighter star Sent its fair promise from afar, I then might hope to call thee mine, The Minstrel's heart and harp were thine; But now 'tis past — it cannot be: Farewell ! and think no more on me. Or do ! — bnt let it be the hour, When Mercy's all-atoning power From his high throne of glory hears Of souls like thine the prayers, the tears ; Then, whilst you bend the suppliant Then then, O Lady, think on me. PURE IS THE DEWY GEM. 1 Pcek is the dewy gem that sleeps Within the rose's fragrant bed, And dear the heart-warm drop that steep* The turf where all we loved is laid ; Bat far more dear, more pure than they, The tear that washes guilt away. Sweet is the morning's balmy breath Along the valley's flowery side, And lovely on the moonlit heath The lute's soft tone complaining wide; But still more lovely, sweeter still, The sigh that wails a life of ill. Bright is the morning's roseate gleam Upon the mountains of the East, And soft the moonlight silvery beam Above the billow's placid rest ; But oh, what ray ere shone from heaven Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven ! TO * * * * * Lady — the lyre thou bid'st me take, No more can breathe the minstrel strain; The cold and trembling notes I wake, Fall on the ear like plashing rain ; For days of suffering and of pain, And nights that lull'd no care for me, Have tamed my spirit, — then in vain Thou bid'st me wake my harp for the*. But could I sweep my ocean lyre, As once this feeble hand could sweep, Or catch once more the thought of fire, That lit the Mizen's stormy steep, Or bid the fancy cease to sleep, That once could soar on pinion free, And dream I was not born to weep ; Oh, then I'd wake my harp for thee. And now 'tis only friendship's call That bids my slumbering lyre awake. It long hath slept in sorrow's hall : Again that slumber it must seek : THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. Not even the lighi ot beauty's cheek, Or blue eye beaming kind and free, Can bid its mournful numbers speak : Then, lady, ask no lay from me. Yet if, on Desmond's mountain wild, By glens I love, or ocean cave, Nature once more should own her child, And give the strength that once she gave ; If he who lights my path should save, And what I was I yet may be ; Then, lady, by green Erin's wave, I'll gladly wake my harp for thee. STANZAS. Hours like those I spent with you, So bright, so passing, and so few, May never bless me more, — farewell ! My heart can feel, but dare not tell, The rapture of those hours of light, Thus snatch'd from sorrow's cheerless night. 'Tis not thy cheek's soft blended hue ; 'Tia not thine eye of heavenly blue ; 'Tis not the radiance of thy brow, That thus would win or charm me now ; It is thy heart's warm light, that glows Like sunbeams on December snows. It is thy wit, that flashes bright As lightning on a stormy night, Illuming even the clouds that roll Along the darkness of my soul, And bidding, with an angel's voice, The heart that knew no joy — rejoice. Too late we met — loo soon we part, Yet deaier to my soul thou art Than some whose love has grown for years, Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears. Farewell ! — but absent, thou shalt seem The vision of some heaveuby dream, Too bright on child of earth to dwell. It must be so — My friend, farewell. THE NIGHT WAS STILL. The night was still — the air was balm — Soft dews around were weeping ; No whisper rose o'er ocean's calm, Its waves in light were sleeping. With Mary on the beach I strny'd. The stars beam'd joy above me— I press'd her hand and said, " Sweet maid, Oh tell me, do you love me?" With modest air she droop'd her head, Her check of beauty vailing: Her bosom heaved — no word she said — I mark'd her strife of feeling ; " Oh speak my doom, dear maid," I cried, " By yon bright heaven above thee :" She gently raised her eyes and sigh'd, " Too well you know I love thee." SERENADE. The blue waves are sleeping; The breezes are still ; The light dews are weeping Soft tears on the hill; The moon in mild beauty Looks bright from above; Then come to the casement, O Mary, my love. Not a sound or a motion Is over the lake, But the whisper of ripples, As shoreward they break ; My skiff wakes no ruffle The waters among ; Then listen, dear maid, To thy true lover's song. No form from the lattice Did ever recline Over Italy's waters, More lovely than thine ; Then come to thy window, And shed from above One glance of thy dark eye, One smile of thy love. Oh ! the soul of that eye, When it breaks from its shroud, THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN, 581 Shines beauteously out, Like the moon from a cloud ; And thy whisper of love, Breathed thus from afar, Ib sweeter to me Than the sweetest guitar. Prom the storms of this world How gladly I'd fly To the calm of that breast, To the heaven of that eye ! How deeply I love thee 'Twere useless to tell ; Farewell, then, my dear one — My Mary, farewell. ROUSSEAU'S DREAM.' Life for me is dark and dreary ; Every light is quench'd and gone; O'er its waste, all lone and weary, Sorrow's child, I journey on. Thou whose smile alone can cheer me, Whose bright form still haunts my breast, From this world in pity bear me To thy own high home of rest. Hush ! — o'er Leman's sleeping water, Whispering tones of love I hear ; 'Tis some fond unearthly daughter Woos me to her own bright sphere. Immortal beauty ! yes, I see thee, Come, oh ! come to this wild breast ! Oh ! I fly — I burn to meet thee — Take me to thy home of rest. WHEN EACH BRIGHT STAR IS CLOUDED. Are— " OlSr Bug Dale." Whkn each bright star is clouded that illumined our way, And darkly through the bleak night of life we stray, wild ] The Apostle of affliction, Ac His was not the love of mortal dame — But of idoa beauty, etc.— Child* HiBOU>. What joy then is left us, but alone to weep O'er the cold dreary pillow where loved ones sleep ? This world has no pleasure that is half so dear, That can soothe the widow'd bosom like memory's tear; 'Tis the desert rose drooping in moon's soft dew, In those pure drops looks saddost, but softest too. Oh, if ever death should sever fond hearts from me, And I linger like the last leaf on autumn's tree, While pining o'er the dead mates all sear'd below, How welcome will the last blast be that lays me low! HUSSA THA MEASG NA REALTAN MORE. 1 My love, my still unchanging love, As fond, as true, as hope above, Though many a year of pain pass'd by Since last I heard thy farewell sigh, This faithful heart doth still adore Hussa tha measg na realt&n more. What once we hoped, might then have been, But fortune darkly frown'd between : And though far distant is the ray That lights me on my weary way, I love, and shall 'tilHife is o'er, Hussa tha measg na realt&n more. Though many a light of beauty shone Along my path, and lured me on, I better loved thy dark bright eye, Thy witching smile, thy speaking sigh : Shine on — this heart shall still adore Hussa tha measg na realt&n more. > Thou who art amongst the greater planeU. 582 THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. j&aenb Subjects. THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. Fkom the foot or Incbidony Island an elevated traot of mnd nma oat into the sea and terminates In a high green bank, which forms a pleasing contrast with the little desert behind it and the black solitary rook immediately nnder. Tradition tells that the Virgin came one night to this hillock to pray, and was discovered kneeling there by the crew of a vessel that was coming to anchor near the place. They laughed at her piety, and made some merry and unbecoming remarks on her beauty, upon which a storm arose and destroyed the ship and her crew. Since that time no vessel has been known to anchor near the spot. Such is the story upon which the following stanza! The evening star rose beauteous above the fading day, As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray, And hill and wave shone brightly in the moon- light's mellow fall ; But the bauk of green where Mary knelt was brightest of them all. Slow moving o'er the waters a gallant bark ap- peared, And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to the land she near'd ; To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride and beauty shone. The Master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow, And mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the radiance of her brow ; Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stain- less breast, And her eyes look'd up among the stais to Him her soul loved best. He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a cheer ; And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with laugh and ieer, And madly swore a form bo fair they never saw before ; And they cursed the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore. The ocean from its bosom shook oft" the moon- light sheen, And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their Queen ; And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a dark- ness o'er the land, And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on the strand. Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning leap'd about, And rushing with his watery war, the tempest gave a shout, And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with thundering shock, And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on In- chidony's rock. Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and high ; But the angry surge swept over them and hush'd their gurgling cry ; And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest pass'd away, And down, still chafing from their strife, the in- dignant waters lay. When the calm and purple morning shone out on high Dunmore, Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchi- dony's shore ; And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers sank, And still he calls that hillock green " the Virgin Mary's bank." THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. ( Verte omitted from " The Virgin MaryU Bank.") And from his brow she wiped the blood and wrung his dripping hair, And o'er the breathless sailor boy she bent her- self in prayer, And life came rushing to his cheek and his bosom heaved a sigh, And up the lifeless sailor rose in the mercy of her eye. MARY MAGDALEN. To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair ; She heard in the city that Jesus was there : She mark'd not the splendor that blazed on their board, But silentlv knelt at the feet of the Lord. The hair from her forehead, so sad and so meek, Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd on her cheek ; And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame, It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its frame. The frown and the murmur went round through them all, That one so unhallow'd should tread in that hall; And some said the poor would be objects more meet For the wealth of the perfumes she shower'd on his feet. She mark'd but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs, She dared not look up to the heaven of his eyes, And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of her breast, As her lips to his sandal were throbbingly press'd. On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow, In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow, He look'd on that lost one — her sins were for- given, And Mary went forth in the beauty of heaven. SAUL, HOLDING THB GARMENTS OF THE MCRDRREKS OF The soldier of Christ to the stake was bound, And the foes of the Lord beset him round ; But his forehead beam'd with unearthly light, As he look'd with joy to his last high fight. Beyond that circle of death was one Whose hand was unarm'd with glaive or stone; But the garments he held, as apart he stood, Of the men who were bared for the work of blood. His form not tall, but his bearing high, And courage sat in his dark deep eye ; His cheek was young, and he seem'd to stand Like one who was destined for high command. But the hate of his spirit you well might learn From his pale high brow so bent and stern, And the glance that at times shot angry light, Like a flash from the depth of a stormy night. 'Twas Saul of Tarsus ! — a fearful name, And wed in the land with sword and flame ; And the faithful of Israel trembled all At the deeds that were wrought by the furious Saul. 'Tis done ! — the martyr hath slept at last, And his victor soul to the Lord hath pass'd ; And the murderers' hearts wax'd sore with guilt, As they gazed on the innocent blood they spilt But Saul went on in his fiery zeal ; The thirst of his fury no blood could quell ; And he went to Damascus with words of doom, To bury the faithful in dungeon-gloom; When lo 1 — as a rock by the lightning riven, His heart was smote by a voice from heaven, And the hater of Jesus loved naught beside, And died for the name of the Crucified. THE MOTHER OF THE MACHABEES. That mother view'd the scene of blood — Her six unconquei J d sous were gone — Tearless she viewed : beside her stood Her last — her youngest — dearest one ; THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. He look'd upon her, and he smiled — In that wide sea, Oh ! w.tl she save that only child • Whose waters free Can find no shore to bound them — " By all my love, my son," she said — On whose calm breast "The breast that nursed — the womb that Pure spirits rest bore — With all their glory round them : The unsleeping care that watch'd thee — fed — Oh that my soul all free, 'Till manhood's years required no more ; From bonds of earth might sever ! By all I've wept and pray'd for thee, Oh that those isles might be Now, now, be firm and pity me. Her resting-place forever ! " Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven, With its high field of azure light, Look on this earth, to mankind given, Array'd in beauty and in might, And think — nor scorn thy mother's prayer— On Him who said it, and they were! When all those glorious spheres The watch of heaven are keeping, And dews, like angels' tears, Around are gently weeping ; Oh who is he That carelessly " So shalt thou not this tyrant fear, On virtue's bound encroaches, But then will feel Nor recreant shun the glorious strife. Behold ! thy battle-field is near : ■ Upon him steal Then go, my son, nor heed thy life; Their silent sweet reproaches ? Go ! — like thy faithful brothers die, Oh that my soul all free, That I may meet you all on high." From bonds of earth might sever ! Oh that those isles might be Like arrow from the bended bow, Her resting-place forever 1 He sprang upon the bloody pile — Like sunrise on the morning's snow, And when in secret sighs Was that heroic mother's smile. The lonely heart is pining, He died — nor fear'd the tyrant's nod — If we but view those skies For Judah's law, and Judah's God ! With all their bright host shining- While sad we gaze On their mild rays, They seem like seraphs smiling, To joys above, MOONLIGHT. With looks of love, The weary spirit wiling : Tis sweet at hush of night Oh that my soul all free, By the calm moon to wander, From bonds of earth could aeT« ! d view those isles 01 light Oh that those isles might be hat float so far beyond her. Her resting-place forever ! THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. translations from tjje $risjr. Though the Irish are undoubtedly of a poetio temperament, yet the popular songs of the lower order are neither numerous nor in general possessed of much beauty. For this various causes may be assigned ; but the most prominent is the division of lan- guage which prevails in Ireland. English, though of late years it is gaining ground with great rapidity, is not even yet the popular language in many districts of the country, and thirty years since it was still less so. Few songs, therefore, were composed in English by humble minstrels, and the few that I know, are of very little value indeed in any point of view. The poets of the populace confined, themselves chiefly to Irish— a tongue which, whatever may beiis capabilities, had ceased to be the language of the great and polished for centuries before the poetic taste revived in Europe. They were compelled to use a despised dialect, which, moreover, the political divisions of the country had rendered an object of suspicion to the ruling powers. The government and populace were indeed so decidedly at variance, that the topics which the village bards were obliged to select were such as often to render the indulgence of their poetic powers rather dangerous. Their heroes were frequently inmates of jails or doomed to the gibbet, and the severe crftieism of the cat-o^nine-tails might be the lot of the panegyrist. Wales to be sure has produced and continues to produce her bants, though the Welsh also use a language differing from that of their conquerors. But Wales is so completely dovetailed into England, that resistance to the victorious power was hopeless, and therefore after the first struggles not attempted. The Welsh lan- guage was consequently no distinguishing mart of a cast deter- minate^ hostile to the English domination, and continually the object of suspicion. It was and is still cultivated by all classes, though I understand not as mnch as formerly. The case was quite different In Ireland. No gentleman has nsed Irish as his common ainguage for generations ; multitudes do not understand a word of It; it was left to the lower orders exclusively, and they were de- pressed and uneducated, and consequently wild and illiterate. Let no zealous countryman of mine imagine that I am going to Impeach the ancient fame of our bards and sennchies, or to aban- don our claims, or the glories, such as they are, of the Ossianio fragments. I merely speak of the state of popular Irish poetry during the last century or century and a half. With our ancient minstrels I meddle not. Ossian I leave to his wrangling commen- tators and still more wrangling antiquaries; and for the bards of more modern times (those for instance who flourished in the days of Elizabeth), laccept the compliment of Spenser, who knewthera well and hated thom bitterly. But the poetic sympathies of the mighty minstrel of Old Mole could not allow his political feelings to hinder him from acknowledging, in his View of Ireland, that he had caused several songs of the Irish bards to be translated, that ho might understand them; "and surely," he says, "they savored of sweet wit and good invention, but skilled not of the goodly ornaments of poetry; yea, they were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and eomellnesse 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 adorne and beautifle virtue." The following songs are specimens of the popular poetry of later days. I have translated them as closely as possible, and pre- sent them to the public more as literary- other account DIEGE OF O'STJLLIVAN BEAR. In IT—, one of the 0'Sulliva.ns of Bearhaven, who went by tin name of Morty Oge, fell under the vengeance of the law. Ho had long been a turbulent character in the wild district which ho in- habited, and was particularly obnoxious to the local authorities, who had good reason to suspect him of enlisting men for the Irish Brigade in the French service, in which it was said he held a Captain's commission. Information of his raising these "wild geese" (the name by which such recruits were known) was given by a Mr. Puxley, on whom, in consequence, O'Sullivan vowed revenge, which he exe- cuted by shooting him on Sunday, while on his way to chnrch. This called for the interposition of the higher powers, and accord- ingly a party of military were sent round from Cork to attack O'Sullivan's house. He was daring and well armed, and the house was fortified, so that he made an obstinate defence. At last a con- fidential Bervant of his, named Scully, was bribed to wet the powder in the guns and pistols prepared for his defence, which rendered him powerless. He attempted to escape; but while springing over a high wall in the rear of his house, he received ft mortal wound in the back. They tied his body to a boat, and dragged it in that manner through the sea from Bearhaven to Cork, where his head was cut off and fixed on the county jail, where it remained for several years. Such is the story current among the lower orders about Bear- haven. In the version given of it in the rude chronicle of the local occurrences of Cork, there is no mention made of Scully'* perfidy, and perhaps that circumstance might have been added by those by whom O'Sullivan was deemed a hero, in order to save his credit as much as possible. The dirge was composed by his nurse, who has made no sparing use of the energy of cursing, which the Irish language is by all allowed to possess. (In the following Bong, Morty— in Irish, Muiertach, or Mulr- cheartach— is a name very common among the old families of Ireland. It sisniflcs expert at sea Og, or Oge, is young. Where a whole district is peopled in a great measure by a sept of one name, such distinguishing titles are necessary, and in some cases even supersede the original appellation. I-vera, or Aoi-vera, it the original name of Bearhaven ; Aoi, or I, signifying an Island or territory.) The sun upon Ivera No longer shines brightly *, The voice of her music No longer is sprightly ; No more to her maidens The light dance is dear, Since the death of our darling, O'Sullivan Bear. Scully ! thou false one, You basely betray'd him, THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. Jn his strong hour of need, When tby right hand should aid him : He fed thee — he clad thee — You had all could delight thee ; Tou left him — you sold him — If ay heaven requite thee 1 Scully ! may all kinds Of evil attend thee; On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee ; May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee ! May the strong haud of God In his red anger seize thee. Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him ; Or if the wild strife Of the sea-war closed o'er him ; But with ropes round his white limbs Through ocean to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter ! — 'Tis therefore I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them — Scully that sold him, And soldier that slew him ; One glimpse of heaven's light May they see never ; May the hearthstone of hell Be their best bed forever ! In the hole which the vile hands Of soldiers had made thee, ■ Unhonor'd, unshrouded, And headless they laid thee ; No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee, No friend to deplore thee. Dear head of my darling, How gory and pale, These aged eyes saw thee High spiked on their jail! That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warm, Ntor that eye e'er catch light But the flash of t),e storm. A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork To Ivera of slaughter, Since the billows were dyed With the red wounds of f Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'Sullivan Bear. THE GIRL I LOVE. 8ud 1 sios an c»6In ban aluin 6g. A large proportion of the aonga I have met with are 'or* ■ongs. Somehow or other, truly or untruly, the Irish have ob- tained a character for gallantry, and the peasantry, beyond doubt, do not belie the "6oft impeachment" Tlieir modes of courtship- are sometimes amusing. The " malo me Galatea petit" of Vlreril would still find a counterpart among them— except that the mis- sile of love (which I am afraid is not eo poetical as tlie apple of the pastoral, being neither more nor less than a potato) come* first from the gentleman. He flings it, with aim designedly er- ring, at his sweetheart; and if she returns the fire, a warmer ad- vance concludes the preliminaries and establishes the suitor. Courtships, however, are sometimes carried on among them with- a delicacy worthy of a more refined staire of society, and un- cbastity is very rare. This, perhaps, is in a great degree occasioned by their extremely early marriages, tbe advantage or disadvantage of which I leave to be discussed by Mr. Malthus and his antago- At their dances (of which they are very fond), whether a-field or in ale-house, a piece of gallantry frequently occurs, which la- alluded to in the following song. A young man, smitten suddenly by the charms of a dansevse belonging to a company to which he- is a stranger, rises, and with his best bow offers her his glass and requests her to drink to him. After due refusal, it is usually ao- cepted, and is looked on as a good omen of successful wooing. Goldsmith alludes to this custom of his country in the Deserted- Village: " The coy maid, half willing to be press'd, Shall kiss the cup, and pass it to the rest" ^—.nted, and perhaps never ,_... -under which circumstances it would appear that thli song was written. The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall, Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall ; Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free — Here's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er she he 1 The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek. Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek, Her lips like cherries on a summer tree — Here's a health to the charming maid, whoe'er she be ! When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound, And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round; The parties may be totally THE POEMS OF J. J. C ALLAN AN. The barrel is full, but its heart we soon shall Come, here's to that charming maid, whoe'er she be! Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign, Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain, I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me— Here's a health to the maid I love, whoe'er she be! Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay, And five times five for my love one hour each day; Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree — Then, my dear, may I drink a fond deep health to thee ! THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL. Is dubac e mo c&s. Who the hero of this song is I know not, but convicts, from obvious reasons, have been peculiar objects of sympathy in Ire- land. Hurling, which is mentioned in one of the verses, is the principal national diversion, and is played with intense zeal by pari6h against parish, barony against barony, county against, county, or even province against province. It is played not only by the peasant, but by the patrician students of the University, where it is an established pastime. Twiss, the most sweeping calumniator of Ireland, calls it, if I mistake not, the cricket of barbarians ; bat though fully prepared to pay every tribute to the elegance of the English game, I own that I think the Irish sport fully as civilized, and much better calculated for the display of vigor and activity. Perhaps I shall offend Scottish nationality if I prefer cither to golf, which is, I think, but trifling compared with them. In the room belonging to the Golf Club on the Links of Leith, there hangs a picture of an old lord (Rosslyn), which I never could look at with- out being struck with the disproportion between the gaunt figure of the peer and the petty instrument in his hand. Strutt, in "Sports and Pastimes" (page 78), eulogizes the activity of some Irishmen, who played the game about twenty-five years before the publication of his work (1S01), at the back of the British Museum, and deduces it from the Roman harpastntn. "It was played in Cornwall formerly," he adds ; " but neither the Romans nor the CorniAhmen used a bat, or, as we call it in Ireland, a hurly. The description Strutt quotes from old Carew is quite graphic. The late Dr. Gregory, I am told, used to be loud in panegyric on the superiority of this game, when played by the Irish students, over that adopted by his young countrymen north and south of the Tweed, particularly over golf, which he called •• riddling wl' a plok ;" but enough of this. How hard is my fortune, And vain my repining ! The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining ! My strength is departed, My cheeks sunk and sallow, While I languish in chains In the jail of Clonmala.' No boy of the village Was ever yet milder ; I'd play with a child And my sport would be wilder ; I'd dance without tiring From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike To the lightning of heaven. At my bed-foot decaying, My hurl-bat is lying ; Through the boys of the village My goal-ball is flying ; My horse 'mong the neighbors Neglected may fallow, While I pine in my chains In the jail of Clonmala. Next Sunday the patron* At home will be keeping, And the young active hurlers The field will be sweeping ; With the dance of fair maidens The evening they'll hallow, While this heart once so gay Shall be cold in Clonmala. THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE. Oh, many a day have I mado good ale in th« glen. That came not of stream, or malt, like the brew- ing of men, My bed was the ground, my roof the greenwood above, And the wealth that I sought — one far kind glance from my love. Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, That I was not near, from terror my angel to shield ! [ Clonmala, i. «., the solitude of deceit, the Irish name of Clon festive gathering of tho people on 58P THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. She stretch'd forth her arms — her mantle she I With her hand round my waist, Fd fear not the flung to the wind, wind or the wave. And swam o'er Loch Leue, her outlaw'd lover to find. Oh, would that a freezing, sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep, And I and my love were alone far offon the deep ! Td ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace to save — 'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringe* its sides, The maid of my heart, the fair one of heaven resides : I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes along, The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song. JatoHt* Songs. That the Roman Catholics of Irelandshould have been Jacobites •Imoflt to a man Is little wonderful ; indeed, the wonder would be were it otherwise. They bad lost every thing fighting for the -cause of the Stuarts, and the conquerors had made stern use of the victory. But while various movements in favor of that un- happy family were made in England and Scotland, Ireland was quiet; not indeed from want of inclination, but from want of power. The Roman Catholics were disarmed throughout the entire land, and the Protestants, who retained a farce hatred of the exiled family, were armed and united. The personal influence of the Earl of Chesterfield, who was Lord Lieutenant in 1745, and who made himself very popular. Is generally supposed to have contributed to keep Ireland at ;-eace in that dangerous year ; but the reason I have assigned is perhaps more substantial. But though Jacobiilcal, even these songs will suffice to prove that it was not out of love for the Stuarts that they were anxious to take up arms, but to revenge themselves on the Saxons (that is, Ihe English generally, but in Ireland the Protestants), for the de- feat they experienced in the days of William III., and the subse- quent depression of their party and their religion. James IL Is universally spoken of by the lower orders of Ireland with the utmost contempt and distinguished by an appellation which is too strong for ears polite, but which is universally given him. His celebrated expression at the battle of the Boyne, " Oh, spare my English, subjects," being taken in the most perverse sense, instead of obtaining for him the praise of wishing to show some lenity to those whom he still considered as rightfully under his sceptre, ■even in opposition to his cause, was, by his Irish partisans, con- strued into a desire of preferring the English on all occasions to them. The celebrated reply of the captive officer to William, that " if the armies changed generals, victory would take a differ- ent side," iB carefully remembered; and every misfortune that happened in the war of the Revolution is laid to tke charge of James's want of courage. The truth is, be appears to have dis- played little of the military qualities which distinguished him in former days. The first of these three songs Is a great favorite, principally from ts beautiful air. I am sure there Is scarcely a peasant in the south of Ireland who has not heard it The second Is the White Cock- ade, of which the first verse is English. The third is (at least In Irish) a strain of higher mood, and, from its style and language, evidently written by a man of more than ordinary information. O SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN. > sioda 1 na mbo. (Drlmln is the favorite name of a eow, by which Ireland ts her* allegoricully denoted. The five ends of Erin are the five king- doms— Mnnster, Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and Meath— into which the island was divided under the Milesian dynasty.) O sat, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine, Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line ? Too deep and too long is the slumber they take ; At the loud call of Freedom why don't they awake f My strong ones have fallen — from the bright eye of day, All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay; The cold turf is o'er them — they hear not my cries, And since Louis no aid gives, I cannot arise. Oh ! where art thou, Louis ? our eyes are on thee; Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the seal In Freedom's last strife if you linger or quail, No morn e'er shall break on the night of the GaeL But should the king's son, now bereft of hit right, Come proud in his strength for his country to fight, Like leaves on the trees will new people arise, And deep from their mountains shout back to my cries. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. When the Prince, now an exile, shall come for his own, The isles of his father, his rights and his throne, My people in battle the Saxons will meet, And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet. O'er mountains and val'eys they'll press on their route, The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout : My sons all united, shall bless the glad day When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased far away. THE WHITE COCKADE. Taid mo gra fir fl breataib da. King Charles he is King James's son, And from a royal line is sprung ; Then up with shout, and out with blade, And we'll raise once more the white cockade. Oh ! my dear, my fair-hair'd youth, Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth ; Then up with shout, and out with blade — We'll raise once more the white cockade. My young men's hearts are dark with woe, On my virgins' cheeks the grief-drops flow ; The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day, Since our rightful prince went far away. He's gone, the stranger holds his throne, The royal bird far off is flown ; But up with shout, and out with blade — We'll stand or fall with the white cockade. No more the cuckoo hails the spring. The woods no more with the staunch-hounds ring; The song from the glen, so sweet before, Is hush'd since our Charles has left our shore. The Prince is gone ; but he soon will come, With trumpet sound and with beat of drum : Then up with shout, and out with blade ; Huzza for the right and the white cockade ! THE AVENGER. Si Mucin »'n la sin bo seasta bfeio m'lnttn. O Heavens 1 if that long-wished-for morning I spied, As high as throe ktags I'd leap up in my pride ; With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should arise, As the fires from each mountain blazed blight to the skies. The avenger shall lead us right on to the foe, Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets should blow ; Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven, When our Prince was restored, and our fetters were riven. O chieftains of Ulster ! when will you come forth, And send your strong cry to the winds of the north ? The wrongs of a king call aloud for your steel- Red stars of the battle — O'Donnell, O'Neal ! Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings,, Up, up, like the eagle, when heavenward he springs ! Oh, break ye once more from the Saxon's strong rule, Lost race of MacMurchad, O'Byrne, and O'Toole f Momonia of Druids — green dwelling of song ! Where, where are thy minstrels ? why sleep they so long ? Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before. M'Carthy— O'Brien— O'Sullivan More ? Oh, come from your hills, like the waves to the shore, When the storm-girded headlands are mad with the roar ! Ten thousand hurrahs shall ascend to high heaven,. ' When our Prince is restored and our fetters are riven. 1 1 The names In this song are those of the principal families in Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies to the house of Stuart. The reader cannot fail toobserve the strange expectation which these writers entertained of the nature of the Pretender's designs: they call on him not to come to reinstate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid them in doing ven- geance on "the flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Eoman Catho- lics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts as of the Milesian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus and the Celts of Ireland. Who the avenger is, whose arrival is prayed for in this song, I am not sure ; but circumstances too tedious to be detailed make me think that the date of the song is 1708, when a general im- pression prevailed that the field would be taken in favor of th* Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before. Hia name was kept a secret. Very little has been written on the hiBtory of the Jacobites o( Ireland, and yet I think it would be an interesting subject. We have now THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE. (FmASixtTBA O'Gmami was family Olamh, or bard, to tho O'Neil of Claneboy aboot the year 1656. The poem, of which the following lines are the translation, commences with " Ma thrvagh mar ataid* Goadhit.") How dimm'd is the glory that circled the Gael, And fallen the high people of green Innisfail !' The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore ; And the mighty of nations is mighty no more ! Like a bark on the ocean, long shatter'd and toss'd, On the land of your fathers at length you are lost; The hand of the spoiler is stretch'd on your plains, And you're doom'd from your cradles to bond- age and chains. Oh, where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow ? Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou now ! That heart is now broken that never would quail, And thy high songs are turn'd into weeping and wail. Bright shades of our sires! from your home in the skies, Oh, blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes! Proud spirit of Gollam,* how red is thy cheek, For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak! O'Neil" of the hostages — Con, 4 whose high name On a hundred red battles has floated to fame, Let the long grass still sigh undisturb'd o'er thy sleep ; Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep. In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, ln'cr 1 f t; Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of my light; For freedom or valor no more canst thou see In the home of the brave, iu the isle of the free. Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd, And oppression hath wrapp'd all your land in its shroud, Since first from the Brehons" pure justice you stray'd, And bent to the laws the proud Saxon has made. We know not our country, so strange is her face ; Her sons, once her glory, are now her disgrace; Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail, For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael. Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your cheer, Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf and the deer ? Can those dark heights with ramparts all frown- ing and riven Be the hills where your forests waved brightly in heaven ? O bondsmen of Egypt ! no Moses appears To light your dark steps through this desert of tears ; Degraded and lost ones ! no Hector is nigh To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die ! arrived at a time when it could be done without exciting any angry feelings. In Momonia (Munster), Druldism appears to have flourished most, as we may conjecture from the numerous remains of Druid- ical workmanship, and the names of places indicating that worship. The records of the province are the best kept of any in Ireland, and it has proverbially retained among the peasantry a character for superior learning. 1 Innisfail — the Island of Destiny — one of the names of Ireland. 3 Gollamh — a name of Milesius, the Spanish progenitor of the Irish O'a and Macs. ' Nial of the Nine Hostages, the heroic monarch of Ireland in the fourth century, and ancestor of the O'Neil family. * Con Cead Catha— Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of the island in tlie second century; although the fighter of a hundred battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields. His valorona rivai, Owen, king of Munster, compelled him to a division of the ON THE LAST DAY. Oh! after life's dark sinful way, How shall I meet that dreadful day, When heaven's red blaze spreads frightfully Above the hissing, withering sea, And earth through al! her regions reels With the strong, shivering fear she feels ! When that high trumpet's awful sound Shall send its deep-voiced summons round, And, starting from their long, cold sleep, The living-dead shall wildly leap — Oh! by the painful path you trod, Have mercy then, my Lord ! my God ! Brehons — the hereditary judges of the Irish t THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. Oh ! thou who on that hill of blood, Beside thy Son iD anguish stood ; — Thou, who above this life of ill, Art the bright star to guide us still ; — Pray that my soul, its sins forgiven, May find some lonely home in heaven. A LAY OF MIZEN HEAD. The subject of tbe " Lay of Mizen Head" was the wreck of the Conflance, sloop-of-war, lost April, IS'22, about a mile west of liizen Head. All on board perished ; among the rest many young midshipmen who had Just Joined the service and were going to Join their respective ships. It was the noon of Sabbath, the spring-wind swept the sky, And o'er the heaven's savannah blue the boding scuds did fly, And a stir was heard amongst the waves o'er all their fields of might, Like the distant hum of hurrying hosts when they muster for the fierht. The fisher mark'd the changing heaven, and high his pinnace drew, And to her wild and rocky home the screaming sea-bird flew ; But safely in Cork haven the shelter'd bark may rest Within the zone of ocean hills that girds its litHiiteous breast. Amongst the stately vessels in that calm port was one "Whose streamers waved out joyously to hail the Sabbath sun ; And scatter'd o'er her ample deck were careless hearts and free, Thatlaugh'd to hear the rising wind, and mock'd the frowning sea. One youth alone bent darkly above the heaving tide— His heart was with his native hills and with his beauteous bride ; And with the rush of feelings deep his manly bosom strove, As he thought of her he had left afar in the spring-time of their love. What checks the seaman's jovial mirth and clouds his sunny brow ? Why does he look with troubled gaze from port- hole, side, and prow ? A moment — 'twas a death-like pause — that sig- nal—can it be ? — That signal quickly orders out the Confiance to sea. Then there was springing up aloft and hurrying down below, And the windlass hoarsely answer'd to the hoarse and wild " heave yo !" And vows were briefly spoken then that long had silent lain, And hearts and lips together met that ne'er may meet again. Now darker lower'd the threatening sky, and wilder heaved the wave, And through the cordage fearfully the wind be- gan to rave : The sails are set, the anchor weigh'd — what recks that gallant ship ? Blow on ! Upon her course she springs, like greyhound from the slip. O heavens ! it was a glorious sight, that stately ship to see, In the beauty of her gleaming sails and her pen- nant floating free, As to the gale with bending tops she made her haughty bow, And proudly spurn'd the waves that burn'd around her flashing prow ! The sun went down, and through the clouds look'd out the evening star, And westward from old Ocean's Head' beheld that ship afar. Still onward fearlessly she flew, in her snowy pinion-sweep, Like a bright and beauteous spirit o'er the moun- tains of the deep. It blows a fearful tempest — 'tis the dead watch of the night — The Mizen's giant brow is streak'd with red and angry light — 1 The old head of Kinsale. Such la the meaning of the Irian 592 THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. And by its far-illuming glance a struggling bark I see. Wear, wear ! the land, ill-fated one, is close be- neath your lee 1 Another flash — they still hold out for home and love and life, And under close-reef'd topsail maintain the un- equal strife. Now out the rallying foresail flies, the last, the desperate chance — Can that be she ? — O heavens, it is — the luckless Confiance ! Hark! heard you not that dismal cry? 'Twas stifled in the gale — Oh ! clasp, young bride, thine orphan child, and raise the widow's wail ! The morning rose in purple light o'er ocean's tranquil sleep ; But o'er their gallant quarry lay the spoilers of the deep. THE LAMENT OF KIRKE WHITE. 'Twas evening, and the sun's last golden beam On that sad chamber cast its farewell gleam, Then sunk — to him, forever. Yet one streak Of lingering radiance lit his faded cheek. His hand was press'd to his pale, clouded brow, Where sat a spirit that might break, not bow ; And the cold starry lustre of his eye, Than inspiration's scarce less purely high, Seem'd, through the mist of one o'e The herald of the minstrel's loftier sphere. On a small table by the sufferer's bed The sibyl leaves of song were rudely spread. His sad eye wander'd with a dark delight O'er scatter'd gleams of many a thought of light ; And pride could not suppress one low deep sigh, To think when he was gone they too must die. Fame long had woo'd him with her sunny smile To tread her paths of glory and of toil. His was the wreath that many vainly seek ; His the proud temple on the mountain peak ; But the vile shaft from some ignoble string Brought down to earth the minstrel's soaring wing. They little knew, who dealt the dastard stroke, The mind they clouded and the heart they broke, He thought of home and mother : dearer far, He thought of her, his far-off, beauteous star. He loved, it may be madly, but too well, Oue whom he may not breathe, and dare not tell. He could not boast the line of which he came, Of lofty title, honor, wealth, or fame. B'mm'd in by adverse fate, his fiery soul Like prison'd eagle felt its dark control : Give but his spirit scope — to win that hand His pilgrim foot had trod earth's farthest land. He would have courted danger on the deep, Or 'mid the battle's desolating sweep — All, all endured, uublenching gaged even life For one sweet word, to call that dear oue wife. What now had woman left to gaze upon — Himself a wreck, his bright hopes queuch'd and gone ? Some thus would live : the lightning of his mind Shiver'd his frame, and left him with mankind Scathed and lone ; yet stood he fearlessly On the last wave-mark of eternity, And as above its shoreless waste he hung, Thus to his harp's low tone the minstrel sung : — THE LAMENT. Awake, my lyre, though to thy lay no voice of gladness sings, Ere yet the viewless power be fled that oft hath swept thy strings ; I feel the flickering flame of life grow cold with- in my breast — Yet once again, my lyre, awake, and then I sink to rest. And must I die \ Then let it be, since thus 'tis better far, Than with the world and conquering fate to wage eternal war. Come, then, thou dark and dreamless sleep ; to thy cold clasp I fly From shatter'd hopes and blighted heart, and pangs that cannot die. Yet would I live — for, oh ! at times I feel the tide of song In swells of light come strong and bright my heaving heart along ; THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. Yet would I live — in happier day, to wake, with master hand, A lay that should embalm my name in Albin's beauteous land. Oh, had I been in battle-field amid the charging brave, I then had won a soldier's fame or fill'd a soldier's grave ; I then had lived to call bliss to me, Or smiled in death, my sy died for thee. mine, thou all of it one, to think I 'Tis past, they've won — my sun has set — I see my coming night ; . I never more shall press that hand or meet that look of light. Among old Albin's future bards no song of mine shall rise. Go, sieep, my harp, forever sleep — go, leave me to my sighs ! They've won — but, Mary, from this breast thy love they could not part, All freshly green it lingers round the ruin of my heart. One thought of me may cloud thy soul, one tear may dim thine eye, That I have sung and loved in vain, forsaken thus to die ! England ! my country 1 despite of all my wrongs, 1 love thee still, my native land, thou land of sweetest songs ; One thought still cheers my life's last close — that I shall rest in thee, And sleep as minstrel heart should sleep, among the brave and free. WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY, Who, in the author's presence, had taxed the Irish with want of gallantry, proving her position by the fact of their not sere- nading, as the Italians, <&c, do. Yes, lady, 'tis true in our cold rugged isle Love seldom puts on him his warm sunny smile. No youth from his boat or the orange-tree shade Sings at eve to his lady the sweet serenade. Yet, 'tis not that Erin has daughters less fair Than Italy's maids with their dark-flowing hair And 'tis not the souls of her sons are less brave Than the gay gondoliers on Neapoli's wave. Saw you not when his country her banner dis- play'd, And 'mid victory's glad shout on high flash'd her blade, How that lover so true with his sprightly guitar Grew pale at the first blast of liberty's war ? Saw you not how, when prostrate yon eagle was hurl'd, Whose proud flight of conquest would compass the world, Our Erin rear'd o'er it her green flag on high, And the shouts of her victor sons peal'd in the sky? Thus, though scorn'd and rejected, long, long may they prove The strongest in fight and the fondest in love ! STANZAS TO ERIN. Composed, probably, after he had left for Lisbon. Still green are thy mountains and bright is thy shore, And the voice of thy fountains is heard as of yore: The sun o'er thy valleys, dear Erin, shines on, Though thy bard and thy lover forever is gone. Nor shall he, an exile, thy glad scenes forget — The friends fondly loved, ne'er again to be met — The glens where he mused on the deeds of his nation, And waked his young harp with a wild inspira- tion. Still, still, though between us may roll the broad ocean, Will I cherish thy name with the same deep de- votion ; And though minstrels more brilliant my place may supply, None loves you more fondly, more truly than I. THE POEMS OF J. J. CALL AN AN. LINES TO MISS 0. You're " getting sense," you'll " write no more I" The sweet delusive dream is o'er, And fancy's bright and meteor ray Is but a light that leads astray ; No more the wreath of song you'll twine — Calm reason, common sense be thine I As well command the troubled sky, When winds are loud and waves are high ; As well call back the parted soul, Or force the needle from the pole, False to the star it loved so long — As turn the poet's heart from song. If aught be true that minstrel deems Of sister spirit in bis dreams — The still pale brow's expression high — The silent eloquence of eye, Its fitful flashes, bright and wild — Thou art and must be fancy's child. And reason, sense — are they confined To the austere and cold of mind ! Must thoughtless folly still belong To those who haunt the paths of song, And o'er this vale of woe and tears Pour the sweet strain of happier spheres ? No, lady — still let fancy spring On her own wild and wayward wing ; Still let the fire of genius glow, Ami the strong tide of feeling flow: The bright imaginings of youth Are but the Titian tints of truth. When chill November sweeps along With its own hoarse and sullen song, And wither'd lies the autumn's pride, And every flower you nursed hath died; Whilst other hearts in ennui pine, The poet's raptures shall be thine. Then gaze upon the lightning's flash, And listen to the wild wave's dash. Others may tremble at their tone ; Not thou— their language is thine own. Mark how the seagull wings his way Through billow's foam anc 1 wintry spray — With tireless wing and joyous cry Proclaims its ocean liberty ! Yes, my young friend, if I may claim For humble bard so dear a name, Still let thy heart revere the lyre, Still iet thy hands awake its fire, Walk in the light that God hath given, And make Dunmanus' wilds a heaven. For me, believe, where'er I stray Through life's uncertain, toilsome way, Whether calm peace my lot may be, Or toss'd on fortune's stormy sea, I'll think upon the young, the fair, The kind warm hearts that met me there. LINES TO ERIN. When dulness shall chain the wild harp that would praise thee, When its last sigh of freedom is heard on thy shore, When its raptures shall bless the false heart that betrays thee — Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! Wnen thy sons are less tame than their own ocean waters, When their last flash of wit and of genius is o'er, When virtue and beauty forsake thy young daughters — Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more ! When the sun that now holds his bright path o'er thy mountains Forgets the green fields that he smiled on be- fore, When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and thy fountains — Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more 1 When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall sever, When the freedom you lost you no longer de- plore, When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be sleeping forever — Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more t THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. WELLINGTON'S NAME. How bless'd were the moments when liberty found thee The first in her cause on the fields of the brave, When the young lines of ocean were charging around thee With the strength of their hills and the roar of their wave! Oh, chieftain, what then was the throb of thy pride, When loud through the war-cloud exultingly came, O'er the battle's red tide, which they swell'd as they died, The shout of green Erin for Wellington's name ! How sweet, when thy country thy garland was wreathing, And the fires of thy triumph blazed brightly along, Came the voice of its harp all its witchery breath- ing, And hallow'd thy name with the light of her song 1 And oh, 'twas a strain in each patriot breast That waked all the transport, that lit all the flame, And raptured and blest was the Isle of the West When her own sweetest bard sang her Wel- lington's name 1 But 'tis past — thou art false, and thy country's sad story Shall tell how she bled and she pleaded in vain ; How the arm that should lead her to freedom and glory, The child of her bosom, did rivet her chain ! Yet think not forever her vengeance shall sleep : Wild harp that once praised him, sing louder his shame, And where'er o'er the deep thy free numbers may sweep, Bear the curse of a nation on Wellington's THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. Adieu, my own dear Erin, Receive my fond, my last adieu ; I go, but with me bearing A heart still fondly turn'd to yon. The charms that nature gave thee With lavish hand, shall cease to smile, And the soul of friendship leave thee, E'er I forget my own green isle. Ye fields where heroes 1 To meet the foes of liberty ; Ye hills that oft resounded The joyful shouts of victory, Obscured is all your glory, Forgotten all your former fame, J And the minstrel's mournful story Now calls a tear at Erin's name. But still the day may brighten When those tears shall cease to flow, And the shout of freedom lighten Spirits now so drooping low. Then should the glad breeze blowing Convey the echo o'er the sea, My heart, with transport glowing, Shall bless the hand that made thee free. SONG. 'L»ddie of Bnchan.* Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair, The breath of young roses is fresh on the air, The sun has long glanced over mountain and lake — Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. Oh, come whilst the flowers are still wet with the dew — I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you ; The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy sake — Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. The hare from her soft bed of heather hath gone, The coot to the water already hath flown ; There is life on the mountain and joy on the lake — Then awake from thy slnmbers, my Bessy, awake r,96 THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. DE LA VIDA DEL CIELO. [op heavenly lifeJ (From the Spanish of Lois de Leon.) Clime forever fair and bright, Cloudless region of the blest, Summer's heat or winter's blight Comes not o'er thy fields of light, Yielder of endless joy and home of endless rest. There his flock whilst fondly tending, All unarm'd with staff or sling, Flowers of white and purple blending O'er his brow of beauty bending, The heavenly Shepherd walks thy breathing fields of spring. Still his look of love reposes On the happy sheep he feeds With thine own undying roses, Flowers no clime but thine discloses ; And still the more they feast more freshly bloom thy meads. To thy hills in glory blushing Next his charge the Shepherd guides, And in streams all sorrow hushing, Streams of life in gladness gushing, His happy flock he bathes and their high food provides. And when sleep their eye encumbers In the noontide radiance strong, With his calumet's sweet numbers Lulls them in delicious slumbers, And rapt in holy dreams they hear that 'trancing song. At that pipe's melodious sounding, Thrilling joys transfix the soul ; And in visions bright surrounding, Up the ardent spirit bounding, Springs on her pinion free to love's eternal goal. Minstrel of heaven, if earthward stealing, This ear might catch thy faintest tone, Then would thy voice's sweet revealing Drown my soul with holiest feeling. And this weak heart that strays, at length be all thine own. Then, with a joy that knows no speaking, I would wait thy smile on yon high shore, And from earth's vile bondage breaking Thy bright home, good Shepherd, seeking — Live with thy blessed flock, nor darkly wandei TO THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. Fair star of the morning. How pure is thy beam, Though the spirit of darkness Half shadow its gleam ! In the host of yon heaven No bright one doth shine With a glory more purely Refulgent than thine. LINES TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. Thou dear and mystic semblance, Before whose form I kneel, I tremble as I think upon The glory thou dost veil, And ask myself, can he who late The ways of darkness trod, Meet face to face, and heart to heart, His sin-avenging God ? My Judge and my Creator, If I presume to stand Amid thy pure and holy ones, It is at thy command, To lay before thy mercy's seat My sorrows and my fears, To wail my life and kiss thy feet In silence and in tears. God ! that dreadful moment. In sickness and in strife, When death and hell seem'd watching For the last weak pulse of life, When ou the waves of sin and pain My drowning soul was toss'd, Thy hand of mercy saved me then, When hope itself was lost. 1 hear thy voice, my Saviour, It speaks within my breast, " Oh, come to me, thou weary one, I'll hush thy cares to rest ;" THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. Then from the parch'd and burning waste How sad were the glances Of sin, where loug I trod, At parting we threw ! I come to thee, thou stream of life, No word was there spoken My Saviour and my God ! But the stifled adieu ; My lips o'er thy cold check All raptureless pass'd — 'Twas the first time I press'd it It must be the last. THOUGH DARK FATE HATH REFT ME. Though dark Fate hath reft me But why should I dwell thus Of all that was sweet, On scenes that but pain, And widely we sever, Or think on thee, Mary, Too widely to meet — When thinking is vain J Oh, yet while one life pulse Thy name to this bosom Remains in this heart, Now sounds like a knell : Twill remember thee, Mary My fond one, my dear on«, Wherever thmi art. Forever —farewell 1 POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE: OB, THE EMIGBANt's ADIETJ TO BALLYSHANNON. (A LOCAL BALLAD.) Adieu to Ballyshannon ! where I was bred and born ; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn, The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known, And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own : There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill, But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recol- lect them still. I leave my warm heart with you, though my back I'm forced to turn — So adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne ! No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, When the trout is rising to the fly, the sal- mon to the fall. The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps : Cast off, cast off ! — she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps ; Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gather- ing up the clue, Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew. Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and " yarn ;" — Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne ! The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide, When all the green-hill'd harbor is full from side to side — From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay, From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sand- hills gray ; While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall, The Leitrim mountains, clothed in blue, gaze calmly over all, And watch the ship sail up or dowu, the red flag at her stern ; — Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne ! Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar, A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore ; From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-mountain steep, Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep ; From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand, Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand ; Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern ! — Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne ! Farewell Coolmore, — Bundoran ! and your summer crowds that run From inland homes to see with joy the Atlantic-setting sun ; To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves ; To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves ; To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish ; Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish : POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 599 The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn — And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne ! Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbor to Belleek, And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek; The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow, The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below ; The Lough, that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green ; And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between ; And Breesie Hill, aDd many a pond among the heath and fern, — For I must say adieu — adieu to the winding banks of Erne ! The thrush will call through Camlin groves the livelong summer day ; The waters run by mossy cliff, and bank with wild-flowers gay; The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn, Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn ; Along the river side they go, where I have often been, — Oh, never shall I see again the days that I have seen ! A thousand chances are to one I never may return, — Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne ! Adieu to evening dances, when merry neigh- bors meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, " Get up and shake your feet !" To " shanachus" 1 and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by — Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power, 1 stories,— historic, genealogtei. And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour. The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn — Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne ! Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather, — I wish no one any hurt ; The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun, If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one. I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me ; For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea. My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn To think of Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne. If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youth- ful years were pass'd ; Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray, New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away — Tet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside ; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide, And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne. THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN. (A KILLAKNEY LEGEND.) The Abbot of Innisfallen Awoke ere dawn of day ; Under the dewy green leaves Went he forth to pray. POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. The lake around his island Lay smooth and dark and deep ; And wrapt in a misty stillness, The mountains were all asleep. Low kneel'd the Abhot Cormac, When the dawn was dim and gray • The prayers of his holy office He faithfully 'gan say. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac, When the dawn was waxing red ; And for his sins' forgiveness A solemn prayer he said : Low kneel'd that holy Abbot, When the dawn was waxing clear ; And he pray'd with loving-kindness For his convent-brethren dear. Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot, When the dawn was waxing bright ; He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, He pray'd with all his might. Low kneel'd that good old Father, While the sun began to dart ; He pray'd a prayer for all mankind, He pray'd it from his heart. The Abbot of Innisfallen Arose upon his feet ; He heard a small bird singing, And oh but it sung sweet ! He heard a white bird singing well Within a holly-tree ; A song so sweet and happy Never before heard he. It sung upon a hazel, It sung upon a thorn ; He had never heard such music Since the hour that he was born. It sung upon a sycamore, It sung upon a brier ; To follow the song and hearken Tli is Abbot could never tire. Till at last he well bethought him He might no longer stay ; So he bless'd the little white singing bird, And gladly went his way. But, when he came to his Abbey-walls, He found a wondrous change ; He saw no friendly faces there, For every face was strange. The strange men spoke unto him ; And he heard from all and each The foreign tongue of the Sassenach, Not wholesome Irish speech. Then the oldest monk came forward, In Irish tongue spake he : ' Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, And who hath given it to thee ?" 1 1 wear the holy Augustine's dress, And Cormac is my name, The Abbot of this good Abbey By grace of God I am. ' I went forth to pray, at break of day ; And when my prayers were said, I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, That sung above my head." The monks to him made answer : " Two hundred years have gone o er Since our Abbot Cormac went through th« gate, And never was heard of more. ' Matthias now is our Abbot, And twenty have pass'd away. The stranger is lord of Ireland ; We live in an evil day." • Now give me absolution ; For my time is come," said he. And they gave him absolution, As speedily as might be. Then, close outside the window, The sweetest song they heard That ever yet since the world begaii Was utter'd by any bird. POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. The monks look'd out and saw the bird, Its feathers all white and clean ; And there in a moment, b&side it, Another white bird was seen. Those two they dang together, Waved their white wings, and fled ; Flew aloft, and vanish'd ; — But the good old man was dead. They buried his ble3s6d body ' Where lake and greensward meet ; A carven cross above his head, A holly-bush at his feet ; Where spreads the beautiful water To gay or cloudy skies, And the purple peaks of Killamey From ancient woods arise. ABBEY ASAROE. Gbat, gray is Abbey Asaroe, by Ballyshan- non town, It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down ; The carven stones lie scatter'd in brier and nettle-bed ; The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead. A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride ; The bore-tree 1 and the lightsome ash across the portal grow, And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Asaroe. It looks beyond the harbor-stream to Bulban mountain blue ; It hears the voice of Erna's fall, — Atlantic breakers too ; * " Bore-tree," a name for the elder-tree (tambuaii nigra). High ships go sailing past it ; the Bturdj clank of oars Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores ; And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done, The weary fisher sculls his punt across the setting sun; While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, hii cottage white below ; But gray at every season is Abbey Asaroe. There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge ; He heard no running rivulet, he saw nf mountain-ridge ; He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and view'd with misty sight The Abbey-walls, the burial-ground with crosses ghostly white ; Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon his staff, Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph ; For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe, This man was of the blood of them who founded Asaroe. From Derry Gates to Drowas Tower, Tir- connell broad was theirs ; Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy abbot's prayers ; With chanting always in the house which they had builded high To God^and to Saint Bernard, — whereto they came to die. At worst, no workhouse grave for him ! the ruins of his race Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this their saintly place. The fond old man was weeping ; and tremu- lous and slow Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Asaroe. 2 3 Asaroe, Eas-Aedha-Ruaidh, Cataract of Red Hngh, a fcmous waterfall on the river Erne, where King Hugh ia paid to have been drowned about 2300 years ago, gave name to th« neighboring Abbey, founded in the twelfth century. POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. THE WONDROUS WELL. Came north and south and east and west, Four Pilgrims to a mountain crest, Each vow'd to search the wide world round, Until the Wondrous Well be found; For even here, as old songs tell, Shine sun and moon upon that Well; And now, the lonely crag their seat, The water rises at their feet. Said One, " This Well is small and mean, Too petty for a village-green. " Another said, " So smooth and dumb — From earth's deep centre can it come?" The Third, " This water's nothing rare, Hueless and savourless as air." The Fourth, " A Fane I look'd to see: Where the true Well is, that must be." They rose and left the lofty crest, One north, one south, one east, one west; Through many seas and deserts wide They wander'd, thirsting, till they died; Because no other water can Assuage the deepest thirst of man. — Shepherds who by the mountain dwell, Dip their pitchers in that Well. THE TOUCHSTONE. A MAN there came, whence none can tell, Bearing a Touchstone in his hand; And tested all things in the land By its unerring spell. Quick birth of transmutation smote The fair to foul, the foul to fair; Purple nor ermine did he spare, Nor scorn the dusty coat. Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, Were many changed to chips and clods, And even statues of the gods Crumbled beneath its touch. Then angrily the people cried, •' The loss outweighs the profit far; Our goods suffice us as they are; We will not have them tried." And since they could not so prevail To check his unrelenting quest, They seized him, saying — " Let him test How real it is, our jail ! " But, though they slew him with the sword, And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd, Its doings could not be o'erturn'd, Its undoings restored. And when, to stop all future harm, They strew'd its ashes on the breeze; They little guess'd each grain of these Convey'd the perfect charm. North, south, in rings and amulets, Throughout the crowded world 'tis borne; Which, as a fashion long outworn, Its ancient mind forgets. AMONG THE HEATHER. AN IRISH SONG. One evening walking out, I o'ertook a mod- est colleen, When the wind was blowing cool, and the harvest leaves were falling. " Is our road, by chance, the same ? Might we travel on together ? " " 0, 1 keep the mountain side," (she replied,) '"' among the heather." "Your mountain air is sweet when the days are long and sunny, When the grass grows round the rocks, and the whinbloom smells like honey; But the winter's coming fast, with its foggy, snowy weather, And you'll find it bleak and chill on your hill, among the heather." POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. She praised her mountain home and I'll praise it too, with reason, For where Molly is there's sunshine, and flow'rs at every season. Be the moorland black or white, does it sig- nify a feather, Now I know the way by heart, every part, among the heather ? The sun goes down in haste, and the night falls thick and stormy; Yet I'd travel twenty miles to the welcome that's before me Singing hie for Eskydun, in the teeth of wind and weather! Love'll warm me as I go through the snow, among the heather. THE STATUETTE. I DRBAm'd that I, being dead a hundred years, (In dream-world, death is free from waking fears) Stood in a City, in the market-place, And saw a snowy marble Statuette, Little, but delicately carven, set Within a corner-niche. The populace Look'd at it now and then in passing-by, And some with praise. "Who sculptured it ? " said I, And then my own name sounded in my ears; And, gently waking, in my bed I lay, With mind contented, in the newborn day. THE BALLAD OF SQUIRE CURTIS. A venerable white-hair'd Man, A trusty man and true, Told me this tale, as word for word I tell this tale to you. Squire Curtis had a cruel mouth, Though honey was on his tongue; Squire Curtis woo'd and wedded a wife, And she was fair and young. But he said, " She cannot love me; She watches me early and late; She is mild and good and cold of mood ; " — And his liking turn'd to hate. One autumn evening they rode through the woods, Far and far away; " The dusk is drawing round," she said, " I fear we have gone astray." He spake no word, but lighted down, And tied his horse to a tree; Out of the pillion he lifted her; " Tis a lonely place," said she. Down a forest-alley he walk'd, And she walk'd by his side; " Would Heaven we were at home!" she said, " These woods are dark and wide!" He spake no word, but still walk'd on; The branches shut out the sky; In the darkest place he turn'd him round — " Tis here that you must die." Once she shriek'd and never again; He stabbed her with his knife; Once, twice, thrice, and every blow Enough to take a life. A grave was ready; he laid her in; He fill'd it up with care; Under the brambles and fallen leaves Small sign of a grave was there. He rode an hour at a steady pace, Till unto his house came he ; On face or clothing, on foot or hand, No stain that eye could see. He boldly call'd to his serving-man, As he lighted at the door; " Your Mistress is gone on a sudden jour- ney- May stay for a month or more. POEMS OF SAMUEL l'EKGUSOX. ' In two days I shall follow her; Let her waiting- woman know." ch Etive could bear an ornament without an infringement on at aspect of solitary vastness which it presents throughout; nor , there one. The rocks and bays on the shore, which might olse- where attract attention, i here swallowed POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. ■" Echoes of the shout of warning heard by Us- nach's exiled youths, When, between the night and morning, sleeping in their hunting-booths, Deirdra dreamt the death-bird hooted ; Neesa, wakirjg wild with joy, Cried, ' A man of Erin shouted ! welcome Fer- gus, son of Roy !' •" Wondrous shout, from whence repeated, even as up the answering hills Echo's widening wave proceeded, spreads the sound of song that fills All the echoing waste of ages, tele and lay and choral strain, But the chief delight of sages and of kings was still the Tain, u Made when mighty Maev invaded Cuailgnia for her brown-bright bull ; Fergus was the man that made it, for he saw the war in full, And in Maev's own chariot mounted, sang what pass'd before his eyes, As you'd hear it now recounted, knew I but where Fergus lies. ie surrounding mountains, and the wide and sim- ple expanse of the lake. Hero also, as at Loch Coruisk and Glen ■Sanicks, we experience the effect arising from simplicity of form. At the first view, the whole expanse appears comprised within a mile or two ; nor is it until we find the extremity still remote and oiisty as we advance, and the aspect of every thing remaining un- changed, that we begin to feel and comprehend the vast and over- whelming magnitude of all around. It is hence also, perhaps, as !n that singular valley (Glen Sanicks). that there is here that sense of oternal silence and repose, as if in this spot creation had forever Jlept The billows that are seen whitening the shore are inaudible, the cascade pours down the declivity unheard, and the clouds are hurried along the tops of the mountains before the blast, but no cound of the storm reaches the ear. There is something in the coloring of this spot which is equally singular, and which adds much to the general sublime simplicity of the whole. Bocks of gray granite, mixed with portions of a subdued brown, rise all round from the water's edge to the summits of Cruaclian and Buachaill Etive (i. e., the Herdsman of Etive), which last, like a vast pyramid, crowns the whole. The unapprehended distance lends to these solar tints an atmospheric hue which seems as if it were ihe local coloring of the scenery, and this brings the entire landscape to one tone of sobriety and broad repose. As no form protrudes, so no color intrudes itself to break in upon the consis- tency of the character ; even the local colors at our feet partake of the general tranquillity; and all around, water, rock, and hill, and sky, is one broadness of peace and silence, a silence that speaks to ♦.he eye and to the mind. The sun shone bright, yet even the sun seemed not to shine: it was as if it had never penetrated to this spot since the beginning of time; and, if its beams glittered on some gray rock or silvered the ripple of the shore, or the wild- flowers that peeped from beneath their mossy stones, the effect was lo>t amid the universal hue, as of a northern endless twilight ■that reigned around. 1 ' — Tour in the Western Highlands, vol it- >16L " Bear me witness, Giant Bouchaill, herdsman of the mountain drove, How with spell and spkit-struggle many a mid- night hour I strove Back to life to call the author ! for before I'd hear it said, ' Neither Sanchan knew it,' rather would I learn it from the dead ; "Ay, and pay the dead their teaching with the one price spirits crave, When the hand of magic, reaching past the bar- riers of the grave, Drags the struggling phantom lifeward : — but the Ogham on his stone Still must mock us undecipher'd ; grave and lay alike unknown. " So that put to shame the direst, here I stand and own, King, Thou a lawful lay requirest Sanchan Toipest cannot sing. Take again the gawds you gave me, — cup uor crown no more will I ; — Son, from further insult save me : lead me hence, and let me die." Leaning on young Murgen's shoulder — Murgea was his youngest son — Jeer'd of many a lewd beholder, Sanchan from the hall has gone : But, when now beyond Loch Lurgan, three days thence he reach'd his home, 1 "Give thy blessing, Sire," said Murgen. — " Whither wouldst thou, son ?" — " To Rome ; "■ Rome, or, haply, Tours of Martin ; wheresoever over ground Hope can deem that tidings certain of the lay may yet be found." Answer'd Eimena his brother, "Not alone thou leav'st the west, Though thou ne'er shouldst find another, Til be comrade of the quest." Eastward, breadthwise, over Erin straightway travell'd forth the twain, Till with many days' wayfaring Murgen fainted by Loch Ein : POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. ' Dear my brother, thou art weary : I for present aid am flown ; Thou for my returning tarry here beside this Standing Stone." Shone the sunset, red and solemn : Murgen, where he leant, observed Down the corners of the column letter-strokes of Ogtbam carved. " 'Tis, belike, a burial pillar," said he, " and these shallow lines Hold some warrior's name of valor, could I rightly spell the signs." Letter then by letter tracing, soft he breathed the sound of each ; Sound and sound then interlacing, lo, the signs took form of speech ; And with joy and wonder mainly thrilling, part a-thrill with fear, Murgen read the legend plainly, " Fergus, son of Rot, is here." ** Lo," said he, " my quest is ended, knew I but the spell to say ; Underneath my feet extended, lies the man that made the lay : Yet, though spell nor incantation know L, were the words but said That could speak my soul's elation, I, methinks, could raise the dead. fc Be an arch-bard's name my warrant. Murgen, son of Sanchan, here, Vow'd upon a venturous errand to the door-sills of Saint Pierre, Where, beyond Slieve Alpa's barrier, sits the Coaib of the keys, 1 I conjure thee, buried warrior, rise and give my wanderings ease. "Tis not death whose forms appalling strew the Bteep with pilgrims' graves, 'Tis not fear of snow-slips falling, nor of ice-clefts' azure caves Daunts me; bnt I dread if Romeward I must travel till the Tain Crowns my quest, these footsteps homeward I shall never turn again. " I at parting left behind me aged sire and mother dear ; Who a parent's love shall find me ere again I ask it here ? Dearer too than site or mother, ah, how dear these tears may tell, I, at parting, left another ; left a maid who love» me well. " Ruthful clay, thy rigors soften 1 Fergus, hear, thy deaf heaps through, Thou, thyself a lover often, aid a lover young and true ; Thou, the favorite of maidens, for a fair young maiden's sake, I conjure thee by the radiance of thy Nessa'» eyes, awake ! " Needs there adjuration stronger ? Fergus, thou hadst once a son : Even than I was Ulan younger when the glori- ous feat was done, — When in hall of Red Branch biding Deirdra and Clan Usnach sate, In thy guarantee confiding, though the foe was at their gate. "Though their guards were bribed and flying, and their door-posts wrapp'd in flame, Calmly on thy word relying bent they o'er the chessman game, Till with keen words sharp and grievous Deirdra cried through smoke and fire, ' See the sons of Fergus leave us : traitor sons of traitor sire !' " Mild the eyes that did upbraid her, when young Ulan rose and spake — • If my father be a traitor ; if my brother for the sake Of a bribe bewray his virtue, yet while lives the sword I hold, Illan Finn will not desert you, not for fire and not for gold !' " And as hawk that strikes on pigeons, sped on wrath's unswerving wing Through the tyrant's leaguering legions, smiting chief and smiting king, Smote he full on Conor's gorget, till the wave* of welded steel Round the monarch's magic target rang thei* loudest 'larum peal. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. "Rang the disc where wizard hammers, miugling in the wavy field, Tempest-wail and breaker-clamors, forged the wondrous Ocean shield, Answering to whose stormy noises, oft as clang'd by deadly blows, All the echoing kindred voices of the seas of Erin ",Moan'd each sea-chafed promontory; soar'd and wail'd white Cleena's wave ;' Rose the Tonn of Inver Rory, and through col- umn'd chasm and cave Reaching deep with roll of anger, till Dunsever- ick's dungeons reel'd, Roar'd responsive to the clangor struck from Conor's magic shield. " Ye, remember, red wine quaffing in Dunsever- ick's halls of glee, Heard the moaning, heard the chafing, heard the thundering from the sea ; Knew that peril compass'd Conor, came, and on Emania's plain Found his fraud and thy dishonor ; Deirdra rav- ish'd, Ulan slain. " Now, by love of son for father, — son, who ere he'd hear it said — ' Neither Sanchan knew it,' rather seeks to learn it from the dead ; Rise, and give me back the story that the twin gold cups shall win ; Rise, recount the great Cow-Foray I rise for love of Ulan Finn ! » In the Irish triads— compositions in the Welsh taste— the three waves (tonna) of Erin are, "the wave of Tnath, and the wave of Cleena. und the fishy-streaming wave of Inver-Eory." The site of the first is supposed to be the great strand of the bay of Dun- dalk ; that of the wave of Cleena (elwdhna) is Glandore Harbor, In the County of Cork. " It emanates from the eastern side of the harbor's entrance, where the cliffs facing the south and southwest are hollowed into caverns, of which Dean Swift has given in his poem, Carberim Bwpes, an accurate, though general, description. When the wind is northeast, oflf shore, the waves resounding in these caverns send forth a deep, loud, hollow, monotonous roar, which in a calm night is peculiarly Impressive on the imagination, producing sensations either of melancholy or fear.' 1 — O'Donovan, An-nah of the Four Masters, a. d. 1657. The wave oflnver-Eory is now represented by the "Tonns," which send forth their warn- ing voices in almost all weathers, from the strand of Magilligan, near the mouth of the river Bann. The sympathy between the royal shield and the surrounding seas of the kingdom is one of those original fancies only to be found amongst a primitive and highly poetic people. " Still he stirs not. Love of woman thou re- gard'st not, Fergus, now : Love of children, instincts human, care for these no more hast thou : Wider comprehensions, deeper insights to the dead belong : — Since for Love thou wakest not, sleeper, yet awake for sake of Song I " Thou, the first in rhythmic cadence dressing life's discordant tale, Wars of chiefs and loves of maidens, gavest the Poem to the Gael ; Now they've lost their noblest measure, and in dark days hard at hand, Song shall be the only treasure left them in their native land. " Not for selfish gawds or baubles dares my sou.l disturb the graves : Love consoles, but song ennobles ; songless men are meet for slaves : Fergus, for the Gael's sake, waken ! never let the scornful Gauls 'Mongst our land's reproaches reckon lack of Song within our halls !" Fergus rose. A mist ascended with him, and a flash was seen As of brazen sandals blended with a mantle's wafture green ; But so thick the cloud closed o'er him, Eimena, return'd at last, Found not on the field before him but a mist- heap gray and vast. Thrice to pierce the hoar recesses faithful Eimena essay'd ; Thrice through foggy wildernesses back to open air he stray'd ; Till a deep voice through the vapors fill'd the twilight far and near, And the Night her starry tapers kindling, stoop'd from heaven to hear. Seem'd as though the skiey Shepherd back to earth had cast the fleece Envying gods of old caught upward from the darkening shrines of Greece ; So the white mists curl'd and glisten'd, so from heaven's expanses bare, Stars enlarging lean'd and listen'd down the emptied depths of air. 610 POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. All night long by mists surrounded Murgen lay in vapory bars ; All night long the deep voice sounded 'neath the keen, enlarging stars : But when, on the orient verges, stars grew dim and mists retired, Rising by the stone of Fergus, Murgen stood, a man inspired. 41 Back to Sanchan ! — Father, hasten, ere the hour of power be past; Ask not how obtain'd, but listen to the lost lay found at last !" * Yea, these words have tramp of heroes in them ; and the marching rhyme Rolls the voices of the Eras down the echoing steeps of Time." Not till all was thrice related, thrice recital full essay'd, Sad and shame-faced, worn and faded, Murgen sought the faithful maid. " Ah, so haggard ; ah, so altered ; thou in life and love so strong !" "Dearly purchased," Murgen falter'd, "life and love I've sold for soQg !" " Woe is me, the losing bargain \ what can song the dead avail ?" "Fame immortal," murmur'd Murgen, " long as lay delights the Gael." "Fame, alas ! the price thou chargest not repays one virgin tear." "Yet the proud revenge I've purchased for my sire I deem not dear." So, again to Gort the splendid, when the drink- ing boards were spread, Sanchan, as of old attended, came and sat at table-head. "Bear the cup to Sanchan Torpest : twin gold goblets, Bard, are thine, If with voice and string thou harpest, Tain-Eo- Cutiilyne, line for line." " Yea, with voice and string I'll chant it." Mur- gen to his father's knee Set the harp : no prelude wanted, Sanchan struck the master key, And, as bursts the brimful river all at once from caves of Cong, Forth at once, and once forever, leap'd the tor- rent of the song, Floating on a brimful torrent, men g.o down and banks go by : Caught adown the lyric current, Guary, captured, car and eye, Heard no more the courtiers jeering, saw jut more the walls of Gort, Creeve Roe's meads instead appearing, and Em«- nia's royal fort. Vision chasing sp.endid vision, Sanchan roll'd the rhythmic scene; They that mock'd in lewd derision, now, at gaze, with wondering mien, Sate, and, as the glorying master sway'd the tightening reins of song, Felt emotion's pulses faster — fancies faster bound along. Pity dawn'd on savage faces, when for love of captive Crunn, Macha, in the ransom-races, girt her gravid loins, to run 1 1 No more striking Instance of the crnelty of savage l can be conceived than this story of Madia, which Is to;d with much pathetic force ami simplicity in a poem in the DinnHPnehaM, one of the tracts preserved in the Book of Lecan. in the Boyal Irish Academy. The Dinnsenchas itself is alleged tn he in !'.« at least, a compilation •( the Sixth Century. One day thei ^ -lame with glowing soul, To the assemW} of Conchohar, The gifted man horn the eastern wave, be, in part Crun It was then were brought Two steeds to which I see no equals, Into the race-course, without concealment, At which the King of TJladh then presided Although there were not the peers of these Upon the plain, of a yoke of steeds, Crunn, the rash hairy man, said That his wife was fleeter, though then Detain ye the truthful man, Said Conor, the chief of battles, Until his famous wife comes here, To nobly run with my great steeds. Let one man go firth to bring her, Said the king of levelled stout spears, Till she comes from the wavy sea, To save the wise-spoken Crunn. ' greatly wounding chieftk A hi The assembly of i Her two names in Were Bright Griu Her father was not weak in his house, Midir of Bri Leitli, son of Celtchar ; In bis mansion in the west. She was I be sun of wornen-assembltos- When she had come — in sobbing words, She begL'eil immediately for respite, From tho host of assembled clans, Until the time of her delivery was past The Ultonlnns gave their plighted word, Should she not run— no idle boast — That he should not have a prosperous reij From tt e hosts of swords and spears. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. "Gainst the fleet Ultonian horses ; and, when Deirdra on the road Headlong dash'd her 'mid the corses, brimming eyelids overflow'd. Light of manhood's generous ardor, under brows relaxing shone ; When, mid-ford, on Uladh's border, young Cu- chullin stood alone, Maev and air her hosts withstanding: — "Now, for love of knightly play, Yield the youth his soul's demanding ; let the hosts their marchings stay, * Till the death he craves be given ; and, upon his burial-stone Champion-praises duly graven, make his name and glory known ; For, in speech-containing token, age to ages never gave Salutation better spoken, than, 'Behold a hero's grave. " What, another and another, and he still for com- bat calls ? Ah, the lot on thee, his brother sworn in arms, Ferdia, falls ; And the hall with wild applauses sobb'd like women ere they wist, When the champions in the pauses of the deadly combat kiss'd. Now, for love of land and cattle, while Cuchullin in the fords Stays the march of Connaught's battle, ride and rouse the Northern Lords ; Then fitrfpt the fleet and silent dame. And cast loose her hair around her head, And started, without terror or fail, To join In the race, but not its pleasure. The steeds were brought to her eastern side, To urge tbcm past her in manner like; To the Ultonians of accustomed victwy, The gallant riders were men of kin. Although the monarch's steeds were swifter At all times in the native race, The woman was fleeter, with no great effort, The monarch's steeds were then the slower. As she reached the final goal, And nobly won the uniple pledge, She brought forth twins without delay, Before the hosts of the Red Branch fort, A son and a daughter together. Beeves's Ancient Churches of Armagh, App., p. 42. Swift as angry eagles wing them toward the plun- der'd eyrie's call, Thronging from Dun Dealga 1 bsing them, bring them from the Red Branch hall ! Heard ye not the tramp of armies? Hark! amid the sudden gloom, 'Twas the stroke of Conall's war-mace sounded through the startled room ; And, while still the hall grew darker, king and courtier, chill'd with dread, Heard the rattling of the war-car of Cuchullin overhead. Half in wonder, half in terror, loth to stay and loth to fly, Seem'd to each beglamor'd hearer shades of kings went thronging by : But the troubled joy of wonder merged at last in mastering fear, As they heard, through pealing thunder, "Fer- gus, son of Roy, is here !" Brazen-sandall'd, vapor-shrouded, moving in an icy blast, Through the doorway terror-crowded, up the tables Fergus pass'd : — " Stay thy hand, O harper, pardon ! cease the wild unearthly lay ! Murgen, bear thy sire his guerdon." Murgen sat, a shape of clay. "Bear him on his bier beside me : never more in halls of Gort Shall a niggard king deride me ; slaves, of San- chan make their sport I But because the maiden's yearnings needs must also be condoled, Hers shall be the dear-bought earnings, hers the twin-bright cups of gold." " Cups," she cried, " of bitter drinkingj ding them far as arm can throw ! Let them, in the ocean sinking, out of sight and memory go ! 1 Dun-Dealqa, giving name to Dundalk. the residence of Cn- chullin. There are few better ascertained sites in Irish topography than thnt of the actual plsce of abode of this hero. It is the great oarlhen mound, now called the moat of Castletown, which rises conspicuously over the woods of Lord Rodeo's demesne, on the left of the traveller leaving Dundalk for the north. G12 POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Lei the joinings of the rhythm, let the links of sense and sound Of the Tain-Bo perish with them, lost as though they'd ne'er been found !" So it comes, the lay, recover'd once at such a deadly cost, Ere one full recital suffer'd, once again is all but lost: For, the maiden's malediction still with many a blemish -stain Clings in coarser garb of fiction round the frag- ments that remain. THE ABDICATION OF FERGUS MAC ROY. Once, ere God was crucified, I was King o'er Uladh wide : King, by law of choice and birth, O'er the fairest realm of Earth. 1 was head of Rury's race ; Emain was my dwelling-place ;' Right and Might were mine ; nor less Stature, strength, and comeliness. Neither lack'd I love's delight, Nor the glorious meeds of fight. All on earth was mine could bring Life's enjoyment to a king. 1 The petty kings of TJladh (Ulster), who reigned at Eraania, claimed to derive their pedigree through Rory More, of the line of Ir, one of the fabled sons of Milesius, as other provincial Reguli traced theirs to Eber and Heremon. A list of thirty-one of these occupants of Emania before its destruction, in a. d. 832, compiled from the oldest of the Irish annals, has been published by O'Conor (Eer. Bib. SS., vol. ii., p. 66), in which Fergus, son of Lelde, the fourteenth in succession from Cimbaeth, the founder, has twelve years assigned to him, ending in the year b. o. 81 ; after whom appears Conor, son of Nessa, having a reign of sixty years. Dr. Reeves, in his learned tract, " The Ancient Churches of Ar- magh," has collected the native evidences of the early existence of Emania, and of the transition of its original name Emain (ap- pearing as IJewynna in 1374, as Eawnyn in 1524, and -A^aujarc in 1633) into its present corrupt form of " the Navan." Tho remains, situate in tlie townland of Navan, and parish of Eglish, about two miles west from Armagh, are now becoming rapidly obliterated. A few years ago, the external circumvallation, enclosing n space of about twelve acres, was complete. Now, through one-third of the circuit, the rampart has been levelled into the ditch, and the surface submitted to the plough. Application was made in vain to those who might have stayed the destruction : they could not be induced to believe that any historic monument worth preserv- ing existed in Ireland. Tet a place with a definite history of sir hundred years ending in the Fourth Century of the Christian era, to not easily tonid elsewhere on this side of the Alps. Much I loved the jocund chase, Much the horse and chariot race : Much I loved the deep carouse, Quaffing in the Red Branch House.' But, in Council call'd to meet, Loved I not the judgment-seat; And the suitors' questions hard Won but scantly my regard. Rather would I, all alone, Care and state behind me thrown, Walk the dew through showery gleam* O'er the meads, or by the streams, Chanting, as the thoughts might rise, Unimagined melodies ; While with sweetly-pungent smart Secret happy tears would start. Such was I, when, in the dance, Nessa did bestow a glance, And my soul that inomeut took Captive in a single look. I am but an empty shade, Far from life and passion laid ; Yet does sweet remembrance thrill All my shadowy being still. Nessa had been Fathna's spouse, Fathna of the Royal house, And a beauteous boy had borne hiu» Fourteen summers did adorn him : Yea ; thou deem'st it marvellous, That a widow's glance should thus. Turn from lure of maidens' eyes All a young king's fantasies. Yet if thou hadst known but half Of the joyance of her laugh, Of the measures of her walk, Of the music of her talk, Of the witch'ry of her wit, Even when smarting under it, — Half the sense, the charm, the grace, Thou hadst worshipp'd in my place. 2 This appears to have been a detached fortress, in the nature of a military barrack and hospital, depending on the principal fort. The townland of Creeve Roe, i. e., " Red Branch," adjoining the- Navan on the west, still preserves the name. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 613 And, besides, the thoughts I wove Into songs of war and love, She alone of all the rest Felt them with a perfect zest. Till upon a day in court Rose a plea of weightier sort : Tangled as a briery thicket Were the rights and wrongs intricate "Lady, in thy smiles to live Tell me but the boon to give, Yea, I lay in gift complete Crown and sceptre at thy feet." Which the litigants disputed, Challenged, mooted, and confuted ; Till, when all the plea was ended, Naught at all I comprehended. " Not so great the boon I crave : Hear the wish my soul would have ;" And she glanced a loving eye On the stripling standing by : — Scorning an affected show Of the thing I did not know, Yet my own defect to hide, I said, " Boy-judge, thou decide." " Conor is of age to learn ; Wisdom is a king's concern; Conor is of royal race, Yet may sit in Fathna's place. Conor, with unalter'd mien, In a clear sweet voice serene, Took in hand the tangled skein And began to make it plain. " Therefore, king, if thou wouldst prove That I have indeed thy love, On the judgment-seat permit Conor by thy side to sft, As a sheep-dog sorts his cattle, As a king arrays his battle, So, the facts on either side He did marshal and divide. ".That by use the youth may draw Needful knowledge of the Law." I with answer was not slow, " Be thou mine, and be it so." Every branching side-dispute Traced he downward to the root Of the strife's main stem, and there Laid the ground of difference bare. I am but a shape of air, Far removed from love's repair ; Yet, were mine a living frame Once again, I'd say the same. Then to scops of either cause Set the compass of the laws, This adopting, that rejecting, — Reasons to a head collecting, — Thus, a prosperous wooing sped, Took I Nessa to my bed, While in council and debate Conor daily by me sate. As a charging cohort goes Through and over scatter'd foes, So, from point to point, he brought Onward still the weight of thought Modest was his mien in sooth, Beautiful the studious youth, Questioning with earnest gaze All the reasons and the ways Through all error and confusion, Till he set the clear conclusion Standing like a king alone, All things adverse overthrown, In the which, and why because, Kings administer the Laws. Silent so with looks intent Sat he till the year was spent. And gave judgment clear and sound :— Praises filFd the hall around ; Yea, the man that lost the cause Hardly could withhold applause. But the strifes the suitors raised Bred me daily more distaste, Every faculty and passion Sunk in sweet intoxication. By the wondering crowd surrounded, I sat shamefaced and confounded. Envious ire awhile oppress'd me Till the nobler thought possess' d me ; POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. And I rosa, and on my feet Standing by the judgment-seat, Took the circlet from my head, Laid it on the bench, and said — " Men of Uladh, I resign That which is not rightly mine, That a worthier than I May your judge's place supply. " Lo, it is no easy thing For a man to be a king Judging well, as should behoove One who claims a people's love. " Uladh's judgmettf-seat to fill I have neither wit nor will. One is here may justly claim Both the function and the name. " Conor is of royal blood ; Fair he is ; I trust him good ; Wise he is we all may say Who have heard his words to-day. " Take him therefore in my room, Letting me the place assume — Office but with life to end — Of his councillor and friend." So young Conor gain'd the crown I So I laid the kingship down ; Laying with it, as it went, All I knew of discontent. TB E HEALING OF CONALL CARNACH. Conor is Bald to have heard of the Passion of our Lord from a feoman captain sent to demand tribute at Emanla. He died of a wound inflicted by Kelb, son of Magach, and nephew of Maev, with a ball from a sling; having been inveigled within reach of the missile by certain Connaught ladies. His son, Forbaid, char- acteristically avenged his death by the assassination of Maev, whom the i . of bathing. Notwii the ; iCn nding the repulsiv or, such as the crui of the fuot-r.'ic? upon Macha {0 licentiamfnroris, agrcB reipub- Kc« gemitu proseqjiendam .')' and the betrayal of the sons of Canach, and abduction of Deirdra, the best part of Irish heroic tradition connects itself with his reign and period, preceding by nearly three centuries the epoch of Cormac Mac Art, and tho Fenian or Irish Ossianic romances. The survivor of the men of toresque legends, one of the mO't remarkable of which affords the groundwork for tho ibllowing verses. is., De Improb. diet, etfact. O'er Slieve Few,* with noiseless tramping through the heavy-drifted snow, Be&lcu,* Connacia's champion, in his chario* tracks the foe ; And anon far off discerneth, in the mountain- hollow white, Slinger Eeth and Conall Carnach mingling, hand to hand, in fight Swift the charioteer his coursers urged across the wintry glade : Hoarse the cry of Keth and hoarser seem'd tc come demanding aid ; But through wreath and swollen runnel ere the car could reach anigh, Keth lay dead, and mighty Conall bleeding lay at point to die. Whom beholding spent and pallid, Bealcu exult- ing cried, "Oh, thou ravening wolf of Uladh, where is now thy northern pride ? What can now that crest audacious, what that pale, defiant brow, Once the bale-star of Connacia's ravaged fields, avail thee now ?" " Taunts are for reviling women," faintly Conall made reply : "Wouldst thou play the manlier foeman, end my pain and let me die. Neither deem thy blade dishonor'd that with Keth's a deed it share, For the foremost two of Connaught feat enough and fame to spare." " No, I will not ! bard shall never in Dunseveiick hall make boast That to quell one northern riever needed two oi Croghan's host. 4 But because that word thou'st spoken, if but life enough remains, Thou shalt hear the wives of Croghan clap their hands above thy chains. » A mountainous district the name of which is preserved in the baronies of tipper and Lower Fews, on the borders of the cnunt<» of Louth and Armagh, the scene of many of the northern bardic 3 Pronounced BaynWcii. 4 Rath Croghan, the residence of the Regull of Connaught, erected by Eochaid. father of M.iev. Its remains including nes inscribed in the Ogham character, and apparently of ■ tievtti data, exist two inilea northwest of Tulslc, in the county Roscommon. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 615 " Yea, if life enough but linger, that the leech may make thee whole, Meet to satiate the anger that beseems a warrior's soul, Best of leech-craft I'll purvey thee ; make thee whole as healing can ; And in single combat slay thee, Con naught man to Ulster man." Binding him in five-fold fetter, 1 wrists and ankles, wrists and neck, To his car's uneasy litter Bealcu upheaved the wreck Of the broken man and harness ; but he started with amaze When he felt the northern war-mace, what a weight is was to raise. Westward then through Breiffny's borders, with his captive and his dead, Track'd by bands of fierce applauders, wives and shrieking widows, sped ; And the chain'd heroic carcass on the fair-green of Moy Slaught 2 Casting down, proclaim'd his purpose, and bade Lee the leech be brought. 1 This, in the expressive form of the Irish idiom, is termed "the fettering of the five smalls." The quaint translator of Keating (MS. Lib. K. I. A.) thus describes the performance of a similar operation on Cuchullin by the hero Curoi, from whom he had carried off the beautiful Blanaid : "Ohury forthwith pursued him into Mounster, and overtaking tbem both at Sallcboyde, the two matchless (but of themselves) champions edged of either syde by the stinge of love towards Blanait, and impatient, each, of the competition of a corrival about her, fell to a single combat in her presence, which soe succeeded (as the victory in duells tryed out to a pointe usually falloth out of one side) that Chury, favoured by fortune, and not inferior for valour to any that till that time ever upon equall tearmes mett him, gaining the upperhnnd of Cuchul- lnynn, he bound him upp hand andfoote with sucli zperligation thnt, trymming of his tresses with his launce (as a marke of his further disgrace and discomfiture), he took Blannait from thence quietly into West Mounster. 1 ' Elsewhere he uses the forcible ex- pression in reference to the same proceeding — "leaving him so juaamented, he went," &c. Of all the translations of Keating, this has most of the characteristic simplicity and quaintness of the Irish Herodotus. a A very ancient place of assembly among the Pagan Irish, and scene of the worship of their reputed principal idol, called Crom Cruach. From the story of Crom's overthrow by Saint Patrick, found in what is called the tripartite life of the saint, it would ap- pear that the stones which represented Crom and his twelve in- ferior demons were still in situ at the time of the composition of that work, which is said to be of the Sixth Century. "When Patrick saw the idol from the water, which is called Guthard, and when he approached near the idol, he raised his arm to lay the «taff of Jesus on him, and it did not reach him, he (i. e., Crom) bent back from the attempt upon his right side; for it was to the south bis face was : and the mark of the staff lives (exists) on his left side still, although the staff did not leave Patrick's hand ; and the earth swallowed the other twelve idols to tbeir heads; and ttoev are in that condition in commemoration of the miracle:" « Lee, the gentle-faced physician frim his herb- plot came, and said — " Healing is with God's permission : health for life's enjoyment made : And though I mine aid refuse not, yet, to speak my purpose plain, I the healing art abuse not, making life enure to " But assure me, with the sanction of the might- iest oath ye know, That in case, in this contention, Conall overcome his foe, Straight departing from the tonrnay by what path the chief shall choose, He is free to take his journey unmolested to the " Swear me further, while at healing in my charge; the hero lies, None shall, through my fences stealing, work bins mischief or surprise ; So, if God the undertaking but approve, in six months' span Once again my art shall make him meet to stand before a man '" Crom their God they then attested, Sun and Wind for guarantees, Conall Carnach unmolested, by what exit he might please, If the victor, should have freedom to depart Connacia's bounds ; Meantime, no man should intrude him, entering on the hospice grounds. Then his burden huge receiving in the hospice- portal, Lee, Stiffen'd limb by limb relieving with the iron- fetter key, As a crumpled scroll unroll'd him, groaning deep, till laid at length, Wondering gazers might behold him, what a, tower he was of strength. pregnant piece of evidence to show that even at this early ti the stone cromleac, or monumental stone circle, had been disu as a mode of sepulture : for it is plainly to a monument of t kind the writer of the tripartite life alludes in this passage. O'Donovan hns identified the plain of Moy Slaught with the i trict around the little modern village of Ballymacgouran, In parish of Temulenort. ami cou-ntv of Oavftn POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Spake the sons to one another, day by day, of Bealcu — u Get thee up and spy, my brother, what the leech and northman do." " Lee, at mixing of a potion : Conall, yet in no wise dead, As on reef of rock the ocean, tosses wildly" on his bed." "Spy again with cautious peeping: what of Lee and Conall now ?" "Conall lies profoundly sleeping: Lee beside, with placid brow." " And to-day ?" " To-day he's risen ; pallid as his swathiug-sheet, He has left his chamber's prison, and is walking on his feet." " And to-day ?" " A ghastly figure, on his jave- lin propp'd he goes." "And to-day ?" "A languid vigor through his larger gesture shows." " And to-day ?" " The blood renewing mantles all his clear cheek through." " Would thy vow had room for rueing, rashly- valiant Bealcu !" . So with herb and healing balsam, ere the second month was past, Life's additions smooth and wholesome circling ■ through his members vast, As you've seen a sere oak burgeon under sum- mer showers and dew, Conall, under his chirurgeon, fill'd and flourish'd, \ spread and grew. * I can bear the sight no longer : I have watch'd him moon by moon : Day by day the chief grows stronger : giant- strong he will be soon. Oh, ray sire, rash-valiant warrior ! but that oaths have built the wall, Soon these feet should leap the barrier : soon this hand thy fate forestall." "Brother, have the wish thou'st utter'd : we have sworn, so let it be ; But although our feet be fetter'd, all the air is left us free. Dj:'ng Keth with vengeful presage did bequeath thee sling and ball, And the sling may send its message where thy vagrant glances fall. " Forbaid was a master-slinger : Maev, when in her bath she sank, Felt the presence of his finger from the further Shannon bank; For he threw by line and measure, practising a constant cast Daily in secluded leisure, till he reach'd the mark at last. 1 " Keth achieved a warrior's honor, though 'twai 'mid a woman's band, When he smote the amorous Conor bowing from his distant stand. 1 Fit occasion will not fail ye : in the leech's lawn below, Conall at the fountain daily drinks within an easy throw." " Wherefore cast ye at the apple, sons of mine, with measured aim ?" "He who in the close would grapple, first the distant foe should maim. > " Oillioll, the last husband that Meauffe hart, being killed by Conall Carnath, she retyrert herself to Inish Clothran, an island lying within Loch Ryve, and afterward used dayly to bath hersel! in a well standing neere the entry of the same lake, and that timeli every morning; and though shee thought her like washing was eecrettly carried (on), yet, it comeing to the hearing of fforbuidhe vie Concbuvair, he privatly came to the well, and from ye brym thereof taking by a lynnen thrid, which for that purpose lie car* ryed with him, the right measure and length from thence to the other side of that lake adioneing to Ulster, and carrying that mea- sure with him into Ulster, and by tha same setting forth justly the like distance of ground, and at either end of that lyne filing two wooden stakes, with an apple at the top of one of them, he daily afterward made it his constant exercise with his hand-bowe to shoot at ye apple, till bi continuance he learned his lesson so per- fect, that he never missed his aymed marke ; and shortly afterward, sonee generall meeting being appointed betweene them of Ulster and those of Connaught, on the side of the river Shannon at Innisb. Clothrain, to be near Meauflt to receive her resolutions to the propositions moved of the other part unto them, fforbuid coming thither with the Ulidians, his countrymen, and watching his op- portunity, of a certain morning, spyed over ye lake Meauffe bath- ing of herself, as she formerly accustomed to doo in the same well, and thereupon he, to be spedd of his long-expected gaine, fitting his hand-howo with a ^toae, he therewith so assuredly pitched at his mark, that he bitt her right in the forehead, and by that devised sleigbt instantly killed her, when she little supposed or feared to take leave with the world, having (as formerly Is de- clared) had the power and command of all Connaght 83 years in her owne handes." — Keating, CPKearney's Version, Lib. JR. I. A. Inis Clothrain, the scene of this shocking treachery, is now known as Quaker's Island. Tradition preserves the place of Maev's assassination, but the well has disappeared.— See (FDono- tJOft's MS. Collections for the Ordnance Survey of Ireland, Lib. B. I. A., vol. "Roscommon." 1 The late Professor O'Curry has fixed with laudable accuracy the locality of this act of savage warfare at Ardnurchar. i. e., "t)se height of the cast." in the county of Westmeath. The whole story of the sling-ball, of its nature and materials, of the chance by which it came into Keth's possession, and of the use he madn of it, forms a remarkable chapter in the history of harb.ir'an man- ners.— Vide O'Curry, Lectures on the MS. Material* of Anaieni Irish History, p. 593 POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. And since Keth, his death-balls casting, rides no more the ridge of war, We against our summer hosting, train us for his vacant car." "Wherefore to the rock repairing, gaze ye forth, my children, tell." 41 'Tis a stag we watch for snaring, that frequents the leech's well." ■"I will see this stag — though, truly, small may be my eyes' delight." And he climb'd the rock where fully lay the lawn exposed to sight. Conall to the green well-margin came at dawn and knelt to drink, Thinking how a noble virgin by a like green fountain's brink Heard his own pure vows one morning, far away and long ago : All his heart to home was turning ; and his tears began to flow. Clean forgetful of his prison, steep Dunseverick's windy tower Seem'd to rise in present vision, and his own dear lady's bower. Round the sheltering knees they gather, little ones of tender years, — Tell us, mother, of our father ; and she answers but with tears. Twice the big drops plash'd the fountain. Then he rose, and, turning round, As across a breast of mountain sweeps a whirl- wind, o'er the ground Raced in athlete-feats amazing, swung the war- mace, hurl'd the spear; Bealcu, in wonder gazing, felt the pangs of deadly fear. Had it been a fabled griffin, suppled in a fasting den, Flash'd its wheeling coils to heaven o'er a wreck of beasts and men, Hardly had the dreadful prospect bred his soul more dire alarms ; Such the fire of Conall's aspect, such the stridor of his arms! 44 This is fear," he said, "that never shook these limbs of mine till now. Now I see the mad endeavor ; now I mourn the boastful vow Yet 'twas righteous wrath impell'd me; and a sense of manly shame From his naked throat withheld me when 'twas offer'd to my aim. " Now I see his strength excelling : whence he buys it : what he pays : 'Tis a God who has his dwelling in the fount, to whom he prays. Thither came he weeping, drooping, till the Well- God heard his prayer : Now behold him, soaring, swooping, as an eagle through the air. "0 thou God, by whatsoever sounds of awe thy name we know, Grant thy servant equal favor with the stranger and the foe ! Equal grace, 'tis all I covet ; and if sacrificial blood Win thy favor, thou shalt have it on thy very well-brink, God ! " What and though I've given pledges not to cross the leech's court ? Not to pass his sheltering hedges, meant I to hiB patient's hurt. Thy dishonor meant I never : never meant I to Right divine of prayer wherever Power divine invites to prayer. "Sun thatwarm'st me, Wind that fann'st me, ye that guarantee the oath, Make no sign of wrath against me : tenderly ye touch me both. Yea, then, through his fences stealing ere to- morrow's sun shall rise, Well-God ! on thy margin kneeling, I will offer " Brother, rise, the skies grow ruddy : if we yet would save our sire, Rests a deed courageous, bloody, wondering agea shall admire : Hie thee to the spy-rock's summit : ready there tiiou'lt find the sling ; Ready there the leaden plummet ; and at dawn he seeks the spring." Ruddy dawn had changed to amber: radiant as the yellow day, Conall, issuing from his chamber, to the fountain took his way : 618 POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. There, athwart the welling water, like a fallen pillar, spread, Smitten by the bolt of slaughter, lay Connacia's champion, dead. Call the hosts! convene the judges! cite the dead man's children both ! — Said the judges, " He gave pledges — Sun and Wind — and broke the oath, And they slew him : so we've written : let his sons attend our words." "Both, by sudden frenzy smitten, fell at sunrise on their swords." Then the judges, " Ye who punish man's pre- varicating vow, Needs not further to admonish : contrite to your will we bow, All our points of promise keeping : safely let the chief go forth." Conall to his ohariot leaping, turn'd his coursers to the north : In the Sun that swept the valleys, in the Wind's encircling flight, Recognizing holy allies, guardians of the Truth and Right ; While, before his face, resplendent with a firm faith's candid ''av. Dazzled troops of foes attendant, bow'd before him on his way. But the calm physician, viewing where the white neck join'd the ear, Said, " It is a slinger's doing : Sun nor Wind was actor here. Yet, till God vouchsafe more certain knowledge of his sovereign will, Better deem the mystic curtain hides their wonted demous still. " Better so, perchance, than living in a clearer light, like me, But believing where perceiving, bound in what I hear and see ; Force and change in constant sequence, changing atoms, changeless laws; Only in submissive patience waiting access to the Cause. " And, they say, Centurion Altus, when he to Emania came, And to Rome's subjection call'd us, urging Caesar's tribute claim, Told that half the world barbarian thrills already with the faith Taught them by the godlike Syrian Caesar lately put to death. "And the Sun, through starry stages measuring from the Ram and Bull, Tells us of renewing Ages, and that Nature's time is full : So, perchance, these silly breezes even now may swell the sail, Brings the leavening word of Jesns westward also to the Gael." THE BURIAL OF KING CORMAC. Cormac, son of Art, son of Con Cead-Catba,* enjoyed the sover- eignty of Ireland through the prolonged period of forty years, commencing from a. d. 213. During the latter part of his reign, he resided at Sletty, on the Boyne, being, it is said, disqualliled for the occupation of Tare by the personal blemish he had sus- tained in the loss of an eye, by the hand of Angus " Dread-Spear," chief of the Desi, a tribe whose original seats were in the barony of Deece, in the county of Meatta. It was in the time of Cormao and his son Carhre, if we are to credit the Irish annuls, lhat Fin, son of Comhal, and the Fenian heroes, celebrated by Ossian, flour- ished. Cormac has obtained the reputation cf wisdom and learn- ing, and appears justly entitled to the honur of having provoked the enmity of the Pagan priesthood, by declaring his faith in ft God not made by hands of men. "Crom Cruach and his sub-gods twelve," Said Cormac, "are but carven treene ; The axe that made them, haft or helve, Had worthier of our worship been. "But he who made the tree to grow, And hid in earth the iron-stone, And made the man with mind to know The axe's use, is God alone." Anon to priests of Crom was brought— Where, girded in their service dread, They miuister'd on red Moy Slaught — Word of the words King Coimac said. They loosed their curse against the king; They cursed him in his flesh and bones; And daily in their mystic ring They turn'd the maledietive stones/ ' /. «., Hundred-Battle. 3 A pagan practice, in use among the Lusltanian as well as the- Insular Celts, and of which Dr. O'Donovnn records m instance, among the latter, as late as the year 1S36. in the island of Inish- murrny. off the coast of Sligo. Among the places anil olnVws of. reverence included within tin- pre-Christian stone Cashel, or cyclo- POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. ' Till, where at meat the monarch sate, Amid the revel and the wine, He choked upon the food he ate, At Sletty, southward of the Boyne. High vaunted then the priestly throng, And far and wide they noised abroad With trump and loud liturgic song The praise of their avenging God. But ere the voice was wholly spent That priest and prince should still obey, To awed attendants o'er him bent Great Corinac gather'd breath to say, — " Spread not the beds of Brugh for me 1 When restless death-bed's use is done : But bury me at Rossnaree And face me to the rising sun. "For all the kings who lie in Brugh Put trust in gods of wood and stone ; And 'twas at Ross that first I knew One, Unseen, who is God alone. "His glory lightens from the east; His message soon shall reach our shore ; And idol-god, and cursing priest Shall plague us from Moy Slaught no more/ Dead Cormac on his bier they laid : — " He reign'd a king for forty years, And shame it were," his captains said, " He lay not with his royal peers. pean citadel of the island, he mentions the clocha breca, i. e., the speckled stones. "They are round stones of varions sizes, and arranged in such order as that they cannot be easily reckoned; and, if you believe the natives, they cannot be reckoned at all. These stones are turned, and, if I understand them rightly, their order changed by the inhabitants on certain occasions, when they viBit this shrine to wish good or evil to their neighbors." — MS. Collections for Ordnance Survey, Lib. R. I. A. 1 The principal cemetery of the pagan Irish kings was at Brugh, which seems to have been situated on the northern bank of the Boyne. A series of tumuli and sepulchral cairns extends from the neighborhood of Slane towards Drogheda, beginning, according to the ancient tract preserved in the book of Ballymote (Petrie, E. T. Trans., R. I. A., vol. xx., p. 102), with the imdae in Dagda, or " Bed of tiie Dagda," a king of tho Tuath de Danaan, supposed, with apparently good reason, to be the well-known tumulus now called New Grange. TLis and the neighboring cairn of Dowth appear to be the-nnly Megalithic sepulchres in the west of Europe distinctly referable to persons whose names are historically pre- served. The carvings wnich cover the stones of their chambers and galleries correspond very closely with those of the Gavrinis '.viinb near Locmariaker, in Brittany. The Breton Megalithic monuments appear to belong to a period long anterior to the Ro- man Conquest; and this resemblance between one of the latest or that group and these quasi pyramids on the Boyne, ascribed by Irish historic tradition to an early ante-ChriBtian epo-h, goes Bar to show that a foundation of fact underlies the earlj history of Ireland. " His grandsire, Hundred -Battle, sleeps Serene in Brugh : and, all around, Dead kings in stone sepulchral keeps Protect the sacred burial-ground. " What though a dying man should rave Of changes o'er the eastern sea ? In Brugh of Boyse shall be his grave, And not in noteless Rossnaree." Then northward forth they bore the bier, And down from Sletty side they drew, With horseman and with charioteer, To cross the fords of Boyne to Brugh. There came a breath of finer air That touch'd the Boyne with ruffling wingi, It stirr'd him in his sedgy lair And in his mossy moorland springs. And as the burial train came down - With dirge and savage dolorous shows, Across their pathway, broad and brown The deep, full-hearted river rose ; From bank to bank through all his fords, 'Neath blackening squalls he swell'd and boil'd ; And thrice the wondering gentile lords Essay'd to cross, and thrice recoil'd. Then forth stepp'd gray-hair'd warriors four: They said, "Through angrier floods than, these, On link'd shields once our king we bore From Dread-Spear and the hosts of Deece. "And long as loyal will holds good, And limbs respond with helpful thews, Nor flood, nor fiend within the flood, Shall bar him of his burial dues.'' With slanted necks they stoop'd to lift ; They heaved him up to neck and chia ; And, pair and pair, with footsteps swift, Lock'd arm and shoulder, bore him in. 'Twas brave to see them leave the shore ; To mark the deep'ning surges rise, And fall subdued in foam before The tension of their striding thighs. 'Twas brave, when now a spear-cast out» Breast-high the battling surges ran ; POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Ft. weight was great, and limbs were stout, And loyal mau put trust in man. But ere they reach'd the middle deep, Nor steadying weight of clay they bore, Nor strain of sinewy iimbs could keep Their feet beneath the swerving four. And now they slide and now they swim, And now, amid the blackening squall, Gray locks afloat, with clutchings grim, They plunge around the floating pall. While, as a youth with practised spear Through justling crowds bears off the ring, Boyne from their shoulders caught the bier And proudly bore away the king. At morning, on the grassy marge Of Rossnaree, the corpse was found, And shepherds at their early charge Entomb'd it in the peaceful ground. A tranquil spot : a hopeful sound Comes from the ever-youthful stream, And still on daisied mead and mound The dawn delays with tenderer beam. Round Cormac Spring renews her buds: In march perpetual by his side, Down come the earth-fresh April floods, And up the sea-fresh salmon glide; And life and time rejoicing. run From age to age their wonted way; But still he waits the risen Sun, For still 'tis only dawning Day. AIDEEN'S GRAVE. Aldeen, daughter of Aligns of Ben-Edar (now the Hill of Howth), died of grief for the loss of her husband, Oscar, son of Ossian, who was slain at the battle of Gavra (Gowra, near Tara, in Meath), a. u. 2f4. Oscar was entombed in the rath or earthen fortress that occupied part of the field of battle, the rest of the slain being cast in a pit outside. Akieen is said to have been buried on Howth, near the mansion of her father, and poetical tradition represents the Fenian heroes as present at her obsequies. The Cromlech in Howth Park has been supposed to be her sepulchre. It stands under the summits from which the poet Atharne is said to have launched his invectives against the people of Leinster, until, by the blichting effect of his satires, they were compelled to make bim atonement for the death of his son. Tiikt heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn: Siiid Ossian, " In a queenly grave We leave her, 'mong her fields of fern, Between the cliff and wave. " The cliff behind stands clear and bare, And bare, above, the heathery steep Scales the clear heaven's expanse, to whera The Danaan Druids sieep.' "And all the sands that, left and right, The grassy isthmus-ridge confine, In yellow bars lie bare and bright Among the sparkling brine. "A clear pure air pervades the scene, In loneliness and awe secure ; Meet spot to sepulchre a Queen Who in her life was pure. " Here, far from camp and chase removed, Apart in Nature's quiet room, The music that alive she loved Shall cheer her in the tomb. " The humming of the noontide bees, The lark's loud carol .-ill day long, And, borne on evening's salted breeze, The clanking sea-bird's song, "Shall round her airy chamber float, And with the whispering winds and Attune to Nature's tenderest note The tenor of her dreams. " And oft, at tranquil eve's decline When full tides lip the Old Green Plain,' The lowing of Moynalty's kine Shall round her breathe again, "In sweet remembrance of the days When, duteous, in the lowly vale, Irish historic tradition abounds with allusions to the Tuatha- the god-tribes of the Danaans, an early race of conquerors from the north of Europe, versed in musio and poetry, as well as In the other then reputed arts of civilized life. They are said to have reached the shores of the Baltic from Greece by the same route supposed by the pseudo Orpheus to have been taken by the Argonauts, and by which Homer also seems to have conducted Ulysses. A Greek taste, however derived, is certainly discoverable in the arms and monuments ascribed to this people. Popular mythology regards the race of fairies and demons as of Danaan origin. 3 The plain of Moynalty. Magh-riealta, i. e., the plain of tlu. (bird) flocks, is said to have been open and cultivable from tlio beginning; unlike the other plains, which had to he freed from their primreval forests by the early colonists. Hence its appella- tion of the Old Plain. It extends over the northeastern part of the county of Dublin, and eastern Dart of Meath. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze, She fill'd the fragrant pail, " And, duteous, from the running brook Drew water for the bath ; nor deem'd A king did on her labor look, And she a fairy seera'd. 1 1 A liberty has here been taken with the traditionary rights of King Cormac and his wife Eithne, with whose memories the pic- turesque idyll preserved by Keating ought properly to be asso- ciated. The garrulous simplicity of the original is well reflected in the quaint version of O'Kearny. "Eithne OUaffdha, the daughter of Duynluing Vic Enna Niad was the mother of Cairebry Leoffiochair, she being the adopted daughter of Buickiodd, a remarkable and much spoken off ffearmor (for his great wealth, ability, and bountifull disposition of enter- taining all sortes of people comeing to his house), who lyved in those dayes in Leinster, and -was Boe addicted to oppen hospitality that he constantly kept a cauldron in his house still on the Are boyling of meate, both night and day, Indifferently for all them that came to his house, which doubtlesse by an invitation of that kind procured to bee many. "This Buickiodd, together with his other wealth and substance, had seven dayryes of one hundred and forty cowes a peece, wl.h an answerable proportion of horsses, mares, gearranB, and other cattle thereunto; and at length this hospitable and free man was soe played upon in abuseing his plainenesse and liberality by the chieftaines and nobles of Leinster. that they frequentingwith their adherents his house, some would take away with them a drove of his kyne, others a great number of his stood mares and gearrans, and others a great many of his horses, that, in requital of his free heart, they soe fleeced bare the good man, that they left him only Heaven cowes and a bull of all the goods that he ever possessed ; and finding himselfe soe ympoverished, he, by a night stealth, re- moved from Dun Boickyodd, where in his prosperity he resided, to a certain wood lying neere Keananas in Meath, accompanyed only with his wife and his said adopted daughter Eithne, and carryed thither his feew heades of cattle. Cormock the king lyv- iug comonly at Keananad in those days, this honest Baickiod for to shelter himself under his wynges and protection, erected a poor cabyn or booly cott for himself his wife and daughter in that wood, where lyvinge a good while in a contented course of life, Eithne did as humbly and diligently serve him and his wife as if she had been their slave or vassall, their service and attendance could not be with better care performed, and contynuing in that 6tate, on a day thai Cormock (the king) did ryde abroad alone by himselfe to take ye aire, and the protpect of the adiacent lamles and valleyes tfl his fcaid mannor (as he was accustomed for his pleasure often to do), by chance he saw that beautiful! and lovely damsell Eithne milking of her said ffosterfather's few cowes, which she performed after this manner. She had two vessells, and with one of them she went over the seven cowes, and filling the same with the first parte of their milck (as the choysest parte thereof), she again went over them with the second vessell, and milked therein their second milck, till by that allternate course she drew from them all the milck that tb-^y could yield, the K. all the whyle being ravished with his gDod liking of her care and excellent beauty and per- fections, beholding of her with admiration and astonishment, and she not neglecting her service for his presence, bringing the milk into the cabyn where Baickiodd and his wife layd, returns forth from thence again with two other cleane vessells and a boule in her hand, and repayring to the water next adjoining to the house, she filled one of those vessells with ye water running next to the fcancke of ye ryver, and the other with the water running in the jiiddest of that streame or watercourse, and brought them both soe filled into the cabyn, and coming forth the third tyme with a hook in iier hand, she began therewith to cutt ruishes, parting (them) still as they fell in her way into severall bundells, the long and short rushes asunder, and Cormock all the while beholding Ler (as one taken with the comaunding power and captivity of love), at length asked of her for whom shee made that selection both of milck, water, and rushes; whereunto she answered that It was done for one that shee was bound to tender with better re- "But when the wintry frosts begin, And in their long-drawn, lofty flight, The wild geese with their airy din Distend the ear of night, " And when the fierce De Danaan ghosts At midnight from their peak come down,. When all around the enchanted coasts Despairing strangers drown ; "When, mingling with the wreckful wail, From low Clootarf's wave-trampled floor Comes booming up the burthen'd gale The angry Sand-Bull's roar, 2 "Or, angrier than the sea, the shout Of Erin's hosts in wrath combined, When Terror heads Oppression's rout, And Freedom cheers behind: — "Then o'er our lady's placid dream, Where safe from storms she sleeps, may steal Such joy as will not misbeseero A Queen of men to feel : " Such thrill of free defiant pride, As rapt her in her battle car At Gavra, when by Oscar's side She rode the ridge of war, spects if it lay in her power to perform, and that her performance* that way were but fryday requitalls to the effectual obligation of lovo and beholdingnesse wherein she was inviolably bound unto him, and thereupon the king, being both desirous to continue his further talking with her (such ia the wonted effect produced by love and liking, when they take any flrme footing), and withall willing to flnde out whom she soe kindly favoured, asked her what his name was that she soe respected, who answeared that he was Baickiodd Brugh, and the king further questioning her whether he was the same man of that name that in Leinster was famous- for his wealth and oppen hospitality, and she telling him that he was the very same man, then, replyed the king, you are Eithne, his adopted daughter. I am, sir, said shee. In a good hour, sayed the king, for you shall be my maryed wife. Nay, sayed Eithne, my disposall lyeth not in mine owne hand, but in my ff os ter father's power and comaund, unto whom they both forth- with repayring. the king expressed his said intention to Baickiod and obtaining his good allowance, marryed Eithne, and gratified her ffosterfather with a territory of !and lying neare Thanagh (Tara), called Tuaith Othraim, which he held during his life, and that marryage with all requisite Bolemnityes being celebrated, Eithne afterward bore unto Cormocke a eon called Cairebry Lioffachair, who grow to be worthily famous and UlustrioHS in his tyme."— MS. Lib. B. I. A. The townland of Dunboyke, near Blessington, in the county of Wlcklow, still retains the name of the hospitable Franklin. 2 The sandbai.ks on either side of the estuary of the Liffey have obtained the nan.es of fee North and South Bulls, from the hol- low bellowing sound there made by the breakers, in easterly and southerly winds. The North Bull gives name to the aborning district of CloHtarf-Cluain, TarV* * brated for the overthrow of the I Irish under King Brian Boru, «22 POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. "Exulting, down the shouting troops, And through the thick confronting kings, With hands on all their javelin loops And shafts on all their strings ; "E'er closed the inseparable crowds, No more to part for me, and show, As bursts the sun through scattering clouds, My Oscar issuing so. "No more, dispelling battle's gloom Shall son for me from fight return ; The great green rath's ten-acred tomb Lies heavy on his urn. 1 " A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clay Holds Oscar ; mighty heart and limb One handful now of ashes gray : And she has died for him. "And here, hard by her natal bower On lone Ben Edar's side, we strive With lifted rock and sign of power To keep her name alive. " That while from circling year to year, Her Ogham-lettei-'d stoue is seen, The Gael shall say, ' Our Fenians here Entomb'd their loved Aideen.' " The Ogham from her pillar stone In tract of time will wear away ; Her name at last be only knovvu Tn Ossian's echo'd lay. "The long-forgotten lay I sing May only ages hence revive i At this flay there Is a difficulty in distinguishing the remain! •f the Rath ..f Guvra. It appears to have stood on the slope be tween the hill of Tara and the river Boyne on the west Severs heroes of the name of Oscar perished in the battle of Gavra The Ossianio poem which celebrates the battle, whatever be its age, assigns the rath or earthen fortress as the grave of Oscar, the son of the bard. We buried Oscar of the red arms On the north side of the great Gavra: Together with Oseur son of Garraidh of the achievements, And Oscar son of tlie king of Lochlann. (As eagle with a wounded wing To soar again might strive), "Imperfect, in an alien speech, When, wandering here, some child of chanc« Through pangs of keen delight shall reach The gift of utterance, — " To speak the air, the sky to speak, The freshness of the hill to tell, Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peak And Aideen's briery dell, " And gazing on the Cromlech vast, And on the mountain and the sea, Shall catch communion with the past And mix himself with me. "Child of the Future's doubtful night, Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your sires. Sing while you may with frank delight The song your hour inspires. " Sing while you mav, nor grieve to know The song you sing shall also die ; Atharna's lay has perish'd so, Though once it thrill'd this sky "Above us, from his rocky chair, There, where Ben Edar's landward crest O'er eastern Bregia bends, to where Dun Almon crowns the west: "And all that felt the fretted air Throughout the song-distemper'd clime, Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayer Appeased the vengeful rhyme. 11 * The story of Athflrna is found in the traditionary collections, under the title Ath-diath, i. e., Hurdle-ford. It was' by him, and for the use of his flocks, that the ford or weir oi wicker-work mj constructed across the Liffey. which anciently gave name to Dub- lin. The Leinster people, who inhabited the right bank of the Liffey, resented the invasion of their pastures, and great strifes ensued between tlieir king, Mesgedra, and Conor Mac Ne*sa, king of Ulster, who espoused the cause of Atharna. Mesgedra was ultimately slain by Conall Carnach, who was sent into Leinster in aid of the bardic trespasser; but Atharna's own poetical denun- ciations were evaa more terrible to the Loinstermen than the Bwords of the Red Bnincb chnmpions. " He continued," says taa tract in the Book of Ballymote, "for a full year to satirize the Leinstermen and bring fatalities upon them ; so that neither corn, grass, nor foliage grew for them that year." Tho miraculous pre- tensions of the class were continued down to the Fiftlcnth Cen- tury, when Sir John Stanley, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, was popularly believed to have been despatched within a space of no more than five weeks by an Afir composed against him by Niall "Rimer" O'HigL'in, lilfld of a bardic family in Weslmeath, whose cattle hail been driven by the English of Dublin. See Annul* of the Fain- Mutters, ad an. 1414, and Hardiman'sStot of Kilk.,bb. u. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 623 " Ah me, or e'er the hour arrive Shall bid my long-forgotten tones, Unknown One, on your lips revive, Here by these moss-grown stones, " What change shall o'er the scene havecross'd ; What conquering lords anew have come ; What lore-arm'd, mightier Druid host From Gaul or distant Rome ! " What arts of death, what ways of life, What creeds unknown to bard or seer, Shall round your careless steps be rife, Who pause and ponder here ; "And, haply, where yon curlew calls Athwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers See rise some mighty chieftain's halls With unimagined towers : "And baying hounds, and coursers bright, And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen, With courtly train of dame and knight, Where now the fern is green. " Or, by yon prostrate altar-stone May kneel, perchance, and, free from blame, Hear k»ly men with rites unknown New names of God proclaim. 41 Let change as may the Name of Awe, Let rite surcease and altar fall, The same One God remains, a law Forever and for all. ' Let change as may the face of earth, Let alter all the social frame, For mortal men the ways of birth And death are still the same. " And still, as life and time wear on, The children of the waning days (Though strength be from their shoulders gone To lift the loads we raise), " Shall weep to do the burial rites Of lost ones loved ; and fondly found, The plain of Bregia comprised the flat district of Meath. Dub- lin, Kildare, and Wicklow. In its modern form, Bray, the name -is r\OT- confined to the well-known watering-place and its fine pro- montory of Bray Head. Dun Almon was, it is said, the residence of Fion, son of Comlial, the Pin Mao Cool of Irish, and Fingal of Scottish tradition. Its name is still preserved In the hill of Allen, and bardic tradition affects to give the name of the builder by «taom it was constructed.— O'Curry, App. 578. In shadow of the gathering nights, The monumental mound. " Farewell ! the strength of men is worn : The night approaches dark and chill : Sleep, till perchance an endless morn Descend the glittering hill." Of Oscar and Aideen bereft, So Ossian sang. The Fenians sped Three mighty shouts to heaven; and left Ben Edar to the dead. THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLET. Several Welsh families, associates in tho invasion of Strongbow, settled in the west of Ireland. Of these, the principal whose names have been preserved by the Irish antiquarians, were the War'shes, Joyces. Heils (a quibus Mac Hale), Lawlessea, Tom- lyns, Lyrrotts, and Barretts, which last draw their pedigree from Walynes, son of Guyndally, the Ard Maor, or High Steward of the Lordship of l/amelot, and had their chief seats in the territory of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and county of Mayo. Cloehan-nti-nCall, i.e., "the Blind Men's Stepping-stones," are still pointed out on the Duvowen river, about four miles north of Crossmolina, in the townland of Garranard; and Tuuber-no> Scorney, or "Scrag's Well," in the opposite townland of Cams, in the same barony. For a curious terrier or applotment of the Mac William's revenue, as acquired nnder the circumstances stated in the legend preserved by Mao Firbis. see Dr. O'Donovan'i highly-learned and interesting " Genealogies, &c, of Hy Fiach- rach," in the publications of the Irish ArehcBologicul Society— a great monument of antiquarian and topographical erudition. Scorna Bot, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame, To lift the Lynotts' taxes when he came, Rudely drew a young maid to him ; Then the Lynotts rose and slew him, And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him — Small your blame, Sons of Lynott ! Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. Then the Barretts to the Lynotts choice, Saying, " Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys, For this deed to-day ye lose Sight or manhood : say and choose Which ye keep and which refuse ; And rejoice That our mercy Leaves you living for a warning to Tirawley." 624 POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said, ''Only leave us our eyesight in our head." But the bearded Lynotts then Made answer back again — •Take our eyes, but leave us men, Alive or dead, Sons of Wattin !" Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. sharp and So the Barretts, with sewing- smooth, Let the light out of the eyes of every youth, And of every bearded man Of the broken Lynott clan ; Then their darken'd faces wan Turning south To the river — Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clocban-na- n'all They drove them, laughing loud at every fall, As their wandering footsteps dark Fail'd to reach the slippery mark, And the swift stream swallow'd, stark, One and all, As they stumbled — From the vengeance of the Welsh men of Tirawley. Of all the blinded LyDotts one alone Walk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone : So back again they brought you, And a second time they wrought you With their needles ; but never got you Once to groan, Emon Lynott, For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever, Emon Lynott again cross'd the river, Though Duvowen was rising fast, And the shaking stones o'ercast By cold floods boiling past ; Yet you never, Emon Lynott, Falter'd once before your foemen of Tirawley ! But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood, And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood — " Oh, ye foolish sons of Wattin, Small at. Ends are these you've gotten, For, whilo Scoma Boy lies rotten, Sing I am good For vengeance !" the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan, But in the manly mind, These darken'd orbs behind, That your needles could never find, Though they rau Through my heart-strings !" Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley "But, little your women's needles do I reck : For the night from heaven never fell so black, But Tirawley, and abroad From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod, 1 I could walk it, every sod, Path and track, Ford and togher, Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley. " The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your camp, What Barrett among you was it held the lamp — Show'd the way to those two feet, When, through wintry wind and sleet, I guided your blind retreat, In the swamp Of Beal-an-asa ? ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley J" So, leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard The Lynott, like a red dog hunted hard, With his wife and children seven, 'Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven, In the hollows of Glen Nephin, Light-debarr'd, Made his dwelling, Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run, On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son, A child of light, with eyes As clear as are the skies In summer, when sunrise 1 That Is, from the river Moy to Blackaod Haven, in Irish, Cuan- an-foid-duibh. The names of the baronies in this part of Mayo »nd Sligo are tnken from l lie son and grandson of Dathi, the pro- genitor of ttao families of O'Dowda. Tir Eera, in 81veo. is so- called by a softened pronuneiitti.m fruin Fiaclira. sjn of,Dathi «nd Tir-Awley, in like manner, from Amhalgaid, son of FiJehr*. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Has begun ; So the Lynott Nursed Ms vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size, Made him perfect in each manly exercise, The salmon in the flood, The dun deer in the wood, The eagle in the cloud To surprise, On Ben Nephin, Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley. With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow, With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow, He taught him from year to year, And train'd him, without a peer, For a perfect cavalier, Hoping so — Far his forethought — For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed, Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed ; Like the ear upon the wheat, "When winds in autumn beat On the bending stems, his seat ; And the speed Of his courser Was the wind from Barna-na-gee 1 o'er Tirawley ! Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent (He perfected in all accomplishment), The Lynott said : " My child, We .are over-long exiled From mankind in this wild — Time we went Through the mountain To the countries lying over-against Tirawley." So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown, And green stream-gathering vales, they jonr- ney'd down ; Till, shining like a star, Through the dusky gleams afar, The bailey of Castlebar And the town Of Mac William Rose bright jbo.o the wanderers of Tirawley. " Look southward, my boy, and tell me, as we go, What seest thou by the loch-head below." " Oh, a stone-house, strong and great, And a horse-host at the gate, And their captain in armor of plate — Grand the show ! Great the glancing ! High the heroes of this land below Tirawley ! " And a beautiful Woman-chief by his side, Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide ; And in her hand a pearl Of a young, little, fair-hair'd girl." — Said the Lynott, " It is the Earl ! Let us ride To his presence !" And before him came the exiles of Tirawley " God save thee, Mac William,'-' the Lynott thru began ; "God save all here besides of this clan; For gossips dear to me Are all in company — For in these four bones ye see A kindly man Of the Britons — Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley. " And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows, I come to claim a scion of thy house To foster ; for thy race Since William ConquerV days, Have ever been wont to place, With some spouse Of a Briton, A Mac William Oge, to foster in Tirawley. " And to show thee in what sort our youth ore taught, I have hither to thy home of valor brought This one son of my age, For a sample and a pledge For the equal tutelage, In right thought, Word, and action, Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley." •nqueror of Connanght. 1 e, William Fiti Adelm de POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. ' When Mac William beheld the brave boy ride and run, Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun — With a sigh, and with a smile, He said : " I would give the spoil Of a county, that Tibbot 1 Moyle, My own son, Were accomplished Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tiraw- ley." When the Lady Mac William she heard him speak, And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek, She said : " I would give a purse Of red gold to the nurse That would rear my Tibbot no worse ; But I seek Hitherto vainly — Heaven grant that I now have found her in Ti- lawley !" So they said to the Lynott : " Here, take our bird ! And as pledge for the keeping of thy word, Let this soion here remain Till thou comest back again : Meanwhile the fitting train Of a lord Shall attend thee With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tiraw- ley." So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard, Like a lord of the country with his guard, Came the Lynott, before them all. Once again over Clochan-na-n'all, Steady-striding, erect, and' tall, And his ward On his shoulders ; To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley. Then a diligent foster-father you would deem The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream, To cast the spear, to ride, To stem the rushing tide, With what feats of body beside Might beseem A Mac William, Foster'd free among the Welshmen of Tirawley. • Tibbot, that is, Theobald. But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind ; For to what desire soever he inclined, Of anger, lust, or pride, He had it gratified, Till he ranged the circle wide Of a blind Self-indulgence, Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley. Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound, Lynott loosed him — God's leashes all unbound — In the pride of power and station, And the strength of youthful passion, On the daughters of thy nation, All around, Wattin Barrett ! Oh, the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley ! Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame, Fill'd the houses of the Barretts where'er he came ; Till the young men of the Bac Drew by night upon his track, And slew him at Cornassack — * Small your blame, Sons of Wattin ! Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. Said the Lynott : " The day of my vengeance is drawing near, The day for which, through many a long dark year, I have toil'd through grief and sin — Call ye now the Brehons in, And let the plea begin Over the bier Of Mac William, For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley.' » "This is still vividly remembered in the country, and the apo» is pointed out where Teaboid Maol Burke was killed by the Bar- retts. The recollection of it has been kept alive in certain verses, which were composed on the occasion, of which the following quatrain is often repeated in the barony of Tirawley: Tangadar JBaireadaigh, &c "The Barretts of the country came; Tbey perpetrated a deed which was not JUBt; They shed blood which was nobler than wine. At the narrow brook of Cornasack." O'Donovan, Tr. and Oust. By. FiacK, 38S n. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Then the Brehons to Mac William Burke decreed An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed; And the Lynott's share of the fine, As foster-father, was nine Ploughlands and nine score kine ; But no need Had the Lynott, Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley. But rising, while all sat silent on the spot, He said : " The law says — doth it not ? — If the foster-sire elect His portion to reject, He may then the right exact To applot The short eric." "'Tis the law," replied the Brehons of Tirawley. Said the Lynott : " I once before had a choice Proposed me, wherein law had little voice ; But now I choose, and say, As lawfully I may, [ applot the mulct to-day ; So rejoice In your ploughlands And your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley. " And thus I applot the mulct : I divide The land throughout Clau Barrett on every side Equally, that no place May be without the face Of a foe of Wattin's race — That the pride Of the Barretts May be humbled hence forever throughout Ti- rawley. " I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hall To Mac William : in every stable I give a stall To Mac William : and, beside, Whenever a Burke shall ride Through Tirawley, I provide At his call Needful grooming, Without charge from any hostler of Tirawley. his eric beforehand, in the event, reasonably anticipated, of per- sonal injury befalling him. Singular, that while modern Under- ness of human life would abolish the punishment of death in cases of homicide, it ignores the barbarian wisdom which gave com- f evsation to the family of the victim. " Thus lawfully I avange me for the throes Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those Unhappy shamefaced ones, Who, their mothers expected once, Would have been the sires of sons — O'er whose woes Often weeping, I have groan'd in my exile from Tirawley. "I demand not of you your manhood; but I take — For the Burkes will take it — your Freedom ! for the sake Of which all manhood's given, And all good under heaven, And, without which, better even Ye should make Yourselves barren, Than see your children slaves throughout Tiraw ley! " Neither take I your eyesight from you ; as yon took Mine and ours : I would have you daily look On one another's eyes, When the strangers tyrannize By your hearths, and blushes arise, That ye brook, Without vengeance, The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Ti rawley ! " The vengeance I design'd, now is done, And the days of me and mine nearly run — For, for this, I have broken faith, Teaching him who lies beneath This pall, to merit death ; And my son To his father Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley/ Said Mac William, " Father and son, hang thera high!" And the Lynott they hang'd speedily ; But across the salt sea water, To Scotland, with the daughter Of Mac William — well you got her I— Did you fly, Edmund Lindsay, The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawlejl POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. "Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell' How, through lewdness ami revenge,' it befell That the sons of William Conquer Came over the sons of Wattin, Throughout all the bounds and borders Of the land of Auley Mac Fiachra ;' Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell, And his valiant, Bible-guided, Ej-ee heretics of Clan London Coming in, in their succession, Rooted out both Burke aud Barrett, knd in their empty places New stems of freedom planted, With many a goodly sapling Of manliness and virtue ; Which while their children cherish, Kindly Irish of the Irish, Neither Saxons nor Italians, May the mighty God of Freedom Speed them well, Never taking Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley. OWEN BAWN. ■William de Burgho, third Earl of Ulster, pursued the Angli- can policy of his day with so much severity, that the native Irish generally withdrew from the counties of Down and Antrim, and established themselves in Tyrone, with Hugh Boy O'Neill. Wil- liam's rigid prohibition of intermarriages with the natives led to his assassination by his own relatives, the Mamlevlllcs, at the Ford of Belfast, A. D. 1838. The Irish then returned from beyond the river Bann, and expelled the English from all Ulster, except Car- rickfergus and the barony of Ards in Down ; and so continued until their subjugation by Sir Henry Sidney and Sir Arthur Chi- chester, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Simultaneously with the return of tiro Clan Hugh-Boy in the north, the great Anglo-Norman families of Connanght adopted Irish names and manners, the De Burghos assuming the name of Mac William, and all accommodating themselves to the Irish sys- tem of life and government, in which, with few exceptions, they continued until their subjugation by Sir Richard Bingham, in the reign of King Henry the Eighth. ' The writer has hardly caught the full pathos of that remark- able passage translated below, with whioh Duald Mac Firbis, the chronicler of Lecan, winds up his account of the retribution thus singularly brought on the descendants of Wattin Barrett "It was in erio for him (Teaboid Maol Burke) that the Barretts gave up to the Burkes eighteen quaters of land : and the share which Lynott, the adopted father of Teaboid, asked of this eric, was the distribution of the mulct; and the distribution he made of it was, that it should be divided throughout all Tir-Amhalgaldh, in order that the Burkes might he Btationed In every part of it as plagues to the Barretts, and to draw the country from them. And thus the Burkes oame over the Barretts in Tir-Amhalgaidh, and took nearly the whole of their lands from them ; but at length the Saxon heretics of Oliver Cromwell took it from them all In the year of our Lord 1652 ; so that now there is neither Barrett nor Burke, not to mention the Clan Fiachrach, in possession of any lands there."— O'Donovan, TV. and Out. By. Fiach., p. 889. * Pronounced, Mac Eeara. My Owen Bawn's hair is of thread of gold spun ; Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ; All cuil'd in a coolun the bright tresses are — They make his head radiant with beams like a star 1 My Owen Bawn's mantle is long and is wide, To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side ; And I'd rather face snow-drift and winter-wind there, Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere. My Owen Bawn Quin is a hunter of deer, He tracts the dun quarry with arrow and spear- Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters flow, Ah, there goes my love with the dun-dappled roe. My Owen Bawn Quin is a bold fisherman, He spears the strong salmon in midst of the Bann ; And rock'd in the tempest on stormy Lough Neagh, Draws up the red trout through the bursting of spray. My Owen Bawn Quin is a bard of the best, He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest; And the cruit 'neath his fingers rings up with a sound, As though angels harp'd o'er us, and fays under- ground. They tell me the stranger has given command That crommeal and coolun shall cease in the land, That all our youths' tresses of yellow be shorn, And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion, worn, ; That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no more, That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er, That the net and the arrow aside must be laid, For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade ; That the echoes of music must sleep in their caves, That the slave must forget his own tongue for a slave's, That the sounds of our lips must be strange in our ears, And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our tears. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. sweetheart and comfort! with thee by my side, 1 could love and live happy, whatever betide ; But thou, in such bondage, wouldst die ere a day — Away to Tir-oSn, then, Owen, away ! There are wild woods and mountains, and streams deep and clear, There are loughs in Tir-oen as lovely as here ; There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh's hall, And a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all ! We will dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake, Where the sycamore shadows glow deep in the lake; And the snowy swan, stirring the green shadows there, Afloat on the water, seems floating in air. Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen, away ! We will leave them the dust from our feet for a prey, And our dwelling in ashes and flames for a spoil — Twill be long ere they quench them with streams of the Foyle ! GRACE O'MALY. The return to EDgliah rule and habits of the Anglo-Norman families of Connaught who bad Hibernicised after the murder of William de Bnrgho, was not effected without a long alienation of the popular affections, which had been bestowed upon them as freely as on native rulers : " for," to use the words of a contempo- rary Irish chronicler, "the old chieftains of Erin prospered nnder these princely English lords who were our chief rulers, and who had given up their foreignness for a pure mind, and their surliness for good manners, and their stubbornness for sweet mild- ness, and who had given up their perverseness for hospitality." 1 During this troubled period of transition, Grace O'Maly, lady of Sir Ilickard Burke, styled Mac William Fighter, distinguished herself by a life of wayward adventure, which has made her name, In its Gaelic form, Grana Uaile (i. e., Grand TJa Mhaile) a per- sonification, among the Irish peasantry, of that social state which they still consider preferable to the results of a more advanced civilization. The real acts and character of the heroine are hardly teen through the veil of imagination under which the personified idea exists in the popular mind, and is here presented. She left the close-air'd land of trees And proud Mac William's palace, For clear, bare Clare's health-salted breeze, Her oarsmen and her galleys : 1 O'Donovan, Tr. and' Cast, of Ey. Many, p. 186. And where, beside the bending strand, The. rock and billow wrestle, Between the deep sea and the land, She built her Island Castle. The Spanish captains, sailing by For Newport, with amazement Beheld the cannon'd longship lie Moor'd to the lady's casement ; And, covering coin and cup of gold In haste their hatches under, They whisper'd, " 'Tis a pirate's hold ; She sails the seas for plunder 1" But no : 'twas not for sordid spoil Of bark or seaboard borough She plough'd, with unfatiguing toil, The fluent-rolling furrow ; Delighting, on the broad-back'd deep, To feel the quivering galley Strain up the opposing hill, and sweep Down the withdrawing valley : Or, sped before a driving blast, By following seas uplifted, Catch, from the huge heaps heaving past, And from the spray they drifted, And from the winds that toss'd the crest Of each wide-shouldering giant, The smack of freedom and the zest Of rapturous life defiant. For, oh ! the mainland time was pent In close constraint and striving : — So many aims together bent On winning and on thriving; There was no room for generous ease, No sympathy for candor ; And so she left Burke's buzzing trees, And all his stony splendor. For Erin yet had fields to spare, Where Clew her cincture gathers Isle-gemm'd ; and kindly clans were ther% The fosterers of her fathers : Room there for careless feet to roam Secure from minions' peeping, For fearless mirth to find a home And sympathetic weeping; And generous ire and frank disdain To speak the mind, nor ponder POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. How this in England, that in Spain, Might suit to toll ; as yonder, Where daily on the slippery dais, By thwarting interests chequer'd, State gamesters play the social chess Of politic Clanrickard. Nor wanting quite the lonely isle In civic life's adornings : The Brehon's Court might well beguile A learned lady's mornings. Quaint though the clamorous claim, and rude The pleading that convey'd it, Right conscience made the judgment good, And loyal love obey'd it. And music sure was sweeter far For ears of native nurture, Than virginals at Castlebar To tinkling touch of courtier, "When harpers good in hall struck up The planxty's gay commotion, Or pipers scream'd from pennon'd poop Their piobroch over ocean. And sweet to see, their ruddy bloom Whom ocean's friendly distance Preserved still unenslaved ; for whom No tasking of existence Made this one rich, and that one poor, In gold's illusive treasure, But all, of easy life secure, Were rich in wealth of leisure. Rich in the Muse's pensive hour, In genial hour for neighbor, Rich in young mankind's happy power To live with little labor ; The wise, free way of life, indeed, That still, with charm adaptive, Reclaims and tames the alien greed, And takes the conqueror captive. Nor only life's unclouded looks To compensate its rudeness ; Amends there were in holy books, In offices of goodness, In cares above the transient scene Of little gains and honors, That well repaid the Island Queen Her loss of urban manners. Sweet, when the crimson sunsets glow'd, As earth and sky grew grander, Adown the grass'd, unechoing road Atlanticward to wander, Some kinsman's humbler hearth to seek. Some sick-bed side, it may be, Or, onward reach, with footsteps meek. The low, gray, lonely abbey : And, where the storied stone beneath The guise of plant and creature, Had fused the harder lines of faith In easy forms of nature ; Such forms as tell the master's pains 'Mong Roslin's carven glories, Or hint the faith of Pictish Thanes On standing stones of Forres ; The Branch ; the weird cherubic Beasta ; The Hart by hounds o'ertaken ; Or, intimating mystic feasts, The sclf-resorbent Dragon ; — Mute symbols, though with power endow'd For finer dogmas' teaching, Than clerk might tell to carnal crowd' In homily or preaching ; — Sit ; and while heaven's refulgent show Grew airier and more tender, And ocean's gleaming floor below Reflected loftier splendor, Suffused with light of lingering faith And ritual light's reflection, Discourse of birth, and life, and death, And of the resurrection. But chiefly sweet from morn to eve, From eve to clear-eyed morning, The presence of the felt reprieve From strangers' note and scorning s No prying, proud, intrusive foes To pity and offend her : Such was the life the lady chose ; Such choosing, we commend* her. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Sallahs anh |poems. THE FAIRY THORN. AN ULSTER BALLAD. " Git up, our Anna dear, from the weary spin- ning-wheel ; For your fcther's on the hill, and your mother is asleep : Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a high- land reel Around the fairy thorn on the steep." At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green ; And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four, I ween. They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare; The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, And the crags in the ghostly air : And linking hand and hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way, Till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely beauty grow Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray. The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee ; The rowan-berries cluster o'er her low head gray and dim, In ruddy kisses sweet to see. The merry maidens four have ranged them in s row, Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go : Oh, never caroll'd .bird like them ! But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze That drinks away their voices in echoless re- pose, And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted braes, And dreamier the gloaming grows. And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky When the falcon's shadow saileth across the- open shaw, Are hush'd the maidens' voices, as cowering down, they lie In the flutter of their sudden awe. For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath, And from the mountain-ashes and the o«d White-thorn between, A Power of faint enchantment doth through iuott beings breathe, And they sink down together on the green. They sink together silent, and stealing side to- side, They fling their lovely arms o'er their droop- ing' necks so fail', Then vainly strive again their naked arms to» hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare. Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads together bow'd, Soft o'er their bosom's beating — the only hu man sound — POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. They hear the silky footsteps of tlie sileut fairy crowd, Like a river in the air, gliding round. No scream can any niise, nor prayer can any say, But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three — For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see. They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, And the curls elastic falling, as her head with- draws ; They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, But they may not look to see the cause : For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze ; And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quiv- ering, eyes, Or their limbs from the cold ground raise, Till out of night the earth has roll'd her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below ; When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morn- ing tide, The maidens' trance dissolveth so. Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain — They pined away and died within the year aEd day, And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again. WILLY GILLILAND. AN ULSTER BALLAD. Up in the mountain solitudes, and in a rebel ring, He has worshipp'd God upon the hill, in spite of church and king ; And seal'd his treason with his blood on Both- well bridge he hath ; So he must fly his father's land, or he must die the death ; For comely Claverhouse has come along, with grim Dalzell, And his smoking roof-tree testifies they've done their errand well. In vain to fly his enemies he fled his native land ; Hot persecution waited him upon the Carrick strand ; His name was on the Carrick cross, a price was on his head, A fortune to the man that brings him in alive or dead ! And so on moor and mountain, from the Lagan to the Bann, From house to house and hill to hill, he lurk'd an outlaw'd man. At last, when in false company he might no longer bide, He stay'd his houseless wanderings upon the Collon side, There, in a cave all underground, he lair'd his heathy den : Ah, many a gentleman was fain to earth like hill- fox then ! With hound and fishing-rod he lived on hill and stream by day ; At night, betwixt his fleet greyhound and hit bonny mare he lay. It was a summer evening, and, mellowing and still, Glenwhirry to the setting sun lay bare from hill to hill ; For all that valley pastoral held neither houso nor tree, But spread abroad and open all, a full fair sight to see, From Slemish foot to Collon top lay one unbroken green, Save where, in many a silver coil, the river glanced between. And on the river's grassy bank, even from the morning gray, He at the angler's pleasant sport had spent the summer day : POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Ah ! manv a time and oft I've spent the summer day trom dawn, And wonder'd, whes the sunset came, where time and care had gone, Along the readies curling fresh, the wimpling pools and streams, Where lie that day his cares forgot in those de- lightful dreams. His blithe work done, upon a bank the outlaw rested now, And laid the basket from his back, the bonnet from his brow ; And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee upon the sod. He fill'd the lonely valley with the gladsome word of God ; And for a persecuted kirk, and for her martyrs dear, And against a godless church and king he spoke up loud and clear. And now, upon his homeward way, he cross'd the Collon high, And over bush and bank and brae he sent abroad his eye ; But all was darkening peacefully in gray and purple haze, The thrush was silent in the banks, the lark upon the braes — When suddenly shot up a blaze, from the cave's mouth it came ; And troopers' steeds and troopers' caps are glancing in the same ! He couch'd among the heather, and he saw them, as he lay. With three long yells at parting, ride lightly east away : Then down with heavy heart he came, to sorry cheer came he, For ashes black were crackling where the green whins used to be, And stretch'd among the prickly coomb, his heart's blood smoking round, From slender nose to breast-bone cleft, lay dead his good greyhound ! "They've slain my dog, the Philistines! they've ta'en my bonny mare !" — He plunged into the smoky hole ; no bonny beast was there — He groped beneath his burning bed (it buin'd him to the bone), Where his good weapon used to be, but broad- sword there was none ; He reel'd out of the stifling den, and sat down on a stone, And in the shadows of the night 'twas thus he made his moan^- " I am a houseless outcast ; I have neither bed nor board, Nor living thing to look upon, nor comfort save the Lord : Yet many a time were better men in worse ex- tremity ; Who succor'd them in their distress, He now will succor me, — He now will succor me, I know; and, by Hia liolv Name, I'll make the doers of this deed right dearly rue the same ! " My bonny mare ! I've ridden you when Claver'se rode behind, And from the thumbscrew and the boot you bore me like the wind ; And, while I have the life you saved, on your sleek flank, I swear, Episcopalian rowel shall never ruffle hair ! Though sword to wield they've left me none — yet Wallace wight, I wis, Good battle did on Irvine side wi' waur weapon than this." — His fishing-rod with both his hands he griped it as he spoke, And, where the butt and top were spliced, in pieces twain he broke ; The limber top he cast away, with all its gear abroad, But, grasping the tough hickory butt, with spike of iron shod, He ground the sharp spear to a point ; then pull'd his bonnet down, And, meditating black revenge, set forth for Car- rick town. The sun shines bright on Carrick wall and Car- rick Castle gray, And up thine aisle, St. Nicholas, has ta'en his morning way, And to the North-Gate sentinel displayeth, far and near, POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Sea, hill, and tower, and all thereon, in dewy fresh new clear, Save where, behind a ruin'd wall, himself alone to view, Is peering from the ivy green a bonnet of the bine. The sun shines red on Carrick wall and Garriek Castle old, And all the western buttresses have changed their gray for gold ; And from thy shrine, Saint Nicholas, the* pilgrim of the sky Has gone in rich farewell, as fits such royal votary ; But, as his last red glance he takes down past black Slieve-a-true, He leaveth where he found it first the bonnet of the blue. Again he makes the $urrets gray stand out before the hill ; Constant as their foundation-rock, there is the bonnet still ! And now the gates are open'd, and forth, in gal- lant show, Prick jeering grooms and burghers blythe, and troopers in a row ; But one has little care for jest, so hard bested is he To ride the outlaw's bonny mare, for this at last is she ! Down comes her master with a roar, her rider with a groan, The iron and the hickory are through and through him gone ! He lies a corpse ; and where he sat, the outlaw sits again, And once more to his bonny mare he gives the spur and rein ; Then some with sword, and some with gun, they ride and run amain ; But sword and gun, and whip and spur, that day they plied in vain ! Ah ! little thought Willy Gilliland, when he on Skerry side Drew bridle first, and wiped his brow after that weary ride, That where he lay like hunted brute, a cavern'd outlaw lone, Broad lands and yeoman tenantry should yet be there his own : Yet so it was ; and still from him descendant* not a few Draw birth and lands, and, let me trust, draw love of Freedom too. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged — 'tis at a white heat now : The bellows ceased, the flames decreased — though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare : Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe : It rises, roars, rends all outright — Vulcan, what a glow ! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show, The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe, As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil : — all about the faces fiery grow ; " Hurrah !" they shout, " leap oufl — leap out ;" bang, bang the sledges go : Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are "hissing high and low — A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash- ing blow ; The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the ra-.tling cinders strow POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. The' ground around; at. every bound, the swel- tering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant " ho !" Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! Let's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and broad ; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode: I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road — The low reef roaring on her lee — the roll of ocean pour'd From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the board, The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains ! But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high ; Then moves his head, as though he said, '* Fear nothing — here am I." Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime : But, while you sling your sledges, sing — and let the burthen be, The anchor is the anvil-king, and royal crafts- men we ! Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red ; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer ; When, weighing slow, at eve they go — far, far from love and home ; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last: A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast : O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea ! O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as thou J The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails ! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea- unicorn, And send him foil'd and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn : To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn : To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd miles ; Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off h SorMvdunum, i. e, Servlce-trae fort. Lit the beech-tops low down in the ditch of the Dun, Lit the service-trees high on its crest : But the walls of the Roman were shrunk Into morsels of ruin around, And palace of monarch, and minster of monk, Were effaced from the grassy-foss'd ground. Like bubbles in ocean, they melt, O Wilts, on thy long-rolling plain, And at last but the works of the hand of the Celt And the sweet hand of Nature remain. Even so : though, portentous and strange, With a rumor of troublesome sounds, On his iron way gliding, the Angel of Change Spread his dusky wings wide o'er thy bounds — He will pass ; there'll be grass on his track, And the pick of the miner in vain Shall search the dark void : while the stones of Carnac And the word of the Breton remain. Farewell : up the waves of the Ranee, See, we stream back our pennon of smoke ; Farewell, russet skirt of the fine robe of France, Rugged land of the granite and oak ! WESTMINSTER ABBEY. ON HEARING WEEK-DAT SERVICE THERE, SEP TEMBER, 1858. From England's gilded halls of state I cross'd the Western Minster's gate, And, 'raid the tombs of England's dead, I heard the Holy Scriptures read. The walls around and pillar'd piers Had stood well-nigh seven hundred year*; The words the priest gave forth bad stood Sinee Christ, and since before the Flood. A thousand hearts around partook The comfort of the Holy Book ; Ten thousand suppliant hands were spread In lifted stone above my head. f.40 POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. In dust decay'd, the hands are gone That fed and set the builders on ; In heedless dust the fingers lie That hew'd and heaved the stones on high; And back to earth and air resolved • Tim brain that plann'd and poised the vault: But. undecay'd, erect, and fair, To heaven ascends the builded Prayer, With majesty of strength and size, With glory of harmonious dyes, With holy airs of heavenward thought, From floor to roof divinely fraught. Fall down, ye bars : enlarge, my soul I To heart's content take in the whole ; And, spurning pride's injurious thrall, With loyal love embrace them all ! Yet hold not lightly home ; nor yet The graves on Dunagore forget ; Nor grudge the stone-gilt stall to change For humble bench of Gorman's Grange. The self-same Word bestows its cheer On simple creatures there as here ; And thence, as hence, poor souls do rise In social flight to common skies. For in the Presence vast and good That bends o'er all our livelihood, With humankind in heavenly cure, We all are like, we all are poor. His poor, be sure, shall never want For service meet or seemly chant, And for the Gospel's joyful sound A fitting place shall still be found ; Whether the organ's solemn tones Thrill through the dust of warriors' bones, Or voices of th.e village choir From swallow-haunted eaves aspire, Or, sped with healing on its wings, The Word solicit ears of kings, Or stir the souls, in moorland glen, Of kingless covenanted men. Enough for thee, indulgent Lord, The willing ear to hear Thy Word — The / rising of the burthen'd breast— And thou suppliest all the rest. flhraians anfo ^baptdions. • THE ORIGIN OF THE SCYTHIANS. HERODOTUS (" MELPOMENE"). When, o'er Riphsean wastes, the son of Jove Slain Geryon's beeves from Erytheia drove, Sharp nipp'd the frost, and feathery whirls of snow Fill'd upper air and hid the earth below. The hero on the ground, his steeds beside, Spread, shaggy-huge, the dun Nemean hide, And, warmly folded, while the tempest swept The dreary Hyperborenn desert, slept When Hercules awoke and look'd around, The milk-white mares were nowhere to be tand. Long search'd the hero all the neighboring plain, The brakes and thickets ; but he search'd in vain. At length he reach'd a gloomy cave, and there He found a woman as a goddess fair ; A perfect woman downward to the knee, But all below, a snake, in coil'd deformity. With mutual wonder each the other eyed : He question'd of his steeds, and she replied : "Hero, thy steeds within my secret halls Are safely stabled in enchanted stalls ; But if thou thence ray oaptives wouldst remove, Thou, captive too, must yield me love for love." Won by the price, perchance by passion sway'd, Alcides yielded to the monster maid. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. The steeds recover'd, and the burnish'd car Prepared, she said : " Remember, when afar, That, sprung from thee, three mighty sons shall prove Me. not unworthy of a hero's love. But when my babes are grown to manhood, where WouLdst thou thy sons should seek a father's care f" The soft appeal e'en stern Alcides felt — And, " Take," he said, " this bow and glittering belt"— From his broad breast the baldrick he unslung (A golden phial from its buckle hung), — "And, when my sons are grown to man's estate, Him whom thou first shalt see decline the weight Of the great belt, or fail the bow to bend, To Theban Hercules, his father, send For tutelage ; but him whom thou shalt see Thus bear the belt, thus bend the bow, like me, Naught further needing, by thy side retain, The destined monarch of the northern plain." He went : the mighty mother, at a birth, Gave Gelou, Aeathyrs, and Scyth 1 to earth. To early manhood grown, the former twain Essay'd to bear the belt and bow in vain ; And, southward banish'd from their mother's face, Sought lighter labors in the fields of Thrace: While, far refulgent over plain and wood, Herculean Scyth the glittering belt indued, And, striding dreadful on his fields of snow, With aim unerring twaug'd his father's bow. From him derived, the illustrious Scythian name, And all the race of Scythian monarchs came. THE DEATH OF DERMID. IRISH KOMANCB. King Cormao had affianced his daughter Grania to Finn, 8on of Comlial, the Finn Mac Coole of Irish, and Fingai of Scottish tra- dition. In addition to his warlike accomplishments, Finn was reported to have obtained the gifts of poetry, serond-sight, and healing, in the manner referred to below. On bis personal intro- duction, his age and aspect proved displeasing to Grania, who threw herself on the gallantry of Dermid, the handsomest of Finn's attendant warriors, and induced him reluctantly to fly with her. Their pursuit by Finn forms the subject of one of the most popu- lar native Irisb romances. In the course of their wanderings. Dermid, having pursued a wild boar, met the fate of Adonis, who appears to have been his prototype in the Celtic imagination. Finn, arriving on the scene just before his rival's death, giver occasion to the most pathetic passage of the taie, which, at thhl point, is comparatively free from the characteristics of vulgarity and extravagance attaching to the rest of the composition. The incidents of the original ttre followed In the piece below, which however, does not profess to tie a translation. The ori-inil im.y be perused in the spirited version of Mr. O'Grady : "Publications of the Irish Ossianic Society," vol. iii„ p. 1SS. It is from this Dermid that Highland tradition draws the genealogy of the Clan Campbell— "The race of brown Dermid who slew the wild boar." Finn on the mountain found the mangled man, The slain boar by him. " Dermid," said the king, "It likes me well at last to see thee thus. This only grieves me, that the womankind Of Erin are not also looking on : Such sight were wholesome for the wanton eyes So oft enamor'd of that specious form : Beauty to foulness, strength to weakness turn'd." "Yet in thy power, if only in thy will, Lies it, Finn, even yet to heal me " "How}" "Feign not the show of ignorance, nor deem I know not of the virtues which thy hand Drew from that fairy's half-discover'd hall, Who bore her silver tankard from the fountr— So closely follow'd, that ere yet the door Could close upon her steps, one arm was in ; Wherewith, though seeing naught, yet touching all, Thou graspedst half the spiritual world ; Withdrawing a heap'd handful of its gifts — Healing, and sight prophetic, and the power Divine of poesy : but healing most Abides within its hollow : — virtue such That but so much of water as might wet These lips, in thai hand brought, would make me whole. Finn, from the fountain fetch me in thy palms A draught of water, and I yet shall live." " How at these hands canst thou demand thy life, Who took'st my joy of life ?" " She loved thee not, : Me she did love, and doth ; and were she here She would so plead with thee, that, for her sake, Thou wouldst forgive us both, and bid me live." " I was a man had spent my prime of years In war and council, little bless'd with love ; f 642 TOEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Though poesy was mine, and, in my hour, The seer's burthen not desirable ; And now at last had thought to haie man's share Of marriage blessings; and the King supreme, Cormac, had pledged his only daughter mine ; When thou, with those pernicious beauty-gifts The flashing white tusk there hath somewhat spoil'd, Didst win her to desert her father's house, And roam the wilds with thee." " It was herself, Orania, the Princess, put me in the bonds Of holy chivalry to share her flight. ' Behold,' she said, ' he is an aged man (And so thou art, for years will come to all), And I so young ; and, at the Beltane games, When Carbry Liffacher did play the men Of Brea, I, unseen, saw thee snatch a hurl, And thrice on Tara's champions' win the goal ; And gave thee love that day, and still will give.' So she herself avow'd. Resolve me, Finn, Fur thou art just, could youthful warrior, sworn To maiden's service, have done else than I ? .No : hate me not — restore me — give me drink." *I will not." " Nay, but, Finn, thou hadst not said •I will not,' though I'd ask'd a greater boon, That night we supp'd in Breendacoga's lodge. Remember : we were faint and hunger-starved From three days' flight ; and even as on the board They placed the viands, and my hand went forth To raise the wine-cup, thou, more quick of ear, O'erheard'st the stealthy leaguer set without ; And yet shouldst eat or perish. Then 'twas I, Fasting, that made the sally ; and 'twas I, Fasting, that made the circuit of the court; Three times I coursed it, darkling, round and round ; From whence returning, when I brought thee in The three lopp'd heads of them that lurk'd with- out— Thou hadst not then, refresh'd and grateful, said ' I will not,' had I ask'd thee, ' Give me drink.'" i champions," ar ghawa Ttamhrach. The Idiom 1 There springs no water on this summit bald." " Nine paces from the spot thou standest on, The well-eye — well thou know'st it — bubbles clear." Abash'd, reluctant, to the bubbling well Went Finn, and scoop'd the water in his palms ; Wherewith returning, half-way., came the thought Of Grania, and he let the water spill. "Ah me," said Dermid, "hast thou then forgot Thy warrior-art, that oft, when helms were split, And buckler-bosses shatter'd by the spear, Has satisfied the thirst of wounded men ? Ah, Finn, these hands of thine were not so slack That night when, captured by the King of Thule, Thou lay'st in bonds within the temple gate Waiting for morning, till the observant king Should to his sun-j/od make thee sacriSce. Close-pack'd thy fingers then, thong-drawn and squeezed, The blood-drops oozing under every nail, When, like a shadow, through the sleeping priests Came I, and loosed thee : and the hierophant At day-dawn coming, on the altar-step, Instead of victim straigbten'd to his knife, Two warriors found, erect, for battle arm'd." Again abash'd, reluctant to the well Went Finn, and scoop'd the water in his palms, Wherewith returning, half- way, came the thought That wrench'd him ; and the shaken water spiil'd. " False one, thou didst it purposely ! I swear I saw thee, though mine eyes do fast grow dim. Ah me, how much imperfect still is man ! Yet such were not the act of Him, whom once On this same mountain, as we sat at eve — Thou yet mayest see the knoll that was our couch, A stone's throw from the spot where now I lie — Thou show'dst me, shuddering, when the seer'i fit, Sudden and cold as hail, assail'd thy soul In vision of that Just One crucified For all men's pardoning, which, once again, Thou saw'st, with Cormac, struck in Rossnaree." POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 643 Finn trembled, and a third time to the well Went straight, and scoop'd the water in his palms ; "Wherewith in haste half-way return'd, he saw A smile on Dermid's face relax'd in death. THE INVOCATION. Jot of the world, divine delight of Love, Who with life-sowing footsteps soft dost move Through all the still stars from their sliding stands See, fishy seas, and fruit-abounding lands ; Bringing to presence of the gracious sun All living things : thee blights and vapors shun, And thine advent : for thee the various earth Glows with the rose : for thee the murmurous mirth Of ocean sparkles ; and, at thy repair, Diffusive bliss pervades the placid air. For, see, forthwith the blandness of the Spring Begins, and Zephyr's seasonable wing Wantons abroad in primal lustihood, Srait with sweet pangs the wing'd aerial brood Of pairing birds proclaim thy reign begun ; Thence through the fields where pasturing cattle run, Runs the soft frenzy, all the savage kind, Touch'd with thy tremors in the wanton wind, Prancing the plains, or through the rushing floods Cleaving swift ways : thou, who through waving woods, Tall mountains, fishful seas, and leafy bowers Of nestling birds, keep'st up the joyous hours, Making from age to age, bird, beast, and man Perpetuate life and time; — aid thou my plan. ARCUrTAS AND THE MARINER. HORAT. OP. I. 28. MARINER. Thee, of the sea and land and unsumm'd sand The Mensurator The dearth of some poor earth from a friend'* hand Detains, a waiter For sepulture, here on the Matine strand ; Nor aught the better Art thou, Archytas, now, in thought to hart spann'd Pole and equator ! The sire of Pelops, too, though guest and host Of Gods, gave up the ghost : Beloved Tithonus into air withdrew : And Minos, at the council-board of Jove Once intimate above, Hell holds ; and hell with strict embrace anew Constrains Panthoi'des, for all his lore, Though by the shield he bore In Trojan jousts, snatch'd from the trophied fane, He testified that death slays naught within The man, but nerve and skin ; But bore his witness and his shield in vain. For one night waits us all ; one downward road Must by all feet be trod : All heads at last to Prosperine must come : The furious Fates to Mars's bloody shows Cast these : the seas whelm those : Commix'd and close, the young and old troop home. Me also, prone Orion's comrade swift, The South-wind, in the drift Of white Illyrian waves, caught from the day : But, shipmate, thou refuse not to my dead Bones and unburied head, The cheap poor tribute of the funeral clay ! So, whatsoe'er the East may foam or roar Against the Hesperian shore, Let crack Venusia's woods, thou safe and free; While great God Neptune, the Tarentine's trust, And Jupiter the just, With confluent wealth reward thy piety. Ah ! wouldst thou leave me ? wouldst thon leave, indeed, Thy unoffending seed Under the dead man's curse? Beware 1 the day May come when thou sbalt suffer equal wrong: Give — 'twill not keep thee long — Three handfuls of sea-sand, and go thy way. POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. ftmions from ijje |risj|. An apology Is needed for the rudeness of some of the following pieces. Irish poetical remains consist chiefly of bardic composi- tions and songs of the conn-try, of which the examples here given could not be candidly rendered without some reflection of certain faults of the originals. The former class have inherent vices, re- sulting from Hie conditions of their production. The office of the bard required skid in music, a retentive memory, and a knowledge of the common forms of panegyric, rather than original genius. A large proportion of these compositions consisted of adulatory odes addressed to protectors and patrons. Many of the best musical p.riorm inces of Carolan are as-oeiated with words of this character, and exhibit an Incongruous union of noble sounds and mean ideas. It has been usual, in giving him u ml the later harpers the credit which they well merit for originality ami fertility in the production of melodies, Co include their odes and songs, us efforts of poetic genius, in the o^unendation ; but these portions of the coinpoMLions are generally made up of gross flatteries and the con- ventionalizes of the Pantheon. The images and sentiments are In tit much alike; and it is rarely that an original thought repays the trouble of the translator. In celebrating some of the ladies of Families who patronized biin. Carolan has, however, produced a few pieces in which the words are not unworthy of the music. He was sensible of the charms of grace and virtue, and although In- capable of distinguishing between elegant and vulgar forms of praise, has in these instances expressed genuine sentiments of ad- miration with a great degree of natural and affectionate tenderness —united, it must, be remembered, with original and beautiful music. One of these pieces, "Grace Nugent,' 11 although too full of the stock phrases of the adulatory school, is perhaps the most pleasing of its class. In addressing one of his male patronB also, In "The Cup of O'Hara," 3 he exhibits some originality in trans- ferring to Ids friend's wassail-cup the praises which were usually lavished on personal excellencies. It is auiong the country songs, however, that the greatest amount and variety of characteristic composition is found. In these we must not expect quite so much refinement as is found in the pieces composed by the bards and harpers, most of which have been transmitted in writing: for the songs have only been preserved orally by the peasantry, who would naturally prefer such versions as suited their more homely tastes. If others of a more refined character have ever existed, they are not now forthcoming ; but it is probable that at all times the songs of the native Irish have been of the same homely de- scription as those which remain: for, before the introduction of English manners, there existed an almost complete personal equality among individuals of all ranks. It is still usual in some parts of the west of Ireland for the native population to use the Christian names of those to whom they speak, whatever may be the rank of the person addressed. These primitive manners ad- mitted of but little difference in the modes of expressing Ideas common to all; and, if we make a moderate allowance for the corruptions which most of these pieces have undergone In their transmission through more or less numerous generations of the populace, we shall probably be safe in taking them as approximate indexes of the tone and taste of native Irish society, In the castle as well as In the cabin. It has been the opinion of many Judges in oritlclBm that such a state of manners is the one most favorable to the development of the poetic faculty. Certainly, the lyrical pieces produced during such a phase of society afford a fuller in- sight into the humors and genius of a people than the offspring of any other period In Its progress. It is not probable that the rural > Bee page 195. 1 See page 196. populace will ever again produce any thing comparable to these effusions of a ruder age; though the cultivated intellect and tasU of the upper class, using the vehicle of a more copious though less fluent language, and applying itself to the wider range of ideas incident to an advanced state of civilization, may fairly hope to attain ft much greater excellence: for, to say the truth, notwith- standing the strength of passion and abundance of sentiment and humor expressed in the country songs of the Irish, they have little vigor of thought and but a moderate degree of art in their structure: but not even the songs of Burns express sentiment more charmingly. Even in those dedicated to festivity and the chase, a sweet and delicate pathos mingles with the ordinary topics, which it Is as difficult to catch in translation, as it. is in music to define or analyze the characteristic tones and turns of the melody. The general structure of the melody is, with few exceptions, the same in all. A writer to whom Ireland is hugely indebted in almost all the departments of art and literature. Dr. Petrie, thus describes their peculiar arrangement: "'They are formed, for the most part, of four strains of equal length. The first soft, pathetic, and subdued ; the second ascends in the scale, and becomes bold, energetic, and impassioned; the third, a repe- tition of the second, is sometimes a little varied and more florid, and leads, often by a graceful or melancholy p:issage, to the fourth, which is always a repetition of the first" The same writer has beautifully and truly compared the effect of the last part follow- ing the bold and surcharged strains of the second and third, to the dissolution In genial showers of a summer cloud. Tins progress of the melody is orten reflected in the structure of the song, which, beginning plaintively and tenderly, mounts with the muslo In vehemence, and subsides with it in renewed tenderness at the conclusion of the stanza. This analogy between the sentiment and melody runs through many of the following pieces, as, lor ex- ample, the naive and rustic but tender song of "The Co«lun,"> and maybe observed In the passionate old 6train "Cean Dubh Dcellsh,"* where the energy of the middle part of the piece is also associated with one of those duplications of the rhythm which constitute a peculiar characteristic of Irish song-writing. It is difficult in English to imitate these duplications and crassi- tudes, which give so much of its effect to the original, where, owing to the pliancy of the sounds, several syllables are often, as it were, fused together, and internal rhymes and correspondences produced within the body of the line: sucb as, for example, in "The" O Whillan, rough, bold-faced rock, that stoop'at o'er the bay,. Look forth at the new bark beneath me cleaving her way ; Saw ye ever, on sea or river, 'mid the mounting of spray, Boat made of a tree that urges through the surges like mine to-day, On the tide-top, the tide-top t "I remember," says Whillan, "a rock I have ever been ; And constant my watch, each day, r ■'— a But of all that I ever of barks and of galleys This that urges through the e surges beneath you to-dhy is tide-top, the tide-top. 11 It is a significant fact that some of the best of the native amatory songs appear to have been the compositions of men in outlawry and in misery. In the " County Leitrhn," the fear of famine min- gles with the ardor of desire; and scarcity and poverty entef CARDIGAN' POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. isTjroly into the sentiment of " Cashel of Munster.' n A large number also of this cJass of compositions are songs of humble life. Soi;ie of these, such ss"Youghall Harbor," 2 despite the rusticity of the topics, bespeak much generous feeling and eensi- bility ; and, as regards all, the observation may be made that they are wadded to strains of music wonderfully various, expressive, and sweet to native ears. The production either of melodies or of Hcjompanying words has now wholly ceased ; and the language itself, within another generation, will probably be no longer spoken DEIRDRA'S FAREWELL TO ALBA. OLD IRISH ROMANCE." Farewell to fair Alba, high house of the sun, Farewell to the mountain, the cliff, and the dun; Dun Sweeny, adieu ! for my love cannot stay, And tarry I may not when love cries away. Glen Vashan ! Glen Vashan ! where roebucks run free, Where my love used to feast on the red deer with me, Where rock'd on thy waters while stormy winds blew, My love used to slumber — Glen Vashan, adieu ! Glendaro ! Glendaro ! where birchen boughs weep Honey dew at high noon o'er the nightingale's sleep, Where my love used to lead me to hear the cuckoo 'Mong the high hazei bushes — Glendaro, adieu ! Glen Uvchy ! Glen XJrchy ! where loudly and long My love used to wake up the woods with his song, While the son of the rock, 1 from the depths of the dell, Laugh'd sweetly in answer — Glen TJrchy, farewell ! Glen Etive! Glen Etive! where dappled does roam, Where I leave the green sheeling I first call'd a home ; Where with me and my true love delighted to dwell, The sun made his mansion — Glen Etive, farewell ! > See pasra 112. » See page 112. ' Tho tale of the tragical fate of the sods of UBnach, from which this iind the following piece have been taken, may bo seen in the "Transactions of the Iberno-Celtic Society," Dublin, 1808; and in ihe •• Atlantis," Dublin. 1S60. 4 Son of the rock, i. e., Echo. Farewell to Inch Draynach, adieu to the roar Of the blue billows bursting in light on the shore ; Dun Fiagh, farewell ! for my love cannot stay, And tarry I may not when love cries away. DEIRDRA'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH. OLD IRISH ROMANCE. The lions of the hill are gone, And I am left alone — alone : Dig the grave both wide and deep, For I am sick, and fain would sleep t The falcons of the wood are flown, And I am left alone — alone : Dig the grave both deep and wide, And let us slumber side by side. The dragons of the rock are sleeping, Sleep that wakes not for our weeping : Dig the grave, and make it ready ; Lay me on my true-love's body. Lay their spears and bucklers bright By the warriors' sides aright ; Many a day the three before me On their linked bucklers bore me. Lay upon the low grave floor, 'Neath each head, the blue claymore; Many a time the noble three Redden'd these blue blades for me. Lay the collars, as is meet, Of their greyhounds at their feet; Many a time for me have they Brought the tall red deer to bay. In the falcon's jesses throw Hook and arrow, line and bow ; Never again by stream or plain Shall the gentle woodsmen go. Sweet companions ye were ever- Harsh to me, your sister, never ; Woods and wilds and misty valleys Were, with you, as good's a palace. Oh ! to hear my true love singing, Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing : POEMS OK SAMUEL FERGUSON. Like the sway of ocean swelling Roll'd his deep voice round our dwelling. Oh ! to hear the echoes pealing Round our green and fairy sheeling, When the three, with soaring chorus, Pass'd the silent skylark o'er us. Echo, now sleep, morn and even — Lark alone enchant the heaven ! — Ardan's lips are scant of breath, Neesa's tongue is cold in death. Stag, exult on glen and mountain — Salmon, leap from loch to fountain- Heron, in the free air warm ye — Usuacli's sons no more will harm ye ! Erin's stay no more you are, Rulers of the ridge of war; Never more 'twill be your fate To keep the beam of battle straight ! Woe is me ! by fraud and wrong, Traitors false and tyrants strong, Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold, For Barach's feast and Conor's gold ! Woe to Eman, roof and wall ! — Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall ! — Tenfold woe acd black dishonor To the foul and false Clan Conor ! Dig the grave both wide and deep, Sick I am, and fain would sleep ! Dig the grave and make it ready, Lay me on my true love's body ! DOWNFALL OF THE GAEL. O GNIVE," BARD OF O NEILL. Mr heart is in woe, And my soul deep in trouble,- For the mighty are low, And abased are the noble: O'Gulve. now Aznew. The Sons of the Gael Ate in exile and mourning, Worn, weary, and pale, As spent pilgrims returning , Or men who, in flight From the field of disaster, Beseech the black night On their flight to fall faster ; Or seamen aghast When their planks gape asunder, And the waves fierce and fast Tumble through in hoarse thunder j Or men whom we see That have got their death-omen— Such wretches are we In the chains of our foemen 1 Our courage is fear, Our nobility vileness, Our hope is despair, And our comeliness foulness. There is mist on our heads, And a cloud chill and hoary Of black sorrow, sheds An eclipse on our glory. From Boyne to the Linn Has the mandate been given, That the children of Finn From their country be driven. That the sons of the king — Oh, the treason and malice ! — Shall no more ride the ring In their own native valleys ; No more shall repair Where the hill foxes tarry, Nor forth to the air Fling the hawk at her quarry For the plain shall be broke By the share of the stranger, And the stone-mason's stroke Tell the woods of their danger ; The green hills and shore Be with white keeps disfigured, And the Mote of Rathmore Be the Saxon churl's haggard! POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. The land of the lakes Who in Erin's cause would stand, Shall no more know the prospect Brothers of the avenging band, Of valleys and brakes — He must wed immortal quarrel, So transform'd is her aspect ! Pain and sweat and bloody peril. The Gael cannot tell, On the mountain bare and steep, In the uprooted wildwood Snatching short but pleasant sleep, And red ridgy dell, Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie, The old nurse of his childhood : Swooping on the Saxon quarry. The nurse of his youth What although you've fail'd to keep Is in doubt as she views him, Liffey's plain or Tara's steep, If the wan wretch, in troth, Cashel's pleasant streams to save, Be the child of her bosom. Or the meads of Croghan Maev ; We starve by the board, Want of conduct lost the town, And we thirst amid wassail — Broke the white-wall'd castle down, For the guest is the lord, Moira lost, and old Taltin, And the host is the vassal I And let the conquering stranger in. Through the woods let us roam, 'Twas the want of right command, Through the wastes wild and barren; Not the lack of heart or hand, We are strangers at home I Left your hills and plains to-day We are exiles in Erin! 'Neath the strong Clan Saxon's sway. And Erin's a bark Ah, had heaven never sent O'er the wide waters driven I Discord for our punishment, And the tempest howls dark, Triumphs few o'er Erin's host And her side planks are riven ! Had Clan London now to boast ! And in billows of might Woe is me, 'tis God's decree Swell the Saxon before her, — Unite, oh, unite ! Or the billows burst o'er her ! Strangers have the victory : Irishmen may now be found Outlaws upon Irish ground. Like a wild beast in his den Lies the chief by hill and glen, While the strangers, proud and savage, Criffan's richest valleys ravage. CBYENE'S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW. Woe is me, the foul offence, Cir. 1580. Treachery and violence, Done against my people's rights — God be with the Irish host, Well may mine be restless nights ! Never be their battle lost ! For, in battle, never yet When old Leinster's sons of fame, Have they basely earn'd defeat. Heads of many a warlike name, Redden their victorious hilts Host of armor red and bright, On the Gaul, my soul exults. May ye fight a valiant fight ! For the green spot of the earth, When the grim Gaul, who have come For the land that gave you birth. Hither o'er the ocean foam, POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. From llie fight victorious go, Was a time when bells were tinkling. Then my heart sinks deadly low. Clergy preaching peace abroad. Psalms a-singing, music ringing, Bless the Wades our warriors draw. Praises to the mighty God. God he with Clan Ranelagh ! But my soul is weak for fear, Empty aisle, deserted chancel, Thinking of their dauger here. Tower tottering to your fall, Many a storm since then has beaten Have them in thy holy keeping, On the gray head of ycur wall ! God be with them lying sleeping, God be with them standing fighting, Many a bitter storm and tempest Erin's foes in battle smiting! Has your roof-tree turn'd away, Since you first were form'd a temple To the Lord of night and day. Holy house of ivied gables, LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE That wert once the country's pride, ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE. Houseless now in weary wandering John Collins — died 1616. Roam your inmates far and wide. Lone and weary as I wander'd Lone you are to-day, and dismal, — By tie bleak shore of the sea, Joyful psalms no more are heard Meditating and reflecting Where, within your choir, her vesper On the world's hard destiny ; Screeches the cat-headed bird. Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, Ivy from your eaves is growing, In the quiet tide beneath, — Nettles round your green hearth-stone, For on slumbering spray and blossom Foxes howl, where, in your corners, Breathed not out of heaven a breath. Dropping waters make their moan. On I went in sad dejection, Where the lark to earjy matins Careless where my footsteps bore, Used your clergy forth to call, Till a ruin'd church before me There, alas ! no tongue is stirring, Open'd wide its ancient door, — Save the daw's upon the wall. Till I stood before the portals, Refectory cold and empty, "Where of old were wont to be, Dormitory bleak and bare, For the blind, the halt, and leper, Where are now your pious uses, Alms and hospitality. Simple bed and frugal fare ? Still the ancient seat was standing, Gone your abbot, rule and order, Built against the buttress gray, Broken down your altar-stones ; Where the clergy used to welcome Naught see I beneath your shelter, Weary travellers on their way. Save a heap of clayey bones. There I sat me down in sadness, Oh ! the hardship, oh ! the hatred. 'Neath my cheek I placed my hand, Tyranny, and cruel war, Till the tears fell hot and briny Persecution and oppression, Down upon the grassy land. That have left you as you are I There, I said in woeful sorrow, I myself once also prosper'd ; — Weeping bitterly the while, Mine is, too, au alter'd plight ; Was a time when joy and gladness Trouble, cave, and age have left me Reign'd within this ruin'd pile; — Good for naught but grief to-night POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Gone, my motion and my vigor, — Gone, the use of eye and ear ; At my feet lie friends and children, Powerless and corrupting here : Woe is written on my visage, In a uut my heart would lie — Death's deliverance were welcome — Father, let the old man die. TO THE HARPER O'CONNELLAN. Enchanter who reignest Supreme o'er the North, Who hast wiled the coy spirit Of true music forth ; In vain Europe's minstrels To honor aspire, When thy swift slender fingers Go forth on the wire ! There is no heart's desire Can be felt by a king, That thy hand cannot match From the soul of the string, By its conquering, capturing, Magical sway, For, charmer, thou stealest Thy notes from a fay ! Enchanter, I say, — For thy magical skill Can soothe every sorrow, And heal every ill : Who hear thee they praise thee; They weep while they praise ; For, charmer, from Fairyland Fresh are thy lays 1 GRACE NUGENT. CAROLAN. Brightest blossom of the Spring, Grace, the sprightly girl I sing : Grace, who bore the palm of mind From all the rest of womankind. Whomsoe'er the fates decree, Happy fate ! for life to be Day and night my Coolun near, Ache or pain need never fear ! Her neck outdoes the stately swan, Her radiant face the summer dawn : Ah, happy thrice the youth for whom The fates design that branch of bloom ! Pleasant are your words benign, Rich those azure eyes of thine : Ye who see my queen, beware Those twisted links of golden hair ! This is what I fain would say To the bird-voiced lady gay, — Never yet conceived the heart Joy which Grace cannot impart : Fold of jewels ! case of pearls 1 Coolun of the circling curls ! More I say not, but no less Drink you health and happiness ! MDLD MABEL KELLY. CAROLAN. Whoever the youth who by Heaven's decree Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright head of thine, 'Tis certain that he From all sorrow is free Till the day of his death, if a life so divine Should not raise him in bliss above mortal de- gree : Mild Mabel-ni-Kelly, bright Coolun of curls, All stately and pure as the swan on the lake ; Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls, And the youth of the land are love-sick for her sake ! No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land That she knows not to sing, in a voice so en- chanting, That the cranes on the strand Fall asleep where they stand ; Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er wanting To shed its mild radiance o'er bosom or hand : POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray, More blue than her eye, human eye never saw, Deceit never lu-rk'd in its beautiful ray, — Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh ! THE CUP OF O'HARA. Were I west in green Arran, Or south in Glanmore, Where the long ships come laden With claret in store; Yet I'd lather than shiploads Of claret, and ships, Have your white cup, O'Hara, Up full at my lips. But why seek in numbers Its virtues to tell, When O'Hara's own chaplain Has said, saying well, — "Turlogh, 1 bold son of Brian, Sit ye down, boy, again, Till we drain the great cupattn In another health to Keane.'" THE FAIR-HAIR'D GIRL. IRISH SONG. The sun has set, the stars are still, The red moon hides behind the hill ; The tide has left the brown beach bare, The birds have fled the upper air ; Upon her branch the lone cuckoo Is chanting still her sad adieu ; And you, my fair-hair'd girl, must go Across the salt sea under woe ! I through love have learn'd three things, Sorrow, sin, and death it brings ; Yet day by day my heart within Dares shame and sorrow, death and sin : Maiden, you have aim'd the dart Rankling in my ruin'd heart : Maiden, may the God above Grant you grace to grant me love ! Sweeter than the viol's string, And the notes that blackbirds sing ; Brighter than the dewdrops rare Is the maiden wondrous fair: Like the silver swans at play Is her neck, as bright as day ! Woe is me, that e'er my sight Dwelt on charms so deadly bright t PASTHEEN FIN. IRISH RUSTIC SONG. Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight, Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ; Like the apple blossom her bosom white, And her neck like the swan's on a March morn bright! Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! come 8 with me ! Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet, If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet ! Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen ! Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen, But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen ! Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! come with me ! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet, If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet ! Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee, Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree, With my fair Pastheen upon my knee, 'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly ! Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me ! Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet! POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet, If you would come with me, brown girl, Nine nights I lay in longing and pain, Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain, Thinking to see yon, love, once again ; But whistle and call were all in vain ! Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me 1 come with me ! Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet! And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet, If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet ! I'll leave my people, both friend and foe ; From all the girls in the world I'll go; But from you, sweetheart, oh, never ! oh, no ! Till I lie in the coffin, stretch'd cold and low ! Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me 1 come with me ! Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet, If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet ! MOLLY ASTORE. Oh, Mary dear, oh, Mary fair, Oh, branch of generous stem, White blossom of the banks of Nair, Though lilies grow on them ! Tou'vc left me sick at heart for love, So faint I cannot see, The candle swims the board above, — I'm drunk for love of thee! Oh, stately stem of maiden pride, My woe it is, and pain, That I, thus sever'd from thy side, The long night must remain! Through all the towns of Innisfail I've wander'd far and wide; But from Downpatrick to Kinsale, From Carlow to Kilbride, 'Mong lords and dames of high degree, Where'er my feet have gone, My Mary, one to equal thee I've never look'd upon ; I live in darkness and in doubt Whene'er my love's away, But, were the blessed sun put out, Her shadow would make day 1 Tis she indeed, young bud of Uiss, And gentle as she's fair, Though lily-white her bosom is, And sunny-bright her hair, And dewy-azure her blue eye, And rosy-red her cheek, — Yet brighter she in modesty, More beautifully meek ! The world's wise men from north to sooth Can never cure my pain ; But one kiss from her honey mouth Would make me whole again ! CASHEL OF MUNSTER. . IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD. I'd wed you without herds, without money, or rich array, And I'd wed you on a dewy morning at day- dawn gray ; My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away In Cashel town, though the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day ! Oh, fair maid, remember the green hill side, Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide ; Time now has worn me ; my locks are turn'd to gray, The year is scarce and I am poor, but send me not, love, away ! Oh, deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl. Oh, deem not my birth was as the birth of the churl ; Marry me, and prove me, and say soon you will,. That noble blood is written on my right side still! POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. My purse holds uo red gold, no coin of the silver white, No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight ! But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare though I be and lone, Oh, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone. Oh, my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are, And, oh, my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear : "I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly, And, oh, may no other maiden know such re- proach as I !" THE COOLUN. IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD. Oh, had you seen the Coolun, Walking down by the cuckoo's street, With the dew of the meadow shining On her milk-white twinkling feet! My love she is, and my eoleen oge, And she dwells in Bal'nagar; And she bears the palm of beauty bright From the fairest that in Erin are. In Bal'nagar is the Coolun, Like the berry on the bough her cheek ; Bright beauty dwells forever On her fair neck and ringlets sleek : Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music Than the lark or thrush at dawn, Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing Farewell to the setting sun. Rise up, my boy ! make ready My horse, for I forth would ride, To follow the modest damsel, Where she walks on the green hill side : For, ever since our youth were we plighted, In faith, troth, and wedlock true — She is sweeter to me nine times over, Than organ or cuckoo ! For, ever since my childhood I loved the fair and darling child ; But our people came betweeu us, And with lucre our pure love defiled : Oh, wy woe it is, aud my bitter pain, And I weep it night and day, That the eoleen bawn of my early love Is torn from my heart away. Sweetheart and faithful treasure, Be constant still, and trne ; Nor for want of herds and houses Leave one who would ne'er leave you : I'll pledge you the blessed Bible, Without and eke within, That the faithful God will provide for us. Without thanks to kith or kin. Ob, love, do you remember When we lay all night alone Beneath the ash in the winter-storm, When the oak wood round did groan f No shelter then from the blast had we, The bitter blast or sleet, But your gown to wrap about our heads, And my coat round our feet. TOUGHALL HARBOR. IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD. One Sunday morning, into Youghall walking, I met a maiden upon the way ; Her little mouth sweet as fairy music, Her soft cheeks blushing like dawn of day ! I laid a bold hand upon her bosom, And ask'd a kiss : but she answer'd, " No : Fair sir, be gentle ; do not tear my mantle ; Tis none in Erin my grief can know. "'Tis but a little hour since I left Youghall, And my love forbade me to return ; And now my weary way I wander Into Cappoquin, a poor girl forlorn: Then do not tempt me ; for, alas ! I dread them Who with tempting proffers teach girls to roam, Who'd first deceive us, then faithless leave us, And send us shame-faced and barefoot home," " My heart and hand here ! I mean you marriage i I have loved like you and known love's pain ; And if you turu back now to Youghall Harbor, You ne'er shall want house or home again : POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. You shall have a lace cap like any lady, Cloak and capuchin, too, to keep you warm, And if God please, maybe, a little baby, By and by to nestle within your arm." CEAN DUBH DEELISH.' Pct your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling bli>"t head my heart above ; Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fra- grance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love' Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining, Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows ; But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee ! Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above ; Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fra- grance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love? BOATMAN'S HYMN. Bark that bear me through foam and squall, You in the storm are my castle wall : Though the sea should redden from bottom to top, From tiller to mast she takes no drop ; On the tide-top, the tide-top, Wherry aroon, my land and store ! • On the tide-top, the tide-top, She is the boat can sail go leor? She dresses herself, and goes gliding on, Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn ; For God has bless'd her, gunnel and whale, And oh ! if you saw her stretch out to the gale, On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c. Whillan,* ahoy ! old heart of stone, Stooping so black o'er the beach alone, , dear black head 9 hillan, a rock on the shore i Answer me well— on the bursting brine Saw you ever a bark like miue ? On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c. Says Whillan : " Since first I was made of stone, I have look'd abroad o'er the beach alone — But till to-day, on the bursting brine, Saw I never a bark like thine," On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c. "God of the air !" the seamen shout, When they see us tossing the brine about ; " Give us the shelter of strand or rock, Or through and through us she goes with a shock !" On the tide-top, the tide-top, Wherry aroon, my land and store, On the tide-top, the tide-top, She is the boat can sail go leor ! THE DEAR OLD AIR. Misfortune's train may chase our joys, But not our love ;' And I those pensive looks will prize, The smiles of joy above : You.r tender looks of love shall still Delight and console ; Even though your eyes the tear-drops fill Beyond your love's control. Of troubles past we will not speak, Or future woe : Nor mark, thus leaning cheek to cheek, The stealing tear-drops flow : But I'll sing you the dear old Irish air, Soothing and low, You loved so well when, gay as fair, You won me long ago. THE LAPFUL OF NUTS. Whene'er I see soft hazel eyes And nut-brown curls, I think of those bright uays I spent Arriong the Limerick girls ; When up through Gratia woods I went, Nutting with thee ; POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. And we pluck'd the glossy clustering fruit From many a bending tree. Beneath the hazel boughs we sat, Thou, love, and I, And the gatheHd nuts lay in thy lap, Beneath thy downcast eye : But little we thought of the store we'd won, I, love, or thou ; For our hearts were full, and we dare not own The love that's spoken now. Oh, there's wars for willing hearts in Spain, And high Germar.ie! And I'll come back, ere long, again, With knightly fame and fee: And I'll come back, if I ever come back, Faithful to thee, That sat with thy white lap full of nuts Beneath the hazel tree. MARY'S WAKING. Soft be the sleep, and sweet the dreams, And bright be the awaking, Of Mary this mild April mom, On ray pale vigil breaking : May weariness and wakefulness And unrepaid endeavor, And aching eyes like mine this day, Be far from her forever ! The quiet of the opening dawn, The freshness of the morning, Be with her through the cheerful day Till peaceful eve returning Shall put an end to household cares And dutiful employment, And bring the hours of genial mirth And innocent enjoyment. And whether in the virgin choir, A joyous sylph, she dances, Or o'er the smiling circle sheds Her wit's sweet influences ; May he by favoring fate assign'd Her partner or companion, Be one that with an angel's mind Is fit to hold communion. Ah me ! the wish is hard to frame ! But should some youth, more favor'd, Achieve the happiness which I Have fruitlessly endeavor'd, God send them love and length of days, And health and wealth abounding, And long around their hearth to hear Their children's voices sounding ! Be still, be still, rebellious heart ; If he have fairly won her, To bless their union I am bound In duty and in honor : But, out alas ! 'tis all in vain ; I love her still too dearly To pray for blessings which I feel So hard to give sincerely. HOPELESS LOVE. Since hopeless of thy love I go, Some little mark of pity show ; And only one kind parting look bestow, — One parting look of pity mild On him, through starless tempest wild, Who lonely heuce to-night must go, exiled. But even rejected love can warm The heart through night and storm : And unrelenting though they be, Thine eyes beam life on me. And I will bear that look benign Within this darkly-troubled breast to shine, Though never, never can thyself, ah me, be mine f THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND. OLD IRISH SONG. A plenteous place is Ireland for hospita cheer, Uileacan dubh ! Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear ; Uileacan dubh ! There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, rOEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. And her forest paths, in summer, are by falling waters fann'd, There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland. Curl'd he is and riugleted, and plaited to the knee, Uileacan dubh Of Eaeh captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea; Uileacan dubh 0! And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fra- grant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland. Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground, Uileacan dubh 0! The butter and the cream do wondrously abound, Uileacan dubh ! Tho rjres«es on the water and the sorrels are at hand, And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland, And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests grand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland. TORNA'S LAMENT FOR CORC AND NIALL. •rorna, chief doctor and arclibard of Ireland, was the last great ird of pagan Ireland. Among the poems which have reached na his lament over Core and Niall of the nine hostages, to whom he as hound by the tie of fosterage. In its native simplicity, it pro- mts a touching picture of mingled affection, devoted loyalty, and esolaie bereavement With what natural touches the bard por- ■Hva the character of the royal youths, and dwells with justifiable ride on the honor of his own position— placed between them — iall on the right side, the seat of dignity; and Core, to whom ride was unknown, on his left, appropriately nearer his heart, lie present version of this ancient relic is as nearly literal as pos- ble, and expressly maile in deprecation of that spirit of refining pon the original by which many of tie poetical translations of the u-ds are characterized. M'r foster-children were not slack ; Core or Neal ne 1 er turn'd his back; Neal, of Tara's palace hoar, Worthy seed of Owen More; Core, of Cashel's pleasant rock, Con-cead-caha's' honored stock. Joint exploits made Erin theirs — Joint exploits of high corrpeers; Fierce thev were, and stormy strong ; Neal, amid the reeling throng, Stood terrific ; nor was Core Hindmost in the heavy work. Neal Mac Eocliy Vivahain Ravaged Albin, hill and plain ; While, he fought from Tara far, Core disdained unequal war. Never saw I man like Neal, Making foreign foemen reel ; Never saw I mau like Core, Swinging at the savage work;' Never saw I better twain, Search all Erin round again — Twain so stout in warlike deeds — Twain so mild in peaceful weeds. These the foster-children twain Of Torna, I who sing the strain; These they are, the pious ones, My sons, my darling foster-sons ! Who duly every day would come To glad the old man's lonely home Ah, happy days I've spent between Old Tara's hall and Cashel-green! From Tara down to Cashel ford, From Cashel back to Tara's lord. When with Neal, his regent, I Dealt with princes rrvyally. If with Core perchance I were, I was his prime counsellor. Therefore Neal I ever set On my right hand — thus to got Judgments grave, and weighty words, For the right hand loyal lords ; But, ever on my left-hand side, Gentle Core, who knew not pride, That none other so might part His dear body from my heart. Gone is generous Core O'Yeon — woe is mel Gone is valiant Neal O'Con — woe is me! 1 Con of the hundred battles. 3 In the paraphrase of this elegy, by Mr. D'Alton, in the • Mln- "Tbe eye of heaven ne'er looked on one So God-like in the field as Tara's lord, Save him the comrade of his youth alone — Brave Core, terrific wielder of the sword." POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. Gone the root of Tara's stock— woe is me ! Gone the head of Cash el rock — woe is me! Broken is my witless brain — Neal, the mighty king, is slain! Broken is my bruised heart's core — Core, the Righ More, is no more ! ' Mourns Lea Con, in tribute's chain, Lost Mac Eochy Vivahain, And her lost Mac Lewy true — Mourns Lea Mogha, s ruined toot UNA PHELIMY. AN ULSTER BALLAD, A. D. 1641. "Awaken, Una Phelimy, How canst thou slumber so.' How canst thou dream so quietly Through such a night of woe ? Through such a night of woe," he said, " How canst thou dreaming lie, When the kindred of thy love lie dead, And he must fall or fly?" She rose and to the casement came; "Oh, William dear, speak low; For I should bear my brothers' blame Did Hugh or Angus know." "Did Hugh or Angus, know, Una! Ah, little dreamest thou On what a bloody errand bent Are Hugh and Angus now." ■•Oh, what has chanced my brothers dear! My Willia.ni, tell me true ! Our God forbode that what I fear Be that they're gone to do !" "They're gone on bloody work, Una, The worst we feared is done ! They've taken to the knife at last, The massacre's beguu ! i The beautiful definition of the different feollng experienced by the toss of each, here conveyed— his reason being affected by tbe gTeat nntional loss sustained bytherieath of Niall: wli.'le his henri k bruised by the loss of Core, his favorite — is thus expressed in Ur. D'Alton's version!:— " In Mall's fall my reason felt the shock: But, oh. when Core expired, my heart was broken." » Loath Cnin, or Con, and Lealh Mojrha— the names of the great northern and southern divisions of the island, of which these princes were the respective representatives. This territorial division was tea, a. d. ISO, »nd made in the reign of Conn of the bu marked by a groat i ,,!...,! i . Galw Dublin. "They came upon us while wc slept Fast by the sedgy Banu ; In darkness to our beds they crept, And left me not a mau ! Bann rolls ray comrades ever now Through all his pools and fords; And their hearts' best blood is warm. Una, Upon thy brothers' swords ! "And mine had borne them company, Or the good blade I wore, Which ne'er left foe in victory Or friend in need before, In theirs as in their fellows' hearts Also had dimm'd its shine, But for these tangling curls, Una, And witching eyes of thine ! " I've borne the brand of flight for these, For these the scornful cries Of loud insulting enemies; But busk thee, love, and rise, For Ireland's now no place for us ; 'Tis time to take our flight When neighbor steals on neighbor thus, And stabbers strike by night. " And black and bloody the revenge For this dark midnight's sake The kindred of my murder'd friends On thine and thee will take, Unless thou rise and fly betimes, Unless thou fly with me, Sweet Una, from this land of crimes To peace beyond the sea. " For trustful pillows wait us there, And loyal friends beside, Where the broad lands of ray father are. Upon the banks of Clyde. In five days hence a ship will be Bound for that happy home ; Till then we'll make our sanctuary In sea-cave's sparry dome. Then busk thee, Uua Phelimy, And o'er the waters come !" * * * * The midnight moon is wading deep, The land sends off the gale, The boat beneath the sheltering steep Hangs on a seaward sail ; And, leaning o'er the weather-rail, The lovers, hand in hand, POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON 657 Take their last look of Innisfail — "Farewell, doom'd Ireland!" " And art thou doomed to discord still f And shall thy sons ne'er cease To search and struggle for thine ill, Ne'er share thy good in peace? Already do thy mountains feel Avenging Heaven's ire ; Hark — hark — this is no thunder peal, That was no lightning fire 1" It was no fire from heaven he saw, For, far from hill and dell, O'er Gobbin's brow the mountain flaw Bears musket-shot and yell, And shouts of brutal glee, that tell A foul and fearful tale, Thile over blast and breaker swell Thin shrink* and woman's waiL Now fill they far the upper sky, Now down 'mid air they go, The frantic scream, the piteous cry, The groan of rage and woe ; And wilder in their agony And shriller still they grow — Now cease they, choking suddenly, The waves boom on below. " A bloody and a black revenge ! Oh, Una, bless'd are we Who this sore-troubled land cau chang* For peace beyond the sea ; But for the manly hearts and true That Antrim still retain, Or be their banner green or blue, For all that there remain, God grant them quiet freedom too, And blithe homes soon again 1" POEMS OF JOHN BANIM. AILLEEN. Tis not for love of gold I go, "lis not for love of fame ; Though fortune should her smile bestow And I may win a name, Ailleen, And I may win a name. And yet it is for gold I go, And yet it is for fame, That they may deck another brow, And bless another name, Ailleen, And bless another name. For this — but this, I go ; for this I lose thy love awhile, And all the soft and quiet bliss Of thy young, faithful smile, Ailleen, Of thy young, faithful smile. I go to brave a world I hate, And woo it o'er and o'er, And tempt a wave, and try a fate Upon a stranger shore, Ailleen, Upon a stranger shore. Oh ! when the bays are all my own, I know a heart will care ! Oh I when the gold is wooed and won, I know a brow shall wear, Ailleen, I know a brow shall wear ! And when, with both return'd again, My native land to see, I know a smile will meet me there, And a hand will welcome me, Ailleen, And a hand will welcome me. SOGGARTH AROON. Am I the slave they say, Soggarth aroon ?' Since you did show the way, Soggarth aroon, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with m Ould Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon ? Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfil Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, Soggarth aroon ? Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be no slave to you, Soggarth aroon, — Nor, out of fear to you, Stand up so near to you — Och ! out of fear to youf t Soggarth aroon I Who in the winter's night, Soggarth aroon, When the cowld blast did bite Soggarth aroon, Came to my cabin-door, And on my earthen-flure Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon ? Who, on the marriage-day, Soggarth aroon, Made the poor caoin gay, Soggarth aroon — ^L f&^^ tT^^ POEMS OF JOHN BANIM. 659 And did both laugh and sing, Making our hearts to ring, At the poor christening, Soggarth aroon ? Who, as friend only met, Soggarth aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon ? And when my hearth was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, 1 Soggarth aroon ? Och ! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon ! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon ; In love they'll never shake, When for ould Ireland's sake We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon ! THE FETCH. {In Ireland, a Fetch is the supernatural facsimile of some individual, which comes to insure to its original a happy longevity or immediate dissolution. If seen in the morning, the one event is predicted ; if in the evening, the other.— Autfior't note.'] The mother died when the child was born, And left me her baby to keep ; I rock'd its cradle the night and morn, Or, silent, hung o'er it to weep. Twas a sickly child through its infancy, Its cheeks were so ashy pale ; Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee, Out in the sharp, fresh gale. And then my little girl grew strong, And laugh'd the hours away ; Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song, Which he taught her at break of day. 1 The Irish Eoman Catholic priest is supported by volun- tary contributions from his flock ; but here, (as in many cases,) the priest reverses the order of giving, and bestows charity When she wreathed her hair in thioket bow ers, With the hedge-rose and hare-bell blue, I call'd her my May, in her crown of flow en And her smile so soft and new. And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek, But rosy and rosier made it ; And her eye of blue did more brightly break, Thro' the blue-bell that strove to shade it. One evening I left her asleep in her smiles, And walk'd through the mountains lonely; I was far from my darling, ah ! many long miles, And I thought of her, and her only ! She darken'd my path like a troubled dream, In that solitude far and drear ; I spoke to my child ! but she did not seem To hearken with human ear. She only look'd with a dead, dead eye, And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow, I knew her Fetch ! she was call'd to die, And she died upon the morrow. THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG/ You know it, now — it is betray'd This moment — in mine eye — And in my young cheek's crimson shade, And in my whisper'd sigh ; You know it, now — yet listen, now — Though ne'er was love more true, My plight and troth, and virgin vow, Still, still I keep from you, Ever— Ever, until a proof you give How oft you've heard me say I would not e'en his empress live, Who idles life away 3 In these lines we see again Mr. Banim's inequality and want of mastery in lyric composition ; but he is happier than usual throughout the last verse, particularly in the two final hues, which are exquisitely touching in feeling, and perfect in execution rOEMS OF JOHN BANIM. Without one effort for the land, In which my fathers' graves Were hollow'd by a despot hand — To darkly close on slaves Never! See ! round yourself the shackles hang, Yet come you to Love's bowers, That only he may soothe their pang, Or hide their links in flowers ; — Sut try all things to snap them, first, And should all fail, when tried, Hie fated chain you cannot burst My twining arms shall hide Ever! THE RECONCILIATION. [Thii ballad Is said to have been founded on a fact which were made to pnt down faction-lights among The old man he knelt at the altar His enemy's hand to take, And at first his weak voice did falter, And his feeble limbs did shake; For his only brave boy, his glory, Had been stretch'd at the old man'i feet, A corpse, all so haggard and gory, By the hand which he now must greet And soon the old man stopp'd speaking And rage which had not gone by, From under his brows came breaking Up into his enemy's eye — And now his limbs were not shaking, But his clench'd hands his bosom cross'd, And he look'd a fierce wish to be taking Revenge for the boy he had lost ! but the old man he look'd around him, And thought of the place he was in, And thought of the promise which bound him, And thought that revenge was sin — And then, crying tears, like a woman, " Tour hand 1 " he said — " aye hat handl And I do forgive you, foeman, For the sake of our bleeding land I* 1 €IEA]BUL]E§ ILJEYER, POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVEE. BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING. Am-" Paddy O'Camtt." Bad luck to this marching, Pipeclaying and starching ; How neat one must be to be kill'd by the French ! I'm sick of parading, Through wet and cold wading, Or standing all night to be shot in a trench. To the tune of a fife They dispose of your life, You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt; Now I like " Garryowen" 1 When I hear it at home, But its not half so sweet when you're going to be kilt. Then, though up late and early Our pay comes so rarely, The devil a farthing we've ever to spare ; They say some disaster Befell the paymaster ; On my conscience I think that the money's not there. And, just think, what a blunder, They won't let us plunder, While the convents invite us to rob them, 'tis clear ; Though there isn't a village But cries, " Come and pillage !" Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Like a sailor that's nigh land, I long for that Island 1 A favorite Irish air, and also a celebrated locality in the city of Limerick. > A capital line this— the natural comment of a hungry eoldier,— Illustrating a fact honorable to the British army in the Peninsular war Where even the kisses we steal if we please ; Where it is no disgrace If you don't wash your face, And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease. With no sergeant to abuse us, We fight to amuse us, Sure it's better beat Christians than kick % baboon ; How I'd dance like a fairy To see ould Dunleary,' And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a dragoon ! IT'S LITTLE FOR GLORY I CARE. It's little for glory I care ; Sure ambition is only a fable ; I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor, With lashins of drink on the table. I like to lie down in the sun, And drame when my faytures is scorchin', That when I'm too ould for more fun, Why, I'll marry a wife with a fortune. And in winter, with bacon and eggs, And a place at the turf-fire basking, Sip my punch as I roasted my legs, Oh ! the devil a more I'd be asking. For I haven't a jaynius for work, — It was never the gift of the Bradies, — But I'd make a most illigant Turk, For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies. • A landing-place in Dublin Bay— now called Kingstown, to commemoration of the visit of George TV., as " Passage," in the Cove of Cork, goes by the higher " style and title" of " Queenstown," since the visit of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Dunleary, of old, could afford shelter but to a few fishing-boats under a small pier. The harbor of Kingstown has anchorage within its capacious sweep of masonry for ships of war ; in fact it is one of the finest works in the British dominions. POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. LARRY M'HALE. Oh ! Larry M'Hale he had little to fear, And never could want when the crops didn't fail ; He'd a house and demesne and eight hundred a year, And the heart for to spend it, had Larry M'Hale 1 The soul of a party, — the life of a feast, And an illigant song he could sing, I'll be bail; He would ride with the rector, and drink with the priest, Ohl the broth of a boy was old Larry M'Hale. It's little he cared for the judge or recorder, 1 His house was as big and as strong as a jail; With a cruel four-pounder, he kept all in great order, He'd murder the country, would Larry M'Hale. He'd a blunderbuss too ; of horse-pistols a pair; But his favorite weapon was always a flail : I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair, For he handled it nately, did Larry M'Hale. • I forget the name of the quaint old chronicler, who, speak- ing of the unsettled state of Ireland, writes, " They say the King's writ runneth not here, but to that I say nay: the Kin g's writ doth runne, — but it runneth awaye." Once upon a time it was nearly as much as a bailiff's life was worth to cross the Shannon westward with a writ. If he escaped with his life, he was sure to get rough treatment any- how. One fine morning, for example, a bailiff returned to the eolicitor who had sent him into Galway with the king's parch- ment, and his aspect declared discomfiture : he looked singu- larly bilious, moreover. " I see," said the attorney, " yon did not serve it." "No, faith." " Then you will return it, with an affidavit that—" " I can't return it," said the bailiff. " Why not f" " They cotch me and made me ate it." " Is it eat the parchment f" "Every scrap of it." "And what did you do with the sealf" " They made me ate that too, the villains !" Let it not be imagined, however, that we had all the fan to ourselves in Ireland, or that we can even claim originality in our boluses for bailiffs ; for it is recorded that a certain " Roger Lord Clifford, who died 1327, was so obstinate and eareleBS of the king's displeasure, as that he cauBed a pur- suivant that served a writ upon him in the Baron's chamber, there to eat and swallow down part of the wax that the said writ was sealed with, as it were in contempt of the said king."— Memoir of the Countess of Petnbrolce, MS. His ancestors were kings before Moses was born, His mother descended from great Grana Uaile; He laugh'd all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn : They were mushrooms compared to old Larry M'Hale. He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner, With cousins and uncles enough for a tail ; And, though loaded with debt, oh ! the devil a thinner Could law or the sheriff make Larry M'Hale. With a larder supplied, and a cellar well- stored, None lived half so well, from Fair-Head to Kinsale, And he piously said, " I've a plentiful board, And the Lord he is good to old Larry M'Hale." So fill up your glass, and a high bumper give him, It's little we'd care for the tithes or repale ; For ould Erin would be a fine country to live in, If we only had plenty, like Larry M'Hale, MARY DRAPER. Don't talk to me of London dames, Nor rave about your foreign flames, That never lived — except in drames, Nor shone, except on paper : I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew, Who lived in Ballywhackmacrew, And, let me tell you, mighty few Could equal Mary Draper. Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue, Her hair was brown of deepest hue, Her foot was small and neat to view, Her waist was slight and taper ; Her voice was music to your ear, A lovely brogue, so rich and clear, POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 663 Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear As from sweet Mary Draper. She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team, Or with a fly she'd whip a stream, Or may-be sing you " Rousseau's For nothing could escape her ; Fve seen her, too — upon my word — At sixty yards bring down her bird — Oh ! she charm'd all the Forty-third 1 Did lovely Mary Draper. And, at the spring assizes ball, The junior bar would, one and all, For all her favorite dances call, And Harry Deane 1 would caper; Lord Clare' would then forget his lore ; King's counsel, voting law a bore, Were proud to figure on the floor For love of Mary Draper. The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too, Were all her slaves, and so would you, If you had only but one view Of such a face or shape, or Her pretty ankles — but, alone, It's only west of old Athlone Such girls were found — and now they're gone — So, here's to Mary Draper 1 NOW CAN'T YOU BE AISY? An«-".4ttUft, Katty, now canH yw be ahyr Oh 1 what stories I'll tell when my sodger- ing's o'er, And the gallant Fourteenth is disbanded f Not a drill nor parade will I hear of no more, When safely in Ireland landed. > Harry Deane Grady, a distinguished lawyer on the Western Circuit. * Lord Chancellor of Ireland, celebrated for his hatred of Curran. He carried this feeling to the unjust and undignified length of always treating him with disrespect in Court, to the great injury of Curran's practice. On one occasion, when that eminent man was addressing him, Lord Clare turned to a pet dog beside him on the bench, and gave all the attention to his canine favorite which he should have bestowed on the counsel. Curran suddenly stopped. Lord Clare observing this, said, "Ton may go on, Mr. Curran— I'm listening to yon." " I beg pardon for my mistake, my Lord," replied Outrun ; "I stopped, my Lord, because I thought your Lord- With the blood that I spilt — the Frenchmen I kilt, I'll drive all the girls half crazy ; And some 'cute one will cry, with a wink of her eye, " Mr. Free, now — why can't you be aisy ?" I'll tell how we routed the squadrons in fight, And destroy'd them all at " Talavera," And then I'll just add how we finish'd the night, In learning to dance the " Bolera ;" How by the moonshine we drank raal wine, And rose next day fresh as a daisy ; Then some one will cry, with a look mighty sly, " Arrah, Mickey — now can't you be aisy ?" I'll tell how the nights with Sir Arthur we spent, Around a big fire in the air too, Or may-be enjoying ourselves in a tent, Exactly like Donnybrook fair too ; How he'd call out to me — " Pass the wine, Mr. Free, For you're a man never is lazy !" Then some one will cry, with a wink of her eye, " Arrah, Mickey dear — can't you be aisy ?" I'll tell, too, the long years in fighting we pass'd, Till Mounseer ask'd Bony to lead him. And Sir Arthur, grown tired of glory at last, Begg'd of one Mickey Free to succeed him. But, " acushla," says I, " the truth is, I'm shy 1 There's a lady in Ballynacrazy ! And I swore on the book — " she gave me a look, And cried, "Mickey — now can't you be aisy?" OH! ONCE WE WERE DLLIGANT PEOPLE. Oh ! once we were illigant people, Though we now live in cabins of mud ; And the land that ye see from the steeple Belong'd to us all from the flood. My father was then king of Connaught, My grandaunt viceroy of Tralee ; 664 POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. But the Sassenach came, and, signs on it ! The divil an acre have we. The least of us then were all earls, And jewels we wore without name ; We drank punch out of rubies and pearls — Mr. Petrie," can tell you the same. But, except some turf-mould and potatoes, There's nothing our own we can call : And the English — bad luck to them ! — hate us, Because we've more fun than them all 1* My grandaunt was niece to St. Kevin, That's the reason my name's Mickey Free 1 Priest's nieces — but sure he's in heaven, And his failins is nothin' to me. And we still might get on without doctors, If they'd let the ould island alone ; And if purplemen, priests, and tithe-proctors "Were cramm'd down the great gun of Athlone. POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE, DEAR. Av I was a monarch in state, Like Romulus or Julius Caysar, With the best of fine victuals to eat, And drink like great Nebuchadnezzar, A rasher of bacon I'd have, And potatoes the finest was seen, sir ; And for drink, it's no claret I'd crave, But a keg of old Mullen's potteen, sir. With the smell of the smoke on it still. They talk of the Romans of ould, Whom they say in their own times was frisky : 1 Now Dr. Petrie. The Bong was written bj my esteemed friend, the anthor, before my other esteemed friend, the dis- tinguished antiquary alluded to, had the academic honor of LL.D. appended to his name— a name which has laid the alphabet under many more contributions of the same sort. J This is a capital idea, and most characteristic of the queer fellow that utters it, Mister "Mickey Free,"* to whose ac- quaintance I would recommend the reader — (/"there be any who does not know him already. For my own part, I will add a wish that all the rivalries between the sister isles, for the future, may be in the pursuit of happiness — in obtaining what f hall give cause to laugh the most • Tide " Charles O'Mallsr " But trust me, to keep out the cowld, The Romans* at home here like whisky. Sure it warms both the head and the heart, It's the soul of all reaiin' and writin' ; It teaches both science and art, And disposes for love or for fightin'. Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear. THE BrVOUAC. Now that we've pledged each eye of blue, And every maiden fair and true, And our green island home — to yon The ocean's wave adorning, Let's give one hip, hip, hip, hurra ! And drink e'en to the coming day, When squadron square We'll all be there ! To meet the French in the morning. May his bright laurels never fade, Who leads our fighting fifth brigade, Those lads so true in heart and blade, And famed for danger scorning ; So join me in one hip, hurra ! And drink e'en to the coming day, When squadron square We'll all be there ! To meet the French in the morning. And when with years and honors crown'd, Ton sit some homeward hearth around, And hear no more the stirring sound That spoke the trumpet's warning ; Ton fill, and drink, one hip, hurra ! And pledge the memory of the day, When squadron square They all were there To meet the French in the morning. » An abbreviation of Roman Catholic. The Irish peasant used the word "Eoman" in contradistinction to that of "Protestant." An Hibernian, in a religious wrangle with a Scotchman, said., " Ah, don't bother me any more, man I I'll prove to ye mine is the raal ould religion by one wora. St. Paul wrote an epistle to The Romans ;— but he never wrote ona to The Protestants. Answer me that /" POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. THE GIRLS OF THE WEST. Am-" Thady ye dander." You may talk, if you please, Of the brown Portuguese, But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam, Tou nothing will meet Half so lovely or sweet Ab the girls at home, the girls at home. Their eyes are not sloes, Nor so long is their nose, But between me and you, between me and you, They are just as alarming, And ten times more charming, With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue. They don't ogle a man O'er the top of their fan Till his heart's in a flame, his heart's in a flame; But though bashful and shy, They've a look in their eye, That just comes to the same, just comes to the same. No mantillas they sport, But a petticoat short Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best, And a leg — but, oh murther ! I dare not go further, So here's to the West, so here's to the West. THE IRISH DRAGOON. Am—" Sprig qf SldUelah." Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon, In battle, in bivouac, or in a saloon — From the .tip of his spur to his bright sabertasche. With his soldierly gait and his bearing so high, His gay laughing look and his light speaking eye, He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench, He springs on his saddle and chasses the French — With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. His spirits are high and he little knows care, Whether sipping his claret or charging a square — With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. As ready to sing or to skirmish he's found, To take off his wine or to take up his ground : When the bugle may call him, how little he fears To charge forth in column and beat the Mounseers — With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. When the battle is over he gayly rides back To cheer every soul in the night bivouac — With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. Oh ! there you may see him in full glory crown'd, And he sits 'mid his friends on the hardly- won ground, And hear with what feeling the toast he will give, As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen live — With his jingling spur and his bright THE MAN FOR GAL WAY. To drink a toast, A proctor roast, Or bailiff, as the case is ; To kiss your wife, Or take your life At ten or fifteen paces ; To keep game cocks, to hunt the fox, To drink in punch the Solway, With debts galore, but fun far more ; Oh, that's " the man for Galway." With debts, &c The King of Oude Is mighty proud, And so were onest the Caysars; POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. But ould Giles Eyre Would make them stare, Av he had them with the Blazers.' To the divil I fling ould Runjeet Sing, He's only a prince in a small way, And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall ; Oh, he'd never "do for Galway." With debts, &o. Ye think the Blakes Are no " great shakes ;" They're all his blood relations; And the Bodkins sneeze At the grim Chinese, For they come from the Phenaycians. So fill to the brim, and here's to him Who'd drink in punch the Sol way; With debts galore, but fun far more ; Oh ! that's " the man for Galway. " With debts, &c. THE POPE HE LEADS A HAPPY LIFE.' (From the German.) The Pope he leads a happy life, He knows no cares nor marriage strife ; He drinks the best of Rhenish wine — ■ I would the Pope's gay lot were mine. But yet not happy is his life — He loves no maid or wedded wife, Nor child hath he to cheer his hope — I would not wish to be the Pope. 1 This generally implies the arbitrament of the " duello" blazers being a figurative term for pistols ; hut in the present case, if I remember rightly, the Blazers allude to a very break- neck pack of hounds, so called. » Whether this is a close or a free translation, I know not ; hut I do know it was originally written for, and sung at, *he festive meetings of the " Burschen Club" of Dublin, by the author ; and I cannot name that Club without many a re- miniscence of bright evenings, and of bright friends that made them such. Brightest among them all was my early and valued friend Charles Lever— by title " King" of the Burschen- shaft, while my humbler self was honored with the title of their "Minstrel," they having recognized in me some quali- ties which the world was afterward good enough to acknowl- edge. Many, indeed most of the men of that Club, have since become distinguished ; and what songs were written for occasions by all of them I What admirable fooling of the highest class was there I Id the words of Hamlet, we fooled each other to the top of our bent ; but over all the wildest mirth there was a presiding good taste I never once saw vio- lated. A distinguished old barrister, who had known much The Sultan better pleases me, He leads a life of jollity, Has wives as many as he will — I would the Sultan's throne then filL But yet he's not a happy man — He must obey the Alcoran : And dares not taste one drop of I would not that his lot were mine. So here I take my lowly stand, I'll drink my own, my native land ; I'll kiss my maiden's lips divine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine. And when my maiden kisses me I'll fancy I the Sultan be ; And when my cheering glass I tope, I'll fancy then I am the Pope. THE PICKETS ARE FAST RETREAT- ING, BOYS. Am—" The Young May Moon" The pickets are fast retreating, boys, The last tattoo is beating, boys ; So let every man Finish his can, And drink to our next merry meeting, boys! The colonel so gayly prancing, boys, Has a wonderful trick of advancing, boys; When he sings out so large, "Fix bayonets and charge !" He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys ! of the former bright days of Dublin, was our guest on one occasion, and he said that he never had witnessed anything like our festive board, since the famous "Monks of the Screw." Oh 1 merry times of the Burschenehafi . how often 1 recall you !— and yet there is sometimes a dash of sadness is the recollection. Too truly says the song — " The walks where we've roam'd without tiring, The songs that together we've sung. The jeBt, to whose merry inspiring Our mingling of laughter hath rung ; Oh, trifles like these become precious, Embalm'd in the memory of years ; The smiles of the past, so remember'd. How often they waken our tears I" POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. Let Monnseer look ever so big, my boys, Let them ogle and sigh, Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys ? They could ne'er catch her eye, When we play " Garryowen" So bashful the Widow Malone, He'd rather go home, Ohone ! For somehow he's no taste for a jig, my boys. So bashful the Widow Malone. Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare,— ~~ "" ~ ~ How quare I It's little for blushing they care WIDOW MALONE. Down there, Put his arm round her waist — Dn» you hear of the Widow Malone, Gave ten kisses at laste — Ohone ! "Oh," say 8 he, "you're my Molly Malone, Who lived in the town of Athlone ? My own !" Ohone ! " Oh," says he, " you're my Molly Malone.' Oh, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, And the widow they all thought so shy, So lovely the Widow Malone, My eye ! Ohone ! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, So lovely the Widow Malone. For why ? But, " Lucius," says she, Of lovers she had a full score, " Since you've now made so free, Or more, You may marry your Mary Malone, And fortunes they all had galore, Ohone 1 In store ; You may marry your Mary Malone." From the minister down To the clerk of the crown, There's a moral contained in my song, All were courting the Widow Malone, Not wrong, Ohone 1 And one comfort, it's not very long, All were courting the Widow Malone. But strong, — If for widows you die, But bo modest was Mistress Malone, Learn to kiss, not to sigh, 'Twas known, For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, That no one conld see her alone, Ohone ! Ohone ! Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone. POEMS OF JOHN STERLING. THE MARINERS. Raise we the yard, ply the oar, The breeze is calling us swift away; The waters are breaking in foam on the shore; Our boat no more can stay, can stay. When the blast flies fast in the clouds on high, And billows are roaring loud below, The boatman's song, in the stormy sky, Still dares the gale to blow, to blow. The timber that frames his faithful boat, Was dandled in storms on the mountain peaks; [float, And in storms, with bounding keel, 'twill And laugh when the sea-fiend shrieks, and shrieks. And then on the calm and glistening nights, We have tales of wonder, and joy, and fear, The deeds of the powerful ocean sprites, With our hearts we cheer, we cheer. For often the dauntless mariner knows That he must sink to the land beneath, Where the diamond on trees of coral grows, In emerald halls of Death, of Death. Onward we sweep through smooth and storm; We are voyagers all in shine or gloom; And the dreamer who skulks by his chim- ney warm. Drifts in his sleep to doom, to doom. THE DREAMER ON THE CLIFF. OiTOE more, thou darkly rolling main, I bid thy lonely strength adieu; And sorrowing leave thee once again, Familiar long, yet ever new ! And while, thou changeless, boundless sea, I quit thy solitary shore, I sigh to turn away from thee, And think I ne'er may greet thee more. Thy many voices which are one, The varying garbs that robe thy might, Thy dazzling hues at set of sun, Thy deeper loveliness by night; The shades that flit with every breeze Along thy hoar and aged brow, — What has the universe like these ? Or what so strong, so fair as thou ? And when yon radiant friend of earth Has bridged the waters with her rays, Pure as those beams of heavenly birth, That round a seraph's footsteps blaze — While lightest clouds at times o'ercast The splendor gushing from the spheres, Like softening thoughts of sorrow past, That fill the eyes of joy with tears; The soul, methinks, in hours like these. Might pant to flee its earthly doom, And freed from dust to mount the breeze, An eagle soaring from the tomb. Or mix'd in stainless air, to roam Where'er thy billows know the wind, — To make all climes my spirit's home, And leave the woes of all behind. Or wandering into worlds that beam Like lamps of hope to human eyes, Wake 'mid delights we now but dream, And breathe the rapture of the skies. But vain the thought; my feet are bound To this dim planet, -^-clay to clay, — Condemn'd to tread one thorny round, And chain with links that ne'er decay. POEMS OF JOHN STERLING. Tet while thy ceaseless current flows, Thou mighty main, and shrinks again, Methinks thy rolling floods disclose A refuge safe, at least from men. Within thy gently heaving breast, That hides no passions dark and wild, My weary soul might sink to rest, As in its mother's arms a child ; Forget the world's eternal jars, In murmurous caverns cool and dim, And long, o'ertoiled with angry wars, Hear but thy billow's distant hymn ! THE DEAREST. Oh that from far-away mountains, Over the restless waves, Where bubble enchanted fountains, Rising from jewell'd caves, I could call a fairy bird, Who, whenever thy voice was heard, Should come to thee, dearest ! He should have violet pinions, And a beak of silver white, And should bring from the sun's dominions Eyes that would give thee light. Thou shouldst see that he was born In a land of gold and morn, To be thy servant, dearest I Oft would he drop on thy 1 A pearl or a diamond stone, And would yield to thy light caresses Blossoms in Eden grown. Round thy path his wings would shower Now a gem and now a flower, And dewy odors, dearest ! He should fetch from bis eastern island The songs that the Peris sing, And when evening is clear and silent, Spells to thy ear would bring, And with his mysterious strain Would entrance thy weary brain ;— Love's own music, dearest ! No Phoenix, alas ! will hover, Sent from the morning star ; And thou must take of thy lover A gift not brought so far : Wanting bird, and gem, and song, Ah 1 receive and treasure long A heart that loves thee, dearest ! LAMENT FOR DAEDALUS. [The subject of this poem was a celebrated sculptor ol Greece, who lived, as we are told, three generations before the Trojan war. Mankind is indebted to him, it appears, for the discovery of several of the mechanical powers. Dsedala* was the most ingenious artist of his time, having made statnei to which he communicated the power of motion, like ani- mated beings. They were of two kinds, one sort having a spring which stopped them when one pleased ; while the others, having no such contrivance, went along to the end of their line, and could not be stopped. Plato and Socrates used these different statues in illustration of some of their theories. With regard to opinion, they taught that so far as it was hu- man, it was founded only on probabilities ; but that when God enlightened men. that which was opinion before, now became science. They compared opinion to those statues which could not be stepped in consequence of its instability and constant change ; but when it is restrained and fixed by reasoning drawn from sources which Divine Light discover* to us, then opinion becomes science, like those statues of Daedalus which had the governing spring added to them.— This lament is taken from an unassuming little volume of " Poems," published by our author in 1840, and contains some genuine poetry. Most of the pieces appeared in MackiooocP$ Magazine, under the signature of " Archreus."] Wail for Daedalus, all that is fairest 1 All that is tuneful in air or wave 1 Shapes wliose beauty is truest and rarest, Haunt with your lamps and spells his grave ! Statues, bend your heads in sorrow, Te that glance 'mid ruins old, That know not a past, nor expect a morrow On many a moonlight Grecian wold ! By sculptured cave and darken'd river, Thee, Daedalus, oft the nymphs recall ; The leaves with a sound of winter quiver, Murmur thy name, and withering falL Tet are thy visions in soul the grandest Of all that crowd on the tear-dimm'd eye, Though, Daedalus, thou no more commandest New stars to that ever-widening sky. €70 POEMS OF JOHN STERLING. Ever thy phantoms arise before us, Our loftier brothers, but one in blood ; By bed and table they lord it o'er us "With looks of beauty and words of good. They tell us and show us of man victorious O'er all that's aimless, blind, and base ; Their presence has made our nature glorious, And given our night an illumined face. Thy toil has won them a godlike quiet ; Thou hast wrought their path to a lovely sphere ; Their eyes to calm rebuke our riot. And shape us a home of refuge here. For Daedalus breathed in them his spirit; In them their sire his beauty sees ; We too, a younger brood, inherit The gifts and blessings bestow'd on these. But, ah ! their wise and bounteous seeming Recalls the more that the sage is gone ; Weeping we wake from deceitful dreaming, And find our voiceless chamber lone. Daedalus, thou from the twilight fleest, Which thou with visions hast made so bright ; And when no more those shapes thou seest, Wanting thine eye they lose their light. Ev'n in the noblest of man's creations, Those fresh worlds round those old of ours, When the seer is gone, the orphan'd nations Know but the tombs of perish'd Powers. Wail for Daedalus, Earth and Ocean ! Stars and Sun, lament for him ! Ages, quake in strange commotion ! All ye realms of life, be dim ! Wail for Daedalus, awful voices, From earth's deep centre mankind appal ; Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices, For he knows that then the mightiest falL THE HUSBANDMAN. Eaeth, of man the bounteous mother, Feeds him still with corn and wine ; He who best would aid a brother, Shares with him these gifts divine. Many a power within her bosom, Noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; Hence are seed and leaf and blossom, Golden ear and cluster'd wreath. These to swell with strength and beauty, Is the royal task of man ; Man's a king, his throne is Duty, Since his work on earth began. Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage, These, like man, are fruits of earth ; Stamp'd in clay, a heavenly mintage, All from dust receive their birth. Barn and mill and wine-vat's treasures, Earthly goods for earthly lives, These are Nature's ancient pleasures, These her child from her derives. What the dream but vain rebelling, If from earth we sought to flee ? 'Tis our stored and ample dwelling, 'Tis from it the skies we see. Wind and frost, and hour and season, Land and water, sun and shade, Work with these as bids thy reason, For they work thy toil to aid. Sow thy seed and reap in gladness ! Man himself is all a seed; Hope and hardship, joy and sadness Slow the plant to ripeness lead. LOUIS XV. The King with all the kingly train had left his Pompadour behind, And forth he rode in Senart's wood the royal beasts of chase to find. That day by chance the Monarch mused, and turning suddenly away, He struck alone into a path that far from crowds and courtiers lay. POEMS OF JOHN STERLING. 671 He saw the pale green shadows play upon the brown untrodden earth ; He saw the birds around him flit as if he were of peasant birth ; He saw the trees that know no king but him who bears a woodland axe ; He thought not, but he look'd about like one who still in thinking lacks. Then close to him a footstep fell, and glad of human sound was he, For truth to say he found himself but mel- ancholy companie ; But that which he would ne'er have guess'd, before him now most plainly came; The man upon his weary back a coffin bore of rudest frame. '•* Why, who art thou ?" exclaim'd the King, " and what is that I see thee bear?" "I am a laborer in the wood, and 'tis a coffin for Pierre. Close by the royal hunting-lodge you may have often seen him toil ; But he will never work again, and I for him must dipr the soiL" The laborer ne'er had seen the King, and this he thought was but a man, Who made at first a moment's pause and then anew his talk began ; "I think I do remember now, — he had a dark and glancing eye, And I have seen his sturdy arm with won- drous strokes the pickaxe ply. "Pray tell me, friend, what accident can thus have kill'd our good Pierre ?" " O ! nothing more than usual, sir, he died of living upon air. 'Twas hunger kill'd the poor good man, who long on empty hopes relied ; He could not pay Gabelle and tax and feed his children, so he died. " The man stopp'd short, and then went on— " It is, you know, a common story, Our children's food is eaten up by courtiers, mistresses, and glory." The King look'd hard upon the man, and afterward the coffin eyed, Then spurr'd to ask of Pompadour, how came it that the peasants died ? POEMS OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE. GO ! FORGET ME. Go, forget me — why should sorrow O'er that brow a shadow fling ? Go, forget me — and to-morrow Brightly smile, and sweetly sing. Smile — though I shall not be near thee : Sing — though I shall never hear thee : May thy soul with pleasure shine, Lasting as the gloom of mine. Like the sun, thy presence glowing, Clothes the meanest things in light, And when thou, like him, art going, Loveliest objects fade in night. All things look'd so bright about thee, That they nothing seem without thee ; By that pure and lucid mind Earthly things were too refined. Go, thou vision wildly gleaming, Softly on my soul that fell ; Go, for me no longer beaming — Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! Go, and all that once delighted Take, and leave me all benighted ; Glory's burning, generous swell, Fancy and the Poet's shelL THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. "Sot a drum was heard, not a funeral-note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow ! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for re- tiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone- But we left him alone in his glory I POEMS OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 673 THE CHAINS OF SPAIN ARE BREAKING, The chains of Spain are breaking ! Let Gaul despair, and fly ; Her wrathful trumpet's speaking, Let tyrants hear, and die. Her standard, o'er us arching, Is burning red and far ; The soul of Spain is marching, In thunders to the war — Look around your lovely Spain, And say, shall Gaul remain ? — Behold yon burning valley ; Behold yon naked plain — Let us hear their drum — Let them come, let them come ! For vengeance and freedom rally, And, Spaniards ! onward for Spain. Remember ! remember Barossa ; Remember Napoleon's chain — Remember your own Saragossa, And strike for the cause of Spain — Remember your own Saragossa, And onward ! onward ! for Spain. OH! SAY NOT THAT MY COLD. Oh ! say not that my heart is cold To aught that once could warm it ; That nature's form, so dear of old, No more has power to charm it ; Or that the ungenerous world can chill, One glow of fond emotion, For those, who made it dearer still, And shared my wild devotion. Still oft those solemn scenes I view, In rapt and dreamy sadness ; Oft look on those, who loved them too, With fancy's idle gladness ; Again I long'd to view the light, In nature's features glowing ; Again to tread the mountain's height, And taste the soul's o'erflowing. Stern duty rose, and frowning flung Her leaden chain around me ; With iron look, and sullen tongue, He mutter'd, as he bound me — " The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven, Unfit for toil the creature ; These for the free, alone, are given — B*ut, what have slaves with nature ?" GONE FROM HER CHEEK. Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom, And her cheek has lost its faint perfume, And the gloss has dropp'd from her raven hair, And her forehead is pah), though no longer fair; And the spirit, that set in her soft, blue eye, Is sunk in cold mortality ; And the smile that play'd on her lip is fled^ And every grace has left the dead. Like slaves, they obey'd her in height of power, But left her, all, in her winter-hour ; And the crowds that swore for her love to die, Shrunk from the tone of her parting sigh— And this is man's fidelity ! "lis woman alone, with a firmer heart, Can see all those idols of life depart ; And love the more, and soothe, and bless Man in his utter wretchedness. OH, MY LOVE HAS AN EYE OF THE SOFTEST BLUE. Oh, my love has an eye of the softest blue, Yet it was not that that won me ; But a little bright drop from her soul WM> there, 'Tis that that has undone me. 674 POEMS OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE. I might have pass'd that lovely cheek, Nor perchance my heart have left me; But the sensitive blush that came trembling there, Of my heart it forever bereft me. I might have forgotten that red, red lip, Yet how from that thought to sever ? But there was a smile from the sunshine within, And that smile I'll remember forever. Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay, The elegant form that haunts me ; 'Tis the gracefully elegant mind that moves In every step, that enchants me. Let me not hear the nightingale sing, Though I once in its notes delighted ; The feeling and mind that comes whispering forth Has left me no music beside it. Who could blame had I loved that face, Ere my eye could twice explore her ; Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there, And her warm, warm heart, I adore her. IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED. If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee ; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be. It never through my mind had pass'd The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more. And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain, i But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er leftst unsaid, And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary ! thou art dead. If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, All cold, and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been ! While e'en thy chill bleak corse I havt>, Thou seemest still mine own, But there I lay thee in thy grave — And I am now alone. I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me ; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking too of thee ; Yet there was ronnd thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawa, And never can restore. POEMS OF JOHN ANSTER. DIRGE SONG. From the Irish. Like the oak of the vale was thy strength and thy height, Thy foot like the erne of the mountain in flight: Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce breath, Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was death ! Alas, how soon the thin cold cloud The hero's Moody limbs must shroud ! I see thy father, fall of days ; For thy return behold him gaze ; The hand, that rests upon the spear, Trembles in feebleness and fear — He shudders, and his bald, gray brow Is shaking, like the aspen bough ; He gazes, till his dim eyes fail With gazing on the fancied sail : Anxious he looks — what sudden streak Flits, like a sunbeam, o'er his cheek ! " Joy, joy, my child, it is the bark, That bounds on yonder billow dark !" His child looks forth with straining eye, And sees — the light cloud sailing by : His gray head shakes; how sad, how weak That sigh ! how sorrowful that cheek ! His bride from her slumbers will waken and weep, But when shall the hero arouse him from sleep ? The yell of the stag-hound — the clash of the spear, May ring o'er his tomb — but the dead cannot hear. Once he wielded the sword, once he cheer'd to the hound, Bat his pleasures are past, and his slumber is sound : Await not his coming, ye sons of the chase, Day dawns ! but it nerves not the dead for the race ; Await not his coming, ye sons of the spear, The war-song ye sing — but the dead will not Oh ! blessing be with him who sleeps in the grave, The leader of Lochlin ! the young and the brave ! On earth didst thou scatter the strength of our foes, Then blessing be thine, in thy cloud of repose ! Like the oak of the vale was thy strength and thy might, Thy foot, like the erne of the mountain in flight ; Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was death. THE HARP. Clara, hast thou not often seen, and smiled, A rosy child, Deeming that none were near, Touch with a trembling hand Some fine-toned instrument ; Then gaze, with sparkling eye, as on her ear The murmurs died, like gales, that having fann'd Soft summer flowers, sink spent. POEMS OF JOHN ANSTER. Half fearing, still she lingers, Till o'er the strings again she flings, Less tremblingly, her fingers ! — But if a stranger eye The timid sport should spy, Oh ! then, with pulses wild, This rosy child Will throb, and fly, Turn pale and tremble, trem'ble and turn red, And in thy bosom hide her head. Even thus the harp to me Hath been a plaything strange, A thing of fear, of wonder, and of glee ; Tet would I not exchange This light harp's simple gear for all that man holds dear ; And should the stranger's ear its tones re- gardless hear, It still is sweet to thee ! THE EVERLASTING ROSE. Emblem of hope ! enchanted flower, Still breathe around thy faint perfume, Still smile amid the wintry hour, And boast, even now, a spring-tide bloom : Thine is, methinks, a pleasant dream, Lone lingerer in the icy vale, Of smiles that hail'd the morning beam, And sighs more sweet for evening's gale 1 Still are thy green leaves whispering Low sounds to fancy's ear, that tell Of mornings when the wild-bee's wing Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell ! With thee the graceful lily vied, As summer breezes waved her head ; And now the snow-drop at thy side Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red. Well dost thou know each varying voice That wakes the seasons, sad or gay ; The summer thrush bids thee rejoice, And wintry robin's dearer lay. Sweet flower! how happy dost thou seem, 'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost ! While gathering beauty from each beam, No hue, no grace, of thine is lost I Thus hope, 'mid life's severest days, Still soothes, still smiles away despair; Alike she lives in pleasure's rays, And cold affliction's winter air : Charmer alike in lordly bower And in the hermit's cell, she glows; The poet's and the lover's flower, The bosom's everlastip.sr rose ! IF I MIGHT CHOOSE. If I might choose where my tired limbs shall lie When my task here is done, the oak's green crest Shall rise above my grave — a little mound, Raised in some cheerful village cemetery. And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound, A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by — In music — through the long soft twilight hours. And let the hand of her, whom I love best, Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest ; And should the robin from some neighbor- ing tree Pour his enchanted song — oh ! softly tread, For sure, if aught of earth can soothe the dead, He still must love that pensive, melody I OH ! IF, AS ARABS FANCY. Oh! if, as Arabs fancy, the traces on thy brow Were symbols of thy future state, and I could read them now, Almost without a fear would I explore the mystic chart, Believing that the world were weak t» darken such a heart. POEMS OF JOHN ANSTER. As yet to thy untroubled soul, as yet to thy young eyes, The skies above are very heaven — the earth The birds that glance in joyous air — the flowers that happiest be, They toil not, neither do they spin, are they not types of thee ? And yet, and yet — beloved child — to thy enchanted sight, Blest as the present is, the days to come seem yet more bright, For thine is hope, and thine is love, and thine the glorious power That gives to hope its fairy light, to love its richest dower. For me that twilight time is past — those sunrise colors gone — The prophecies of childhood — and the promises of dawn ; And yet what is, though scarcely heard, will speak of what has been, While love assumes a gentler tone, and hope A POEM BY WILLIAM CONGREYE. A CATHEDRAL. Enter Almeria and Leonora. Aim. It was a fancied noise, for all is hush'd. Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice. Aim. It was thy fear, or else some tran- sient wind Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle. We'll listen— Leon. Hark! Aim. No, all is hush'd, and still as death — 'tis dreadful ! How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof, By its own weight made steadfast and im- movable, Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice ; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights me with its Leon. Let us return ; the horror of thia place, And silence, will increase your melancholy. Aim. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. No, I will on : show me Anselmo's tomb, Lead me o'er bones and skulls, and moulder- ing earth Of human bodies ; for I'll mix with them, Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride Of Garcia's more detested bed : that thought Exerts my spirits, and my present fears Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me, Lead me, for I am bolder grown : lead on Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. Leon. I go; but Heaven can tell with what regret. 1 Tills Is the passage that Johnson admired so much. " Congreve," he said, " has one finer passage than any that can be found in Shakespeare." POEMS OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. OH! SLEEP. Oh ! sleep, awhile thy power suspending, Weigh not my eyelids down ; For memory, see ! with eve attending, Claims a moment for her own. I know her by her robe of mourning, I know her by her faded light, When faithful, with the gloom returning, She comes to bid a sad good-night. Oh ! let me here, with bosom swelling, While she sighs o'er the time that's past — Oh ! let me weep, while she is telling Of joys that pine, and pangs that last. And now, oh ! sleep, while grief is streaming, Let thy balm sweet peace restore, While fearful hope, through tears is beaming, Soothe to rest, that wakes no more. THE DESERTER'S LAMENTATION. If, sadly thinking, With spirits sinking, Could more than drinking Our griefs compose — A cure for sorrow, From grief I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow Might end my woes. But since in wailing There's naught availing, For death unfailing Will strike the blow: Then for that reason, And for a season, Let us be merry Before we go ! A way-worn ranger, To joy a stranger, Through every danger My course I've run : Now death befriending, His last aid lending, My griefs are ending, My woes are done. No more a rover, Or hapless lover, Those cares are over — My cup runs low ; Then, for that reason, And for the season, Let us be merry Before we go. THE MONKS OF THE ORDER OF ST. PATRICK, COMMONLY CALLED THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. 1 When St. Patrick this order establish'd, He call'd us the " Monks of the Screw ; w Good Rules he reveal'd to our Abbot, To guide us in what we should do ; i mi* celebrated Society was partly political and partly coy vtrial ; it consisted of tiro parts— professed and lay brother*. IPMEILIP©! ®UI! POEMS OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 679 But first he replenish'd our fountain With liquor the hest in the sky ; And he said, on the word of a saint, That the fountain should never run dry. Each year, when your octaves approach, In full chapter convened let me find you ; And when to the Convent you come, Leave your favorite temptation behind you. And be not a glass in your Convent, Unless on a festival, found ; And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it One festival all the year round. My brethren, be chaste, till you're tempted ; While sober, be grave and discreet ; As the latter had no privileges except that of commons in the refectory, they are unnoticed here. The professed (by the constitution) consisted of members of either house of Parliament, and barristers, with the addi- tion from the other learned professions of any numbers not ex- ceeding a third of the whole. They assembled every Saturday in Convent (in St. Kevin Street, Dublin), during term-time, and commonly held a chapter before commons, at which the Abbot presided, or in his (very rare) absence, the Prior, or senior officer present. Upon such occasions all the members appeared in the habit of the order, a black tabinet domino. Temperance and Sobriety always prevailed. Mr. Curran (who was Prior of the order) being asked one day to sing a song, after commons, 6aid he would give them one of his own, and sang the following, which was adopted at once as the charter song of the Society, and was called " The Monks of the Screw." This Society consisted of 56 members ; and Mr. Wm. Henry Curran, in the Memoir of his father, adds, u most of them dis- tinguished men." We think it worth while to give a few of their names and titles. Earl of Charlemont ; Earl of Arran ; Earl of Mornington (Duke of Wellington's father); Hussey Bnrgh, Chief Baron ; Judge Robert Johnson ; Henry Grattan ; John Philpot Curran ; Woolfe, Lord Kilwarden ; Lord Avon- more ; Eev. Arthur O'Leary (Hon.). The Marquis of Town- Bend joined the Society while he was Viceroy of Ireland. That the festive meetings of men of such high mark must have been of more than ordinary brilliancy, one may well con- ceive, but the most eloquent evidence of that fact was given by Curran in a touching address to Lord Avonmore, while sit- ting on the judicial bench ; so touching, and so eloquent, as well as happily illustrative of Curran's style, that it is worth recording :— " This soothing hope I draw from the dearest and tenderest recollections of my life— from the remembrance of those attic nights, and those refections of the gods, which we have spent ■with those admired, and respected, and beloved companions who have gone before us ; over whose ashes the most precious tears of Ireland have been shed. [Here Lord Avonmore could not refrain from Bursting into tears.] Yes, my good Lord, I eee you do not forget them. I see their sacred forms passing in ead review before your memory. I see your pained and Boftened fancy recalling those happy meetings, where the in- nocent enjoyment of social mirth became expanded into the nobler warmth of social virtue, and the horizon of the board became enlarged into the horizon of man— where the swelling Heart conceived and communicated the pure and generous purpose— where my slenderer and younger taper imbibed its borrowed light from the more matured and redundant fountain And humble your bodies with fasting, As oft as you've nothing to eat. Yet, in honor of fasting, one lean face Among you I'd always require ; If the Abbot should please, he may wear it. If not, let it come to the Prior." Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren. And with due devotion prepare, With hands and with voices uplifted, Our hymn to conclude with a prayer. May this chapter oft joyously meet, And this gladsome libation renew, To the Saint, and the Founder, and Abbot, And Prior, and Monks of the Screw ! of yours. Yes, my Lord, we can remember those nights with. out any other regret than that they can never more return, fat ' We spent them not in toys, or luBt, or wine, But search of deep philosophy, Wit, eloquence, and poesy, Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine f* "— Cowley. Lord Avonmore, in whose breaBt political resentment wai easily subdued, by the same noble tenderness of feeling which distinguished Mr. Fox upon a more celebrated occasion, could not withstand this appeal to his heart. At this period (1804) there was a suspension of intercourse between him and Mr. Curran ; but the moment the court rose, his Lordship sent for his friend, and threw himself into his arms, declaring that unworthy artifices had been used to separate them, and that they should never succeed in future. And now for an instance of Mr. Curran's humor ; and as it ariseB, like the foregoing gush of eloquence, from allusions to " The Monks of the Screw," it is evident that Society held a very cherished place in his memory. Mr. Curran visited France in 1787, and was received with distinguished welcome everywhere. Among 6uch receptions was one at a Convent, thus recorded. " He was met at the gates by the Abbot and his brethren in procession ; the keys of the Convent were presented to him, and his arrival hailed in a Latin oration. setting forth his praise, and their gratitude for his noble pro- tection of a suffering brother of their Church (alluding to his legal defence of a Roman Catholic clergyman). Their Latin was so bad, that the stranger without hesitation replied in the same language. After expressing his general acknowledg- ment for their hospitality, he assured them that nothing could be more gratifying to him than to reside a few days among them ; that he should feel himself perfectly at home in their society ; for that he was by no means a stranger to the habits of a monastic life, being himself no less than the Prior of an order in bis own country, the order of St. Patrick, or the Monks of the Screw. Their fame, he added, might not have reached the Abbot's ears, but he would undertake to as- sert for them, that, though the brethren of other orders might be more celebrated for learning how to die, the Monks of the Screw' were, as yet, unsurpassed for knowing how to live. A8,however,humilitywastheirgreat1enet and uniform practice, he would give an example of it upon the present occasion, and instead of accepting all the keys which the Abbot so liberally offered, would merely take charge, while he stayed, of the key of the wine-cellar." Curran's IAfe, by his son Wm. Henry Curran. 3 William Doyle (MaBter in Chancery), the Abbot, had a remarkably large full face. Mr. Curran's was the very reverse. POEMS OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. THE GREEN SPOT THAT BLOOMS O'ER THE DESERT OF LIFE. O'er the desert oflife,where you vainly pursued Those phantoms of hope, which their promise disown, Have you e'er met some spirit, divinely endued, That so kindly could say, you don't suffer alone ? And, however your fate may have smiled, or have frown'd, Will she deign, still, to share as the friend or the wife ? Then make her the pulse of your heart; for you've found The green spot that hlooms o'er the desert of life. Does she love to recall the past moments, so dear, When the sweet pledge of faith was con- fidingly given, When the lip spoke the voice of affection sincere, And the vow was exchanged, and recorded in heaven ? Does she wish to re-bind, what already was bound, And draw closer the claim of the friend and the wife ? Then make her the pulse of your heart ; for you've found The green spot that blooms o'er the desert of life. POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. THE SACK OF MAGDEBURGH. 1 When the breach was open laid, hold we mounted to the attack ; Five times the assault was made, — four times were we beaten back. Many a gallant comrade fell, in the desper- ate melee there : Sped their spirits ill or well — know I not, nor do I care. But the fifth time, up we strode o'er the dying and the dead ; Hot the western sunbeam glow'd, sinking in a blaze of red. Redder i in the gory way, our deep-plashing As the cry of " Slay, slay, slay 1" echoed fierce from rank to rank. And we slew, and slew, and slew — slew them with unpitying sword: Negligently could we do the commanding of the Lord? 1 The sack of thlg ill-lated city occurred during the Thirty Tears' War. The partisans of the Eeformation formed a union as early as 1608 ; and the Catholics in opposition estab- lished a league in 1609. Here were the elements of an inevi- table contest, and in 1618 the struggle commenced. For 30 years, Europe was the battlefield of religious factions, and Germany was reduced to a wilderness. Fire and sword des- olated it from end to end. The only result was the improve- ment of the art of war, by the genius of Gustavus Adolphus, and the terrible warning it affords to those who stir np the religious animosities of a nation.— The defence of Magde- burgh was confided to Christian William of Brandenburg, and the gallant Colonel Falkenberg, who was sent by Gustavus AdolphuB to its support. The investing army of the League was commanded by Tilly, a stern soldier, whose boast was that he never tasted wine, never lost his chastity, nor ever suf- fered defeat. GustavuB, however, conquered him ultimately ; but he had no occasion to retract his boast, for he fell with his defeat. At the sack of Magdebnrgh, Tilly was before the city from March, 1631, and was about to raise the siege, iu expec- tation of Gustavus to its assistance, but he was overruled by the fiery Pappenheim, who proposed an immediate attack. Preparations were made forthwith, and the storming com- menced. In about six weeks the city fell, notwithstanding the bravery of the garrison, and it is estimated that upwards of 36,000 persons perished. Fled the coward — fought the brave, — wail'd the mother, wept the child, But not one escaped the glaive, man who frown'd or babe who smiled. There were thrice ten thousand men, when the morning sun arose ; Lived not thrice three hundred when sunk that sun at evening close. Then we spread the wasting flame, fann'd to fury by the wind ; Of the city, out the name — nothing more is left behind ! Hall and palace, dome and tower, lowly shed and soaring spire, Fell in that victorious hour which consign'd the town to fire. All that rose at craftman's call — to its pris- tine dust had gone, For, inside the shatter'd wall, left we never stone on stone — For it burnt not till it gave all it had to yield of spoil; Should not brave soldadoes have some re- warding for their toil ? What the villain sons of trade had amass'd by years of care, Prostrate at our bidding laid, by one mo- ment won, was there. Then, within the burning town, 'mid the steaming heaps of dead, Cheer'd by sounds of hostile moan, did we the joyous banquet spread. Laughing loud and quaffing long, with our glorious labors o'er ; To the sky our jocund song, told the city was no more I POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. THE SOLDIER-BOY. I give my soldier-boy a blade, In fair Damascus fashion'd well ; Who first the glittering falchion sway'd, Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not, but I hope to know That for no mean or hireling trade, To guard no feeling base or low, I give my soldier-boy a blade. Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood In which its tempering work was done ; As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, Be thou whene'er it sees the sun. For country's claim, at honor's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy's voice to bid it fall, I give my soldier-boy a blade. The eye which mark'd its peerless edge, The hand that weigh'd its balanced poise, Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone with all their flame and noise — And still the gleaming sword remains : So, when in dust I low am laid, Remember, by those heartfelt strains, I gave my soldier-boy a blade. THE BEATEN BEGGARMAN. (From the Greek.) There came the public beggarman, who all throughout the town Of Ithaca, upon his quest for alms, begged up and down ; Huge was his stomach, without cease for meat and drink craved he ; No strength, no force his body had, though vast it was to see. He got as name from parent dame, Arnseus, at his birth, But Irus was the nickname given by gallants in their mirth : For he, where'er they chose to send, their speedy errands bore, And now he thought to drive away Odys- seus from his door. " Depart, old man 1 and quit the poroh," he cried, with insult coarse, "Else quickly by the foot thou shalt be dragg'd away by force : Dost thou not see, how here on me their eyes are turn'd by all, In sign to bid me stay no more, but drag thee from the hall ? "'Tis only shame that holds me back; so get thee up and go ! Or ready stand with hostile hand to combat blow for blow." Odysseus said, as stern he look'd, with angry glance, "My friend, Nothing of wrong in deed or tongue do I to thee intend. "I grudge not whatsoe'er is given, how great may be the dole, The threshold is full large for both ; be not of envious soul. It seems 'tis thine, as well as mine, a wan- derer's life to live, And to the gods alone belongs a store of wealth to give. " But do not dare me to the blow, nor rouse my angry mood ; — Old as I am, thy breast and lips might stain my hands with blood. To-morrow free I then from thee the day in peace would spend, For nevermore to gain these walls thy beaten limbs would bend." "Heavens! how this glutton glibly talks I" the vagrant Irus cried ; " Just as an old wife loves to prate, smoked at the chimney side. If I should smite him, from bis mouth the shatter'd teeth were torn, As from the jaws of plundering swine, caught rooting up the corn. POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. "Come, gird thee for the fight, that they our contest may behold, If thou'lt expose to younger arms thy body frail and old." So in debate engaged they sate upon the threshold stone, Before the palace' lofty gate wrangling in angry tone. Antonious mark'd, and with a laugh the suitors he address'd : " Never, I ween, our gates have seen so gay a cause of jest ; Some god, intent on sport, has sent this stranger to our hall, And he and Irus mean to fight : so set we on the brawl." Gay laugh'd the guests and straight arose, on frolic errand bound, About the ragged beggarman a ring they made around. Antonious cries, " A fitting prize for the combat I require, Paunches of goat you see are here now lying on the fire : " This dainty food all full of blood, and fat of savory taste, Intended for our evening's meal there to be cook'd we placed. Whichever of these champions bold may chance to win the day, Be he allow'd which paunch he will to choose and bear away ; And he shall at our board henceforth par- take our genial cheer, No other beggarman allow'd the table to come near." They all agreed, and then upspoke the chief of many a wile : "Hard is it when ye match with youth age overrun with toil ; The belly, counsellor of ill, constrains me now to go, Sure to be beaten in the fight with many a heavy blow. "But plight your troth with solemn oath v that none will raise his hand My foe to help with aid unfair, while I before him stand." They took the covenant it had pleased Odysseus to propose ; And his word to plight the sacred might of Telemachus arose. "If," he exclaim'd, "thy spirit bold, and thy courageous heart, Should urge thee from the palace gate to force this man to part, Thou needst not fear that any here will strike a fraudful blow ; Who thus would dare his hand to rear must fight with many a foe. " Upon me falls within these halls the stranger's help to be ; Antonious and Eurymachus, both wise, will join with me." All gave assent, and round his loins his rags Odysseus tied ; Then was display'd each shoulder-blade of ample form and wide. His shapely thighs of massive size were all to sight confess'd, So were his arms of muscle strong, so was his brawny breast ; Athene, close at hand, each limb to nobler stature swell'd ; In much amaze did the suitors gaze, when they his form beheld. " Irus un-Irused now," they said, " will catch his sought-for woe ; Judge by the hips which from his rags this old man stripp'd can show." And Irus trembled in his soul ; but soon the servants came, Girt him by force, and to the fight dragg'd on his quivering frame. There as he shook in every limb, Antonious spoke in scorn : "'Twere better, bullying boaster, far, that thou hadst ne'er been born, 684 POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. If thus thou quake and tremhling shake, o'ercome with coward fear, Of meeting with this ag4d man, worn down with toil severe., «I warn thee thus, and shall perform full surely what I say — If conqueror in the fight, his arm shall chance to win the day, Epirus-ward thou hence shalt sail, in sahle hark consign'd To charge of Echetus the king, terror of all mankind. ' He'll soon deface all manly trace with un- relenting steel, And make thy sliced-off nose and ears for hungry dogs a meal" He spoke, and with those threatening words fill'd Irus with fresh dread ; And trembling more in every limb, ho to the midst was led. Both raised their hands, and then a doubt pass'd through Odysseus' brain, Should he strike him so, that a single blow would lay him with the slain, Or stretch him with a gentler touch prostrate upon the ground: On pondering well this latter course the wiser one he found. For if his strength was fully shown, he knew that all men's eyes The powerful hero would detect, despite his mean disguise. Irus the king's right shoulder hit, then he with smashing stroke Return'd a blow beneath the ear, and every bone was broke. Burst from his mouth the gushing blood; down to the dust he dash'd, With bellowing howl, and in the fall his teeth to pieces crash'd. There lay he, kicking on the earth ; mean- while the suitors proud, Lifting their hands as fit to die, shouted k laughter loud. Odysseus seized him by the foot, and dragged him through the hall, To porch and gate, and left him laid against the boundary wall. He placed a wand within his hand, and said, " The task is thine, There seated with this staff to drive away the dogs and swine ; "But on the stranger and the poor never again presume To act as lord ; else, villain base, thine may be heavier doom." So saying, o'er his back he flung his cloak to tatters rent, Then bound it with a twisted rope, and back to his seat he went. Back to the threshold, while within uprose the laughter gay, And with kind words was hail'd the man who conquer'd in the fray. "May Zeus, and all the other gods, O stranger ! grant thee still Whate'er to thee most choice may be, what- ever suits thy will. "Thy hand has check'd the beggar bold, ne'er to return again To Ithaca, for straight shall he be sped across the main, Epirus-ward, to Echetus, the terror of all mankind." So spoke they, and the king received the "men glad of mind. CCffiMJEILE: POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. THE IRISH EAPPAEEES. A PEASANT BALLAD OF 1691. Eigh Shamus lie lias gone to France and left his crown behind — El luck he theirs, both day and night, put rimnin' in his mind ! Lord Lucan followed after, with his Slashers brave and true, And now the doleful knell is raised — " What will poor Ireland do ? "What must poor Ireland do ? Our luck," they say " has gone to Erance — What can poor Ireland do ? " 0, never fear for Ireland, for she has so'gers still, [on the hill, For Bory's boys are in the wood and Bemy's And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these — May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Eapparees ! The fearless Eapparees ! [Eapparees ! The jewel were you, Eory, with your Irish Oh, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and coulder than the clay ! Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield's gone away ! [ago, It's little love you bear us, for sake of long But hould your hand, for Ireland still can strike a deadly blow — Can strike a mortal blow — Och ! dliar-a-Chreesth! 'tis she that still could strike the deadly blow ! The Master's bawn, the Master's seat, a surly bodagh fills; The Master's son, an outlawed man, is rid- ing on the hills. But God be praised, that round him throng, as thick as summer bees, The swords that guarded Limerick wall — his loyal Eapparees ! His lovin' Eapparees ! Who dare say no to Eory oge, with all his Eapparees ? Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he racked us long and sore — God rest the faithful hearts he broke ! — we'll never see them more ! But I'll go bail he'll break no more, while Turagh has gallows-trees. For why? — he met one lonesome night, the fearless Eapparees ! The angry Eapparees ! They'll never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Eapparee ! THE IEISH CHIEFS. Oh ! to have lived like an Ikish Chief, when hearts were fresh and true, And a manly thought, like a pealing bell, would quicken them through and through; And the seed of a generous hope right soon to a fiery action grew, And men would have scorn'd to talk and talk, and never a deed to do ! Oh ! the iron grasp, And the kindly clasp, And the laugh so fond and gay; And the roaring board, And the ready sword, Were the types of that vanish'd day. Oh ! to have lived as Brian lived, and to die as Brian died; His land to win with the sword, and smile, as a warrior wins his bride, To knit its force in a kingly host, and rule it with kingly pride, And still in the girt of its guardian swords over victor fields to ride; POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. And when age was past, And when death came fast, To look with a soften'd eye On a happy race "Who had loved his face, And to die as a king should die ! Oh I to have lived dear Owen's life — to live for a solemn end, To strive for the ruling strength and skill God's saints to the Chosen send ; And to come at length with that holy strength, the bondage of fraud to rend, And pour the light of God's freedom in where Tyrants and Slaves were denn'd ; And to bear the brand, With an equal hand, Like a soldier of Truth and Right, And, oh ! Saints, to die, While our flag flew high, Nor to look on its fall or flight ! Oh 1 to have lived as Grattan lived, in the glow of his manly years, To thunder again those iron words that thrill like the clash of spears; Once more to blend for a holy end, our peas- ants, and priests, and peers, Till England raged, like a baffled fiend, at the tramp of our Volunteers ! And, oh ! best of all, Far rather to fall (With a blesseder fate than he) On a conquering field, Than one right to yield, Of the Island so proud and free ! Yet, scorn to cry on the days of old, when hearts were fresh and true : If hearts be weak, oh ! chiefly then the Mis- sion'd their work must do. Nor wants our day its own fit way, the want is in you and you ; For these eyes have seen as kingly a King as ever dear Erin knew. And with Brian's will, And with Owen's skill, And with glorious Grattan's love, He had freed us soon — But death darken'd his noon, And he sits with the saints above. Oh ! cotad you live as Davis lived — kind Heaven be his bed I With an eye to guide, and a hand to rale, and a calm and kingly head, And a heart from whence, like a Holy Well, the soul of his land was fed, No need to cry on the days of old that your holiest hope be sped. Then scorn to pray For a by-past day — The whine of the sightless dumb I To the true and wise Let a king arise, And a holier day is come I HsTNISHOWEN [Innishowen (pronounced Innishone) 1b a wild and plctur esque district in the county Donegal, inhabited chiefly by the descendants of the Irish clans, permitted to remain in Ulster after the plantation of James I. The native language, and the songs and legends of the country, are as universal as the people. One of the most familiar of these legends is, that a troop of Hugh O'Neill's horse lies in magic Bleep in a cave under the hill of Aileach, where the princes of the country were formerly installed. These bold troopers only wait to have the spell removed to rush to the aid of their country ; and a man (says the legend) who wandered accidentally into the cave, found them lying beside their horses, fully armed, and holding the bridles in their hands. One of them lifted his head, and asked, "Is the time come?" and when he received no answer— for the intruder was too much frightened to re- ply—dropped back into his lethargy. Some of the old folk consider the story an allegory, and interpret it as they desire.] God bless the gray mountains of dark Done- gal, God bless Royal Aileach, the pride of them all; For she sits evermore like a queen on her throne, And smiles on the valleys of Green Innis- howen. And fair are the valleys of Green Innishowen, And hardy the fishers that call them their own — A race that nor traitor nor coward have known Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Innis- howen. Oh ! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear, Like the hills that with silence and nature they share ; :;:■■ QKUR6. POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. for our God, who hath planted their home near his own, Breathed His spirit abroad upon fair Innis- howen. Then praise to our Father for wild Innishowen, Where fiercely forever the surges are thrown — Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown Could shake the strong bosoms of brave Innishowen. "See the bountiful Couldah 1 careering along — A type of their manhood so stately and strong — On the weary forever its tide is bestown, So they share with the stranger in fair In- nishowen. God guard the kind homesteads of fair Innishowen, Which manhood and virtue have chosen for their own ; Not long shall that nation in slavery groan, That rears the tall peasants of fair Innishowen. Like that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil nor Dane, Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from her fane, They have clung by the creed and the cause of their own Through the midnight of danger in true Innishowen. Then shout for the glories of old Innis- howen, The stronghold that foemen have never o'erthrown — The soul and the spirit, the blood and the bone, That guard the green valleys of true Innishowen. Nor purer of old was the tongue of the Gael, When the charging dboo made the foreigner quail ; - The Couldah, or Culdaff, la the chief river In the Tntiia- Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome's! soft tone, In the home-loving cabins of kind Innis- howen. Oh ! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Innishowen, Where seeds of a people's redemption are sown; Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have grown, To bless the kind homesteads of green Innishowen. When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken band All entranced, with their bridles and broad- swords in hand, Who await but the word to give Erin her own, They can read you that riddle in proud Innishowen. Hurrah for the Spaemen" of proud Innishowen ! — Long live the wild Seers of stout Innia- howen ! — May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moan Who love not the promise of pw'd Innishowen ! THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 1641. [The Irish Pale resembled the borders between Scotland and England so closely in its general character, that it is no extravagant assumption to suppose that it must have given birth to a host of poems of the same class as the Border Ballads collected by Sir Walter Scott in his own country. The same incessant feuds, the same daring adventures, the same deadly hatred, and an equally poetic people to sing their own achievements, existed in both countries ; and if there are few remains of our legendary and local ballads, the disuse of the Irish language in which they were written, and the neg- lect of our national literature since the Elizabethan war, will account for their loss without throwing the smallest doubt on their former existence. In fact, they may be deduced as plainly from the physical and intellectual condition of the country, without any other evidence, as the use f^f weapona for war or castles for defence, which it needs no ruins and no museums to establish. If they are as completely lost as the ballads on which the early history of Eome was founded, they ' An Ulster and Scotch term signifying a person gifted with 1 second sight" — a prophet. POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. as surely existed ; and we have. In lien of a better, that remedy for onr lose which Macanlay has bo successfully adopted in the case of his " Lays of Ancient Rome"— to sing ■for onr ancestors such ballads as they probably sung for themselves. Historical songs and ballads are the best nutri- ment for the nationality and public spirit of a country— the recollection of the men and achievements they celebrate act or Its youth like a second conscience— they become ashamed to disgrace a land that was the mother of such men. The memory of Wallace does more for Scotland than the sermons often Dr. Chalmers, and Kosciusko makes every Pole respect- able throughout the world. Scott's own legendary ballads and poems did a thousand times more for Scotland than all he ever collected, and Burns's " Scots wha hae" was worth a hundred " Minstrelsies of the Border," in its national influ- ence. The present ballad is founded on the rising of Ulster in 1641, at the commencement of the ten years' war. We have always denied the alleged massacre of that era, and the atrocious calumnies on Sir Phelim O'Neill; but that the natives, in ejecting the English from their towns and castles, committed various excesses is undeniable— as is equally the hitter provocation— in the plunder of their properties by James I., and the long persecution that ensued. The object of the ballad is not to excuse these excesses, which we con- demn and deplore, but to give a vivid picture of the feelings of an outraged people in the first madness of successful resistance.] Jot ! joy ! the day is come at last, the day of hope and pride, And see! our crackling bonfires light old Bann's rejoicing tide, And gladsome bell, and bugle-horn from Newry's captured Towers, Hark ! how they tell the Saxon swine, this land is ours, is ou es ! Glory to God ! my eyes have seen the ran- somed fields of Down, My ears have drunk the joyful news, " Stout Phelim hath his own." Oh ! may they see and hear no more, Oh ! may they rot to clay, When they forget to triumph in the conquest of to-day. Now, now we'll teach the shameless Scot to purge his thievish maw, Now, now the Courts may fall to pray, for Justice is the Law, Now, shall the Undertaker 1 square, for once, his loose accounts, We'll strike, brave boys, a fair result, from all his false amounts. Come, trample down their robber rule, and smite its venal spawn, Their foreign laws, their foreign church, their ermine and their lawn : ' The Scotch and English adventurers planted In Ulster by met I., were called With all the specious fry of fraud that robb'd us of our own, And plant our ancient laws again beneath our lineal throne. Our standard flies o'er fifty towers, o'er twice ten thousand men, Down have we pluck'd the pirate Red, never to rise agen ; The Green alone shall stream above our native field and flood — The spotless Green, save where its folds are gemm'd with Saxon blood ! f Pity !' no, no, you dare not, Priest — not you our Father dare Preach to us now that godless creed — the murderer's blood to spare ; To spare his blood, while tombless still our slaughter'd kin implore " Graves and revenge" from Gobbin-Clifts and Carrick's bloody shore !* Pity! could we "forget — forgive," if we were clods of clay, Our martyr'd priests, our banish'd chiefs, our race in dark decay, And worse than all — you know it, Priest — the daughters of our land, With wrongs we blush'd to name until the sword was in our hand ! Pity I well, if you needs must whine, let pity have its way, Pity for all our comrades true, far from our side to-day ; The prison-bound who rot in chains, the faithful dead who pour'd Their blood 'neath Temple's lawless axe or Parson's ruffian sword. They smote us with the swearer's oath, and with the murderer's knife, We in the open field will fight, fairly for land and life ; » Leland, the Protestant historian, states that the Catholic Priests " labored zealously to moderate the excesses of war?' and frequently protected the English by concealing them In their places of worship, and even nnder their altars. • The scene of the massacre of the unoffending i of Island Magee by the garrison of Carrickfergus. POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. But, by the Dead and all their wrongs, and by our hopes to-day, One of us twain shall fight their last, or be it we or they — They bann'd our faith, they bann'd our lives, they trod us into earth, Until our very patience . stirr'd their bitter hearts to mirth ; Even this great flame that wraps them now, not we but they have bred, Yes, this is their own work, and now, their WORK BE OV THEIR HEAD. Nay, Father, tell us not of help from Lein- ster's Norman Peers, If we but shape our holy cause to match their selfish fears, — Helpless and hopeless be their cause who brook a vain delay, Our ship is launch'd, our flag's afloat, whether they come or stay. Let Silken Howth, and savage Slane still kiss their tyrant's rod, And pale Dunsany still prefer his Master to his God, Little we'd miss their fathers' sons, the Marchmen of the Pale, If Irish hearts and Irish hands had Spanish blade and mail ? Then, let them stay to bow and fawn, or fight with cunning words ; 1 fear me more their courtly acts than England's hireling swords, Nathless their creed they hate us still, as the Despoiler hates, Could they love us, and love their prey, our kinsmen's lost estates ! Our rude array's a jagged rock to smash the spoiler's power, Or need we aid, His aid we have who doom'd this gracious hour ; Of yore he led his Hebrew host to peace through strife and pain, And us he leads the self-same path, the self- same goal to gain. Down from the sacred hills whereon a Saint 1 communed with God, Up from the vale where Bagnall's blood manured the reeking sod, Out from the stately woods of Truagh, M'Kenna's plunder'd home, Like Malin's waves, as fierce and fast, our faithful clansmen come. Then, brethren, on! — O'Neill's dear shade would frown to see you pause — Our banish'd Hugh, our martyr'd Hugh, is watching o'er your cause— His generous error lost the land — he deem'd the Norman true ; Oh ! forward ! friends, it must not lose the land again m you ! THE VOICE OF LABOR. A CHANT OP THE CITY MEETINGS, A. D. 1843' Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye this sight to-day, When stalwart trade in long brigade, be- yond a king's array, March'd in the blessed light of Heaven beneath the open sky, Strong in the might of sacred right, that none dare ask them why These are the slaves, the needy knaves, ye spit upon with scorn — The spawn of earth, of nameless birth, and basely bred as born ; Yet know, ye soft and silken lords, were we the thing ye say, Your broad domains, your cofler'd gains, your lives were ours to-day ! Measure that rank, from flank to flank ; 'tis fifty thousand strong ; And mark you here, in front and rear, brigades as deep and long ; And know that never blade of foe, or Arran'a deadly breeze, Tried by assay of storm or fray more daunt- less hearts than these : POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. The sinewy smith, little he recks of his own child — the sword ; The men of gear, think you they fear their handiwork — a Lord ? And undismay'd, yon sons of trade might see the battle's front, Who bravely bore, nor bow'd before the deadlier face of want. What lack we here of show or form that lures your slaves to death ? Not serried bands, nor sinewy hands, nor music's martial breath ; And if we broke the bitter yoke our suppli- ant race endure, No robbers we — but chivalry — the Army of the Poor. Shame on ye now, ye lordly crew, that do your betters wrong — We are no base and braggart mob, but mer- ciful and strong. Your henchmen vain, your vassal train would fly our first defiance ; In us — in our strong, tranquil breasts — abides your sole reliance. Ay ! keep them all, castle and hall, coffers and costly jewels — Keep your vile gain, and in its train the pas- sions that it fuels. We envy not your lordly lot — its bloom or its decayance: But ye have that we claim as ours — our right in long abeyance : Leisure to live, leisure to love, leisure to taste our freedom — O ! suffering poor, O ! patient poor, how bit- terly you need them ! "Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your social charter, And city slave or peasant serf, the toiler is its martyr. Where Frank and Tuscan shed their sweat, the goodly crop is theirs — If Norway's toil make rich the soil, she eats the fruit she rears — O'er Maine's green sward there rules no lord, saving the Lord on high ; But we are slaves in our own land — proud masters, tell us why ? The German burgher and his men, brother with brothers live, While toil must wait without your gate what gracious crusts you give, Long in your sight, for our own right we' bent, and still we bend ; — Why did we bow? why do we now proud masters, this must end. s've Perish the past — a generous land is this fair land of ours, And enmity may no man see between itB Towns and Towers. Come, join our bands — here take our hands — now shame on him that lingers, Merchant or Peer, you have no fear from labor's blistered fingers. Come, join at last — perish the past — its trai tors, its seceders — Proud names and old, frank hearts and bolt* t come join and be our Leaders ; But know, ye lords, that be your fcword* with us or with our Wronger, Heaven be our guide, for we shall bide this lot of shame no longer J THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. O ! give me back that royal dream My fancy wrought, When I have seen your sunny eyes Grow moist with thought ; And fondly hoped, dear Love, your heart from mine Its spell had caught ; And laid me down to dream that dream divine, But true methought, Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours blessed as it ought. To learn to love sweet Nature more For your sweet sake, To watch with you — dear friend, with , you!— Its wonders break j POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. The sparkling Spring in that bright face to see Its mirror make — On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing By linn and lake ; And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander musio wake I On some old shell-strewn rock to sit In Autumn eves, Where gray Killiney cools the torrid air Hot Autumn weaves : Or by that Holy Well in mountain lone, Where Faith believes (Fain would I believe) its secret, darling wish True love achieves. Yet, O ! its Saint was not more pure than she to whom my fond heart cleaves. T© see the dank mid-winter night Pass like a noon, Sultry with thought from minds that teem'd, And glow'd like June : Whereto would pass in sculp'd and pic- tured train Art's magic boon ; And Music thrill with many a haughty strain. And dear old tune, Till hearts grew sad to hear the destined hour to part had come so soon. To wake the old weird world that sleeps In Irish lore ; The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung By Mulla's shore ; Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds That shine and soar; Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows That Grattan swore ; fhe songs that once our own dear Davis sung — ah, me ! to sing no more. To search with mother-love the gifts Our land can boast — Soft Erna's isles, Neagh's wooded slopes, Clare's iron coast ; Kildare, whose legions gray our bosom stir With fay and ghost ; Gray Mourne, green Antrim, purple Glenmalur — Lene's fairy host ; With raids to many a foreign land to learn to love dear Ireland most. And all those proud old victor-fields We thrill to name ; Whose memories are the stars that light Long nights of shame ; The Cairn, the Dun, the Rath, the Tower, the Keep, That still proclaim In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep, Was Eire's fame. O ! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend we two have loved the same. Yet ah ! how truer, tend'rer still Methought did seem That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home, By Dodder's stream ; The morning smile, that grew a fixed star, With love-lit beam, The ringing laugh, lock'd hands, and all the far And shining stream Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream. For still to me, dear Friend, dear Love, Or both — dear Wife, Your image comes with serious thoughts, But tender, rife ; No idle plaything to caress or chide In sport or strife ; But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, To walk through life, Link'd hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true husband and true wife. POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. SWEET SIBYL. Mr Love is as fresh as the morning sky, My Love is as soft as the summer air, My Love is as true as the Saints on high, And never was saint so fair ! O, glad is my heart when I name her name, For it sounds like a song to me — I'll love you, it sings, nor heed their blame, For you love me, Astor Machree 1 Sweet Sibyl ! sweet Sibyl 1 my heart is wild With the fairy spell that her eyes have lit; I Bit in a dream where my Love has smiled — I kiss where her name is writ ! O, darling, I fly like a dreamy boy ; The toil that is joy to the strong and true, The life that the brave for their land employ, I squander in dreams of you. The face of my Love has the changeful light That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring ; The voice of my Love is a strange delight, As when birds in the May-time sing. O, hope of my heart ! O, light of my life! O, come to me, darling, with peace and rest ! Oj come like the Summer, my own sweet wife, To your home in my longing breast ! Be bless'd with the home sweet Sibyl will sway, With the glance of her soft and queenly eyes ; O ! happy the love young Sibyl will pay With the breath of her tender sighs. That home is the hope of my waking dreams — That love fills my eye with pride — There's light in their glance, there's joy in their beams, When I think of my own young bride. A LAY SERMON. Brother, do you love your brother ? Brother, are you all you seem ? Do you live for more than living ? Has your Life a law, and scheme ? Are you prompt to bear its duties, As a brave man may beseem ? Brother, shun the mist exhaling From the fen of pride and doubt, Neither seek the house of bondage Walling straiten'd souls about ; Bats ! who from their narrow spy-hole, Cannot see a world without. Anchor in no stagnant shallow — Trust the wide and wondrous sea, Where the tides are fresh forever, And the mighty currents free ; There, perchance, O ! young Columbu* Your New World of truth may be. Favor wjll not make deserving — (Can the sunshine brighten clay?) Slowly must it grow to blossom, Fed by labor and delay, And the fairest bud of promise Bears the taint of quick decay. You must strive for better guerdons j Strive to be the thing you'd seem ; Be the thing that God hath made you, Channel for no borrow'd stream ; Me hath lent you mind and conscience ; See you travel in their beam ! See you scale life's misty highlands By this light of living truth ! And with bosom braced for labor, Breast them in your manly youth ; So when age and care have found yon, Shall your downward path be smooth. Fear not, on that rugged highway, Life may want its lawful zest : Sunny glens are in the mountain, Where the weary feet may rest, Cool'd in streams that gush forever From a loving mother's breast. POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. " Simple heart and simple pleasures," So they write life's golden rule ; Honor won by supple baseness, State that crowns a canker'd fool, Gleam as gleam the gold and purple On a hot and rancid pool. Wear no show of wit or science, But the gems you've won, and weigh'd ; Thefts, like ivy on a ruin, Make the rifts they seem to shade : Are you not a thief and beggar In the rarest spoils array'd ? Shadows deck a sunny landscape, Making brighter all the bright : So, my brother ! care and danger On a loving nature light, Bringing all its latent beauties Out upon the common sight. Love the things that God created, Make your brother's need your care ; Scorn and hate repel God's blessings, But where love is, they are there ; As the moonbeams light the waters, Leaving rock and sand-bank bare. Thus, my brother, grow and flourish, Fearing none and loving all ; For the true man needs no patron, ' He shall climb and never crawl : Two things fashion their own channel — The strong man and the waterfall. O'DONNELL AND THE FAIR FITZ- GERALD. A fawn that flies with sudden spring, A wild-bird fluttering on the wing, A passing gleam of April sun, She flash'd upon me, and was gone ! No chance did that dear face restore, Nor then — nor now — nor evermore. But sure, I see her in my dreams, With eyes where love's first dawning beams ; And tones, like Irish Music, say — " Tou ask to love me, and you may ;" And so I know she will be mine, That rose of -princely Geraldine. A voice that thrills with modest doubt, A tale of love can ill pour out ; But, oh ! when love wore manly guise, And warrior feats woke woman's sighs — With Irish sword, on Irish soil, I might have won that kingly spoil. But then, perchance, the Desmond race Had deem'd to mate with mine disgrace ; For mine's that strain of native blood That last the Norman lance withstood ; And still when mountain war was waged Their sparths among the Normans raged, And burst through many a serried line Of Lacy, Burke, and Geraldine. And yet methinks in battle press, My love, I could not love you less ; For, oh ! 'twere sweet brave deeds to do For our old, sainted land, and you ! To sweep a storm, through Barrensmore, With Docwra's scatter'd ranks before, Like chaff upon our northern blast ; Nor rest till Bann's broad wares k pass'd, Till Inbhar sees our flashing line, Till Darhar's lordly towers are mine, And backward borne, as seal and sign. The fairest maid of Geraldine. But, Holy Bride, 1 how sweeter still A hunted chief on Faughart hill, With all the raging Pale behind, So sweet, so strange a foe to find ! Soft love to plant where terror sprung, With honey speech of Irish tongue ; Again to dare Clan-Geralt's swords For hope of some sweet, stolen words. Till many a danger pass'd and gone, My suit has sped, my Bride is won — 's proud Clan-Connell's Queen, and Young Geraldine, of Geraldine. POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DFFFY. But sure that time is dead and gone When worth a'one such love had won, For hearts are cold, and hands are bought, And faith, and lore, and love are naught ? Ah ! trust me, no ! The pure and true The genial past may still renew ; Still love as then ; and still no less Strong hearts ihall snatch a brave success And to their end right onward go, As Erna's tide to Assaroe.' Oh ! Saints may strive for Martyr's crown. And warriors watch by leaguer'd town, But poor is all their toil to mine, 'Till won's my Bride — my Geraldine ! POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON. SIR TURLOTTGH, OR THE CHURCH- YARD BRIDE.' The bride she bound her golden hair — Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And her step was light as the breezy air When it bends the morning flowers so fair, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And oh, but her eyes they danced so bright, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! As she long'd for the dawn of to-morrow's light, Her bridal vows of love to plight, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 1 Li the churchyard of Erigle Truagh, In the barony of Tru- »gh, county Monaghan, there is said to be a Spirit which appears to persons whose families are there Interred. Its appearance, which Is generally made in the following manner, Is uniformly fatal, being an omen of death to those who are so unhappy as to meet with it. When a funeral takes place, It watches the person who remains last in the graveyard, over whom it possesses a fascinating influence. If the loit»rer be a young man, it takes the shape of a beautiful female, Inspires him with a charmed passion, and exacts a promise to meet in the churchyard on a month from that day ; this promise is ■ealed by a kiss, which communicates a deadly taint to the In- dividual who receives it. It then disappears, and no sooner does the young man quit the churchyard, than he remembers the history of the spectre— which is well known in the parish —sinks into despair, dies, and is buried in the place of appointment on the day when the promise was to have been fulfilled. If, on the contrary, it appears to a female, it as- sumes the form cf a young man of exceeding elegance and beauty. Some years ago I was shown the grave of a young person about eighteen years of age, who was said to have fallen a victim to it : and it is not more than ten months since a man in the same parish declared that he gave the promise and the fatal kiss, and consequently looked upon himself as lost. He took a fever, died, and was buried on the day appointed for the meeting, which was exactly a month from that of the Interview. There are several cases of the same kind men- tioned, but the two now alluded to are the only ones that came within my personal knowledge. It appears, however, that the epectre does not confine its operations to the churchyard, as there have been instances mentioned cf its appearance at weddings and dances, where it never failed to secure its vic- tims by dancing them into p\ enritic fevers. I am unable to say whether this is a strictly local superstition, or whether it is considered peculiar to other churchyards in Ireland, or else- where. In its female shape it somewhat resembles the Bile maids of Scandinavia ; but I am acquainted with no account The bridegroom is come with youthful brow, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! To receive from his Eva her virgin vow ; " Why tarries the bride of my bosom now !" By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. A cry ! a cry ! — 'twas her maidens spoke, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! "Your bride is asleep — she has not awoke; And the sleep she sleeps will be never broke," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan, Killeevy, O Killeevy 1 And his cheek became like the marble stone — " Oh, the pulse of my heart is forever gone 1" By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The keen' is loud, it comes again, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And rises sad from the funeral-train, As in sorrow it winds along the plain, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. of fairies or apparitions In which the sex is said to be changed, except in that of the devil himself. The country people say it is Death. J The Irish cry, or wailing for the dead ; properly written Cadne, and pronounced as if written keen. Speaking of this practice, which still prevails in many parts of Ireland, the Rev. A. Koss, rector of Dungiven, in his statistical survey of that parish, observes that " however it may offend the Judgment or shock our present refinement, its affecting cadences will continue to find admirers wherever what is truly sad and plain- tive can be relished or understood." It is also thus noticed in the "Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry :"—" I have often, indeed always, felt that there is something exceedingly touching in the IriBh cry ; in fact, that it breathes the very spirit of wild and natural sorrow. The Irish peasantry, whenever a death takes place, are exceedingly happy in seiz- ing upon any contingent circumstances that may occur, and making them subservient to the excitement of grief for the de- parted,, or the exaltation and praise of his character and vir- tues. My entrance was a proof of this ; for I bad scarcely advanced to the middle of the floor, when my intimacy with the deceased, our boyish sports, and even our quarrels, were adverted to with a natural eloquence and pathos, that, in splta of my firmness, occasioned me to feel the prevailing sorrow They spoke, or chanted, mournfully, in Irish : but the lab* POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON. And oh, but the plumes of while were fair, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! When they flutter'd all mournful in the air, As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer, 1 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. There is a voice that hut one can hear, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And it softly pours from behind the bier, Its note of death on Sir Turlpugh's ear, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The keen is loud, but that voice is low, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And it sings its song of sorrow slow, And names young Turlough's name with woe, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed, The fairest corpse among the dead, 3 By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The wreaths of virgin-white are laid, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! By virgin hands, o'er the spotless maid ; And the flowers are strewn, but they soon will fade By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " Oh ! go not yet — -not yet away, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Let us feel that life is near our clay," The long-departed seem to say, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. stance of what they said was as follows :— ' O, you're lying low this mornin* of sorrow I lying low are you, and does not know who it is (alluding to me) that is standin' over you, weepin' for the days you've spent together in your youth I It's yourself, amshta agus asthore. ?nachree, (the pulse and beloved of my heart,) that would stretch out the right hand warmly to welcome him to the place of his birth, where you had both been so often happy about the green hills and valleys with each other !' They then passed on to an enumeration of his virtues as a father, a husband, sou, and brother— specified his worth as he stood related to society in general, and his kind- ness as a neighbor and a friend." 1 It is usual in the North of Ireland to celebrate mass for the dead in some green field between the house in which the deceased lived and the graveyard. For this the shelter of a grove is usually selected, and the appearance of the ceremony is highly picturesque and solemn. a Another expression peculiarly Irish, "What a purty corpse 1" — " How well she becomes death 1" " You wouldn't meet a purtier corpse of a summer's day 1" "She bears the change well !" are all phrases quite common in -\ases of death among the peasantry. But the tramp and the voices of life are gone, Killeevy, O Killeevy And beneath each cold forgotten stone, The mouldering dead sleep all alone, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. But who is he who lingereth yet ? Killeevy, O Killeevy ! The fresh green sod with his tears is wet, And his heart in the bridal grave is set, By the bonnie green woods of Killepvy. Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and brave, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Should bend him o'er that bridal grave, And to his death-bound Eva rave, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy ? "Weep not — weep not," said a lady fair, Killeevy, Killeevy ! " Should youth and valor thus despair, And pour their vows to the empty air ?" By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. There's charmed music upon her tongue, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Such beauty, bright, and warm, and young, Was never seen the maids among, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. A laughing light, a tender grace, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Sparkled in beauty around her face, That grief from mortal heart might c"hase, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " The maid for whom thy salt tears fall, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Thy grief or love can ne'er recall ; She rests beneath that grassy pall, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " My heart it strangely cleaves to thee, Killeevy, Killeevy ! And now that thy plighted love is free, Give its unbroken pledge to me, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON. The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! His faithless tears are already dry, And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. u To thee," the charmed chief replied, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! " I pledge that love o'er my buried bride ; Oh ! come, and in Turlough's hall abide," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Again the funeral voice came o'er Killeevy, O Killeevy ! The passing breeze, as it wail'd before, And streams of mournful music bore, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. ** If I to thy youthful heart am dear, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! One month from hence thou wilt meet me here, Where lay thy bridal, Eva's bier," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. He press'd her lips as the words were spoken, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And his banshee's 1 wail — now far and broken — Murmur'd " Death," as he gave the token, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " Adieu ! adieu !" said this lady bright, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And she slowly pass'd like a thing of light Or a morning cloud from Sir Turlough's sight, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And there's fear and grief o'er his wide domain, And gold for those who will calm his brain, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. » "Woman of the hill."— Treating of the superstitions of the Irish, Miss Balfonr says, " What rank the banshee holds in the scale of spiritual beings, it is not easy to determine ; but her favorite occupation seems to be that of fortelling the death of the different branches of the families over which she pre- sided, by the most plaintive cries. Every family bad formerly Us banshee, but the belief in her existence is now fast fading away, and in a few more years 6he will only be remembered in the storied records of her marvellous doings in days long tince gone by." " Come haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's pride, Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The leech groan'd loud, " Come tell me this, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! By all thy hopes of weal and bliss, Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss ?" By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " The banshee's cry is loud and long, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! At eve she weeps her funeral-song, And it floats on the twilight breeze along," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " Then the fatal kiss is given ; — the last Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Of Turlough's race and name is past, His doom is seal'd, his die is cast," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " Leech, say not that thy skill is vain ; Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain, And half his lands thou shalt retain," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The leech has fail'd, and the hoary priest, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! With pious shrift his soul released, And the smoke is high of his funeral-feast, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The shanachies now are assembled all Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And the songs of praise in Sir Turlough's hall, To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And there is trophy, banner, and plume, Killeevy, O Killeevy I And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom, O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON. Hie month is closed, and Green Troagha's pride, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Is married to death — and, side by side, He slnmbers now with his churchyard bride, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY. Take, proud ambition, take thy fill Of pleasure* won through toil or crime ; Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill, And give thy name to future time ■ Philosophy, be keen to see Whate'er is just, or false, or vain, Take each thy meed, but, oh ! give me To range my mountain glens again. Pore was the breeze that fann'd my cheek, As o'er Knockmany's brow I went • When every lonely, dell could speak In airy music, vision sent : False world, I hate thy cares and thee, I hate the treacherous haunts of men ; Give back my early heart to me, Give back to me my mountain gler How light my youthful visions shone, When spann'd by fancy's radiant form 1 But now her glittering bow is gone, And leaves me but the cloud and storm. With wasted form, and cheek all pale — With heart long scarr'd by grief and pain ,. Dunroe, I'll seek thy native gale, I'll tread my mountain glens again. Thy breeze once.more may fan my blood, Thy valleys all are lovely still ; And I may stand, where oft I stood, In lonely musings on thy hill. But ah ! the spell is gone ; — no art, In crowded town or native plain, Can teach a crush'd and breaking heart To pipe the song of youth again. POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. A MUNSTER KEEN. On Monday morning, the flowers were gayly springing, The skylark's hymn in middle air was sing- ing, When, grief of griefs ! my wedded husband left me, And since that hour of hope and health be- reft me. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &o.' Above the board, where thou art low re- clining, Have parish priests and horsemen high been dining, And wine and usquebaugh, while they were able, They quafF'd with thee — the soul of all the table. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. Why didst thou die ? Could wedded wife adore thee With purer love than that my bosom bore thee? Thy children's cheeks were peaches ripe and mellow, And threads of gold, their tresses long and yellow. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. In vain for me are pregnant heifers lowing ; In vain for me are yellow harvests growing ; Or thy nine gifts of love in beauty bloom- ing- Tears blind my eyes, and grief my heart's consuming ! Ulia gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. Pity her plaints whose wailing voice is bro- ken, Whose finger holds our early wedding token, The torrents of whose tears have drain'd their fountain, Whose piled -up grief on grief is past re- counting. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. I still might hope, did I not thus behold thee, That high Knockferin's airy peak might hold thee, Or Crohan's fairy halls, or Corrin's towers, Or Lene's bright caves, or Cleana's bowers.* Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. But, O ! my black despair, when thou wert dying ! O'er thee no tear was wept, no heart was sighing — No breath of prayer did waft thy soul to glory; But lonely thou didst lie, all maim'd and gory! Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. O ! may your dove-like soul, on whitest pinions, Pursue her upward flight to God's domin- ions, ■ PlaceB celebrated in fairy topography. POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. Where saints' and martyrs' hands shall gifts provide thee — And, O, my grief i that I am not beside thee ! Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. BATTLE OF CREDRAK (1257.) [A brilliant battle was fought by Geoffrey O'Donnell, Lord Cf Tirconnell, against the Lord Justice of Ireland, Maurice Fitzgerald, and the English of Connanght, at Credran Cilk, Eoseede, in the territory of Carburry, north of Sligo, in de- fence of his principality. A fierce and terrible conflict took place, in which bodies were hacked, heroes disabled, and the strength of both sides exhausted. The men of Tirconnell maintained their ground, and completely overthrew the Eng- ing encountered in the flght Maurice Fitzgerald, in single eombat, in which they mortally wounded each other.— inmate qf the Four Masters.] Fbom the glens of his fathers O'Donnell comes forth, With all Cinel-Conall, 1 fierce septs of the North— O'Boyle and O'Daly, O'Dugan, and they That own, by the wild waves, O'Doherty's sway. Clan Connor, brave sons of the diadem'd Niall, Has pour'd the tall clansmen from mountain and vale — M'Sweeny's sharp axes, to battle oft bore, Flash bright in the sunlight by high Duna- more. Through Inis-Mac-Durin,* througn Derry's dark brakes, Glentocher of tempests, Slieve-snacht of the lakes, Bundoran of dark spells, Loch-Swilly's rich glen, The red deer rush wild at the war-shout of men ! 1 Cinel-Conall.— The descendants of Conall-Gnlban, the son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, Monarch of Ireland in the fourth •century. The principality was named Tir Chonaile, or Tyr- «onuell, which included the county Donegal, and its chiefs •were the O'Donnells. « Districts in Donegal. O! why through Tir-Conall, from Cuil- dubh's dark steep, To SamerV green border the fierce masses sweep, Living torrents o'er-leaping their own river shore, In the red sea of battle to mingle their roar? Stretch thy vision far southward, and seek for reply Where blaze of the hamlets glares red on the sky — Where the shrieks of the hopeless rise high to their God — Where the foot of the Sassenach spoiler has trod! Sweeping on like a tempest, the Gall-Oglach 4 stern Contends for the van with the swift-footed kern — There's blood for that burning, and joy for that wail — The avenger is hot on the spoiler's red trail ! The Saxon hath gathered on Credran's far heights, His groves of long lances, the flower of his knights — His awful cross-bowmen, whose long iron hail Finds through Cota' and Sciath, the bare heart of the Gael ! The long lance is brittle — the mailed ranks reel Where the Gall-Oglach's axe hews the har- ness of steely'' And truer to i + „ aim in the breast of a foe- ma-, Is the pike of a Kern than the shaft of a bowman. 3 Same?-.— The ancient name of Loch Earne. 4 Oall-Oglach or Gallowglass.— The heavy-armed foot Bol- Uer. Kern or Cei/hernach.—Tbe light-armed soldier. 6 Cota.— The saffron-dyed 6hirt of the kern, consisting of many yards of yellow linen thickly plaited. SciatA.— Th» wicker shield, as its name imports. POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 701 One prayer to St. Columb 1 — the battle-steel The tide of fierce conflict tumultuousiy dashes ; Surging onward, high -heaving its billow of blood, While war-shout aDd death-groan swell high o'er the flood ! As meets the wild billows the deep-centred rock, Met glorious Clan-Conall the fierce Saxon's. shock ; As the wrath of the clouds flash'd the axe of Clan-Conell, Till the Saxon lay strewn 'neath the might of O'Donnell ! One warrior alone holds the wide bloody field, With barbed black charger and long lance and shield — Grim, savage, and gory he meets their ad- vance, His broad shield uplifting, and couching his lance. Then forth to the van of that fierce rushing throng Rode a chieftain of tall spear and battle-axe strong ; His Bracca* and geochal, and eoehaPs red fold, And war-horse's housings, were radiant in gold ! Say who is this chief sparring forth to the fray, The wave of whose spear holds yon armed array ? > St. Cohan, or Colum-CUle, the dove of the Church.— The patron saint of Tyrconnell, descended from Conall Gnlban. * Braeca.— So called, from being striped with various colors, was the tight-fitting Trnis. It covered the ankles, legs, and thighs, rising as high as the loins, and fitted so close to the limbs as to discover every muscle and motion of the parts which it covered. Geochal.— The jacket made of gilded leather, and which was sometimes embroidered with silk. Cochal.—L sort of cloak with a large hanging collar of differ- ent colors This garment reached to the middle of the thigh, and was fringed with a border like shagged hair, and being brought over the shoulders, was fastened on the breast by a clasp, bnckle, or brooch of silver or gold. In battle, they wrapped the Cochal several times round the left arm as a shield.- - WaOur's Drees and Armor of the Irish. And he who stands scorning the Uhousandf that sweep, An army of wolves over shepherdless sheep ? The shield of his nation, brave Geoffrey O'Donnell (Clar-Fodhla's firm prop is the proud race ofConall)" And Maurice Fitzgerald, the scorner of dan- ger. The scourge of the Gael, and the strength of the stranger. The launch'd spear hath torn through target and mail — The couch'd lance hath borne to his crupper the Gael— The steeds driven backward all helplessly reel; But the lance that lies broken hath blood on its steel I And now, fierce O'Donnell, thy battle-axe wield — The broadsword is shiver'd, and cloven the shield, The keen steel sweeps griding through proud crest and crown — Clar-Fodhla hath triumph'd — the Saxon is down! MARGREAD NI CHEALLEADH. [This ballad is founded on the story of Daniel O'Keeffe, an onUaw, famous in the traditions of the County of Cork, where his name is still associated with several localities. It is re- lated that O'Keeffe's beautiful mistress, Margaret Kelly (Mair- gread ni Chealleadh), tempted by a large reward, undertook to deliver him into the hands of the English soldiers ; but O'Keeffe having discovered in her possession a document re- vealing her perfidy, in a frenzy of indignation stabbed her to the heart with his skian. He lived in the time of William m.,. and is represented to have been a gentleman and a poet.] At the dance in the village Thy white foot was fleetest ; -| Thy voice 'mid the concert Of maidens was sweetest ; » This is the translation of the first line of a poem of two hundred and forty-eight verses, written by Pirgai og Mac-ao- Bhaird on Dominick O'Donnell, in the year 1655. The origi- nal line Is— "Galbble Fodhla fail ChonaUl."— O'BeiUy'i Irith WrlUre. 702 POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. The swell of thy white breast Made rich lovers follow ; And thy raven hair bound them, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. Thy neck was, lost maid ! Than the ceanaban 1 whiter; And the glow of thy cheek Than the monadan' brighter; But Death's chain hath bound thee, Thine eye's glazed and hollow That shone like a Sun-burst, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. No more shall mine ear drink Thy melody swelling ; Nor thy beamy eye brighten The outlaw's dark dwelling; Or thy soft heaving bosom My destiny hallow, When thine arms twine around me, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. The moss couch I brought thee To-day from the mountain, Has drank the last drop Of thy young heart's red fountain ; For this good skian beside me Struck deep and rung hollow In thy bosom of treason, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. With strings of rich pearls Thy white neck was laden, And thy fingers with spoils Of the Sassenach maiden : Such rich silks enrobed not The proud dames of Mallow — Such pure gold they wore not As Mairgread ni Chealleadh. Alas ! that my loved one Her outlaw would injure — Alas ! that he e'er proved Her treason's avenger ! 1 A plant found In bogs, tbc top of which bears a substance resembling cotton, and as white as Bnow. Pronounced Cfin- *vfin. 1 The monadan is a red berry that Is found on wild marshr mountains. It grows on an humble creeping plant. That this right hand should make thee A bed cold and hollow, When in Death's sleep it laid thee, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh! And while to this lone cave My deep grief I'm venting, The Saxon's keen bandog My footsteps is scenting : But true men await me Afar in Duhallow. Farewell, cave of slaughter, And Mairgread ni Chealleadh. O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER. One midsummer's eve, when the Bel-fires were lighted, And the bag-piper's tone call'd the maidens delighted, I join'd a gay group by the Araglin's water, And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's Daughter. Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in Kerry? Have you mark'd on the Galteys the black whortle-berry, Or ceanaban wave by the wells of Black- water ? — They're the cheek, eye, and neck of O'Dono- van's Daughter ! Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh'a round mountain ? The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue fountain ? Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy choir taught her ? They've the step, grace, and tone of O'Dono- van's Daughter ! Have you mark'd in its flight the black wing of the raven ? The rose-buds that breathe in the breeze waven ? POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. "The pearls that lie hid under Lene's magic water ? They're the teeth, lip, and hair of O'Dono- van's Daughter 1 Ere the Bel-fire was dimm'd, or the dancers departed, I taught her a song of some maid broken- hearted : And that group, and that dance, and that love-song I taught her Haunt my slumbers at night with O'Dono- van's Daughter. God grant 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn that wooes me, God grant 'tis not Cliodhna the queen that pursues me, That my soul lost and lone has no witchery wrought her, While I dream of dark groves and O'Dono- van's Daughter ! If, spell-bound, I pine with an airy disorder, Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry's wide border ; She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer I've besought her, That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's Daughter. BRIGHIDrN BAN" MO STORE. [Brighidin ban mo star is in English fair young bride, < Bridget my treasure. The proper sonnd of this phrase is n< easily found by the mere English-speaking Irish. It is as written, " Bree-dheen-bawn-mii-sthore" The proper nan Brighit, or Bride, signifies a fiery dart, and was the name < he goddess of poetry in the Pagan days of Ireland.] I am a wand'ring minstrel man, And Love my only theme, I've stray'd beside the pleasant Bann, And eke the Shannon's stream ; I've piped and play'd to wife and maid By Barrow, Suir, and Nore, But never met a maiden yet Like Brighidin Ban Mo Store. My girl hath ringlets rich and rare, By Nature's fingers wove — Loch-Carra's swan is not so fair As is her breast of Love ; And when she moves, in Sunday sheen, Beyond our cottage door, I'd scorn the high-born Saxon queen For Brighidin Ban Mo Store. It is not that thy smile is sweet, And soft thy voice of song — It is not that thou fleest to meet My comings lone and long ; But that doth rest beneath thy breast A heart of purest core, Whose pulse is known to me alone, My Brighidin Ban Mo Store. MO CRAOIBHIN CNO.* My heart is far from Liffey's tide And Dublin town ; It strays beyond the Southern side OfCnoc-Maol-Donn," Where Cappoquin' hath woodlands green, Where Amhan-MhorV waters flow, Where dwells unsung, unsought, unseen, Mo craoibhin cno I Low clustering in her leafy screen, Mo craoibhin cno ! The high-bred dames of Dublin town Are rich and fair, With wavy plume, and silken gown, And stately air ; Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair? Can silks thv neck of snow ? 1 Mo craoibhin cno literally means my cluster of nuts ; but it figuratively signifies my nut-brown maid. It is pronounced Ma Creevin Kno. * Cnoc-maol Bonn— The Brown bare Mil. A lofty mountain between the county of Tipperary and that of Waterford, com- manding a glorious prospect of unrivalled scenery. * Cappoquin. A romantically situated town on the Black- water, in the county of Waterford. The Irish name dcnoteB the head of the tribe of Conn. ' Amhan-mhor—The Great River. The Blackwater, which flows into the sea at YoughaL The IriBh, name is ottered in two sounds Oan-Vore. 704 POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. Or measured pace, ttiine artless grace, Mo craoibhin cno ! When harebells scarcely show thy trace, Mo craoibhin cno ! I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave That maidens sung — They sung their land the Saxon's slave, In Saxon tongue — Oh ! bring me here that Gaelic dear Which cursed the Saxon foe, When thou didst charm my raptured ear, Mo craoibhin cno I And none but God's good angels near, Mo craoibhin cno I IV e wander'd by the rolling Lee ! And Lene's green bowers — I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea, And Limerick's towers— And Liffey's tide, where halls of pride Frown o'er the flood below ; My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side, Mo craoibhin cno ! With love and thee for aye to hide, Mo craoibhin cno ! AILEEN THE HUNTRESS. [The incident related in the following ballad happened mbont the year 1731. Aileen, or Ellen, was daughter of M'Car- tie of Clidane, an estate originally bestowed upon this respect- able branch of the family of M'Cartie More, by James the seventh Earl of Desmond, and which, passing safe through the confiscations of Elizabeth, Cromwell, and William, re- mained in their possession until the beginning of the present century. Aileen, who is celebrated in the traditions of the people for her love of hunting, was the wife of James O'Con- nor, of Cluaki-Tairbh, grandson of David, the founder of the SioU Da, a well-known sept at this day in Kerry. This David was grandson to Thomas MacTeige O'Connor, of Ahalahanna, head of the second house of O'Connor Kerry, who, forfeiting -n 1666, escaped destruction by taking shelter among his rela- tions, the Nagles of Monanimy.] Faik Aileen M'Cartie, O'Connor's young bride, Forsakes her chaste pillow with matronly pride, And calls forth her maidens (their number was nine) To the bawn of her mansion, a-milking the kine. They came at her bidding, in kirtle and gown, And braided hair, jetty, and golden, and brown, And form like the palm-tree, and step like the fawn, And bloom like the wild rose that circled the bawn. As the Guebre's round tower o'er the fane of Ardfert — As the white hini of Brandon by young roes .begirt — As the moon in her glory 'mid bright stars outhung — Stood Aileen M'Cartie her maidens among. Beneath the rich kerchief, which matrons may wear, Stray'd ringleted tresses of beautiful hair ; They waved on her fair neck, as darkly as though 'Twere the raven's wing shining o'er Man- gerton's snow ! A circlet of pearls o'er her white bosom lay, Erst worn by thy proud Queen, O'Connor the gay, 1 And now to the beautiful Aileen come down, The rarest that ever shed light in the Laune.' The many-fringed falluinn* that floated be- hind, Gave its hues to the sun-light, its folds to the wind — The brooch that refrain'd it, some forefather bold Had torn from a sea-king in battle-field old ! 3 The river Laune flows from the Lakes of Killarney, the celebrated Kerry Pearls are found in its waters. » FaBuinn.— The Irish mantle. POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 705 Around her went bounding two wolf-dogs of speed, So tall in their stature, so pure in their breed ; While the maidens awake to the new-milk's soft fall, A song of O'Connor in Carraig's proud hall. As the milk came outpouring, and the song came outsung, O'er the wall 'mid the maidens a red deer outsprung — Then cheer'd the fair lady — then rush'd the mad hound — And away with the wild stag in air-lifted bound ! The gem-fasten'd falluinn is dash'd on the bawn — One spring o'er the tall fence — and Aileen is gone ! But morning's roused echoes to the deep dells proclaim The course of that wild stag, the dogs, and the dame ! By Cluain Tairbh's green border, o'er moor- land and height, The red deer shapes downward the rush of his flight — In sun-light his antlers ail-gloriously flash, And onward the wolf-dogs and fair huntress dash! By Sliabh-Mis now winding (rare hunting I ween !) He gains the dark valley of Scota the Who found in its bosom a cairn-lifted grave, When Sliabh-Mis first flow'd with the blood of the brave ! 1 The first battle fought between the Milesians and the Tuatha de Danans for the empire of Ireland was at Sliabh-Mis, In Kerry, In which Scota, an Egyptian princess, and the relict of Melesins, was slain. A valley on the north side of Sliabh- Mis, called Glean Scoithin, or the vale of Scota, is said to be the place of her Interment. The ancient chronicles as- sert that this battle was fought 1300 years before the Chris- By Coill-CuaighV green shelter, the hollow rocks ring — Coill-Cuaigh, of the cuckoo's first song in the spring, Coill-Cuaigh of the tall oak and gale-scent- ing spray — God's curse on the tyrants that wrought thy decay ! Now Maing's lovely border is gloriously won, Now the towers of tne island* gleam bright in the sun, And now Ceall-an Amanach's' portals are pass'd, Where headless the Desmond found refuge at last ! By Ard-na greach* mountain, and Avon- more's ^ead, To the Earl's proud pavilion the panting deer fled — Where Desmond's tall clansmen spread ban- ners of pride, And rush'd to the battle, and gloriously died 5 The huntress is coming, slow; breathless, and pale, Her raven locks streaming all wild in the gale; She stops — and the breezes bring balm to her brow — But wolf-dog and wild deer, oh ! where are they now ? On R&idhlan-Tigh-an-Earla, by Avonmore's well, His bounding heart broken, the hunted deer fell, ' (MU-Cualgh— the Wood of the Cuckoo,— so called from being the favorite haunt of the bird of summer, is now a bleat desolate moor. The axe of the stranger laid its honors low. » " Castle Island" or the " Island of Kerry,"— the stronghold of the Fitzgeralds. 4 It was in this churchyard that the headless remains of the unfortunate Gerald, the 16th Earl of Desmond, were privately interred. The head was carefully pickled, and sent over to the English queen, who had it fixed on London bridge. This mighty chieftain possessed more than 570,000 acres of land, and had a train of 500 gentlemen of his own name and race. At the source of the Blackwater, where he sought refjge from his inexorable foes, is a mountain called " Eeidhlan-Tigh-an- ESrla," or "The Plain of the Earl's House." He waB slaitt near Castle Island on 11th November, 1583. • Ard na greaeh,—the height of the spoilB or armiea. POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. And o'er him the brave hounds all gallantly died, O'er the red deer and tall dogs that lie on the hill ! fcj death still victorious — their fangs in his side. Whose harp at the banquet told distant and wide, This feat of fair Aileen, O'Connor's young Ti« evening — the hreezes heat cold on her hride? hreast, And Aileen must seek her far home in the O'Daly's — whose guerdon tradition hath told, west; Y'/ weeping, she lingers where the mist- wreaths are chill. Was a purple-crown'd wine-cup of beantifnl goldl POEMS OF ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. FORGET ME NOT. (prom "blanid.") "' The East Wind sprang into a lovely place, .And cried, ' I'll slay the flowers and leave no trace Of all their blooming in this happy spot! ' And, as before his breath the sweet flowers died, ■One little bright-eyed blossom moaned and cried, ' woods! forget me not! forget me not! " ' woods of waving trees! living streams! In all your noontide joys and starry dreams, Let me, for love, let me be unforgot! O birds that sing your carols while I die, ■0 list to me! hear my piteous cry! Forget me not! alas! forget me not! ' "And the Gods heard her plaint and swept away The bitter-fanged, strong East Wind from his prey, And smiled upon the flower and changed her lot, So now that, as we mark her azure leaf, We think of life and love and parting grief, And sigh, 'Forget me not! forget me not! ' " THE DOVES. (from "blanid.") '" My little blue doves were born, Were born in the windy March, Up in the tapering larch 'That laughs in the light of morn: O, so high o'er the meadow! 0, so high o'er the glen! And they sit in the leafy shadow, The joy and delight of men, Cooing, with voices flowing In melody soft and sweet, Their necks with the rainbow glowing, And the pink on their silver feet. " My little doves lived together, Unweeting of woe and pain, Through the days of the winds and rain And the sunny and fragrant weather; And the lark sang o'er them in heaven, And the linnet from banks of flowers, And the robin chanted at even, And the thrush in the morning hours Carolled to cheer their wooing, And the blackbird merry and bold Answered their cooing, cooing Out from the windy wold. " When the daisy its eye uncloses, And the cowslip glistens with dew, And the hyacinth pure and blue And the lilies and pearl-bright roses Prink themselves in the splendor Of the delicate white-foot Dawn, ' Mid the flowers and the fragrance tender My little dove's heart was thawn With love by the cooing, cooing Of the gentle mate at her side, And they married in midst of their wooing, My bridegroom and woodland bride! " WHAT IS THIS LOVE? (from "blanid.") What is this love, — this love that My heart's warm pulses quiver? They say it is the power that wakes The hyacinth 'mid hazel brakes, The lilies by the river, POEMS OF ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. And that same tiling that bids the dove Sit in the pine-tree high above, Its sweetheart wooing; But oh ! alas! whate'er it be, And howsoe'er it comes to me, It comes for my undoing! The lily of the river side By its sweet mate reposes Through autumn moons and winter-tide, To wake in love and beauty's pride When comes the time of roses; And in the springing of the year The doves' sweet voices you will hear Their vows renewing; But oh! alas! whate'er love be, And howsoe'er it comes to me, It comes for my undoing! THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK, i. He grasped his ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more, To hear the bombshells bursting, and thun- dering battle's roar; He said, " The breach they're mounting, the Dutchman's murdering crew — I'll try my hammer on their heads, and see what that can do! ii. "Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well, 'Tie Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or shell." "Ah, sure," cried both, " the horse can wait — for Sarsfield's on the wall, And where you go, we'll follow, with you to stand or fall!" in. The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street, His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet — High on the breach of Limerick, with daunt- less hearts they stood, Where bombshells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood. IV. " Now look you, brown-haired Moran, and mark you, swarthy Ned, This day we'll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman's head! Hurrah! upon their bloody path they're mounting gallantly; A/id now the first that tops the breach, leave- him to this and me!" The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave, — A captain of the grenadiers, with blood- stained dirk and glaive; He pointed, and he parried, but it was all in vain, For fast through skull and helmet the ham- mer found his brain! VI. The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold, Bright, through the dust of battle, his hel- met flashed with gold. " Gold is no match for iron," the doughty blacksmith said, As with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman's head. " Hurrah for gallant Limerick! " black Ned and Moran cried, As on the Dutchmen's leaden heads their hammers well they plied. A bombshell burst between them — one fell without a groan, One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown. Brave smith ! brave smith ! " cried Sarsfield r "beware the treacherous mine! POEMS OF THOMAS DWYER JOYCE. TOO Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or surely death is thine! " The smith sprang up the rampart, and leaped the blood-stained wall, As high into the shuddering air went foe- men, breach, and all! I T p, like a red volcano, they thundered wild and high, — Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foe- men through the sky; And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell; — He thought upon his 'prentice boys — they were avenged well. On foemen and defenders a silence gathered down; 'Twas broken by a triumph-shout that shook the ancient town, As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew, And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts could do! Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river side; He hammered on the foe's pontoon to sink it in the tide; The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain; "Mavrone! 't won't break," the blacksmith roared; " I'll try their heads again! " He rushed upon the flying ranks — his ham- mer ne'er was slack, For in through blood and bone it crashed, through helmet and through jack; — He's ta'en a Holland captain, beside the red pontoon, And " Wait you here," he boldly cries; " I'll send you back full soon! XIII. "Dost see this gory hammer? It cracked some skulls to-day, And yours 'twill crack if you don't stand and list to what I say: — Here! take it to your cursed king, and tell him softly too, 'Twould be acquainted with his skull, if he were here, not you! " The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bellows strong; He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o'er it sang no song. " Ochone! my boys are dead," he cried; " their loss I'll long deplore, But comfort's in my heart — their graves are red with foreign gore! " IN LIFE'S YOUNG- MORNING. TO MY WIFE. Am— "The Woods in Bloom.' 1 '' In life's young morning I quaffed the wine From Love's bright bowl as it sparkling came, And it warms me ever, that draught divine, When I think of thee, dearest, or name thy name. The night may fall, and the winds may blow From palace gardens or place of tombs, Yet I dream of our Love-time long ago the yellow laburnum blooms. Gay was the garden, bright shone the bower* Like a golden tent 'neath the summer skies, The sunbeams glittered on leaf and flower. And the light of heaven seemed in your eyes; The night may fall, and the winds may blow, But a gladness ever my heart assumes From that wine of love quaffed long ago the yellow laburnum POEMS OF THOMAS DWYER JOYCE. O'er vale and forest dark falls the night, Yet my heart goes back to the sun and shine "When you stood in the glory of girlhood bright Neath the golden blossoms, your hand in mine; The night may fall, and the winds may blow, And the greenwoods wither 'neath winter glooms; Yet it lives forever, that long ago, Beneath the yellow laburnum blooms. Through the misty night to the eye and ear Come the glitber of flowers and the songs of birds, — Come thy looks of fondness to me so dear, And thy witching smiles and thy loving words; The night may Ml and the winds may blow, But that hour forever my soul illumes, — Our golden Love-time long ago, Beneath the yellow laburnum blooms. THE CANNON. Air— " Barrack Hill." I. We are a loving company Of soldiers brave and hearty; We never fought for golden fee, For faction, or for party; The will to make old Ireland free, That set each dauntless man on, And banished us beyond the sea, With our brave iron cannon. And here's the gallant company That fought by Boyne and Shannon, That never feared an enemy, With our brave iron cannon! Come, fill me up a pint o' wine, Until 'tis brimming o'er, boys, Our gun is set in proper line, And we have balls galore, boys; Now, here's a health to good Lord Clare, Who'll lead us on to-morrow, When through the foe our balls will tear, And work them death and sorrow! And here's the gallant company That always forward ran on So boldly on the enemy, With our brave iron cannon! I've brought a wreath of shamrocks here, In memory of our own land, — 'Tis withered like that island drear, — That sorrowful and lone land; I'll hang it nigh our cannon's mouth, To whet our memories fairly, And there's ro flower in all the south Could deck that gun so rarely. And here's the gallant company That soon shall rush each man on, And plough the Saxon enemy With our brave iron cannon! At Limerick how it made them run, The Dutchman and his crew, boys; 'Twas then I made this gallant gun To plough them through and through, boys; And since that day in foreign lands It roared triumphant ever — It blazed away, yet here it stands, Where foeman's foot shall never! And here's the gallant company That soon shall rush each man on, And break and strew the enemy With our brave iron cannon! 'Tis dinted well from mouth to breech With many a battle furrow; A fitting sermon it will preach At Fontenoy to-morrow. Then never let your spirits sink, But stand around, each man on This foreign slope, and we will drink One brave health to our cannon! POEMS OF THOMAS DWYER JOYCE. And here's the gallant company That soon shall rush each man And plough the Saxon enemy With our brave iron cannon! THE MOUNTAIN" ASH. Am— " The Qreen Ash Tree." L The mountain ash blooms in the wild, Or droops above the wandering rill; You ne'er can see A fairer tree, But I know one dear maiden mild With witching form more lovely still. ii. The mountain ash has berries fair, The reddest in the woodlands green; Sweet lips I know With redder glow Than ever lit those berries rare — The red lips of my bosom's queen. The mountain ash has leaves of gold When autumn browns the steep hill's side; Of locks I dream With brighter gleam Of yellow in their braid and fold Than e'er tinged leaf in woodland wide. IV. The mountain ash in winter sear Stands bravely up when wild winds blow; So love shall stand, Serene and bland, Between me and my Ellen dear, A fadeless flower in weal or woe. SONG. (FROM "BLANID.") " Wind of the west that bringest, O'er wood and lea, Perfume of flowers from my lady's bowers And a strain and a melody, — While soft 'mid the bloom thou singest Thy songs of laughter and sighs, Steal in where my darling lies With a kiss to her mouth from me! " White Bose, when at morn thou twinest Her lattice fair, Wave to and fro in the fresh sun's glow Till she wakes and beholds thee there; — When over her brow thou shinest, Then whisper from me, and press On her dear head one fond caress, And a kiss on her yellow hair! " Bose! and Wind that found her 'Mid morning's glee! While the noon goes by, keep ever nigh With your beauty and melody; — With your smile and your song stay round her Till she closes her eyelids bright; Then give her a sweet Good-night And a kiss on the lips from me! " SONG OE THE SUFFEEEE. (FROM "BLANID.") Earth, air, and sun, and moon and star, Of man's strange soul but mirrors are, Bright when the soul is bright, and dark As now, without one saving spark, While the black tides of sorrow flow, And I am suffering and I know! To my sad eyes that sorrow dims The greenest grass the swallow skims, The flowers that once were fair to me, The meadow and the blooming tree, Dark as funereal garments grow, And I am suffering, and I know! The measured sounds of dancing feet, The songs of wood-birds wild and sweet, The music of the horn and flute, Of the gold strings of harp and lute, Unheeded all shall come and go, For I am suffering, and I know! POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY EOCHE. No kindly counsel of a friend Misery, companion dread, With soothing balm the hurt can mend. Thou art the partner of my bed. I walk alone in grief, and make Soul to soul will you and I Mv bitter moan for her dear sake, Ever on the same couch lie, For loss of love is man's worst woe, While life's bitter waters flow, And I am suffering, and I know ! And I am suffering, and I know! 1 POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. THE V-A-S-E. From the madding crowd they stand apa The maidens four and the Work of Art; And none might tell from sight alone In which had Culture ripest grown — The Gotham Million fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree, The Boston Mind of azure hue Or the soulful Soul from For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A. Long they worshipped ; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke The Western one from the nameless place, Who, blushing, said: " What a lovely vase ! " Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo. But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word. Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries: " 'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!" But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the home of Penn, With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims: " It is quite a lovely vahs!" And glances ai-ound with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee And gently murmurs: " Oh, pardon me! I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!" Dies erit prwgelida Sinistra quum Bostonia. ANDROMEDA. They chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone: The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his own; The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there alone. POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. '13 Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her, Ye left her there alone! My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy pain: The night that hath no morrow was brood- ing on the main, But lo! a light is breaking of hope for thee again. 'Tis Perseus' sword a-flaming, thy dawn of day proclaiming Across the western main, Ireland! my country! he comes to break thy chain. netchaie'ef. [Netchaieff, a Russian Nihilist, was condemned to prison lor life. Deprived of writing materials, he allowed his finger-nail to grow until he fashioned it into a pen. With this he wrote, in his blood, on the margins of a book, the story of his sufferings. Almost his last entry was a note that his jailer had just boarded up the solitary pane which admitted a little light into his cell. The " letter written in blood " was smuggled out of the prison and published, and Netchaieff died very soon after. He had been ten years in his dungeon.] Netchaieff is dead, your Majesty. You knew him not, he was a common hind; He lived ten years in hell, and then he died, To seek another hell, as we must think, Since he was rebel to your Majesty. Ten years! The time is long, if only spent In gilded courts and palaces like thine. E'en courtiers, courtesans, and gilded moths That nutter round a throne find weary hours And days of ennui. But Netchaieff Counted the minutes through ten dragging years Of pain. His soul was God's, bis body man's, To chain, and maim, and kill; and he is dead. Yet something left he that you cannot kill — The story of his hell, writ in his blood — Plebeian blood, base, ruddy, yet in hue And substance just such blood as once we 111! the Ekatrinofsky road- And that blood was your sainted sire's, the same That fills your veins and would your face suffuse, Did ever tyrant know the way to blush. The tale ? But to what end repeat A thrice-told tale ? Netchaieff is dead. Ten thousand others live. Go view their lives; See the wan captive, in his narrow cell; Mark the shrunk frame and shoulders bowed and bent; The thin hand trembling, shading blinded From unaccustomed light; the fettered limbs; The shuffling tread and furtive look and start. Bid the dank walls give up the treasured groans, The proud lips still withheld from mortal ear; Ask of the slimy stones what they have seen, And shrank to see, polluted with the blood Of martyred innocence — youth linked to age And both to death — the matron and the maid Prey to the slaver's lust and driver's whip, All gladly welcoming the silent cell And vermin's company, less vile than man's. See these and these in twice a score of hells, And faintly guess what horrors lie behind That you can never see; and you shall guess Why we rejoice that Netchaieff is dead — Kings cannot harm the dead — Kings cannot harm the dead. A SAILOR'S YARN. (AS NARRATED BY THE SECOND MATE TO ONE OF THE MARINES.) This is the tale that was told to me, By a battered and shattered son of the sea; To me and my messmate, Silas Green, Wlien I was a guileless young marine. POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. Twas the good ship GyascuUts, All in the China seas; With the wind a lee, and the capstan free, To catch the summer breeze. 'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck, To the mate in the mizzen hatch, While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold, Was winding his larboard watch. " Oh, how does our good ship head to-night ? How heads our gallant craft ? " " Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N., And the binnacle lies abaft." " Oh, what does the quadrant indicate? And how does the sextant stand?" "Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point, And the quadrant's lost a hand." " Oh, and if the quadrant's lost a hand, And the sextant falls so low. It's our body and bones to Davy Jones This night are bound to go. "Oh, fly aloft to the garboard-strake, And reef the spanker boom, Bend a studding sail on the martingale, To give her weather room. " Oh, Boatswain, down in the for'ard hold What water do you find ? " " Pour foot and a half by the royal gaff And rather more behind." " Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes, And each belaying pin; Come, stir your stumps to spike the pumps. Or more will be coming in." They stirred then- stumps, they spiked the pumps, They spliced the mizzen brace; Aloft and alow they worked, but oh! The water gained apace. They bored a hole below her line To let the water out, But more and more with awful roar The water in did spout. Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship — And he was a lubber brave — " I've several wives in various ports, And my life I'd like to save." Then up spoke the captain of marines, Who dearly loved his prog: " It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry, And I move we pipes to grog." Oh, then 'twas the gallant second-mate As stopped them sailors' jaw, 'Twas the second-mate whose hand had weight In laying down the law. He took the anchor on his back, And leapt into the main; Through foam and spray he clove his way, And sunk and rose again. Through foam and spray a league away The anchor stout he bore, Till, safe at last, he made it fast, And warped the ship ashore. Taint much of a deed to talk about, But a ticklish thing to see, And something to do, if I say it, too, — For that second mate was me! This is the tale that was told to me, By that modest and truthful son of the sea. And I envy the life of a second mate, Though captains curse him and sailors hate; For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen, As would go and lie to a poor marine. THE CORPORAL'S LETTER. When the sword is sheathed and the cannon lies Dumb and still on the parapet, For the spider to weave his silken net And the doves to nest in its silent mouth; When the manly trade declines and dies. And hearts shrink up in ignoble drouth, When pitiful peace reigns everywhere, What is left for old Corporal Pierre ? POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 715. Naught remains for an honest wight But to write for bread, as the poets do, Beggarly scrawls for paltry sous. The billet-doux and the angry dun To the writing-machine are all as one. What matter the word or sentiment ? If the fee be paid he is well content. To have heart in one's trade, ah! one must fight. " M'sieu, if you please," and a timid hand Is laid on the soldier's threadbare sleeve. Pierre was bearish that day, I grieve To say, and his speech was curt, As will happen when want or old wounds hurt — " I wish you to write a letter, please." "All right. Ten sous." But the little boy Has turned away. " Morbleu! Well, then You haven't the money ? You think that pen And ink and paper grow on the trees ? — Halt! Can't a soldier his joke enjoy But you must flare up ? I understand. A begging letter, of course. And who Shall be favored to-day ? Dictate — ' M'sieu' " "Pardon. 'Tis not ' M'sieu. ' Madame, La Sainte Vierge." The writer stopped, And the pen from his trembling fingers dropped; The desk was shut with an angry slam. "Sapristi! You little rascal, you Would jest with the Holy Virgin, too ? " But the child was weeping, and old Pierre Suppressed his wrath and indulged a stare. " My mother, M'sieu, she sleeps so long, These two whole days, and the room is cold, And she will not awake. It is very wrong, I know, for a boy to be afraid When a boy is as many as five years old, But I was so hungry and when I prayed And the Virgin did not come, I thought Perhaps if I sent her a letter, why" — He paused, but old Pierre said naught, There was something new in the old man's throat, And something strange in the old man's eye. At length he took up his pen and wrote. Long it took him to write and fold And seal with a hand that was far from bold ^ Then: "Courage, small comrade, wait and see; Your letter is mailed, and presently An answer will come, perhaps, to me. I will open my desk. Behold 'tis there! ' From Heaven,' it says.' A M'sieu Pierre.' You do not read ? N'importe! I do. 'Tis a letter from Heaven, and all about you,. And, what ? ' Mamma is in Heaven, too, And her little boy must be brave and good And live with Pierre.' That's understood. While Pierre has a crust or sou to spare There's enough for him and thee, mon cher. "" Do you think that letter came from above, Freighted with God's and a mother's love ? The child, at least, believed it true, So at the last Pierre did, too, When the Heavenly mail came once again* To a grim old man on a bed of pain, Whose dying eyes alone could see, And read the missive joyfully: He knew the Hand, and proudly smiled, For it was as the hand of a little child. THE WAY OF THE WORLD. The hands of the King are soft and fair, They never knew labor's stain. The hands of the Robber redly wear The bloody brand of Cain. But the hands of the Man are hard and scarred With the scars of toil and pain The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands As white as a King's may be. Barabbas with wrists unfettered stands, For the world has made him free. But Thy palms toil-worn by nails are torn,. Christ, on Calvary! 71G POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. FOR THE PEOPLE. We are the hewers and delvers who toil for another's gain. The common clods and the rabble, stunted of brow and brain. What do we want, the gleaners, of the har- vest we have reaped ? What do we want, the neixters, of the honey we have heaped ? We want the drones to be driven away from our golden hoard; We want to share in the harvest; we want to sit at the board; We want what sword or suffrage has never yet won for man, The fruits of his toil, God-promised, when the curse of toil began. Ye have tried the sword and scepter, the cross and the sacred word, In all the years, and the kingdom is not yet here of the Lord. Is it useless, all our waiting? Are they fruitless, all our prayers? Has the wheat, while men were sleeping, been oversowed with tares? What gain is it to the people that a God laid down his life, If, twenty centuries after, His world be a world of strife ? If the serried ranks be facing each other with ruthless eyes And steel in their hands, what profits a Saviour's sacrifice ? Ye have tried, and failed to rule us; in vain to direct have tried. Not wholly the fault of the ruler; not utterly blind the guide. Mayhap there needs not a ruler; mayhap we can find the way. At least ye have ruled to ruin; at least ye have led astray. What matter if king or consul or president holds the rein, If crime and poverty ever be links in the bondman's chain? What careth the burden-bearer that Liberty packed his load, If Hunger presseth behind him with a sharp and ready goad ? There's a serf whose chains are of paper; there's a king with a parchment crown; There are robber knights and brigands in factory, field and town. But the vassal pays his tribute to a lord of wage and rent; And the baron's toll is Shylock's, with a flesh-and-blood per cent. The seamstress bends to her labor all night in a narrow room; The child, defrauded of childhood, tip-toes all day at the loom; The soul must starve; for the body can barely on husks be fed; And the loaded dice of a gambler settle the price of bread. Ye have shorn and bound the Samson and robbed him of learning's light; But his sluggish brain is moving; his sinews have all their might. Look well to your gates of Gaza, your privi- lege, pride and caste! The Giant is blind and thinking, and his locks are growing fast. POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. GLOUCESTER HAEBOE. North from the beautiful islands, North from the headlands and highlands, The long sea-wall, The white ships flee with the swallow; The day-beams follow and follow, Glitter and fall. The brown ruddy children that fear not, Lean over the quay, and they hear not Warnings of lips; For their hearts go a-sailing, a-sailing, Out from the wharves and the wailing After the ships. Nothing to them is the golden Curve of the sands, or the olden Haunt of the town; Little they reck of the peaceful Chiming of bells, or the easeful Sport on the down: The orchards no longer are cherished; The charm of the meadow has perished: Dearer, ay me ! The solitude vast unbefriended, The magical voice and the splendid Fierce will of the sea. Beyond them, by ridges and narrows The silver prows speed like the arrows Sudden and fair; Like the hoofs of Al Borak the wondrous, Lost in the blue and the thund'rous Depths of the air; On to the central Atlantic, Where passionate, hurrying, frantic Elements meet; To the play and the calm and commotion. Of the treacherous, glorious ocean, Cruel and sweet. In the hearts of the children forever She fashions their growing endeavor, The pitiless sea; Their sires in her caverns she stayeth,. The spirits that love her she slayeth, And laughs in her glee. "Woe, woe, for the old fascination! The women make deep lamentation In starts and in slips; Here always is hope unavailing, Here always the dreamers are sailing After the ships! PEIVATE THEATRICALS. You were a haughty beauty, Polly, (That was in the play,) I was the lover melancholy; (That was in the play.) And when your fan and you receded,. And all my passion lay unheeded, If still with tenderer words I pleaded,. That was in the play! I met my rival at the gateway, (That was in the play,) And so we fought a duel straightway; (That was in the play.) But when Jack hurt my arm unduly, And you rushed over, softened newly» And kissed me, Polly! truly, truly, Was that in the play ? ri8 POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GTTINEY. BEOTHER BARTHOLOMEW. Brother BARTHOLOMEW, working-time, Would fall into musing and drop his tools; Brother Bartholomew cared for rhyme More than for theses of the schools; And sighed, and took up his hurden so, Yowed to the Muses, for weal or woe. At matins he sat, the hook on his knees, But his thoughts were wandering faraway; And chanted the evening litanies Watching the roseate skies grow gray, Watching the brightening starry host Elame like the tongues at Pentecost. "A foolish dreamer, and nothing more; The idlest fellow a cell could hold; " . So murmured the worthy Isidor, Prior of ancient Nithiswold; Yet pitiful, with dispraise content, Signed never the culprit's banishment. Meanwhile Bartholomew went his way And patiently wrote in his sunny cell; His pen fast travelled from day to day; His books were covered, the walls as well. '"But for the monk that I miss, instead Of this lazy rhymer! " the Prior said. Bartholomew dying, as mortals must, Not unbelov'd of the cowled throng, Thereafter, they took from the dark and dust Of shelves and of corners, many a song That cried loud, loud to the farthest day, How a bard had arisen — and passed away. Wonderful verses! fair and fine, Eich in the old Greek loveliness; The seer-like vision, half divine; Pathos and merriment in excess: And every perfect stanza told Of love and of labor manifold. The King came out and stood beside Bartholomew's taper-lighted bier, And turning to his lords, he sighed: " How worn and wearied doth he appear, — Our noble poet, — now he is dead!" '" tireless worker! " the Prior said. A BALLAD OF METZ. Leojt went to the wars, true soul without a sfain; First at the trumpet-call; thy son, Lorraine! Never a mighty host thrilled so with one desire; Never a past crusade lit nobler fire. And he, among the rest, marched gaily in the van, — No braver blood than his since time began. And mild and fond was he, and sensitive as a leaf. 'Just Heaven! that he was this, is half my grief. We followed where the last detachment led away, At Metz, an evil-starred and bitter day; Some of us had been hurt in the first hot assault, Yet will was shaken not, nor zeal at fault. We hurried on to the front; our banners were soiled- and rent; Grim riflemen, gallants all, our captain sent. A Prussian lay by a tree rigid as ice, and pale, Crawled thither, out of the reach of battle- hail. His cheek was hollow and white, parched was his swollen lip; Tho' bullets liad fastened on their leaden grip, Tho' ever he gasped and called, called faintly from the rear, What of it ? And all in scorn I closed mine ear. The very colors he wore, they burnt and bruised my sight; The greater his anguish, so was my delight. We laughed a savage laugh, who loved our land too well, Giving its enemies hate unspeakable: POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN" GUINEY. 719 But Leon, kind heart, poor heart, clutched me around the arm: " He faints for water! " he said; " i± were no harm To soothe a wounded man already on death's rack." He seized his brimming gourd, and hurried back. The foeman grasped it fiercely. 'Neath his wild eye's lid Something coiled like a snake, glittered and He raised his shattered frame up from the grassy ground, And drank with the loud, mad haste of a thirsty hound. Leon knelt by his side, one hand beneath his head; Scarce kinder the water than the words he said. He rose and left him, stretched at length on the grassy plot, The viper-like flame in his eyes remembered not. Leon with easy gait strode on; he bared his hair, Swinging his army cap, humming an air. Just as he neared the troops, there by the purpled stream — {rood God! a sudden snap, and a lurid gleam. I wrenched my bandaged arm with the hor- ror of the start: Leon was low at my feet, shot thro' the heart. Do you think an angel told whose hands the deed had done ? [one. To the Prussian we dashed back, mute, every Do you think we stopped to curse, or wail- ing feebly, stood ? Do you think we spared who shed his friend's sweet blood ? Ha! vengeance on the fiend! we smote him as if hired, I most of them, and more when they grew tired. I saw the deep eye lose its dastard, steely blue: I saw the trait'rous breast pierced thro' and thro.' His musket, smoking yet, unhanded, lay Three times three thousand deaths that Prussian died. And he, our lad, our dearest, lies, too, upon the plain:. teach no more Christ's mercy, thy sons, Lorraine! THE RIVAL SINGERS. Two marvellous singers of old had the city of Florence, — She that is loadstar of pilgrims, Florence the beautiful, — ■ Who sang biit thro' bitterest envy their ex- quisite music, Each for o'ercoming the other, as fierce as the seraphs At the dread battle pre-mundane, together down-wrestl ing. And once when the younger, surpassing the best at a festival, Thrilled the impetuous people, singing so rarely! That up on their shoulders they raised him, and carried him straightway Over the threshold, 'mid ringing of belfries and shouting, Till into his pale cheek mounted a color like morning (For he was Saxon in blood) that made more resplendent The gold of his hair for an aureole round and above him, POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. Seeing which, called his adorers aloud. thank- ing Heaven That sent down an angel to sing for them, taking their homage; — ■ While this came to pass in the city, one marked it, and harbored A purpose which followed endlessly on, like his shadow. Therefore at night, as a vine that aye clam- bering stealthily Slips by the stones to an opening, came the assassin, And left the deep sleeper by moonlight, the Saxon hair dabbled With red, and the brave voice smitten to death in his bosom. Now this was the end of the hate and the striving and singing. But the Italian thro' Florence, his city familiar, Fared happily ever, none knowing the crime and the passion, Winning honor and guerdon in peaceful and prosperous decades, Supreme over all, and rejoiced with the cheers and the clanging. Carissimaf what? and you wonder the world did not loathe him ? Child, he lived long, and was lauded, and died very famous. AN EPITAPH FOE WENDELL PHILLIPS. Of the avengers of the right, The city's race magnificent, Here sleeps the last, his splendid light For lives oppressed benignly spent. All scorn he dared, all sorrow bore: Now hang your bays beside his door. Who shall in simple state endure Like him, thrice incorruptible ? Who shame his valiant voice and sure, The strength of all our citadel ? Or turn upon tyrannic men That haughty, holy glance again ? Here does he sleep; and hence in grief We heavily looked toward the sea, Nor with the passion of belief Descried one other such as he; Then shattered his great shield, and knew The king was dead ! the kingdom, too. THE CALIPH AND THE BEGGAR. Scokxer of the pleading faces In the first year of his reign, From the lean crowd and its traces, Down the open orchard-lane, Walked young Mahmoud in his glory, In his pomp and his disdain; And above all oratory, Music's sweetness, ocean's might, Fell a voice from branches hoary: " He whose heart is at life's height, Who has wisdom, fame, and riches, Islam's greatest, dies this night." And he crossed the rampart-ditches Blinded, and confused, and slow, Till, from palace nooks and niches Frowned his ghostly sires a-row, And their turrets triple-jointed Shook with tempests of his woe. Long past midnight, disanointed, Prone upon his breast he lay, Warring on that hour appointed. But behold! at break of day, As if Heaven itself had spoken, Blown across the bannered bay, Over mart and mosque outbroken, Came the silver, solemn chime For some parted spirit's token ! Mahmoud, with free breath sublime Summoned one whose snow-locks heaving Made the vision of hoar Time; POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. And the red tides of thanksgiving On his brow, he rose and said: " In my city of the living Which, proclaimed of bells, is dead ? " And the graybeard answered: " Master, One who yesternight for bread, At thy gateway's bronze pilaster, Begged in vain: blind Selim, he, Victim of the old disaster." And the speaker suddenly Looked on his hard lord with wonder, For his tears were strange to see. Then again, where boughs asunder Held the wavy orchard tent Sun-empurpled clusters under In changed mood the Caliph went; And anew heard sounds upgather, C hidings with caressings blent, As the voice once of his father: " Haughty heart ! not thou wert wise, Rich, beloved; Selim rather Islam's prince in Allah's eyes: Even the Meek, in his great station, Freehold had of Paradise ! " Lo ! when plague-winds' desolation Pierced Bassora's burning wall, Circled with a kneeling nation Whom his mercies held in thrall, Died the Caliph, whispering tender Counsel to his liegemen tall: "One last service, children ! render.' Me, whose pride the Lord forgave;, Not by our supreme Defender, Not beside the holy wave, Not in places where my race is Lay me ! but in Selim's grave." POEMS OF KATHAKINE TYNAN. WAITING. In a grey cave, where comes no glimpse of sky, Set in the blue hill's heart full many a • mile, Having the dripping stone for canopy, Missing the wind's laugh and the good sun's smile, I, Fionn, with all my sleeping warriors lie. In the great outer cave our horses are, Carved of grey stone, with heads erect, Purple their trappings, gold each bolt and bar, One fore foot poised, the quivering thin ears raised ; Methinks they scent the battle from afar. A frozen hound lies by each warrior's feet T Ah, Bran, my jewel ! Bran, my king of hounds ! Deep throated art thou, mighty flanked, and fleet; Dost thou remember how with giant- bounds [heat ?' Did'st chase the red deer in the noontide POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. I was a king in ages long ago, A mighty warrior, and a seer likewise, Still mine eyes look with solemn gaze of woe From stony lids adown the centuries, And in my frozen heart I know, I know. A giant I, of a primeval race, These, great-limbed, bearing helm and shield and sword, My good knights are, and each still awful face Will one day wake to knowledge at a word — O'erhead the groaning years turn roiind apace. Here with the peaceful dead we keep our_ state ; Some day a cry shall ring adown the lands : "The hour is come, the hour grown large with fate." He knows who hath the centuries in His hands When that shall be — till then we watch and wait. The queens that loved us, whither be they gone, The sweet, large women with the hair as gold, As though one drew long threads from out the sun? Ages ago, grown tired, and very cold, They fell asleep beneath the daisies wan. The waving woods are gone that once we knew, And towns grown grey with years are in their place ; A little lake, as innocent and blue As my queen's eyes were, lifts a baby face Where once my palace towers were fair to view. The fierce old gods we hailed with worship- ing* The blind old gods, waxed mad with sin and blood, Laid down their godhead as an idle thing At a God's feet, whose throne was but a Rood, His crown wrought thorns, His joy long travailing. Here in the gloom I see it all again, As ages since in visions mystical I saw the swaying crowds of fierce-eyed men, And heard the murmurs in the judgment hall, 0, for one charge of my dark warriors then ! Nay, if He willed, His Father presently Twelve star-girt legions unto Him had given. I traced the blood-stained path to Calvary, And heard far off the angels weep in Heaven ; Then the Rood's arms against an awful sky. I saw Him when they pierced Him, hands and feet, And one came by and smote Him, this new King, So pale and harmless, on the tired face, sweet ; He was so lovely, and so pitying, The icy heart in me began to beat. Then a strong cry — the mountain and swayed That held us in its heart, the groaning world Was reft with lightning, and in ruins laid, His Father's awful hand the red bolts hurled, And He was dead — I trembled, sore afraid. Then I upraised myself with mighty strain In the gloom, I heard the tumult rage without, I saw those large dead faces glimmer plain, The life just stirred within them and went out, And I fell back, and grew to stone again. So the years went — on earth how be, [pace, Here in this cave their feet are slow of POEMS OF KATHAEINE TYNAN. And I grow old, and tired exceedingly: I would the sweet earth were my dwelling- place — Shamrocks and little daisies wrapping me ! There I should lie, and feel the silence sweet As a meadow at noon, where hirds sing in the trees; To mine ears should come the patter of little feet, And baby cries, and croon of summer seas, And the wind's laughter in the upland wheat. Meantime, o'erhead the years were full and bright, "With a kind sun, and gold wide fields of corn ; The happy children sang from morn to night, The blessed church bells rang, new arts were born, Strong towns rose up and glimmered fair and white. Once came a wind of conflict, fierce as hail, And beat about my brows: on the east- ward shore, Where never since the Vikings' dark ships sail, All day the battle raged with mighty roar ; At night the victor's fair dead face was pale. Ah! the dark years since then, the anguished cry That pierced my deaf ears, made my hard eyes weep, From Erin wrestling in her agony, While we, her strongest, in a helpless sleep Lay, as the blood-stained years trailed slowly And often in those years the East was drest In phantom fires, that mocked the dis- tant dawn, Then blackest night — her bravest and her best Were led to die, while I slept dumbly on, With the whole mountain's weight upon my breast. Once in my time, it chanced a peasant hind Strayed to this cave. I heard, and burst my chain And raised my awful face stone-dead and blind, Cried, "Is it time?" and so fell back again, I heard his wild cry borne adown the wind. Some hearts wait with us. Owen Roe O'Neill, The kingliest king that ever went un- crowned, Sleeps in his panoply of gold and steel Eeady to wake, and in the kindly ground A many another's death-wounds close and Great Hugh O'Neill, far off in purple Rome, And Hugh O'Donnell, in their stately tombs Lie, with their grand fair faces turned to home : Some day a voice will ring adown the glooms, " Arise, ye Princes, for the hour is come ! " And these will rise, and we will wait them here, In this blue hill-heart in fair Donegal; That hour shall sound the clash of sword and spear, The steeds shall neigh to hear their mas- ters' call, And the hounds' cry shall echo shrill and clear. Note. — This poem treats of a legend well known among the peasantry of the north of Ireland, which recounts how a band of Irish warriors of the primeval time lie in armour, and frozen in a deathly sleep, in one of the hill-caverns of Donegal highlands, there to await the hour of Ireland's redemption, when they will come forth to do battle for her under the leadership of the giant Finn. The legend further prophesies that in the hour of victory the phantom knights and their leader will be claimed by Death, from whom they have been so long withheld, that they will re- ceivf at last burial in holy earth, and that the hill-cavern will know them no more. POEMS OR KATHARINE TYNAN. TWO WAYFAREES. One with a sudden cry Crieth: " Lord ! and whence is this to me That in my daily pathway 1 should see Even Thee, Lord, coming nigh, With Thy still face and fair, And the divine deep sorrow in Thine eyes, And Thy eternal arms stretched loving-wise As on the Cross they were ? " If I had only known How I should meet Thee this day face to face, I had made all my life a praying-place For this hour's sake alone : Now am I poor indeed I who have gathered all things most forlorn, Pale earthly loves, and roses wan with thorn ; — See how my weak hands bleed ! " One bendeth low, and saith : " Lo ! My hands bleed likewise, and I am God. Come, heart of Mine ! wilt tread the path I trod, The desert way of death ? Come, bleeding hands ! and take My thorns that bring new toil and weari- ness, Days of grey pain, and nights of sore dis- tress, Come ! for My great love's sake. "Yet if thou fearest to come, Speak ! I can give thee fairest earthly things, Love, and sweet peace in shelter of love's wings, By pleasant paths of home, And thou wilt still be Mine. Choose thou thy path ! My way is dark, I know, Yet through the moaning wind, and rain, and snow My feet should go with thine." One groweth wan and grey, Dieth a space the trembling heart in him, Then he doth lift his weary eyes and dim, With ashen lips doth say : " With Thee the desert sands ! How could I turn from Thee, Thou flower of Pain ! Or trouble Thee with weepings loud and vain And wringing of the hands ? " If the rose were my share, And Thine the thorn, how could I lift mine eyes One day, in gold-green fields of Paradise, To Thine eyes dreamy fair That muse on Calvary ? Under the sad straight brows Thy gaze would say: ' Now, heart ! in what dark hour of night or day Hast thou kept watch with Me ? '" AN ANSWER. I SAID, "The year hath nothing left to bring," And wearied of the grey November skies, For that I mourned for dead and vanished spring, And rose-lit summer's flowery argosies ; For that I yearned for golden primrose days, For tender skies, for thrush's passionate strain, To hear again, 'mid leafy springtide ways, The sweet small footsteps of the silvern rain. I said, " The glory of the year is gone, The very sunlight hath a tinge forlorn, The spectral trees loom, desolate and wan, Of their late regal robes bereft and shorn. Where the white lilies plumed their radiant heads, And the geranium flashed — a scarlet flame — Stretch now all brown and bare the garden beds, Dead are all fair sweet things since winter came." POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. And as I spake, lo! in the glimmering West A paly streak of stormy sunset gold, And near me, in all beauteous colors drest The gentle flower that fears nor frost nor cold, The brave chrysanthemum; there, to my heart, Said I, with joy, " Though 'tis not always May, The bounteous mother tires not of her part, Her strong white hands bear gifts for every day." FRAANGELICO AT FIESOLE. Home through the pleasant olive woods at even He seest the patient milk-white oxen go; Without his lattice doves wheel to and fro, A great moon climbs the wan green fields of heaven. An hour since, the sun-veil whereon are graven Gold bells and pomegranates in scarlet show Parted, and lo! the city's spires of snow Flushed like an opal, and the streets gold paven! Then the night's purple fell and hid the rest, And this monk's eyes filled with the happy tears That come to him beholding all things fair: A bird's flight over wan skies to the nest ; The great sad eyes of beasts, the silk wheat ears, Flowers, or the gold dust on a baby's hair. In his small cell he hath high company,— The angels make it their abiding-place; Their grave eternal eyes 'neath brows of grace Watch him at work, their great wings silently Wrap him around with peace; and it may be That looking from his work a minute's space, The sudden blue eyes of an angel's face His happy startled eyes are raised to see. Down through the shadowy corridor they glide, Their wings auroral trailing soft and slow, Each still face like a moon-lit lily in June; They kiss with fair pale lips the canvas wide, Whereon his colours like dropped jewels glow Against a gold ground pale as the harvest EASTERTIDE. To me sweet Easter cometh fair and bright, Bringing exceeding joyaunce and delight, For the new time comes, clothed as a bride, And the sad grey days vanish utterly ; Comes the young Spring, knee-deep in shin- ing flowers, And the old earth rejoiceth through the hours: She hath forgotten her fairest ones that died, When the fierce winter blighted flower and tree. Somewhere while small glad waters croon a song, And a soft wind is captive all day long, I know the violet's feet are lately set, And the pale primrose star of hope hath risen. About the land the grave large hills are blue, And the great trees grow emerald green of hue, For now each curled babe-leaf begins to fret, Waking and stirring in its cradle-prison. Now from our slow delicious northern spring, In paschal days my thoughts are wandering Unto that Orient land, bloom- bright and warm; Where the dear Jesus walked in days of old; r-.'G POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. I think all things, in these dim mystic days, Grew fair with full delight before his face, Bloomed the grey desert, azure grew the storm, And the skies shone in newer rose and gold. The air was sweet with music of harp-strings, And the white sudden flash of angels' wings, As the high sentinels passed that guarded Him. The birds sang faint for rapture in the sky, The small meek flowers about His pathway lay Flushed with desir'e that in some gracious day He in His healing hands might gather them, Or that beneath His feet their hearts might lie. OLIVIA AND DICK PRIMROSE. A kustic maiden, delicately fair, With sweet mute lips and eyes serene and mild, That look straight sunward, while with gen- tle air Clings to her side a little loving child, Linking a chain of daisies; this is all, And yet methinks old memories bestir At sight of this maid-lily, fair and tall, Sweet as the rose the dainty hands of her Enclose in careless chains and happy thrall. I see the gentle vicar, old and kind, The good house-mother, quick to blame and praise, All the quaint story rises to my mind, The meadow bank that bloomed with flowering days: And in the hay-field, now I seem to see Olivia stand with happy downcast eyes, Singing with simple girlish minstrelsy ; While o'er the ethereal blue of summer skies Long feathery lines of cloud float restfully. ***** He sang of happy homes, who home had none, Of sweet hearth joys whose way was lone and bleak, And oft his voice rang out with truest tone When wintry winds froze tears upon his cheek. A deathless fount of joy was ever springing From out his bright child-nature pure and sweet, Soft comforting and surest healing bringing ; And when earth's sharpest thorns had pierced his feet His way was gladdened with his inward singing. THE LARK'S WAKING. passionate heart ! before the day is born, When the faint rose of dawn a shut bud lies, Dost thou not wait, hid in gold spears that rise Sweet and bejewelled with the dews of morn, Till the low wind of daybreak in the corn Moves all the silken ears with languorous sighs, And the fair sun rides up the Eastern skies, Clad in bright robes of state right kingly worn ? Then dost thou cleave the air on rapturous wing, Where the far east, with roseate splendours fraught, Tells that no more can night enshroud thy king, Or the pale stars his empire set at naught — Higher and higher, till the clear skies ring With the wild amorous greeting thou hast brought. POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. CHARLES LAMB. Dear heart ! from dim Elizabethan days Surely thy feet strayed to our garish noon ; Thou shouldst have walked beneath a yel- lowing moon, In some old garden's green enchanted ways, With Herrick and Ben Jonson; while in praise Of his lady trilled the nightingale's full tune, — And he grown still, these sang, 'neath skies of June, That bent to hear, catches and roundelays. In fair converse, thou might'st have wan- dered With Burton's self, the master whose rare thought Makes Melancholy glad the heart like wine ; In thy earth-day, those high compeers were dead; How pleasant was their laughter, had they caught The sallies of thy humour, quaint and fine ! AUGUST OE JUNE. In the rich Autumn weather, When royal August visits the fair land, Coming with pomp and coloured pageantry, Elinging around him with a lavish hand, Gold on the gorse and purple on the heather, Across the land as far as eye can see, Under his tread all yellow grows the wheat, All purple every belt of perfumed clover, Purple and gold, fit carpet for his feet, This harmony of colouring and light, And all the happy space he passes over, Grows fruitful, fair, and pleasant to the sight. In these luxuriant days, Have we no sorrow for the fair June hours We thought so sweet, the skies we deemed so blue, The glad young world so prodigal of flowers, Of form most perfect, and most fair of hue ? Have we forgotten all the leaf -hung ways ? Ah ! never Autumn's wealth of golden Atones for joy that all the fresh June fills, The purple-hearted solemn passion-flowers, The slender shafts of moon-born lilies tall, The most fair paleness of the daffodils, The cool June sky which beauty sheds o'er FAINT-HEARTED. I stand where two roads part : Lord ! art Thou with me in the shadows here? I cannot lift my heavy eyesto see. Speak to me if Thou art ! I tremble, and my heart is cold with fear ; Dark is the way Thou has appointed me. From the bright face of day It winds far down a valley dark as death, And shards and thorns await my shrink- ing feet ; An icy mist and grey Comes to me, chilling me with awful breath ; How canst Thou say Thy yoke is light and sweet ? Nay, these are pale who go Down the grey shadows; each one, tired and worn, Bearing a cross that galleth him full sore; And blood of this doth flow, And that one's pallid brows are rayed with thorn, And eyes are blind with weeping ever- Still they press onward fast, And the shades compass them; now, far away, I see a great hill shaped like Calvary ; Will they come there at last ? A reflex from some far fair perfect day Touches the high clear faces goldenly. POEMS OF KATIIAFJNE TYNAN. Ah ! yonder path is fair, And musical with many singing birds, Large golden fruit and rainbow-coloured flowers The wayside branches bear ; The air is murmurous with sweet love- words, And hearts are singing through the happy hours. Nay, I shall look no more. Take Thou my hands between Thy firm fair hands And still their trembling, and I shall not weep. Some day, the journey o'er, My feet shall tread the still safe evening- lands, And Thou canst give to Thy beloved, sleep. And though Thou dost not speak, And the mists hide Thee, now I know Thy feet Will tread the path my feet walk wearily ; Some day the veil will break, And sudden looking up, mine eyes shall meet Thine eyes, and lo ! Thine arms shall gather me. THOKEAU AT WALDEN. i. A little log-hut in the woodland dim, A still lake, like a bit of summer sky, On the glad heart of which great lilies lie. "Ah!" he had said, "the Naiads, white of limb." In those green glooms fair shapes did come to him, He saw a Dryad's sheeny drapery Shimmer at dusk, he heard Pan pipe hereby A lusty strain to fauns and satyrs grim. For that he was fan- Nature's leal knight She loved him, taught him all her gram- marye, All the quaint secrets of her magic clime; He heard the unborn flowers' springing footsteps light, And the wind's whisper of the enchanted sea, And the birds sing of love, and pairing- time. Seeking this sage in fair fraternity Came Hawthorne here and Emerson, I know. happy woods, that watched them to and fro! Thrice happy woods, that hearkened to the three! Yet, my rare Thoreau! a thought comes to me Of one sweet soul you missed, who long ago When through Assisi's streets, with eyes aglow And worn meek face, and lips curved ten- derly. So for Ood's dumb things was this great heart stirred, Called he the happy birds his sisters sweet, The fish his brethren, blessed them, prayed with them. Now, my sweet-hearted Pagan ! had you heard, You would have wept upon his wounded feet, And craved a blessing from the hands of him. A SAD YEAK. 1882. The last month being come, December, in sad guise of deathly white, I counted with sore heart the sons of light Whose wise lips had grown dumb Since the last New Year's morn, And thought Death's harvest had been full and wide, POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. And fair and rich the grain his sweeping Had gathered to the barn. [scythe Three poets died in Spring — We wept the dear dead singer of the West, Who lay with sweet wet violets on his breast When leaves were bourgeoning; A poet spirit fled From Irish shores, in Resurrection days; • And England twined wan immortelles with For one beloved grey head.* [bays And, as the year went by, [feast — Death called our best and dearest to Ms Poet and artist, ruler, sage and priest, A goodly company. The Spring's flowers waxed pale, Summer cast rue for roses in her path, And the lone Autumn brought its meed of And sad was Winter's tale. [death, And so my heart was tired [gain. Counting the loss, and knowing not the In the year's cradles many a babe hath lain; And who shall be inspired To tell our hearts that weep What gifts the sweet small hands bring far- off years ? [tears We know but this — that " they who sow in In sinning joy shall reap." A SONG OF SUMMER. Oh, sweet it is in summer, When leaves are fair and long, To lie amid lush, scented grass, Where gold and grey the shadows pass, A swift, unresting throng; And hear low river voices Sing o'er the shining sands, That seem a glory garb to wear Of emerald and jacinth rare, The work of fairy hands; And see afar the mountains, heaven-kissed, Shine through the white rain's silvery- sheeted mist. Oh, fair the balmy morning, When gay the sun doth ride, And white plumes sail against the blue, And all the land is fresh with dew, And sweet the hay-fields wide! Yet fairer windless evening When the pale vesper star Parts her long veil of dusky hair, And looks with gentle eyes and fair From palaces afar, And sings the nightingale to tranced ski Of love and pain and all high mysteries. A BIRD'S SONG. Chill was the air, for yet the year was young, [with rain ; Wan was the sky, the clouds were fresh A bird, from where his small, soft nest was hung, Sang very joyously a tender strain. For he had seen, near where a giant oak Stretched out its Titan branches, strong and sure, Close-sheltered, in a quiet moss-grown nook, A dainty April garden bloom secure. And there he saw the sun-born crocus, tall, Shine out in 'broidered bravery of gold; The violet — no longer Winter's thrall — Begin her purple mantle to unfold. He saw the primrose star rise palely fair From where the mosses thickly, softly grow, And, delicately gleaming in the air, [snow. The snowdrop's fairy robe of green and And oh! with sudden flush of life and heat, The grey March world for him was charmed to May; [sweet, And then rang out in bird-notes, fresh and A jocund carol in the clear cold day. He heard the soft wind whisper from the West — The promise of the Summer's blossoming; And gleefully he sang from out his nest A herald welcome to the coming Spring. POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. (WILLIAM EDGAR.) ODE. We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; — World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams : Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory : One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample a kingdom down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself in our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. A breath of our inspiration Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming Unearthly, impossible seeming — The soldier, the king, and the peasant Are working together in one, Till our dream shall become their present, And their work in the world be done. They had no vision amazing Of the goodly house they are raising: They had no divine foreshowing Of the land to which they are going; But on one man's soul it hath broken, A light that doth not depart ; And his look, or a word he hath spoken, Wrought flame in another man's heart. And therefore to-day is thrilling With a past day's late fulfilling; And the multitudes are enlisted In the faith that their fathers resisted. And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, Are bringing to pass, as they may, In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, The dream that was scorned yesterday. But we, with our dreaming and singing, Ceaseless and sorrowless we! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see: Our souls with high music ringing, men ! it must ever be That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye. For we are afar with the dawning And the suns that are not yet high, And out of the infinite morning Intrepid you hear us cry — How, spite of your human scorning, Once more God's future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die. Great hail! we cry to the comers From the dazzling unknown shore; Bring us hither your sun and your summers, And renew our world as of yore ; You shall teach us your song's new numbers, And things that we dreamed not before: Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, And a singer who sings no more. POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY (WILLIAM EDGAR). 731 SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. I found a fellow-worker when I deemed I toiled alone: My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and his was hewing stone; I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the common street, And it seemed his toil was great and hard, while mine was great and sweet. I said, fellow- worker, yea, for I am a worker too, The heart nigh fails me many a day, but how is it with you ? For while I toil great tears of joy will some- times fill my eyes, And when I form my perfect work it lives and never dies. I carve the marble of pure thought until the thought takes form, Until it gleams before my soul and makes the world grow warm; Until there comes the glorious voice and words that seem divine, And the music reaches all men's hearts and draws them into mine. And yet for days it seems my heart shall blossom never more, And the burden of my loneliness lies on me very sore: Therefore, hewer of the stones that pave base human ways, How canst thou bear the years till death, made of such thankless days ? Then he replied : Ere sunrise, when the pale lips of the day v Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth of the first ray, A great thought rose within me, how, while men asleep had lain, The thousand labours of the world had grown up once again. The sun grew on the world, and on my soul the thought grew too — A great appalling siin, to light my soul the long day through. I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began With man's gigantic strength to do the labour of one man. I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hun- dred men, The worker with the chisel and the worker with the pen — The restless toilers after good, who sow and never reap, And one who maketh music for their souls that may not sleep. Each passed me with a dauntless look, and my undaunted eyes Were almost softened as they passed with tears that strove to rise At sight of all those labours, and because that every one, Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone. They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways, [days: Together we began to-day as on the other I felt their mighty hands at work, and as the day wore through, Perhaps they felt that even I was helping somewhat too: they felt, as with those hands they lifted mightily The burden once more laid upon the world so heavily, That while they nobly held it as each man can do and bear, It did not wholly fall my side as though no man were there. And so we toil together many a day from morn till night, I in the lower depths of life, they on the lovely height; For though the common stones are mine, and they have lofty cares, Their work begins where this leaves off, and mine is part of theirs. And 'tis not wholly mine or theirs I think of through the day, IT!'.! POEMS OF AiL'iTTJR O'SHAUGHNESSY ( V, EDUAK). But the great eternal thing we make to- gether, I and they; For in the sunset I behold a city that Man owns, Made fair with all their nobler toil, built of my common stones. Then noonward, as the task grows light with all the labour done, The single thought of all the day becomes a joyous one; For, rising in my heart at last, where it hath lain so long, It thrills up seeking for a voice, and grows almost a song. But when the evening comes, indeed, the words have taken wing, The thought sings in me still, but I am all too tired to sing; Therefore, you, my friend, who serve the world with minstrelsy, Among our fellow-workers' songs make that one song for me. A PARABLE OF GOOD DEEDS. A woman, sweet, but humble of estate, Had suddenly, by Providence or fate, Good fortune ; for a rich man made her wife, And raised her to a high and sumptuous life, With gold to spare and pleasurable things. Himself being great, in the employ of kings, Earning an ample wage and fair reward, He led his days like any lord, That made him rank among that country's lords; But little pity had he for the poor, Nor cared to help them : rather from his door Bidding his servants drive them shamefully, Till all knew better than from such as he To beg for food; and only year by year Some wanderer out of other lands drew His hated house. Riches corrode the heart That hath not its own sweetness set apart. But in his wife no inward change was wrought — Sweet she remained, and humble in her thought. And lo ! one day, when, at the king's behest. This man was gone, there came and asked for rest A certain traveller, sad and very worn With wayfaring, whose coat, ragged and torn By rock and bramble, showed the fashion strange Of distant countries where the seasons change A different way, and men and customs too Are strange; and though the woman hardly knew His manner of speech, seeing his weary face, She thought of toiling kinsfolk in the place Where she was born, and knew what heavi- • ness It was to fare all day beneath the stress Of burning suns, and never stay to slake The bitter thirst or lay one down to take A needful rest, the natural due of toil; So she dealt kindly, and gave wine and oil, And bade the stranger comfort him and stay And sleep beneath that roof upon his way: That hour the sweetness of her fettered soul Was like the stored-up honey of a whole Summer in one rich hive; and secretly She wept for joy to think that she might be Helpful to one in need. So Avhen her lord Returning chided her, she bore his word Meekly, and in her spirit had content. A long while after that, a poor man, bent And weak with hunger, wandered there, and prayed A little succour for God's sake, who made The rich and poor alike, and every man To love his fellow. But the servants ran And beat him from the house, along the lane, Back to the common road. Ah ! with what pain She saw it, but durst never raise her voice POEMS OF AT?THTnt O'RHATJGHNERSY (WILLIAM EDGAE). r:33 Against her husband's rule! Then with no noise She went out from the house into the street, And, like a simple serving-maid, bought meat And bread, and hurried to and fro to find And feed the starving man. That day the kind, Pitiful heart within her ached full sore, And much she grieved, thus little and no more 'Twas hers to do to ease so great a woe, As home she went again, that none might know. Then at another time it chanced that one, Whose brother, if 'twas truth he told, had run Into the den of robbers unawares, And lay a prisoner, sought that house of theirs, Having fared thus and thus with others first, To gather gold enough to go and burst His bonds. And lo! her husband gave him nought, But bade him lie again to those he caught With such a shallow tale. But she was stirred Greatly within; and rather would have erred, And been a trickster's dupe, than let depart, TJnhelped, a brother with a bleeding heart. And so when none was nigh, she gathered all The store of gifts and gold that she could call Her own, and gave it to the man. Ah, dear And blissful seemed that brother's thanks to hear. A good wife with her husband now some span Of years she dwelt, and had one fair child born, And life grew easier to her every morn ; For living with such sweetness day by day, The hardest heart will change, and put away Some of its meanness. So it did not fail But that her husband softened, and the tale Of poor folks' wrongs would strike upon his ear [hear. With a new sound that once he could not At length he died, and riches with him ceased; [released The king's pay came no more, and scarce From greedy creditors: when all was sold, The woman and the child with little gold, A meagre sum against hard want and shame, Went forth, to find the land from whence she came. The world was drear to them, and very hard, E'en as to others. Luckless or ill-starred Their wanderings seemed. One day their gold was spent, And helpless, in a sad bewilderment, The woman sat her down in sore distress In the lone horror of the Then the child cried for food, and soon again More piteously for drink, and all in vain. And the poor woman's heart of love was wrung With agony; all hopelessly she hung Her head upon her breast, and said "Ah me! Life is no longer, child, for such as we ; For I am penniless, and men give nought To those that cannot buy! " Then there was brought An answer in her ear which said, " Not so, But thou art even rich: look up and know! " Therewith she looked and saw three persons, fair And shining as God's angels, standing there Beside her in the way. One gave the .child Drink from a jewelled cup; one held high, piled With richest foods and fruit, a goodly tray, And bade him eat; the third did stoop and lay A purse upon her lap, the gold in which Sufficient was to make a poor man rich. And when o'erwhelmed with joy, and in POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SIIAUGHNESSY (WILLIAM EDGAR). Seeing the loveliness beyond all praise Of those three persons, on her knees she sank To worship them for angels, and to thank The God that sent them to her in her need, They said, "0 woman, kneel not to us in- deed, But thank thyself; for we were wrought by thee, And this the loveliness that thou dost see, Half wondering, is thine own, the very light And beauty of thy soul, for just so bright We are as thou didst make us; and at last Dost thou not know us ? is all memory past Of three good deeds that in prosperity Thou didst? Those three good deeds of thine are we." And then they walked before her, and she 1 went And found her home, and lived in great content. A FALLEN HERO. Thei found him dead upon the battle-field. One said, "A hard man, and with scarce a heart; There lay his strength, a man who could not yield. For, after all, too many, playing a part Of judge or warrior in the world, strong- armed, Or with the mental sinews stoutly set To the far-reaching thought, have faltered, charmed To softness and half purpose when they met The sweet appeal of individual lives, Or vanquished by the look of wounded foes. This man was iron. "Who has striven strives Where the cause leads him; where that is, who knows ? Content with partial good the cooler crowd, Using its heroes, step aside, well served, Waits for another; and the applause, so loud, So general once, grows fainter — more re- served Around his steps who, holding first the flag In a well-honoured fight, is left to wage The war alone, above him a red rag With now his name upon it. So, 'twas a rage Urged this man on; good, evil, grew but in dreams, The changeless opposites; and to com~ rades, shamed Or timely fallen away, the man now seems Well-nigh the contrary of the thing he named." Another said, "Ay, seems to such as these Who fought for half the goal — the goal was good, Immense, remote, a blessing that may ease The world some ages hence; half-way was food, Content, a crumb for lesser lives to gain ■ He gained and spurned it to them. For the rest, The future man may count his death not vain, Finding him in Time's strata, as with crest Frenzied and straining jaws and limbs, some old Imbedded dragon lies defiant still In an unfinished fight. If such pass cold Mid the dwarfed folk whose generations fill Their striding steps, their soul is all the sun Gilding the dawn and lengthening out the span Of yet unrisen days, when men may run To greater heights and distances of man." A third said, " Yet to fall, as this one hath, Not with the earlier laurel newly earned, Nor having cleared the later doubtful path, But with a red sword firmly clutched a: turned Against the heart of his time, is no fair fa He who now drives a hundred men death [hat Is bound to show the thousand saved; else POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SIIAUGHNESSY (WILLIAM EDGAR). rss And scorn will quickly blow him such a breath No flowers will grow about his memory, No goodly praise sit well upon his name. The men, who for his shadow could not see The peaceful sun of half their days, cry shame Against him; lives he stinted of their love, Denying his own, lopping the tender boughs And leaflets that the trunk might rise above Its fellows, spoil the glory on his brows, Accuse him just as surely with their tears And ruin as with words that seemed too weak. " Better, perhaps, out of the hopes and fears That round the generation's life, to speak And win assent of every lesser man, Or, fighting, only wrest from that dark foe, The Future, jealous holding all she can For hers unborn, some moderate trophy, no Abiding portion; dazzled, men will praise, While that great gift the dream-led seeker strives [raise To gain and give them, scarcely they may Their hearts to the great love of all their lives." So spake they round one fallen in a fight, Whence most had turned away, deeming the good A doubtful one, the further path too rife With thrusts across the common ground, where stood Friend and foe mingled. Half praise, almost blame One and another uttered, as they gazed Down at the dead set face, and named the name That once upon their foremost banner blazed, But late flashed fitfully on distant quest Strained past endurance. Bitterness still wrought Somewhat within then- hearts, or memory prest Maybe upon them with some late look fraught With passing scorn, and these — the feet that rushed Onward, too reckless of weak lives that hide Along the wayside of the world — had crushed. But lo ! a woman wrung her hands and cried, "Ah, my beloved ! ah, the good, the true ! " And clasped him lying on the ground, and kept Her arms about him there. She only knew The passion of the man, and when he wept. BLACK MARBLE. Sick of pale European beauties, spoiled By false religions, all the cant of priests And mimic virtues, far away I toiled In lawless lands, with savage men and beas fo Across the bloom-hung forest, in the way Widened by lions or where the winding snake Had pierced, I counted not each night and day, Till, gazing through a flower-encumbered brake, I crouched down like a panther watching prey — Black Venus stood beside a sultry lake. The naked negress raised on high her arms. Round as palm-saplings; cup-shaped either breast, Unchecked by needless shames or cold alarms, Swelled, like a burning mountain, with the zest Of inward life, and tipped itself with fire: Fashioned to crush a lover or a foe, Her proud limbs owned their strength, her waist its span, 73G POEMS OF KEV. ABEAM J. RYAN. Her fearless form its faultless curves, lo!— The lion and the serpent and the n Watched her the while with each his desire. And nan own In the old house where we grew From childhood up, the days were dreams, The summers had unwonted gleams. The sun a warmer radiance threw Upon the stair. Alas ! it seems All different in the new ! IN THE OLD HOUSE. In the old house where we dwelt No care had come, no grief we knew. No memory of the Past we felt, No doubt assailed us when we knelt ; It is not so in the new. Our mother still could sing the strain In earlier days we listened to; The white threads in her hair were few, She seldom sighed or suffered pain. Oh, for the old house back again ! It is not so in the new. POEMS OF REV. ABRAM J. RYAN, "THE POET-PRIEST OE THE SOUTH." THE CONQUERED BANNER, Fuel that Banner, for 'tis weary; Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it, And there's not a sword to save it, And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it— let it rest! Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; Broken is its staff and shattered ; And the valiant hosts are scattered Over whom it floated high. Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; Hard to think there's none to hold it; Hard that those who once unrolled it Now must furl it with a sigh. Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, And ten thousands wildly, madly, Swore it should forever wave; Swore that foeman's sword should never Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, Till that flag should float forever O'er their freedom or their grave! Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it, And the hearts that fondly clasped it, Cold and dead are lying low; And that Banner — it is trailing! While around it sounds the wailing Of its people in their woe. For, though conquered, they adore it ! Love the cold, dead hands that bore it ! Weep for those who fell before it ! POEMS OF REV. ABRAM J. RYAN. Pardon those who trailed and tore it ! But, oh ! wildly they deplore it, Now who furl and fold it so. Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, And 'twill live in song and story, Though its folds are in the dust: For its fame on brightest pages, Penned by poets and by sages, Shall go sounding down the ages — Furl its folds though now we must. Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! Treat it gently — it is holy — For it droops above the dead. Touch it not — -unfold it never, Let it droop there, furled forever, For its people's hopes are dead! SENTINEL SONGS. When falls the soldier brave, Dead at the feet of wrong, The poet sings and guards his grave With sentinels of song. Songs, march! he gives command, Keep faithful watch and true; The living and dead of the conquered land Have now no guards save you. Gray ballads! mark ye well! Thrice holy is your trust ! Go! halt by the fields where warriors fell; Rest arms! and guard their dust. List! Songs! your watch is long, The soldiers' guard was brief ; Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong, Ye may not seek relief. Go! wearing the gray of grief ! Go! watch o'er the dead in gray! Go! guard the private and guard the chief, And sentinel their clay! 47 And the songs, in stately rhyme And with softly-sounding tread, Go forth, to watch for a time — a time- Where sleep the And the songs, like funeral dirge, In music soft and low, Sing round the graves, whilst hot tears surge From hearts that are homes of woe. What tho' no sculptured shaft Immortalize each brave ? What tho' no monument epitaphed Be built above each grave ? When marble wears away And monuments are dust, The songs that guard our soldiers' clay Will still fulfill their trust. With lifted head and steady tread, Like stars that guard the skies, Go watch each bed where rest the dead,. Brave songs, with sleepless eyes. * * * * When falls the cause of Right, The poet grasps his pen, And in gleaming letters of living light Transmits the truth to men. Go! Songs! he says who sings; Go! tell the world this tale; Bear it afar on your tireless wings; The Right will yet prevail. Songs! sound like the thunder's breath! Boom o'er the world and say: Brave men may die — Right has no death! ; Truth never shall pass away! | Go! sing thro' a nation's sighs! Go! sob thro' a people's tears! Sweep the horizons of all the skies, And throb through a thousand years!. And the songs, with brave, sad face, Go proudly down their way, Wailing the loss of a conquered race And waiting an Easter-day. I POEMS OF KEY. ABRAM J. RYAN. Away! away! like the birds, They soar in their flight sublime; And the waving wings of the poet's words Flash down to the end of time. When the flag of justice fails, Ere its folds have yet been furled, The poet waves its folds in wails That flutter o'er the world. HAROH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD. ' Gather the sacred dust Of the warriors tried and true, Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust And fell in a cause, though lost, still just, And died for me and you. 1 Gather them one and all, From the private to the chief, 1 Come they from hovel or princely hall, They fell for us, and for them should fall The tears of a Nation's grief. Gather the corpses strewn O'er mauy a battle plain; From many a grave that lies so lone, Without a name and without a stone, Gather the Southern slain. We care not whence they came Dear in their lifeless clay! Whether unknown, or known to fame, Their cause and country still the same; They died — and wore the Gray. Wherever the brave have died, They should not rest apart; Living, they struggled side by side, Why should the hand of Death divide A single heart from heart ? Gather their scattered clay, Wherever it may rest; Just as they marched to the bloody fray, Just as they fell on the battle day, Bury them breast to The foeman need not dread This gathering of the brave; Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread, We muster once more our deathless dead, Out of each lonely grave. The foeman need not frown, They all are powerless now; We gather them here and we lay them down, And tears and prayers are the only crown We bring to wreathe each brow. And the dead thus meet the dead, While the living o'er them weep; And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, And the hearts that once together bled, Together still shall sleep. SONG OF THE MYSTIC. I walk down the Valley of Silence- Down the dim, voiceless valley- And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me, save God's and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown! Long ago was I weary of voices Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places Where I met but the human — and sin. I walked in the world with the worldly; I craved what the world never gave; And I said: " In the world each Ideal, That shines like a star on life's wave, Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, And sleeps like a dream in a grave." And still did I pine for the Perfect, And still found the False with the True; I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal Veiled even that glimpse from my view. POEMS OF EEV. ABKAM J. BYAN. And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human; And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men; Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar And I heard a voice call me : — since then I walk down the Valley of Silence That lies far heyond mortal ken. Do you ask what I found in the Valley ? 'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. And I fell at the feet of the Holy, And ahove me a voice said: " Be mine." And there arose from the depths of my spirit An echo — " My heart shall be thine." Do you ask how I live in the Valley? I weep — and I dream — and I pray. - But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops That fall on the roses in May; And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, Ascendeth to God night and day. In the hush of the Valley of Silence I dream all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim Valley, Till each finds a word for a wing, That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, A message of Peace they may bring. But far on the deep there are billows That never shall break on the beach; And I have heard songs in the Silence, That never shall float into speech; And I have had dreams in the Valley, Too lofty for language to reach. And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley — Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred! And they wear holy veils on their faces, Their footsteps can scarcely be heard: They pass through the Valley like Virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word ! Do you ask me the place of the Valley, ■ Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care ? It lieth afar between mountains And God and His angels are there: And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, And one the bright mountain of Prayer! LINES— 1875. Go down where the wavelets are kissing the shore, And ask of them why do they sigh ? The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er, But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it before. And they're sighing to-day and they'll sigh evermore. [reply, Ask them what ails them: they will not But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why! Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? [I. The waves will not answer you; neither shall Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep, When the night stars are gleaming on high, And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, On the low-lying strand by the surge-beaten steep. [sweep. They're moaning forever wherever they Ask them what ails them: they never reply; They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why ! Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? The waves will not answer you; neither shall I. Go list to the breeze at the waning of day, When it passes and murmurs " Good-bye." The dear little breeze — how it wishes to stay Where the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds play; [way. How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome Ask it what ails it; it will not reply, Its voice is a sad one, it never told why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? The breeze will, not answer you; neither shall I. Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair, When the shout of the storm rends the sky; They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the air And they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair, r-to POEMS OF REV. ABEAM J. RYAN. And they groan like the ghosts in the " land of despair." Ask them what ails them: they never reply; Their voices are mournful, they will not tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? The blasts will not answer you; neither shall I. Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side, Or list where the rivers rush by; The streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide, And the rivers that roll in their oceanward tide, Are moaning forever wherever they glide; Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. On — sad-voiced— they flow, but they never tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? Earth's streams will not answer you; neither shall I. Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea, And the voices that sound in the sky; Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key, And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody. Ask them what ails them: they will not reply. They sigh — sigh forever — but never tell why. Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? Their lips will not answer you; neither will I! THE SONG OF THE DEATHLESS VOICE. ' Twas the dusky Hallowe'en — ■ Hour of fairy and of wraith, When in many a dim-lit green, 'Neath the stars' prophetic sheen As the olden legend saith, All the future may be seen, — And when, — an older story hath — Whate'er in life hath ever been Loveful, hopeful, or of wrath, Cometh back upon our path. I was dreaming in my room, ' Mid the shadows, — still as they; Night, in veil of woven gloom Wept and trailed her tresses gray O'er her fair, dead sister — Day. To me from some far-away Crept a voice — or seemed to creep — As a wave-child of the deep, Frightened by the wild storm's roar. Creeps low-sighing to the shore. Very low and very lone Came the voice with song of moan. This, weak-sung in weaker word, Is the song that night I heard. * * * How long, alas ! How long ! How long shall the Celt chant the sad song of hope That a sunrise may break on the long starless night of our past ? How long shall we wander and wait on the desolate slope Of Tabors that promise our Transfigura- tion at last ? How long, Lord ! How long ! How long, Fate ! How long ! How long shall our sunburst reflect but the sunset of Right When gloaming still lights the dim imme- morial years? How long shall our harp's strings, like winds that are wearied of night, Sound sadder than moanings in tones all a-trembling with tears ? How long, Lord! How long! How long, Eight ! How long! How long shall our banner, the brightest that ever did flame In battle with wrong, droop furled like a flag o'er a grave ? How long shall we be but a nation with only a name POEMS OF EEV. ABEAM J. KYAN. Whose history clanks with the sounds of the chains that enslave ? How long, Lord! How long! How long! Alas, how long! How long shall our isle be a Golgotha, out in the sea With a Cross in the dark, — oh, when shall our Good Friday close ? How long shall thy sea that beats round thee bring only to thee The wailings, Erin! that float down the waves of thy woes ? How long, Lord! How long! How long! Alas, how long! How long shall the cry of the wronged, Freedom! for thee Ascend all in vain from the valleys of sor- row below ? How long ere the dawn of the day in the ages to be When the Celt will forgive, — or else tread on the heart of his foe ? How long, Lord ! How long! * * * Whence came the voice ? Around me gray silences fall: And without in the gloom not a sound is astir 'neath the sky; And who is the singer? Or hear I a singer at all?- Or, hush ! Is't my heart athrill with some deathless old cry ? Ah! blood forgets not in its flowing its fore- fathers' wrongs — They are the heart's trust, from which we may ne'er be released: Blood keeps in its throbs the echoes of all the old songs, And sings them the best when it flows thro' the heart of a priest. Am I not in my blood as old as the race whence I sprung ? In the cells of my heart feel I not all its ebb and its flow ? And old as our race is, is it not still forever as young As the youngest of Celts in whose breast Erin's love is aglow ? The blood of a race that is wronged beats the longest of all; For long as the wrong lasts, each drop of it quivers with wrath: And sure as the race lives — no matter what fates may befall There's a Voice with a Song that forever is haunting its path. Aye, this very hand that trembles thro' this very line Lay hid, ages gone, in the hand of some forefather-Celt, With a sword in its grasp — if stronger not ti-uer than mine — And I feel, with my pen, what the old hero's sworded-hand felt — The heat of the hate that flashed into flames against wrong — The thrill of the hope that rushed like a storm on the foe; And the sheen of that sword is hid in the sheath of the song As sure as I feel thro' my veins the pure Celtic blood flow. The ties of our blood have been strained o'er thousands of years, And still are not severed, how mighty soever the strain; The chalice of time o'erflows with the streams of our tears, — Yet just as the shamrocks, to bloom, need the clouds and their rain, The faith of our fathers, our hopes and the love of our isle Need the rain of our hearts that falls from our grief-clouded eyes To keep them in bloom, while for ages we wait for the smile Of Freedom that some day — ah, some day! shall light Erin's skies. r42 POEMS OF FANNY PAKNELL. Our dead are not dead who have gone, long ago, to their rest ; They are living in us whose glorious race will not die — Their hrave buried hearts are still beating on in each breast Of the child of each Celt in each clime ' neath the infinite sky. Many days yet to come may be dark as the days that are past, Many voices may hush, — while the great years sweep patiently by. But the voice of our race shall live sounding down to the last, And our blood is the bard of the song that never shall die. POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL IRELAND, MOTHER! Vein of my heart, light of mine eyes, Pulse of my life, star of my skies, Dimmed is thy beauty, sad are thy sighs, Fairest and saddest, what shall I do for thee ? Ireland, mother! Vain, ah, vain is a woman's prayer; Vain is a woman's hot despair; Naught can she do, naught can she dare, — I am a woman, I can do naught for thee; Ireland, mother! Hast thou not sons, like the ocean-sands ? Hast thou not sons with brave hearts and Hast thou not heirs for thy broad, bright lands ? What have they done, — or what will they do for thee ? Ireland, mother! Were I a man from thy glorious womb, I'd hurl the stone from thy living tomb; Thy grief should be joy, and light thy gloom, The rose should gleam 'mid thy golden broom, Thy marish wastes should blossom and bloom; I'd smite thy foes with thy own long doom, While God's heaped judgments should round them loom; Were I a man, lo! this would I do for thee, Ireland, mother! SHE IS NOT DEAD! ' Ireland is a corpse on the disseeting-table." Who said that thou wast dead, darling of my heart ? My fairest one amid the daughters, My lily brooding on the waters, — Who said that thou wast dead, and I from thee must part ? Who said that thou wast dead, and called me from thy side ? Bright saint and queen of my devotion, POEMS OF FANNY PAENELL. M3 My spotless, priceless pearl of ocean, — My bitter ban shall rest upon the knaves who lied! They said that thou wast dead, tho' fair thy beauty shone, My sweet Undine gently gleaming Thro' crystal mists of tear-drops stream- ing, That catch the iris-tints from Aphrodite's They said that thou wast dead, oh, chosen one of Fate, — My sovereign lady proud and peerless, My swan-like Valkyr wild and fearless, My deathless maid whose soul recks not for love or hate. They said that thou wast dead, they wiled me far from thee; But ah! my heart was sadly pining, — Its tendrils still around thee twining, Drew back my soul in bonds, as uoonbeams draw the sea. And then I saw that still the life was in thine eyes, ' sweet ! most loved, most sorrow-laden! The flashes from thy ravished Aidenn Played o'er thy face like lightnings o'er the twilight skies. And then I knew at last that thou could'st never die, O sister of the great Immortals, That standest hard by Freedom's portals, Until an unseen Hand shall open from on high. Lo ! roses red thy lovers strew before thy shrine, Dipped deep in blood from heart-veins flowing, "With hues of death and passion glowing, Yet thou regardest not, for thou wast born divine. Lo! roses white thy lovers strew before thy feet, Bright blossoms of pure lives and holy; But thy firm eyes look upward solely, — Our love can bring no offerings that for thee are meet. Thou art our queen, — we bare our bosoms to thy tread; Thy empty throne for thee is waiting; Tread on, all heedless still of love or hat- ing! Enough for us who kneel, to know thou art not dead. IRELAND. She turns and tosses on her couch of pain, "Where cruel hands have stretched her, spent and worn; And by her side the weary watchers strain Sad eyes to catch a gleam of halting morn. She moans, — and every moan a true heart rends, — She sighs, — the fever hot in every limb, — " Ah, God, whose love the humblest wretch befriends, Bid daylight break upon my eyelids dim! " Oh! long the night! — and many a time and oft, We've thought, with throbbing pulse, — " The dawn draws nigh! " We've seen the clouds, illusive, break aloft, And then with tenfold blackness mock the eye. Oh, long the night, and fierce the fever's- pain! Once more we see pale glimmerings, far off, play; — We've hoped so oft, we dare not hope again, — And yet, — if this indeed, at last, were Day?' POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL. WHAT SHALL WE WEEP FOR? "Woe is me now! for my soul is wearied be- cause of murderers. — Jeremiah. Shall we weep for thee, my mother, — shall we weep for the martyred land, — For the queen that is prone in ashes, struck clown by a robber's hand ? Shall we weep for the fair green banner, drowned deep in a sea of tears, — For the golden harp that is broken, and dumb with the rust of years? Shall we weep for the children for those crushed clown to the brute, — Crushed out of the semblance of human, while Justice sits blind and mute ? For the peasant that died in torments, — for the hero that battling fell, For the martyr that slowly rotted in the voiceless dungeon cell ? For the famine, the filth, and fever, the lash, and the pitchcap, and swprd, For the homeless, coffinless corpses, flung out on their native sward? For the strong man that crept from prison, old, helpless, and blind, to die, For the soldier that bled for England, 'neath many a hostile sky, — Whom England, delighting to honor, gifts of chains and a dungeon gave, Till his brave heart broke with its anguish, / and he staggered from cell to grave ? Shall we weep for these, my brothers ?— my brothers in pain and in love, — For these who have suffered and perished, and shine as the stars above ? Lo ! yonder, like white-hot beacons, they light up the path we should tread; Pure flames on the heavenly watch-towers, — shall we weep for those happy dead ? Nay, not for mother or children, nor for centuries' woes we'll weep, But we'll weep for the vengeance coming, that waits, but shall never sleep. Let us weep for the hand that's bloody with many an innocent life; Let us weep for those who hswe trampled the defenceless down in the strife; For the heart the Lord hath hardened, with triumph, and spoil, and crown, For the robber whose plundered kingdoms never see the sun go down; For the Scarlet Woman that's drunken with the blood and tears of her slaves, Who goes forth to slay with a psalm-tune, and builds her churches on graves; For her sons who rush out to murder, and return with plunder and prayer, Lifting up to the gentle Saviour, the red hands that never spare; For these, and the doom that is on them, the spectre ghastly and gray, Looming far in the haunted future, where Nemesis waits her prey — Let us weep, let us weep, my brothers! We have heard but a whisper fall, But we know the voice of the tempest, be it ever so still and small. To their God of Cant and Slaughter, they shall cry in their hour of need, But the true God shall rise and break them as one that breaketh a reed. Weep not for the wronged, but the wronger, — the despot whom God hath cursed — Holding off awhile till the floodgates of His gathering wrath have burst, For the wronged a moment's anguish, — for the wronger damnation deep, — He that soweth the wind shall surely for harvest the whirlwind reap. POEMS OF FANNY PAKNELL. MICHAEL DAVITT. Out from the grip of the slayer, Out from the jaws of hate, Out from the de7i of bloodhounds, Out from Gehenna's gate; Out from the felon's bondage, Out from the dungeon keep, Out from the valley of shadows, Out from the starless deep, Out from the purging tortures, Out from the sorrow and stress, Out from the roaring furnace, Out from the trodden press,— He has come for a savior of men, He has come on a mission of glory, He has come to tell us again The olden evangelist's story ! Now blessed the poor upon earth, Now blessed the hungry and weeping. For they shall have plenty for dearth, "With joy returning and reaping; Now blessed the outcast and slave, Now blessed the scorned and the hated, The knights of the Gibbet and Grave, The mourners in ashes prostrated; For they shall arise from the dust, Though scattered and buried for seons; They shall know that Jehovah is just, — From Golgotha coming with Back to the grip of the slayer, Back to the jaws of hate, Back to the den of bloodhounds, Back to Gehenna's gate; Back to the dungeon's threshold — Now may Christ the brave soul keep! — Back to the valley of shadows, Back to the starless deep, Back to the doom of martyrs, Back to the sorrow and stress, Back to the fiery furnace, Back to the bloody press, — He has gone for a leader of men, lie has gone on a kingly mission, [pen, With the prophet's fate-driven tongue and Heralding all our hopes' fruition. Thrice blessed the looser of chains ! Thrice blessed the friend of the friendless ! The High-Priest whom Heaven ordains To sacrifice bitter and endless. Thrice blessed the loved of the vile, The mean and the abject and lowly ! On him shall the Highest One smile, The earth that he treads shall be holy; Thrice blessed the consecrate hands That beckon to Liberty's portal The poor and despised of the lands, 'Mid raptures and splendors immortal ! Out of the slime and the squalor, Out of the slough of despond, Out of the yoke of Egypt, Out of the gyve and bond; Oat of the Stygian darkness, Out of the place of tombs, Out of the pitiful blindness, Out of the gulfs and glooms, Up to the heights of freedom, Up to the hills of light, Up to the holy places, Where the dim eyes see aright, — Up to the glory man hides from man, Up to the banned and shrouded altar, Bending the veil and breaking the ban, With the hands that shall never falter. Up to the truth in its inmost shrine, Leading the serfs that crouch and grovel, Turning the troubled waters to wine, Building a fane in every hovel; Ever and ever facing the day, Up and on to the radiance o'er him, He has gone to tread the martyr's way, With the martyr's cross before him; But the great white Star of Freedom's birth, Shall arise for the darkest nation, And the bound, the blind, the maimed of earth, From his ashes shall draw salvation. TO MY FELLOW-WOMEN. last at the Cross, and first at the Grave, and first at the Rising too ! Is there nothing left for your hearts to feel, or left for your hands to do ? r4G POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL. Have you lost your crown of the days of old, as the mates of noble men ? Are you faint and fearful and witless now, who were bold as the she-lions then ? Are you playthings now, who were heroes' guides? are you dolls, who were queens on earth ? Have you stepped with a simper from your thrones, and strangled your souls at birth? Priestess and prophetess shrined of yore, — have you naught of their breath di- vine? Vala of North and Sybil of South, — have they perished in all their line ? Have you heard of the warrior queens who shed on your country's dawn a glow ? Of Scota and Eire and Meabhdh, who flash from the shadows of long ago? — When the mothers of Erin fed their babes from the sword- point bright and bare, And the Druidess flew in the battle's van, by the burning torches' glare ? Have you heard of the maiden saints who bore the Lamp of the Holy Chrism, While the glory streamed from their hal- lowed hands o'er the heathen's dark abysm ? Of the " Mary of Ireland," pure and wise, and Ida, the blessed nun, Like the Heralds of Pars,* sent forth be- fore, to usher the bursting sun ? Have you heard of the woman fair and foul, o'er whose shame no softening veil Shall ever be drawn by the mournful years, while they hear her lost land's wail ? Yea, hers was the crime, and yours is the stain till Erin shall rise up crowned, When the women of Erin loose the chain that the hands of a woman bound. But bitter the ban, and black the brand, that is heavy upon your brows, While your country cries and your sisters starve, and never an hour ye rouse; * Pars — Persia. But ye sweep in your silks and laces here, in your new-found honors proud, While "over the stream" the corpse-lips call, from many a woman's shroud. Remember the olden times, when the Lord looked down on the Hebrew dames, Who walked with the tinkling feet, and loved the glory that only shames; How He gave them for robes a sackcloth, for a girdle He gave a rent, And for beauty He gave a burning, and a stench for a delicate scent. They heard not the groans of the poor, and they saw not the wreck of their land, They smiled to the lordly oppressor, and fawned to the plunderer's hand; Till God rose up in His wrath, and smote the crown of each haughty head, And on the road that the beggar had trod, made the mincing feet to tread. The Lord is living, the Lord that judged, that humbled the wanton then; Each speeding moment His word goes out, like the clarion's peal to men. But their ears are deaf, — they will not hear, till the stars shall topple and fall, And the pride of earth shall shrivel and pass, and be seen no more at all. Then the Voices that tempt, the Yoices that stun, shall be mute for evermore, — The Voices that drown the shriek of the poor, when the burden presses sore, — They shall cease, — the quibble and gibe and lie, the casuist's bloodless sneers, And the voice of God shall speak on alone, thro' the everlasting years. sisters ! tenderest hearts on earth, are your bosoms turned to stone ? cruel sisters ! have you no ears for a dy- ing people's moan ? cruel sisters ! have you no eyes for the tears pressed out by wrong ? — The tears that the world is weary to see, they have flowed so fast and long. POEMS OF FANNY PA11NELL. The dropping of tears — the dripping of blood —oh, the world is sick at heart ! It points to us with an angry scorn, saying, — " See how they stand apart ! 'Tis all for glitter, or all for greed, or all for a mushroom's rise; Shall strangers pity or help when these go by with averted eyes ? " Far down the echoing aisles of the Past comes the tread of stately feet, Where Jewess and Pagan and Christian shrined in an equal glory meet; There Judith walks with the virgin Joan, and Miriam chants of Egypt's seas, And she that bore the Gracchi is there, and she that suckled the Maccabees. Is there never a name on all our roll of noble women and fair, That is worthy the lustre of such as these to grandly win and wear ? Shall a woman's hand be the first to raise the banner that leads the free In every land that hath rent its bonds, save alone, Erin, in thee ? The sisters whose palms ye would scarcely touch, whose palms are rugged with toil, From penury's store they have given like queens, and poured out the wine and oil; The hot Irish heart, is it dead in the breasts of you who have gold and power ? Can never a lady of all put on the woman again for an hour ? Nay, well I know that the patriot's path hath naught of delight to show; Nay, well I know that for woman and man the thorns of the martyr grow; The trail of blood from the pilloried feet that climb 'mid cursing and scorn, Points ever the way, and the one straight way, that leads to the hills of morn. The King of the children of men hath spread His feast for you and for me; Ye must eat of an ashen bread, and' drink the wine from a bitter tree; Who would sup with the Lord in Paradise must taste of the pariah's food, Who would rest with the Lord in Paradise, must carry with Him the Kood. Oh, women of Ireland, make you a name that the world shall hear and thrill ! Oh, women of Ireland, this is no time for babbling or sitting still; No time is it now to doubt and quail, — there is holiest work to do, — The harvest of Fate is ripe this day, and God and your country have need of you. JOHN DILLON. " Pater nobilis, filius nobilior." Like Spain's young Cid of yore, methought I saw thee rise, The mystic inner glow thro' thy pale fea- tures shining; Kodrigo's fiery soul was leaping from thine eyes, — Spain's Eed-Cross flag with blazoned sham- rocks round thee twining. I heard thee speak, and dreamed of Galahad the chaste, Of Launcelot the brave, and Arthur's, kingly glory; Mailed shadows on thy form the helm and hauberk placed, And bade thee forth, to take up knight- hood's broken story. The voice of Art McMurrough thunderel thro' thy tongue, Of John the Proud, whose true neart — Bloody Bess disdaining — By those twin snakes of craft and greed to death was stung Whose rank trail still the banners of the Scot is staining. Methought the murdered Desmond raised his blood-scored throat Uptowered the Three Great Earls, who' fought and fled despairing; POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL. Forth gleamed our Owen Roe who first the Roundheads smote, Then died, with single arm his country's flag upbearing. Around thee still I saw the great souls thronging fast, — Grattan, the golden-tongued, whose breast with storms was swelling; The Geraldine, of all his race's heroes, last, With wild Norse blood against the Saxon churl rebelling. "Wolfe Tone! — ah! let the head be bowed, the voice be hushed! See you the livid veins that gape with mournful quiver? Martyr, self -slain! the blood that from thy sad heart gushed, 'Twixt Celt and Saxon flows, a black and bridgeless river. Tread softly yet again! we stand on holy ground! Emmet, our nation's Bayard, 'gainst for- lorn hope hoping; In him some knight of Aiteach's grot, long slumber-bound, "Woke up, with baffled fingers for the dead Past groping, A giant Form I saw that loomed out dim and vast, A great, broad brow of might, yet stamped with endless yearning; O'Connell! thou whose labors all men's have o'er-past, Though for thy guerdon only failure's anguish earning. Fret not thy noble heart ! no hero fails in vain; Lo! Sampson in his wreck the Pagan hosts o'er-throwing; Lo! Herakles, the half -god, rent with such vast pain, As only they who serve their race win right of knowing. Behold Prometheus! lover of the darkened world; The grim gods cursed with death the flame he gave for blessing, Yet — to his rock of torture by their ven- geance hurled — He only smiled, — his soul in triumph still possessing. And on they came! — Lo, Davis ! ' meteor soul As in Elijah's fiery chariot, heavenward sweeping, Threw clown the patriot's mantle and the poet's scroll, That Erin's mournful Genius still un- touched is keeping. Yet more ! the men who thro' the white-hot furnace walked, Like Rome's live torches, quenched in pain's last radiation — Mitchel, whose tongue the thunders of the . war-god talked, Teaching the one old way where lies the serf's salvation. O'Brien, he who smote his fellows on the face, — The clan of lordlings, born from rapine and oppression, — And, turning, stung with grand disdain caste and race, Went out and joined the patriots' pariah procession. And still they came, — till space shall fail to tell their names; Thousands of hero shades around thy young head sweeping; The air was filled with splendors, as when heavenly flames O'er apostolic brows the Spirit's watch were keeping Thy sponsors these, young chief, thy com- rades to the fray; In all their pangs and joys thou shalt be made partaker; POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL. '49 They shall be there to choke the landlord from his prey, They shall be there to give the lie to peer and Quaker. The path before thy feet climbs brightening to the stars; These champion souls that fell shall never bid thee falter; Better to strive and fall, decked but with warfare's scars, And immolate e'en Fame, on Freedom's holy altar. Ah ! darkly lies Gethsemane around thee now ! In bloody sweat the kings of earth must write their story, But on the Mount, high o'er the clouds, thy wounded brow, Like Gabriel's who slew the Worm, shall shine in glory. BUCKSHOT FOESTEE. "Your hands are denied with blood, and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, your tongue hath uttered perversities." — Isaiah. fallen inheritor of a glorious faith, By martyr souls unspotted handed down, Behold up-looming sadly Fox's stern-browed wraith, Sore stricken for his blood-polluted crown ! Behold the tongue-pierc'd Naylor of the fiery heart, And brain with sacred frenzy all dis- traught ! The stately shade of Penn, who chose the outcast's part, So hotly in his breast Love's magic wrought ! Penn, who has taught a wolfish world that love can reign Where hate and rapine gnash decrepit jaws; Penn, who has taught a knavish world that truth can gain The savage mind to serve her own sweet laws. clean-lipped founder of a race of Nature's kings ! Men of the steadfast will and gentle word, Men to whose helping hands the crushed wretch ever clings, Whose feet in mercy's ways are ever spurred, — From them the red-skin learned some white men could be true, Some Christians yet could scorn the tongue of guile; Not They betrayed the heathen of the tawny hue, To add new treasures to the Christian's pile. Far o'er the ocean rose a cry from myriad lips, From myriad dying lips that moaned for bread; Oh! fast on Irish backs fell England's scor- pion whips, And hard on Irish hearts the crushing Saxon tread. But these men heard; — their sires had fled from England's hate, That cruel Motherland that knew them not, — With feet love-shod and hands to bounty consecrate, They fought back death in many a helot's cot. men of men ! not tongue of mine can tell your praise, True servants of the Christ, you shone for all; Yet as in loveliest rose- hearts, oft our startled gaze On some foul birth of wriggling slime will fall,— POEMS OF FANNY rAKNELL. So falls our gaze on one, who on your snowy With measure thou hast meted, God shall roll fill thy breast, Leaves thick and dark a blot of lasting And mercy such as thine, thy soul shall shame, — know. He who for power's tenure sells his faith and soul, "'Twere more humane," thus meant thy And bears a bloody label to his name, — pharisaic speech, " To slay a hundred than to slay but one ! " The man of peace, the man of truth, 'mid New doctrines to delight thy masters thou Saxon friends, canst preach; Who bless the day they found their smooth- Let Cromwell blush, and own himself out- faced tool; done! The man of lies, the man of blood, when Saxon ends That grim old warrior slew, but never whined Demand that force and fraud again shall that love, rule ! Love for his victims, drove him forth to slay; The man of murder ! hark, from many a 'Twas not the gentle mercy dropping from 1 reddened field, above, I hear the shrieks of butchered serfs up- That urged liim raging on his helpless rise: prey. Stand forth, Assassin ! with thy crimson hands revealed; Go on, Friend! and make our land one That guiltless blood thy name to Heaven peaceful grave; cries. Thus shall the lustre of thy greatness blaze; Ay, Buckshot Forster ! baptized thus in bit- A little buckshot thus a suffering land shall ter jest, save, Angels at God's stern bar shall call thee And wreathe thy Quaker hat with Hay- so; nau's bays. POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. THE FAME OF THE CITY. A great rich city of power and pride, With streets full of traders, and ships on the tide; "With rich men and workmen and judges and preachers, The shops full of skill and the schools full of teachers. The people were proud of their opulent town: The rich men spent millions to bring it re- nown, The strong men built and the tradesmen planned, The shipmen sailed to every land, The lawyers argued, the schoolmen taught, And a poor shy Poet his verses brought, And cast them into the splendid store. The tradesmen stared at his useless craft; The rich men sneered and the strong men laughed; The preachers said it was worthless quite; The schoolmen claimed it was theirs to write; But the songs were spared, though they added nought To the profit and praise the people sought, That was wafted at last from distant climes; And the townsmen said: " To remotest times We shall send our name and our greatness down ! " The boast came true; but the famous town Had a lesson to learn when all was told: The nations that honored cared nought for its gold, Its skill they exceeded an hundred-fold; It had only been one of a thousand more, Had the songs of the Poet been lost to its Then the rich men and tradesmen and schoolmen said They had never derided, but praised instead; And they boast of the Poet their town has bred. HEART-HUNGER. There is no truth in faces, save in children: They laugh and frown and weep from na- ture's keys; But we who meet the world give out false notes, The true note dying muffled in the heart. 0, there be woful prayers and piteous wail- ing That spirits hear, from lives that starve for love ! The body's food is bread; and wretches' cries Are heard and answered: but the spirit's food Is love; and hearts that starve may die in And no physician mark the cause of death. You cannot read the faces; they are masks, — Like yonder woman, smiling at the lips, Silk-clad, bejewelled, lapped with luxury, And beautiful and young — ay, smiling at the lips, But never in the eyes from inner light: A gracious temple hung with flowers with- out — Within, a naked corpse upon the stones ! 0, years and years ago the hunger came — The desert-thirst for love — she prayed for love — POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. She cried out in the night-time of her soul for love ! The cup they gave was poison whipped to froth. For years she drank it, knowing it for death; She shrieked in soul against it, but must drink: The skies were dumb— she dared not swoon or scream. As Indian mothers see babes die for food, She watched dry-eyed beside her starving heart, And only sobbed in secret for its gasps, And only raved one wild hour when it died ! Pain, have pity ! Numb her quivering sense; Fame, bring guerdon ! Thrice a thousand years Thy boy-thief with the fox beneath his cloak Hath let it gnaw his side unmoved, and held the world; And she, a slight woman, smiling at the lips, With repartee and jest — a corpse-heart in her breast ! JACQUEMINOTS. I may not speak in words, dear, but let my words be flowers, To tell their crimson secret in leaves of fragrant fire; They plead for smiles and kisses as summer fields for showers, And every purple veinlet thrills with ex- quisite desire. 0, let me see the glance, dear, the gleam of soft confession You give my amorous roses for the tender hope they prove; And press their heart-leaves back, love, to drink their deeper passion, For their sweetest, wildest perfume is the whisper of my love ! My roses, tell her, pleading, all the fondness and the sighing, All the longing of a heart that reaches thirsting for its bliss, And tell her, tell her, roses, that my lips and eyes are dying For the melting of her love-look and the rapture of her kiss. MY NATIVE LAND. It chanced to me upon a time to sail Across the Southern Ocean to and fro; And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep, Or like a clear, calm stre:im o'er mossy stone, Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep, And left us yearning still for lands un- known. And when we found one, — for 'tis soon to find In thousand-isled Cathay another isle, — For one short noon its treasures filled the mind, And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile- And so it was, from isle to isle we passed, Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips; And when that all was tasted, then at last We thirsted sore for draughts instead of sips. I learned from this there is no Southern land Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. Sick minds need change; but, when in health they stand 'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home again. And thus with me it was: the yearning turned From laden airs of cinnamon away, POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. To:.! And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay ! My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief ! My land, that has no peer in all the sea For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. New loves may come with duties, but the first Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and smiles: Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles. WESTERN AUSTRALIA. beauteous Southland ! land of yellow air, That hangeth o'er thee slumbering, and doth hold The moveless foliage of thy valleys fair And wooded hills, like aureole of gold. thou, discovered ere the fitting time, Ere Nature in completion turned thee forth ! Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North. land, God made thee wondrous to the eye ! But His sweet singers thou hast never heard; He left thee, meaning to come by-and-by, And give rich voice to every bright- winged bird. He painted with fresh hues thy myriad But left them scentless: ah ! their woful dole, Like sad reproach of their Creator's pow- ers, — To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul. He gave thee trees of odorous, precious wood ; But midst them all, bloomed not one tree of fruit. He looked, but said not that His work was good, When leaving thee all perfumeless and mute. He blessed thy flowers with honey: every bell Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearn- ing wist; But no bee-lover ever notes the swell Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be kist. strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art more Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could paint For others' eyes the glory of the shore Where last I saw tfhee; but the senses-. faint In soft delicious dreaming when they drain Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art, All sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain The spouse who comes to wake thy sleep- ing heart. WAITING. He is coming ! he is coming ! in my throb- bing breast I feel it; There is music in my blood, and it whis- pers all day long, That my love unknown comes toward me ! Ah, my heart, he need not steal it, For I cannot hide the secret that it mur- murs in its song ! the sweet bursting flowers ! how they open, never blushing, Laying bare their fragrant bosoms to the kisses of the sun ! And the birds — I thought 'twas poets only- read their tender gushing, But I hear their pleading stories, and I know them every one. rs4 POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'EEILLY. *'He is coming!" says my heart; I may raise my eyes and greet him; I may meet him any moment — shall I knpw him when I see ? And my heart laughs back the answer — I can tell him when I meet him, For our eyes will kiss and mingle ere he speaks a word to me. 0, I'm longing for his coming — in the dark my arms outreaching; To hasten you, my love, see, I lay my bosom bare ! Ah, the night-wind ! I shudder, and my hands are raised beseeching — It wailed so light a death-sigh that passed me in the air ! LIVING. To toil all day and lie worn-out at night; To rise for all the years to slave and sleep, And breed new broods to do no other thing In toiling, bearing, breeding — life is this To myriad men, too base for man or brute. To serve for common duty, while the brain Is hot with high desire to be distinct; To fill the sand-grain place among the stones That build the social wall in million same- ness, Is life by leave, and death by insignificance. To live the morbid years, with dripping blood Of sacrificial labor for a Thought; To take the dearest hope and lay it down Beneath the crushing wheels for love of Freedom; To bear the sordid jeers of cant and trade, And go on hewing for a far ideal, — This were a life worth giving to a cause, If cause be found so worth a martyr life. But highest life of man, nor work nor sacri- fice, But utter seeing of the things that be ! To pass amid the Irurrying crowds, and watch The hungry race for things of vulgar use; To mark the growth of baser lines in men; To note the bending to a servile rule; To know the natural discord called disease That rots like rust the blood and souls of men; To test the wisdoms and philosophies by touch Of that which is immutable, being clear, The beam Ood opens to the poet's brain; To see with eyes of pity laboring souls Strive upward to the Freedom and the Truth, And still be backward dragged by fear and ignorance; To see the beauty of the world, and hear The rising harmony of growth, whose shade Of undertone is harmonized decay; To know that love is life — that blood is one And rushes to the union — that the heart Is like a cup athirst for wine of love; Who sees and feels this meaning utterly, The wrong of law, the right of man, the natural truth, Partaking not of selfish aims, withholding not The word that strengthens and the hand that helps; Who waits and sympathizes with the pettiest life, And loves all things, and reaches up to God With thanks and blessing — he alone is living. HER REFRAIN. " Do you love me ? " she said, when the skies were blue, And we walked where the stream through the branches glistened; And 1 told and retold her my love was true. While she listened and smiled, and smiled and listened. " Do you love me ?" she whispered,when days were drear, And her eyes searched mine with a patient yearning; POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'EEILLY. on my And I kissed her, renewing the words so dear, "While she listened and smiled, as if slowly- learning. " Do you love me ? " she asked, when we sat at rest By the stream enshadowed with autumn glory; Her cheek had been laid as ii breast, But she raised it to ask for the sweet old story. And I said: " I will tell her the tale again — I will swear by the earth and the stars above me ! " [prove And I told her that uttermost time should The fervor and faith of my perfect love; And I vowed it and pledged it that nought should move; While she listened and smiled in my face, and then She whispered once more, " Do you truly love me ? " A SAVAGE. Dixon, a Choctaw, twenty years of age, Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl; Tried and condemned, the rough-beards curb their rage, And watch him stride in freedom from the hall. "Return on Friday, to be shot to death ! " So ran the sentence — it was Monday night. The dead man's comrades drew a well-pleased breath; Then all night long the gambling dens were bright. The days sped slowly; but the Friday came, And flocked the miners to the shooting- ground; They chose six riflemen of deadly aim And with low voices sat and lounged "He will not come." "He's not a fool." " The men "Who set the savage free must face the A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon came. Silent and stern — a woman at his heels; He motions to the brave, who stays her tread. Next minute — flame the guns; the woman reels And drops without a moan — Dixon is dead. LOVE'S SECRET. Love found them sitting in a woodland place, His amorous hand amid her golden tresses; And Love looked smiling on her glowing face And moistened eyes upturned to his ca- "0 sweet," she murmured, "life is utter bliss ! " " Dear heart," he said, " our golden cup runs over ! " "Drink, love," she cried, "and thank the gods for this ! " He drained the precious lips of cup and lover. Love blessed the kiss; but, ere he wandered thence, The mated bosoms heard this benediction: "Love lies within the brimming howl of sense: Who keeps this full has joy— who drains, affliction." They heard the rustle as he smiling fled: She reached her hand to pull the roses blowing. He stretched to take the purple grapes o'er- head; Love whispered back, "Nay, keep their beauties groioing." 750 POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. They paused, and understood: one flower alone They took and kept, and Love flew smil- ing over. Their roses bloomed, their cup went brim- ming on — She looked for Love within, and found her lover. LOVE'S SACRIFICE. Love's Herald flew o'er all the fields of Greece, Crying: " Love's altar waits for sacrifice ! " And all folk answered, like a wave of peace, With treasured offerings and gifts of price. Toward high Olympus every white road filled With pilgrims streaming to the blest abode; Each bore rich tribute, some for joys fulfilled, And some for blisses lingering on the road. The pious peasant drives his laden car; The fisher youth bears treasure from the sea; A wife brings honey for the sweets that are; A maid brings roses for the sweets to be. Here strides the soldier with his wreathed sword, No more to glitter in his country's wars; There walks the poet with his mystic word, And smiles at Eros' mild recruit from Mars. But midst these bearers of propitious gifts, Behold where two, a youth and maiden, stand: She bears no boon; his arm no burden lifts, Save her dear finger pressed within Ins hand. Their touch ignites the soft delicious fire, Whose rays the very altar-flames eclipse; Their eyes are on each other — sweet desire And yea.rning passion tremble on their lips. So fair — so strong ! Ah, Love ! what errant wiles Have brought these two so poor and so unblest ? But see ! Instead of anger, Cupid smiles; And lo ! he crowns their sacrifice as best ! Their hands are empty, but their hearts are filled; Their gifts so rare for all the host suffice: Beore the altar is their life-wine spilled — The love they long for is their sacrifice. AT FREDERICKSBURG.— DEC. 13, 1862. God send us peace, and keep red strife away; But should it come, God send us men and steel ! The land is dead that dare not face the day When foreign danger threats the common weal. Defenders strong are they that homes defend; From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar. Well blest the country that has sons to lend From trades of peace to learn the trade of war. Thrice blest the nation that has every son A soldier, ready for the warning sound; Who marches homeward when the fight is done, To swing the hammer and to till the ground. Call back that morning, with its lurid light, When through our land the awful war- bell tolled; When lips were mute, and women's faces white As the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled. Call back that morn: an instant all were dumb, As if the shot had struck the Nation's life; POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the call- ing drum, And men streamed in to meet the coming strife. They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom, The plough left rusting in the prairie farm; They saw but " Union " in the gathering gloom; The tearless women helped the men to arm; Brigades from towns — each village sent its band: German and Irish — every race and faith; There was no question then of native land, But — love the Flag and follow it to death. No need to tell their tale: through every age The splendid story shall be sung and said; But let me draw one picture from the page — For words of sous: embalm the hero dead. The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow; The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted, And Burnside's battalions are mustering now. The armies stand by to behold the dread meeting; The work must be done by a desperate few; The black-mouthed guns on the height give them greeting — From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in view. Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles behind them Are Georgia militia — an Irish brigade — Their caps have green badges, as if to remind them Of all the brave record their country has made. The stormers go forward — the Federals cheer them; They breast the smooth hillside — the black mouths are dumb; The riflemen lie in the works till they near them, And cover the stormers as upward they come. Was ever a death-march so grand and so solemn ? At last, the dark summit with flame is enlined; The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed column, That reels from the height, leaving hun- dreds behind. The armies are hushed — there is no cause for cheering: The fall of brave men to brave men is a pain. Again come the stormers ! and as they are nearing The flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back again. And so till full noon come the Federal Flung back from the height, as the cliff flings a wave; Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle No wavering rank till it steps on the grave. Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall is lifted, The green of the hillside no longer is seen; The dead soldiers lie as the sea-weed is drifted, The earthworks still held by the badges of green. Have they quailed ? is the word. No: again they are forming — Again comes a column to death and de- feat ! What is it in these who shall now do the storming That makes every Georgian spring to his feet? " God ! what a pity ! " they cry in their cover, As rifles are readied and bayonets made tight; POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. '•' Tis Meagher and his fellows ! their caps have green clover; 'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the fight ! " Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag before them, With Meagher at their head, they have dashed at the hill ! Their foemen are proud of the country that bore them; But, Irish in love, they are enemies still. Out rings the fierce word, " Let them have it ! " the rifles Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of the foe: It is green against green but a principle stifles The Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow. The column has reeled, but it is not de- feated; In front of the guns they re-form and at- tack; Six times they have done it, and six times retreated; Twelve hundred they came, and two hun- dred go back. Two hundred go back with the chivalrous story; The wild day is closed in the night's sol- emn shroud; A thousand lie dead, but their death was a glory That calls not for tears — the Green Badges are proud ! Bright honor be theirs who for honor were Who charged for their flag to the grim cannon's mouth; And honor to them who were true, though not tearless, — Who bravely that day kept the cause of the South. The quarrel is done — God avert such another; The lesson it brought we should evermore heed: Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother, No matter what birth or what race or what creed. RELEASED— JANUARY, 1878.* They are free at last ! They can face the sun; Their hearts now throb with the world's pulsation; Their prisons are open — their night is done; 'Tis England's mercy and reparation ! The years of their doom have slowly sped — Their limbs are withered — their ties are riven; Their children are scattered, their friends are dead — But the prisons are open — the "crime" forgiven. God ! what a threshold they stand upon: The world has passed on while they v.c <■:■• buried ; In the glare of the sun they walk alone On the grass-grown track where the crowd has hurried. Haggard and broken and seared with pain, They seek the remembered friends and places: Men shuddering turn, and gaze again At the deep-drawn lines on their altered faces. What do they read on the pallid page ? What is the tale of these wof ul letters ? A lesson as old as their country's age, Of a love that is stronger than stripes and fetters. In the blood of the slain some dip their blade. And swear by the stain to follow: But a deadlier oath might here be made, On the wasted bodies and faces hollow. Irishmen ! You who have kept the peace — Look on these forms diseased and broken: Believe, if you can, that their late release, When their lives are sapped, is a good-will * On the 5th of January, 1878, three ot the Irish political prisoners, who had been confined since l^'.n, uvre hi at lib- erty. The released men were received by their fellow- countrymen in London. " They are well," said the report. " but they look prematurely old." POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. Their hearts are the bait on England's hook; For this are they dragged from her hope- less prison; She reads her doom in the Nations' book — She fears the day that has darkly risen; She reaches her hand for Ireland's aid — Ireland, scourged, contemned, derided; She begs from the beggar her hate has made; She seeks for the strength her guile di- vided. She offers a bribe — ah, God above ! Behold the price of the desecration: The hearts she has tortured for Irish love She brings as a bribe to the Irish nation ! 0, blind and cruel ! She fills her cup With conquest and pride, till its red wine But shrieks at the draught as she drinks it up— Her wine has been turned to blood and We know her — our Sister ! Come on the storm ! God send it soon and sudden upon her: The race she has shattered and sought to deform Shall laugh as she drinks the black dis- honor. A NATION'S TEST. READ AT THE O'CONNELL CENTENNIAL IN BOSTON, ON AUGUST 6, 1875, A nation's greatness lies in men, not acres; One master-mind is worth a million hands. No royal robes have marked the planet- shakers, But Samson-strength to burst the ages' The might of empire gives no crown super- nal — Athens is here — but where is Macedon? A dozen lives make Greece and Borne eter- nal, And England's fame might safely rest on one. Here test and text are drawn from Nature's preaching: Afric and Asia — half the rounded earth — In teeming lives the solemn truth are teach- ing, That insect-millions may have human birth. Sun-kissed and fruitful, every clod is breed- ing A petty life, too small to reach the eye: So must it be, with no Man thinking, lead- ing, The generations creep their course and die. Hapless the lands, and doomed amid the races, That give no answer to this royal test; Their toiling tribes will droop ignoble faces, Till earth in pity takes them back to rest. A vast monotony may not be evil, But God's light tells us it cannot be good; Valley and hill have beauty — but the level Must bear a shadeless and a stagnant brood. I bring the touchstone, Motherland, to thee, And test thee trembling, fearing thou shouldst fail; If fruitless, sonless, thou wert proved .to be, Ah, what would love and memory avail ? Brave land ! God has blest thee ! Thy strong heart I feel, As I touch thee and test thee — Dear land ! As the steel To the magnet flies upward, so rises thy With a motherly pride to the touch of the test. the touchstone, looking on her distant youth, Looking down her line of leaders and of workers for the truth. POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. Ere the Teuton, Norseman, Briton, left the primal woodland spring. When their rule was might and rapine, and their law a painted king; When the sun of art and learning still was in the Orient; When the pride of Babylonia under Cyrus' hand was shent; When the sphinx's introverted eye turned fresh from Egypt's guilt; When the Persian bowed to Athens; when the Parthenon was built; When the Macedonian climax closed the Commonwealths of Greece; When the wrath of Eoman manhood burst on Tarquin for Lucrece — Then was Erin rich in knowledge — thence from out her Ollamh's store — Kenned to-day by students only — grew her ancient Senchus More; * Then were reared her mighty builders, who made temples to the sun — There they stand — the old Pound Towers — showing how their work was done: Thrice a thousand years upon them — sham- ing all our later art — Warning fingers raised to tell us we must build with reverent heart. Ah, we call thee Mother Erin ! Mo'tker thou in right of years; Mother in the large fruition— mother in the joys and tears. All thy life has been a symbol — we can only read a part: God will flood thee yet with sunshine for the woes that drench thy heart. All thy life has been symbolic of a human mother's life: Youth's sweet hopes 'and dreams have van- ished, and the travail and the strife Are upon thee in the present; but thy work until to-day Still has been for truth and manhood — and it shall not pass away: * " Senchus More," or Great Law, the title of the Brehon Laws, translated by O'Donovan and O'Curry. Ollamh Fola, who reigned 900 years b. c, organized a trien- nial parliament at Tara, of the chiefs, priests, and bards, -who digested the laws into a record called the Psalter of Justice lives, though judgment lingers— an- gels' feet are heavy shod — But a planet's years are moments in th' eter- nal day of God ! Out from the valley of death and tears, From the war and want of a thousand years, From the mark of sword and the rust of chain, From the smoke and blood of the penal law?. The Irish men and the Irish cause Come out in the front of the field again ! What says the stranger to such a vitality ? What says the statesman to this nationality ? Flung on the shore of a sea of defeat, Hardly the swimmers have sprung to their feet, When the nations are thrilled by a clarion- word, And Burke, the philosopher-statesman, is heard. When shall his equal be ? Down from the stellar height Sees he the planet and all on its girth — India, Columbia, and Europe — his eagle- sight Sweeps at a glance all the wrong upon earth. Paces or sects were to him a profanity: Hindoo and Negro and Kelt were as one; Large as mankind was his splendid humanity, Large in its record' the work he has done. What need to mention men of minor note, When there be minds that all the heights attain ? What school-boy knoweth not the hand that wrote " Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain ? " What man that speaketh English e'er can lift Tara. Ollamh Fola founded schools of history, medicine, philosophy, poetry, and astronomy, which were protected by his successors. Kimbath (450 B.C.) and Hugony (300 B.C. > also promoted the civil interests of the kingdom in a re- markable i POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. His voice 'mid scholars, who hath the lore Of Berkeley, Curran, Sheridan, and Swift, The art of Foley and the songs of Moore ? Gmttan and Flood and Emmet — where is he That hath not learned respect for such as these ? Who loveth humor, and hath yet to see Lover and Prout and Lever and Maclise ? Great men grow greater by the lapse of time: We know those least whom we have seen the latest; And they, 'mong those whose names have grown sublime, Who worked for Human Liberty, are greatest. And now for one who allied will to work, And thought to act, and burning speech to thought; Who gained the prizes that were seen by Burke — Burke felt the wrong— O'Connell felt, and fought. Ever the same — from boyhood \vp to death His race was crushed — his people were de- famed; He found the spark, and fanned it with his breath, And fed the fire, till all the nation flamed ! He roused the farms — he made the serf a yeoman; He drilled his millions and he faced the foe; But not with lead or steel he struck the foe- man: Eeason the sword — and human right the blow. He fought for home — but no land-limit bounded O'Connell's faith, nor curbed his sympa- thies; All wrong to liberty must be confounded, Till men were chainless as the winds and He fought for faith — but with no narrow spirit; With ceaseless hand the bigot laws he smote; One chart, he said, all mankind should in- herit, — The right to worship and the right to vote. Always the same — but yet a glinting prism: In wit, law, statecraft, still a master- hand; An " uncrowned king," whose people's love was chrism; His title — Liberator of his Lapnd ! " His heart's in Eome, his spirit is in heav- en" — So runs the old song that his people sing; A tall Pound Tower they builded in Glas- nevin — Fit Irish headstone for an Irish king ! Motherland ! there is no cause to doubt thee; Thy mark is left on every shore to-day. Though grief and wrong may cling like robes about thee, Thy motherhood will keep thee queen al- way. In faith and patience working, and beli3ving Not power alone can make a noble state: Whate'er the land, though all things else conceiving, it breed great men, it is not great. Go on, dear land, and midst the generations Send out strong men to cry the word aloud; Thy niche is empty still amidst the nations — Go on in faith, and God must raise the cloud. POEMS OF LADY WILDE. THE BKOTHEKS.* A SCENE FROM '98. 'Ohl give me truths, 'Tis midnight, falls the lamp-light dull and sickly- On a pale.and anxious crowd, Through the court, and round the judges, thronging thickly, With prayers, they dare not speak aloud. Two youths, two noble youths, stand pris- oners at the bar — You can see them through the gloom — In the pride of life and manhood's beauty, there they are Awaiting their death doom. All eyes an earnest watch on them are keep- ing* Some, sobbing, turn away, And the strongest men can hardly see for weeping, So noble and so loved were they. Their hands are locked together, those young brothers, As before the judge they stand — They feel not the deep grief that moves the others, For thev die for Fatherland. They are pale, but it is not fear that whitens On each proud, high brow, For the triumph of the martyr's glory brightens Around them even now. They sought to free their land from thrall of stranger; Was it treason ? Let them die; But their blood will cry to Heaven — the Avenger Yet will hearken from on high. Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarce! The base Informer bends, Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true men, While he clasped their hand as friends. Aye, could fondle the young children of his victim — Break bread with his young wife At the moment that for gold his perjured dictum Sold the husband and the father's life. There is silence in the midnight — eyes are kaeping Troubled watch till forth the jury come; There is silence in the midnight — eyes are weeping — Guilty ! — is the fatal uttered doom. For a moment, o'er the brothers' noble faces, Came a shadow sad to see; Then, silently, they rose up in their places, And embraced each other fervently. VI. Oh ! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow, The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene: Twice the judge essayed to speak the word — to-morrow — Twice faltered, as a woman he had been. POEMS OF LADY WILDE. To-morrow ! — Fain the elder would have spoken, Prayed for respite, tho' it is not Death he fears; But, thoughts of home and wife his heart hath broken, And his words are stopped by tears. But the youngest — oh, he spake out bold and clearly: — I have no ties of children or of wife; Let me die — but spare the brother who more dearly Is loved by me than life. — Pale martyrs, ye may cease, your days are numbered; Next noon your sun of life goes down; One day between the sentence and the scaf- fold- One day between the torture and the crown ! A hymn of joy is rising from creation; Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky; But human hearts weep sore in lamentation, For the Brothers are led forth to die. Aye, guard them with your cannon and your lances — So of old came martyrs to the stake; Aye, guard them — see the people's flashing glances, For those noble two are dying for their Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever; Ah ! methinks, had I been there, I'd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever The sword should touch their hair. It falls ! — there is a shriek of lamentation From the weeping crowd around; They're stilled — the noblest hearts within the nation — The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground. Years have passed since that fatal scene of dying, Yet, lifelike to this day, In their coffins still those severed heads are lying. Kept by angels from decay. Oh ! they preach to us, those still and pallid Those pale lips yet implore us, from their graves, To strive for our birthright as God's crea- tures, Or die, if we can but live as slaves. THE VOICE OF THE POOE. Was sorrow ever like to our sorrow ? Oh, God above ! Will our night never change into a morrow Of joy and love ? A deadly gloom is on us waking, sleeping, Like the darkness at noontide, That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping By the Crucified. Before us die our brothers of starvation: Around are cries of famine and despair ! Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salva- tion — Where — oh ! where ? If the angels ever hearken, downward bend- ing, They are weeping, we are sure, At the litanies of human groans ascending From the crushed hearts of the poor. in. When the human rests in love upon the human, All grief is light; But who bends one kind glance to illumine Our life-long night ? m POEMS OF LADY WILDE. The air around is ringing with their laugh- ter — Ood has only made the rich to smile; But we — in our rags, and want, and woe — we follow after, Weeping the while. And the laughter seems but uttered to de- ride us. When — oh ! when Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us Prom other men ? Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us ? Will misery for ever lay us low? All are eager with their insults, but to save None, none, we know. We never knew a childhood's mirth and Nor the proud heart of youth, free and brave; Oh ! a deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness, Is life's weary journey to the grave. Day by day we lower sink and lower, Till the Godlike soul within, Ealls crushed, beneath the fearful demon power Of poverty and sin. So we toil on, on with fever burning In heart and brain; So we toil on, on through bitter scorning, Want, woe, and pain: We dare not raise our eyes to the blue Heaven, Or the toil must cease — We dare not breathe the fresh air God has given One hour in peace. We must toil, though the light of life burning, Oh, how dim! We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning Our eyes to Him Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly say- ing, With scarce moved breath, While the paler hands, uplifted, aid the praying, " Lord, grant us Death I " BUDRIS AND HIS SONS. FROM THE RUSSIAN. I. Spring to your saddles, and spur your fleet horses; Time for ye, children, to seek your life courses. (Thus spake old Budris, the Lithuan brave.) Never your father's sword rusted in leisure, Never his hand failed to grasp the rich treasure; [grave. But now my feeble frame sinks to the Three paths from Wilna to plunder will lead ye; Ride forth, my sons — each a path I aread ye — Thus will your booty be varied and rare. Olgard, go thou and despoil the proud Prus- sian; Woiwod, Kiestut, be thy prey the Russian — Vitald the lances of Poland may dare. From Novgorod Veliki * come back to me never Without the rich dust of the Tartar's gold river; Bring the sables of Yakutsk, so costly and fine, And the silver of Argun they dig from the mine, The gems of Siberia and far Koliv&n — So saints speed the ride of the bold Lithuan ! * Novgorod, the great. POEMS OF LADY WILDE. In the cursed Prussian land there is wealth for the bold: [gold; Ha, hoy ! never shrink from their ducats of Take their costly brocades, where the golden thread flashes, [dashes: The amber that lies where the Baltic wave Be the prize but as rich as your forefathers won, [my son. And the gods of old Litwa * will guard thee, No gold, my young Vitald, will fall to thy share, [bare; "Where the plains of the Polac lie level and But their lances are bright, and their sabres are keen, [seen: And their maidens the loveliest ever were So speed forth, my son, and good luck to the ride [bride. That brings a fair Polenese home for thy Not the azure of ocean, or stars of the sky, Can rival the color or light of her eye; Like the lily in hue, when its first leaves unfold, [gold; Is the bosom on which fall her tresses of Fine and slender her form as the pines of the grove, [and love. And her cheek and her lips glow with beauty By three paths from Wilna, the young men are roaming, Day after day Budris looks for their coming — But day after day he watcheth in vain. No steed from the high-road, no lance from the forest, He watcheth and waiteth in anguish the sorest — "Alas ! for my brave sons, I fear they are slain ! " The snow in the valley falls heavy and fast — Through the forest a horseman comes dash- ing at last, With his mantle wrapped closely to guard from the cold: " Ha, Olgard ! hast brought me the ducats of gold ? Let's see — is it amber thou'st won for thy ride?" [bride!" " Oh, father — no, father — a young Polish The snow on the valley falls heavier still, A horseman is seen rushing down from the hill; Wrapped close in his mantle some rich treasure lies — " How now, my brave son — hast thou brought me a prize ? Is it silver of Argun thou'st won for thy ride ? Come show me!" "No, father — a young Polish bride ! " Faster and thicker the snow-showers fall — A horseman rides fiercely through snow- flakes and all; Budris sees how his mantle is clasped to his breast — [the feast ! " Ho, slaves! 'tis enough, bid our friends to I'll ask no more questions, whatever betides, We'll drain a full cup to the three Polish brides ! " SULEIMA TO HER LOVER FROM THE TURKISH. Thou reck'nest seven Heavens; I but oner And thou art it, Beloved ! Voice and hand,. And eye arid mouth, are but the angel band Who minister around that highest throne — Thy godlike heart. And there I reign su- preme, And choose, at will, the angel who I deem Will sing the sweetest, words I love to hear — That short, sweet song, whose echo clear Will last throughout eternity: " I love thee How I love thee ! " POEMS OF LADY WILDE. A LA SOMBKA DE MIS CABELLOS. FROM THE SPANISH. — SIXTEENTH CENTURY. My love lay there, In the shadow of my hair, As my glossy raven tresses downward flow; And dark as midnight's cloud, They fell o'er him like a shroud: Ah ! does he now remember it or no ? With a comb of gold each night I combed my tresses bright; [fro; But the sportive zephyr tossed them to and So I pressed them in a heap, For my love whereon to sleep: Ah ! does he now remember it or no ? He said he loved to gaze i On my tresses' flowing maze, And the midnight of my dark Moorish eyes; And he vowed 'twould give him pain Should his love be all in vain; So he won me with his praises and his sighs. Then I flung my raven hair As a mantle o'er him there, Encircling him within its mazy flow; And pillowed on my breast, He lay in sweet unrest. Ah! does he now remember it or no? THE ITINEBANT SINGING GIEL. FROM THE DANISH. Fatherless and motherless, no brothers have I, And all my little sisters in the cold grave lie; Wasted with hunger I saw them falling dead — Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed. Friendless and loverless I wander to and fro, Singing while my faint heart is breaking fast with woe, Smiling in my sorrow, and singing for my bread — Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed. Harp clang and merry song by stranger door and board, None ask wherefore tremble my pale lips at each word; None care why the color from my wan cheek has fled — Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed. Smiling and singing still, tho' hunger, want, and woe, Freeze the young life-current in my veins as I go; Begging for my living, yet wishing I were dead — Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed. THE POET AT COUET. i. He stands alone in the lordly hall — He, with the high, pale brow; But never a one at the festiva 1 Was half so great I trow. They kiss the hand, and they bend the knee, Slaves to an earthly king; But the heir of a loftier dynasty May scorn that courtly ring. n. They press, with false and flattering words, Around the blood-bought throne; But the homage never yet won by swords Is his — the anointed one ! His sway over every nation Extendeth from zone to zone; He reigns as a god o'er creation — The universe is his own. No star on his breast is beaming. But the light of his flashing eye Beveals, in its haughtier gleaming, The conscious majesty. For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow — Away with that golden thing ! Your fealty was never yet due till now — Kneel to the god-made King ! POEMS OF KATHARINE CONWAY. TWO VINES. By the garden-gate sprang a flowering vine, And it sprouted and strengthened in shower and shine. It reached out tendrils on every side — There was none to prune, there was none to guide. So it wavered and fell from its tender trust And trailed its bright blossoms down in the dust. "Within the garden its sister- vine O'er many a friendly branch did twine. Both were fed with the same sweet dew, Both in the same kind sunlight grew. But one was tended with fondest care, And its blooming gladdened the garden fair: While the other, as fragrant and pure and sweet, Was trodden under by passing feet. Days go by till the summer is fled. The year is waning, and both are dead. THE EIEST EED LEAF. It gleams amid the foliage green, While earth is fair and skies serene:- A little, fluttering, scarlet leaf, The herald of a coming grief. It saith to summer — Even so. Thy fading-time is near, I trow; And I am come to whisper thee Of gloomy days that yet must be. A little longer wear thy crown, Nor lay thy blooming sceptre down, And in the sun's benignant smile Forget thy fears a little while. I shall not see thee pass away — Swift is my coming, brief my stay. Scarce doth the blessed daylight shine On beauty shorter-lived than mine. But know that thou art past thy prime: It draweth near thy fading-time — I am the herald of thy grief, The first red leaf, the first red leaf. BEMEMBEEED. Eembmbeeed thus, my dearest ! remem- bered ! can it be That, after all my waywardness, I'm still so dear to thee ? Though changed thy outward seeming, that thy heart no change hath known, And the love I thought had left me is still my own — my own ? 1 remembered ! but I said, " I, too, can be unheeding." With smiling eyes and aching heart I stilled sweet memory's pleading — Or dreamed I stilled it— murmuring, " Soon shall my strength atone For the cares and joys he shares not, and the triumphs won alone." One word from thee, beloved, and the pent- up fount's unsealed, And all my self-deceiving to sense and soul revealed, POEMS OF KATHARINE CONWAY, And all that lonesome, toilsome past clear- pictured unto me, — [for thee ! it never had a day, dear, unlit by prayer Fore'er divided? — yea, for earth; but our lives have wider scope, And the bonds between us strengthen with our strong supernal hope. For oh, my friend, my dearest, how God's love halloweth [face of Death ! This love that, unaffrighted, looks in the IN EXTREMIS. Dying ! who says I am dying ? — Come here, come close to the bed, Look at me — don't speak in whispers; — there's worse than death to dread. I'm weak, but that is the pain; and this fluttering breath ! But 'twas often the same before; — it surely is not death. Raiae the curtain a little; it can't be dusk, I know, [an hour ago. For I heard the bells ring noontime scarcely Why are you here alone? — 'Tis passing strange indeed, If there's none but you to tend me in my saddest, sorest need. Only a year since I came here, a proud and happy bride, Scorning for you all else on earth — yea, and False to the Faith of my fathers, my child- hood's blessed Faith, And all for the short-lived love of a man — and now the end is death. Is this fast-ripened harvest too bitter for your reaping, That you stand like a very woman, wringing your hands and weeping? You love me ? — Would I had never listened to lover's vow ! [now ? What is your love to me if it cannot help me Pray? — Do you bid me pray? — A seemly counsel, ay, Sweet prayer ! ah, not for me ! — Do you know what it is to die ? Do you know my rending pain ! — this chill fast-gathering gloom ? Or my helpless, desperate fear of the Judg- ment and the Doom ? Mock me not with your tears ! leave me — don't you see How I yearn for the light, and all the while you are keeping the light from me ! The love that we called undying in this aw- ful shadow dies: lost, lost years when I craved no light but the baneful light of your eyes ! Hark to the rushing of wings ! — shapes of horror and dread, What would ye have of me that ye crowd around my bed ? Closer, closer ! — Ah, God, — but in vain I cry to Thee, Even as I forsook Thee hast Thou forsaken me ! THE HEAVIEST CROSS OF ALL. I've borne full many a sorrow, I've suffered many a loss — But now, with a strange, new anguish, I carry this last dread cross; For of this be sure, my dearest, whatever thy life befall, The cross that our own hands fashion is the heaviest cross of all. Heavy and hard I made it in the days of my fair strong youth, Veiling mine eyes from the blessed light, and closing my heart to truth. Pity me, Lord, whose mercy passeth my wildest thought, For I never dreamed of the bitter end of the work my hands had wrought ! POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. ros) In the sweet morn's flush and fragrance I wandered o'er dewy meadows And I hid from the fervid noontide glow in the cool, green, woodland shadows; And I never recked as I sang aloud in my weird and wilful glee, Of the mighty woe that was drawing near to darken the world for me. But it came at last, my dearest, — what need to tell thee how ? Mayst never know of the wild, wild woe that my heart is hearing now ! Over my summer's glory crept a damp and chilling shade, And I staggered under the heavy cross that my sinful hands had made. I go where the shadows deepen, and the end seems far off yet — God keep thee safe from the sharing of this woful late regret ! Eor of this he sure, my dearest, whatever thy life befall, The crosses we make for ourselves, alas ! are the heaviest ones of all ! POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. Heakt of the Patriot touched by Freedom's kindling breath, Pouring its burning words from lips by passion fired ! [of death ! Sword of the Soldier drawn in the awful face Bounteous pen of the Scholar tracing its theme inspired ! Wealth of the rich man's coffers, help of the poor man's dole ! Strength of the sturdy arm and might of the Statesman's fame, These be fit themes for praise, in days that tried the soul. [of woman's name ? But where in the list is room for mention For hers are the virtues cast in finer and gentler mould; In quiet and peaceful paths her nature finds its scope. Stronger in loving than hating, fond where the man is bold, She works with the tools of patience and ■wonderful gifts of hope ! Hers are the lips that kiss, the hands that nurse and heal, The tender voice that speaks in accents low and sweet; What hath her life to do with clash of mus- ket and steel, Who sits at the gate of home with chil- dren about her feet ? Nay ! In the sturdy tree is there one sap at the root, That mounts to the stately trunk and fills it with power and pride, And one for the tender branch that bour- geons in flower and fruit, Casting its welcome shadow on all who Nay ! When the man is called the woman must swiftly rise. Ready to strengthen and bless, ready to follow or wait; Ready to crush in her heart the anguish of tears and sighs, Reading the message of God in the blind, decrees of Fate ! 770 POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. So, in days of the past, when Liberty raised her voice, Weak as a new-born babe in the cradle who wakes and calls, And the tremulous accents ranHirough the beautiful land of her choice — As into the heart of the mother the cry of her infant falls — So did hand of the woman reach to hand of the man, Helping with comfort and love, steeling his own for the strife; Till the calm of his steadfast soul through his wavering pulses ran, And the blow of the husband's arm was nerved from the heart of the wife. Wearing a homespun gown, or ruling with easy sway The world of fashion and pride, gilded by fortune's sun, Rich or poor, who asks, as we read the record to-day? Lowly or great, who cares how the poor distinctions run ? Hallowed be every name in the roll of honor and fame, Since oil hearthstone and field they kindled the sacred fire, Since with fostering breath they nurtured Liberty's flame And set it aloft on the heights to which feet aspire. Molly of Monmouth, staunch in the place of her fallen brave, Drowning the cry of defeat in the lusty roar of her gun; Rebecca, the Lady of Buckhead, who, eager for Freedom, gave Home of her heart to the burning, and smiled when the work was done; Abigail Adams of Quincy, noble of soul and race, [taff and pen; Reader of men and books, wielder of dis- Martha Wilson of Jersey, moving with courtly grace; Deborah Samson, fighting side by side with the men; Frances Allen, the Tory, choosing the better part Led by Ethan the daring, to follow his glorious way; Elizabeth Zane of Wheeling, timid, yet brave of heart, Bearing her burden of powder through smoke and flame of the fray ! Each, on the endless list, through length and breadth of the land, Winning her deathless place on the golden scroll of time, Fair as in old Greek days the women of Sparta stand Linked with the heroes' fame and sharing their deeds sublime. Stronger than we of to-day, in nerve and muscle and will, Braver than we of to-day the burden of women to bear, Glad from their wholesome breasts the soft mouths of children to fill, Holding the .crown of the mother as proudest that women could wear; Asking no larger sphere than that in which bravely shine Sunshine of home and heart, stars of duty and love; Full of a purer faith that rested in Trust Divine [Heaven above. And lifted their simple lives to glory of Plain of speech and of dress, as fitted their age and place, Meet companions for men of sterner creed and frame; Yet knowing the worth of a word, and fair with the old-time grace, That perfumes like breath of a flower the page that holds their name; Trained within closer bounds to question issue and cause, Small the reach of their thought to the modern student looks; But the stream within narrower banks runs deeper by nature's laws, And theirs was a wiser lore than the shal- low knowledge of books. POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 771 Not. in the Forum's seats and aping the wrangler's course Did they strive with barbed word the tar- get of right to reach, But moulding the will of their kind with eloquent, silent force, Stronger than sting of the pen, deeper than clamor of speech; Honor they taught, and right, and noble courage of truth. Strength to suffer and bear in holy Lib- erty's need; Framing through turbulent years and fiery season of youth, Soul for the valor of thought — hand for the valor of deed. AVell that with praise of the brave song of their triumph should blend ! Well that in joy of the land fame of their glory find part ! For theirs is the tone of the chord that holds its full strength to the end, "When music that dies on the ear still lin- gers and sings in the heart. Letter and word may die, but still the spirit survives, Rounding in ages unborn each frail dis- torted plan; And fittest survival is that when souls of mothers and wives Bloom in immortal deeds through life of child and man. HOW IRELAND ANSWERED. A TRADITION OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. Whereso'er in song or story Runs one theme of ancient glory, Whereso'er in word or action lives one spark for Freedom's shrine, Read it out before the people, Ring it loud in street and steeple, 'Till the hearts of those who listen thrill be- neath its power divine ! And, as lives immortal, gracious, The great deed of young Horatius, Or that gauntlet of defiance flung by Tell in Gessler's face, So for him who claims as sireland The green hills of holy Ireland, Let the speech of old John Parnell speak its lesson to his race ******* 'Twas in days when, sore tormenting, With a malice unrelenting, England pushed her youngest step-child past endurance into strife, 'Till with weak, frail hands uplifted— With but hate and courage gifted — She began the desperate struggle that should end in death— or life. 'Twas the fourth long year of fighting; Want, and woe, and famine, biting, Nipped the heart-strings of the " Rebels," chilled their pulse with cold despair; Southern swamp and Northern mountain Fed full streams to war's red fountain, And the gloom of hopeless struggle darkened all the heavy air. Lincoln's troops in wild disorder, Beaten on the Georgian border; Five score craft, off Norfolk harbor, scuttled deep beneath the tide; Hessian thieves, in swaggering sallies, Raiding fair New England valleys, While before Savannah's trenches, brave Pulaski, fighting, died ! Indian allies warwhoops : Where Wyoming's roofs are blazing; Clinton, full of pomp and bluster, sailing down on Charleston; And the people, faint with striving, Worn with aimless, sad contriving, Tired at last of Freedom's battle, heedless if 'tis lost or won ! Shall now England pause in mercy, , When the frozen plains of Jersey Tracked with blood, show pathways trodden by bare feet of wounded men ? POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. When the drained and tortured nation Holds no longer gold or ration To upbuild her broken fortune, or to fill her veins again ? Nay ! but striking swift and surely, Now to gain the end securely, Stirling asks for re-inf orcements — volunteers to speed the cause; And King George, in mandate royal, Speeds amid his subjects loyal, Calls for dutiful assistance to avenge his outraged laws. In the name of law and order, Sends across the Irish border To the wild and reckless spirits of whose daring well he knows: " Ho ! brave fools who fight for pleasure ! Here is chance for fame and treasure; Teach those brazen Yankee devils the full force of Irisli blows." Old John Parnell, cooj and quiet, — Strange result on Celtic diet- Colonel he of volunteers, and well beloved chief of men, Reads the royal proclamation, Answers for himself and nation — Ye who heed the voice of honor, list the ringing words again: " Still, as in her ancient story, Ireland fights for right and glory ! Still her sons, through blood and danger, hold unstained their old renown; But by God who reigneth o'er me, By the Motherland that bore me, Never Irish gold or valor helps to strike a patriot down ! " ******* Thus, 'mid themes immortal, gracious, Like the deed of young Horatius, Or that gauntlet of defiance flung by Tell in Let the Celt who claims as sireland The green hills of holy Ireland, Place the speech of old John Parnell, for the glory of his race. WITH A FOUR-LEAFED CLOVER. Love, be true to her ! Life, be dear to her ! Health, stav close to her ! Joy, draw near to her ! Fortune, find what your gifts can do for her; Search your treasure-house through and through for her; Follow her steps the wide world over, — You must ! for here is the Four-leafed clover ! THE FIRST STEPS. To-xight as the tender gloaming Was sinking in evening's gloom, And only the blaze of the firelight Brightened the dark'ning room, I laughed with the gay heart gladness That only to mothers is known, For the beautiful brown-eyed baby Took his first steps alone ! Hurriedly running to meet him Came trooping the household band, Joyous, loving, and eager To reach him a helping hand, To watch him with silent rapture, To cheer him with happy noise,— My one little fair-faced daughter And four brown romping boys. Leaving the sheltering arms That fain would bid him rest Close to the love and the longing, Near to the mother's breast, — Wild with daring and laughter, Looking askance at me, He stumbled across through the shadows To rest at his father's knee. Baby, my dainty darling, Stepping so brave and bright With flutter of lace and ribbon Out of my arms to-night, Helped in thy pretty ambition With tenderness blessed to see, Sheltered, upheld, and protected — How will the last steps be ? POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 773 See, we are all beside you For then the tiny fingers Urging and beckoning on, Creep softly to your face, Watching lest auglit betide you With a touch that thrills and lingers; Till the safe, near goal is won, And the rosy palms find place Guiding the faltering footsteps To come pressing and caressing with sweet That tremble and fear to fall — and clinging touch, How will it be, my darling, Not teasing you too little, and yet not over "With the last sad step of all ? much; While full of love and laughter the pretty Nay ! shall I dare to question, blue eyes glow, Knowing that One more fond And red lips tightly puckered pout roguishly Than all our tenderest loving below, Will guide the weak feet beyond ! — tell me, ye who know it, is there in this And knowing beside, my dearest, world such bliss That whenever the summons, 'twill be As when the bonny bairnie gives his little But a stumbling step through the shadow, sailor kiss ! Then rest — at the Father's knee ! THE LITTLE SAILOR KISS. OUR RECORD. kisses they are plenty As blossoms on the tree ! Who casts a slur on Irish worth, a stain on And be they one' or twenty Irish fame, — They're sweet to you and me; Who dreads to own his Irish blood or wear And some are for the forehead, and some are his Irish name, — for the lips, Who scorns the warmth of Irish hearts, the And some are for the rosy cheeks, and some clasp of Irish hands ? for finger tips, Let us but raise the vail to-night and shame And some are for the dimples, — but the him as he stands. sweetest one is this, When the bonny, bonny bairnie, gives his The Irish fame ! It rests enshrined within little sailor kiss. its own proud light, Wherever sword or tongue or pen has fash- I will kiss this sailor, ioned deed of might; This sailor lad so true ! From battle charge of Fontenoy to G rattan's I would not kiss a tailor, thunder tone, A carpenter, or nailer, It holds its storied past on high, unrivaled But I will kiss this sailor and alone. With bonny eyes of blue! With a sonsy smile, and yellow hair to snare The Irish blood ! Its crimson tide has the sunbeams in, watered hill and plain With a laughing mouth, and a rosy cheek, Wherever there were wrongs to crush, or and a dimple in the chin, freemen's rights to gain; Three years old, and a heart of gold — ah, No dastard thought, no coward fear, has who would want to miss held it tamely by The chance to meet my darling with his little When there were noble deeds to do, or noble sailor kiss. deaths to die ! 774 POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. The Irish heart! The Irish heart! God keep it fair and free, The fullness of its kindly thought, its wealth of honest glee, Its generous strength, its ardent faith, its uncomplaining trust, Though every worshiped idol breaks and crumbles into dust. And Irish hands, — aye, lift them up; em- browned by honest toil, The champions of our western world, the guardians of the soil; When flashed their battle swords aloft, a waiting world might see What Irish hands could do and dare to keep a nation free. They bore our starry flag above through bas- tion, gate, and wall, They stood before the foremost rank, the bravest of them all; And when before the cannon's mouth they held the foe at bay, never could old Ireland's heart beat prouder than that day ! So when a craven fain would hide the birth- mark of his race, Or slightly speak of Erin's sons before her children's face, Breathe no weak word of scorn or shame, but crush him where he stands With Irish worth and Irish fame, as won by Irish hands. A DEAD SUMMER What lacks the summer ? Not roses blowing, Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife, Nor green things gay with the bliss of grow- ing; Nor glad things drunk with the wine of life, Nor flushing of clouds in blue skies shining, Nor soft wind murmurs to rise and fall, Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twin- ing.— Three little buds I miss, no more, That blossomed last year at my garden door, — And that is all. What lacks the summer ? Not waves a-quiver With arrows of light from the hand of dawn, Nor drooping of boughs by the dimpling river, Nor nodding of grass on the windy lawn, Nor tides unswept upon silver beaches, Nor rustle of leaves on tree-tops tall, Nor dapple of shade in woodland reaches, — Life pulses gladly on vale and hill, But three little hearts that I love are still,— And that is all. What lacks the summer ? O light and savor, And message of healing the world above ! Gone is the old-time strength and flavor, Gone is its old-time peace and love ! Gone is the bloom of the shimmering mead- ows, Music of birds as they sweep and fall, — All the great world is dim with shadow, Because no longer mine eyes can see The eyes that made summer and life for me,- And that is all. SONNET. To- day amid the sobbing of the rain, While gaunt November with pale finger tips Proffers the cup of doom to Nature's lips And scowling mocks her bitter moan of pain, I cannot mark the strife 'twixt life and death For joy of one fair thought that dwells with me, — ■ A summer hillside, sleeping by the sea, POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 775 Made glad with bloom and song-birds' voice- See ! Even the clod ful breath; Thrills, with life's glad passion shaken; Fair as a dream that fills a winter's night The vagabond weeds with their vagrant With peace and love, it stirs my waking train hours Laugh in the sun and nod in the rain, With hum of brown bees deep in chaliced The blue sky smiles like the eye of God, — flowers, Only my dead do not waken ! With blue waves dancing in the golden light, And one swift flight of swallows drifting Dead ! — There is the word by, That I sit in the darkness and ponder ! Blown like a cloud across the summer sky ! Why should the river, the sky, and the Babble of summer and joy to me, While a strong true heart with its pulse un- DEAD. stirred Lies hushed in the silence yonder ? Dead ! That is the word That rings through my brain till it crazes ! Lord ! Lord ! How long Dead, while the Mayflowers bud and Ere we rise to Thy heights supernal blow, Ere the soul may read what Thy spirit While the green creeps over the white saith; of the snow, " Life that must fade, is not life but While the wild woods ring with the song of death. the bird, Lift up thine eyes, soul ! Be strong; And the fields are a-bloom with daisies ! For Death is the Life Eternal ! " POEMS OF O'DONOVAN ROSSA. JILLEN ANDY. When O'Donovan Rossa was in prison in England, he wrote •the powerful and deeply pathetic poem of " Jillen Andy," a study from Irish life which he who reads can never forget. In his " Prison Life," Eossa says: " Jillen Andy lived at the other side of the street in Rosscarberry -when I was a child. Her husband, Andy Hayes, was a linen weaver and -worked for my father ere I was born. He died, too, before I came into the world, but when I did come I think I formed the acquaintance of Jillen as soon as I did that of my mother. Jillen was left a widow with four helpless children, and all the neighbors were kind to her. The eldest of the sons ''Ji.si >'il, and the first sight I got of a ' red-coat ' was when he came home on furlough. The three other sons were Char- ley, Thade and Andy. Charley died in '65. Andy 'listed, and died in Bombay, and Thade and his mother fell victims to the famine of '47. Thade met me one day, and spoke to me as I state in the following lines. I went to the grave- yard with him. I dug, and he shovelled up the earth till the grave was about two feet deep. Then he talked about its being deep enough, that there would be too great a load on her, and that he could stay up and 'watch' her for some time. By-and-by we saw four or five men coming in the church-gate with a door on their shoulders bearing the cofnnless Jillen. She was laid in the grave. Her head did not rest firmly on the stone on which it was pillowed, and as it would turn aside and rest on the cheek when I took my bands aw r ay from it, one of the men asked me to hand him the stone. I did so, and covering it with a red spotted handkerchief he took out of his pocket, he gave it to me again and I settled Jillen's head steadily on it. Then 1 was told to loose the strings, to take out a pin that appeared, to lay her apron over her face, and come up. To this day I can see how softly the man handled the shovel, how quietly he laid the earth down at her feet, how the heap kept rolling and creeping up until it covered her head, and how the big men pulled theirhats overtheir eyes." "It takes an Irishman or Irishwoman," Rossa says, "brought up among the Irish-speaking people, to under- stand several passages in 'Jillen Andy ' "— 1 " He'd walk the ' eeriest ' place a moonlight night." On a moonlight night the fairies are out most. " He'd whistle in the dark— even in bed." Whistling in the dark brings on the fairies— particularly -whistling in bed. To tie anything, or pin anything around a corpse, and fcury the corpse so pinned or tied, prevents the spirit from coming to see us — keeps the spirit tied and in prison in the other world. " Tears would disturb poor Jillen i i her last long sleep.' If you cry over a corpse in Ireland, every tear you drop on the corpse's clothes will burn a hole in those clothes in the other world. AU strings are cut or loosed and all pins taken out before the corpse is put in the coffin. " Come to the graveyard, if you're not afraid, I'm going to dig my mother's grave, she's dead, And I want some one that will bring the spade, For Andy's out of home, and Charlie's sick in bed." Thade Andy was a simple-spoken fool, With whom in early days I loved to stroll, He'd often take me on his back to school, And make the master laugh himself, he was so droll. In songs and ballads he took great delight, And prophecies of Ireland yet being freed, And singing them by our fireside at night, I learned songs from Thade before I learned to read. And I have still "by heart" his "Colleen Fhune," His " Croppy Boy," his "Phoenix of the Hall," And I could " rise " his " Rising of the Moon," If I could sing in prison cell — or sing at all. He'd walk the " eeriest " place a moonlight night, He'd whistle in the dark — even in bed; In fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quite As fearless of a ghost as any ghost of Thade. POEMS OF O'DONOVAN ROSSA. 777 No* in the dark churchyard we work away, The shovel in his hand, in mine the spade, And seeing Thade cry I cried myself that day, For Thade was fond of me and I was fond of Thade. But after twenty years why now will such A bubbling spring up to my eyelids start? Ah ! there be things that ask not leave to touch The fountain of the eyes or feelings of the heart. " This load of clay will break her bones, I fear, For when alive she was'nt over strong. We'll dig no deeper, I can watch her here A month or so, sure nobody will do me wrong." Four men bear Jillen on a door — 'tis light, They have not much of Jillen but her frame. No mourners come, for 'tis believed the sight Of any death or sickness now begets the same. And those brave hearts that volunteer to touch Plague- stricken death are tender as they're hrave, They raise poor Jillen from her tainted couch, And shade their swimming eyes while lay- ing her in the grave. I stand within that grave, nor wiae nor deep, The slender, wasted body at my feet; What wonder is it if strong men will weep O'er famine-stricken Jillen in her winding- sheet. Her head I try to pillow on a stone, But it will hang one side, as if the breath Of famine gaunt into the corpse had blown, And blighted in the nerves the rigid strength of death. " Hand me that stone, child. " In his hands 'tis placed; Down-channelling his cheeks are tears like rain; The stone within his handkerchief is cased, And then I pillow on it Jillen's head again. " Untie the nightcap string," " Unloose that lace," " Take out that pin," " There, now, she's nicely — rise, But lay the apron first across her face, So that the earth won't touch her lips or blind her eyes. " Don't grasp the shovel too tightly — there, make a heap, Steal down each shovelful quietly — there, let it creep Over her poor body lightly; friend, do not weep, Tears would disturb old Jillen in her last, long sleep." And Thade was faithful to his watch and ward; [haste Where'er he'd spend the day, at night he'd With his few sods of turf to that churchyard, Where he was laid himself before the month was past. Then Andy died a soldiering in Bombay, And Charlie died in Ross the other day, Now, no one lives to blush because I say That Jillen Andy went uncoffined to the clay. E'en all are gone that buried Jillen, save One banished man who dead alive remains, The little boy that stood within the grave Stands for his country's cause in England's prison ■ How oft in dreams that burial scene appears, Through death, eviction, prison, exile, home, Through all the suns and moons of twenty years — And oh ! how short these years compared with years to come. POEMS OF O'DONOVAN KOSSA. Some things are strongly on the mind im- pressed, And others faintly imaged there, it seems; And this is why, when reason sinks to rest, Phases of life do show and shadow forth in dreams. And this is why in dreams I see the face Of Jillen Andy looking in my own, The poet-hearted man— the pillow case, The spotted handkerchief that softened the hard stone. Welcome those memories of scenes of youth, That nursed my hate of tyranny and wrong, That helmed my manhood in the path of truth, And help me now to suffer calmly and be strong. And suffering calmly is a trial test, When at the tyrant's foot and felon-drest, When State and master jailer do their best, To make you feel degraded, spiritless, op- prest. When barefoot before Dogberry, and when He mocks your cause of 'prisonment, and speaks Of " Thieves," " State orders," " No dis- tinctions " — then, Because you speak at work — hard bread and board for weeks. Or when he says, " Too well you're treated, for Times were you'd hang;" "You were worse fed at home; " " You can't be more degraded than you are; " "You should be punished also in the world to come." When sneer, and jeer, and insult follow fast, And heavenward you look, or look him down, He rages and commands you to be classed And slaved amongst the slaves of infamied renown. When England — worthy of the mean and base — Smites you when bound, flings outrage in . your face, When hand to hand with thieves she gives you place, To scoff at freedom for your land and scattered race: To suffer calmly when the cowardly wound, From wanton insult, makes the veins to- swell With burning blood, is hard, though doubly bound In prison within prison — a blacker hell in hell. The body starved to break the spirit down, That will not bend beneath the scourging rod; The dungeon dark that pearls the prisoner's crown, And stars the suffering that awakens Free- dom's God. Thus all who ever won had to endure Thus human suffering proves good at last, The painful operation works the cure, The health-restoring draught is bitter to the taste. 'Tis suffering for a trampled land, that suf- fering Bears heavenly fruit, and all who ever trod In Freedom's path, found heavenly help when offering Their sacrifice of suffering to Freedom's God. MY PRISON CHAMBER IS IRON LINED. "The following verses," says Eossa, "strung together during the cold nights and hungry days in the blackhole of Chatham Prison, will show how much my mind was filled with the Englishmen's Bible hypocrisy : My prison chamber now is iron lined, An iron closet and an iron blind. But bars, and bolts, and chains can never bind To tyrant's will the freedom-loving mind. POEMS OP O'DONOVAN ROSS A. 779 Beneath the tyrant's heel we may be trod, We may be scourged beneath the tyrant's rod, But tyranny can never ride rough-shod O'er the immortal spirit-work of God. And England's Bible tyrants are, Lord ! Of any tyrants out the crudest horde, Who'll chain their Scriptures to a fixture board Before a victim starved, and lashed, and gored. They tell such tales of countries far away, How in Japan, and Turkey, and Cathay, A man when scourged is forced salaams to pay. While they themselves do these same things to-day. The bands, the lash, the scream, the swoon, the calm, The minister, the Bible, and the psalm, The doctor then the bloody seams to balm, " Attention, 'tention," now for the salaam. I don't salaam them and their passions roll, Again they stretch me in the damp black- hole, Again they deal to me the famine dole, To bend to earth the heaven-created soul. Without a bed or board on which to lie, Without a drink of water if I'm dry, Without a ray of light to strike the eye, But s ne vacant, dreary, dismal sky. The bolts are drawn, the drowsy hinges creak, The doors are groaning, and the side. walls shake, The light darts in, the day begins to break, Ho, prisoner! from your dungeon dreams awake. Attention, '"tention," '"tention," now is crjed, The English master jailer stands outside, And he's supposed to wear the lion's hide, But I will not salaam his royal pride. " Rossa, salute the Governor," cries one, The Governor cries out — "Come on, come on," My tomb is closed, I'm happy they are gone, Well — as happy as I ever feel alone. Be calm, my soul, let state assassins frown, 'Tis chains and dungeons pearl a prisoner's crown, 'Tis suffering draws God's choicest blessings down, And gives to freedom's cause its fair re- nown. Rossa adds the following " Secret instructions from the authorities to the prison governor:" That we are base assassins — he says so — And liars and hypocrites:— 'tis well to know That he's at least an unrepenting foe. To cast him out as far as we can throw, Is now our bounden duty. This we owe To England's Majesty. Then keep him low, Yet treat him doctorly — be sure and slow Leaving no record anywhere to show That aught but nature gave the conquering blow; And once cast out from this our heaven be- low, What care we if to heaven above he go! A VISIT EEOM MY WIFE. In July, 1S70, while O'Donovan Eossa was in Chatham Prison, England, he was allowed a visit from his wife. He says : ' l It was as curious a position as ever a married couple were seen in, to see us sitting in this glass house with Prin- cipal Warder King as sentry outside the glass door ; and was it not a curious place for her to reproach me with in- gratitude because I never wrote a line of poetry for her since we were married ? When I went to my cell that eveningl wrote the following lines." A single glance, and that glance the first, And her image was fixed in my mind and nursed; And now it is woven with all my schemes, And it rules the realm of all my dreams. One of Heaven's best gifts in an earthly mould, With a figure Appelles might paint of old — POEMS OF O'BONOVAN ROSSA. All maiden's charms with And the blossom and bloom of the peach in her face. And the genius that flashes her bright black eye Is the face of the sun in a clouded sky; She has noble thoughts — she has noble aims And these thoughts on her tongue are spark- ling gems. "With a gifted mind and a spirit meek She would right the wronged and assist the weak; She would scorn dangers to cheer the brave, She would smite oppression and free the slave. Yet a blighted life is my loved one's part, And a death-cold shroud is around her heart, For winds from the " clouds of fate" have blown That force her to face the hard world alone. And a daughter she of a trampled land, With its children exiled, prisoned, banned; And she vowed her love to a lover whom The tyrant had marked for a felon's doom. And snatched from her side ere the honey- moon waned: In the dungeons of England he lies en- chained; [slave And the bonds that bind him "for life" a Are binding his love to his living grave. He would sever the link of such hopeless love, Were that sentence "for ever" decreed above. [life — For the pleasures don't pay for the pains of To be living in death with a widowed wife. A single glance, and that glance the first, And her image was fixed in my mind and nursed, And now -she's the woof of my worldly schemes, [dreams. And she sits enthroned as the queen of my A VISIT TO MY HUSBAND IX PRISON. MAY, 1866. Within the precincts of the prison bounds, Treading the sunlit courtyard to a hall, Roomy and unadorned, where the light Thro' screenless windows glaringly did fall. Within the precincts of the prison walls, With rushing memories and bated breath, With heart elate and light swift step that smote Faint echoes in this house of living death. Midway I stood in bright expectancy, Tightly I clasped my babe, my eager sight Restlessly glancing down the long, low room To where a door bedimmed the walls' pure white. They turned — the noiseless locks; the portal fell [room With clank of chain wide open, and the Held him — my wedded love. My heart stood still [doom. With sudden shock, with sudden sense of My heart stood still that had with gladsome bound [pear — Counted the moments ere he should ap- Drew back at sight so changed, and shivering waited, Pulselessly waited while his steps drew near ! Oh ! for a moment's twilight that might hide The harsh tanned features once so soft and fair ! The shrunken eyes that with a feeble flash Smiled on my presence and his infant's there ! Oh ! for a shadow on the cruel sun That mocked thy father, Baby, with his glare; Oh ! for the night of nothingness or death Ere thou, my love, this felon garb should wear ! POEMS OF O'DONOVAN ROSSA. 781 It needed not these passionate, pain-wrung words, [lips, Falling with sad distinctness from thy To tell a tale of insult, abject toil, And day-long labor hewing Portland It needed not, my love, this anguished glance, This fading fire within thy gentle eyes, To rouse the torpid voices of my heart, Till all the sleeping heavens shall hear their cries. God of the wronged, and can Thy vengeance sleep ? [day ? And shall our night of anguish know no And can Thy justice leave our souls to weep Yet, and yet longer o'er our land's decay ! Must we still cry — " How long, Lord, how long?" For seven red centuries a country's woe Has wept the prayer in tears of blood, and still Our tears to-night for fresher victims flow ! EDWARD DUFFY.* The world is growing darker to me — darker day by day, The stars that shone upon life's paths are vanishing away, Some setting and some shifting, only one that changes never, 'Tis the guiding star of liberty that blazes bright as ever. Liberty sits mountain high, and slavery has birth In the hovels, in the marshes, in the lowest dens of earth; The tyrants of the world pitfall-pave the path between, And o'ershadow it with scaffold, prison, block and guillotine. * An Irish patriot and fellow-prisoner who died English prison. The gloomy way is brightened when we walk with those we love, The heavy load is lightened when we bear and they approve; The path of life grows darker to me as I journey on, For the truest hearts that travelled it are falling one by one. The news of death is saddening even in fes- tive hull, But when 'tis heard through prison bars, 'tis saddest then of all, Where there's none to share the sorrow in. the solitary cell, In the prison, within prison. — a blacker hell in hell. That whisper through the grating has thrilled through all my veins, " Duffy is dead ! " a noble soul has slipped the tyrant's chains, And whatever wounds they gave him, their lying books will show, How they very kindly treated him, more like a friend than foe. For these are Christian Pharisees, the hypo- crites of creeds, With the Bible on their lips, and the devil in their deeds, Too merciful in public gaze to take our lives away, Too anxious here to plant in us the seed of life's decay. Those Christians stand between us and the God above our head, The sun and moon they prison, and with- hold the daily bread, Entomb, enchain, and starve us, that the mind they may control, And quench the fire that burns in the ever- living soul. To lay your head upon the block for faith in Freedom's God, To fall in fight for Freedom in the land your fathers trod; POEMS OF O'DONOYAX ROSSA. For Freedom on the scaffold high to breathe your latest breath, Or anywhere 'gainst tyranny is dying a noble death. Still, sad and lone, was yours, Ned, 'mid the jailers of your race, With none to press the cold white hand, with none to smooth the face; With none to take the dying wish to home- land friend or brother, To kindred mind, to promised bride, or to the sorrowing mother. I tried to get to speak to you before you passed aw # ay, As you were dying so near me, and so far from Castlerea, But the Bible-mongers spurned me off, when at their office door I asked last month to see you — now I'll never see you more. If spirits once released from earth could visit earth again, You'd come and see me here, Ned, but for these we look in vain; In the dead-house you are lying, and I'd " wake " you if I could. But they'll wake you in Loughglin, Ned, in that cottage by the wood. For the mother's instinct tells her that the dearest one is dead — That the gifted mind, the noble soul, from earth to heaven is fled, As the girls rush toward the door and look toward the trees, To catch the sorrow-laden wail, that's borne on the breeze. Thus the path of life grows darker to me — darker day by day, The stars that flashed their light on it are vanishing away, Some setting and some shifting, but that one which changes never, The beacon light of liberty that blazes bright as ever. IN MILLBANK PRISON, LONDON. 1866. I have no life at present.my life is in the past; I have none in the future, if the present is to last; The "Dead Past" only mirrors now the memories of life, The fatherland, the hope of years, the friend, the child and wife. Then am I dead at present? Yes, dead while buried here — Dead to the wife, the child and friend, to all the world holds dear; Dead to myself, for life is death to one con demned to dwell His life-long years in exile in a convict prison cell. Though dead unto the present, I live in the " Dead Past," And thoughts of dead and living things crowd on me thick and fast; E'en when reason is reposing they revel in my brain, And I meet the wife, the child and friend, in fatherland again. The goddess on her throne resits — the cher- ished dreams are fled — Were they but phantoms of the past to show the past is dead? Past, Present, Future, what to me ! — how little man can see — Am I dead unto the world? — or the world to me? God only knows. I only know that which to man He gives, The love of Liberty and Truth — the sonl, the spirit lives; And though its house of clay be bound by . England's iron hand, It freely flies to wife and child, and friend and fatherland. POEMS OF O'DOXOVAN EOSSA. :y;.s SMUAINTE BEOIN- THOUGHTS OF SOEBOW. The following is a translation of the Gaelic poet Craoibhin Aoibhin'a noble song, " Thoughts of Sorrow " with the first jrtanza in the original Irish :— Is dorcha anocht i an oidhche, ni fheicim aon reult amhain, *Gus is dorcha trom ata smuainte mo chroidh- se ta sgaoilte ar fan. T&'\'\ torran air bith in mo thimcheall, acht na h-eimlaith dul tharm os mo cheann, Na filibinidhe ag bualadh na speire le buille fad-tharruingthe, fann; Agns tagann an f headog mar phileir ag gear- radh na h-oidhchele fead, Agns cluinim na gaethe nana is airde ,'s is gairbbe sgread, Acht aon torran eile ni chluinim, is e so a mhendas mo bhron, Aon torran eile acht sgrioch agns glaodhoch na n-enn air an moiti. How dark is the night time to-night ! I be- hold not a single star; And heavy and dark are my heartfelt thoughts as they wander sadly afar, Not a sound in creation around, but the birds passing over my head: Those lapwings that ruffled the air with their long-drawn strokes as they fled. The plover that comes like a bullet cutting the sky with its speech; And I hear the wild geese above them, with their wilder and stronger screech. There is no other noise within hearing; oh, that is what adds to my woe — No other noise but the cry and the call of the birds in the meadow below. But, afar at the foot of the mountain that borders the ocean wide, List to the great sea rolling, to the waves as they chase on the tide — ■ Bushing on to the beach which swallows the weeds on its sandy bed. Oh, cold as the tide to-night is, I feel colder in heart and head; I cannot, I cannot explain it; I know not the reason why I'm so troubled and sorrow-laden: I can only sigh and cry. How cold and how wild this place is — this place where I'm lying apart — But that's not the reason that makes me so heavy and sad at heart. Since the men who were true are departed — they who my affection had won — Cast out from the land I was raised in; alas ! that they're banished and gone — Asking for only protection and shelter from poverty; now In the land in which they were dwelling there are only the sheep and the cow. The cow and the sheep in the pasture — in the pathlands of people, my woe ! And in place of the laugh of the children, the cries of the raven and crow, Every candle and light is extinguished that lighted each door and each hearth; 'Tis the death, the exile of the people in- creases my sorrow on earth. IV. But, see there ! the bright moon is rising and tearing asunder the clouds, And spreading its light on the meadows so mantled with desolate shrouds, And beneath it I see the old village, with the homes of the people all razed — !STo gables, no doorsteads, no children; no cows in the baivn where they grazed. From the rock upon which I am sitting, how woful the look of the glen; With no human creature but I, from one end to the other therein; The sheep and the cows where the men were; the lone snipe starts up from its nest, And screeches aloud to the heavens, while I'm here alone in the mist. But like as appeareth the bright moon, breaking through darkness with light, Scattering the clouds in its way, and scatter- ing the shadows of night, ;s4 POEMS OF O'DONOVAX 110SSA. Chasing the shadows of night, and chasing the mist and the fog, Casting light upon mountain and hill, upon pasture and meadow and bog; Oh, like as illumines the moonlight the land that is stricken with blight, So, shortly, will Freedom illumine the Slav- ery that shrouds us to-night, Will tear from a nation of people the death- pall that mantles the strong, And our laughter, once more full and joy- ous, will be heard beyond sea before long. VI. But oh, 'tis not speeching, declaiming, or talking with all our might, Will lift from our land its darkness — will scatter the clouds of night; Nor the music, nor songs of the poets, nor the orators' power in " the hall." Nor crying, nor praying, nor moaning, nor lying, — the sweetest of all; But the work of the hands that are strong, and the hearts that are strangers to fear, [were found in the rear — That never deserted the fight, and that never The heroes who stand in the gap, neither speaking nor acting the lie; The men who're not frightened by threats, who are ready to dare and to die. But whither, Lord ! run my thoughts now? What foolish things come to my mind ? Whereabout can you see such a people? None in mountain or glen can you find They are exiled — cast out from among us and scattered all over the earth, No track of their steps on the mountain, or their boats on the streams of their birth; And I all alone by myself here, my ship without steer or mainstay, Thinking sadly of going forever to cold, stranger lands, far away; My friends will be dead, very likely, if once more I revisit this shore, And the language I'm speaking at present, I may never again speak it more. POEMS OF HENBY BEMAED CARPENTER. VIVE VALEQTJE. TO DR. ROBERT BWYEK JOYCE. [Witkin six weeks Boston lost two distinguished artistic workmen. On the 21st of July died Martin Milmore, the sculptor of the Soldiers 1 Monument and the Sphinx in Mount Auburn. On the 2d of September, sailed for Ireland, in shattered health, R. D. Joyce, Poet and Physician, the author of " Deirdre " and " Blanid."] ' of all the sea's daughters, Ierne, dear mother isle, Take home to thy sweet, still waters thy son whom we lend thee awhile. Twenty years has he poured out his song, epic echoes heard in our street, Twenty years have the sick been made strong as they heard the sound of his feet. For few there be in his lands whom Apollo deigns to choose On whose heads to lay both hands in medi- cine-gift and the muse. Double-grieved because double-gifted now take him and make strong again The heart long- winnowed and sifted on the threshing-floor of pain. Saving others, he saved not himself, like a shipmaster staunch and brave, Whose men leave the surge-beaten shelf while he sinks alone in the wave. The child in the night cries " mother," and the mother straight brings peace; Ierne, be kind to our brother; speak thou, and his plague shall cease. Thou gavest him once as revealer song-breath and the starry scroll, Give him now as the heart's best healer life- breath and balms for the soul. saddest of all the sad islands, green-girt by thy mother the sea, Fold warm, and feed with thy silence the child whom we send to thee. Two children thou gavest our city, to stand in the stress and strife And touch us to holier pity through shapes of the deathless life; One caught in the mountain granite, the other in marble of song Those shadows that fall on our planet from the worlds of the Fair and the Strong; Of those thy two sons thou gavest, one is, but the younger is not; For with all men, even the bravest, strength wanes when the noons wax hot. The wine of his life half tasted, the work of his life half done, He sank through earth-wounds that wasted,. heart-sore and sick of the sun, The scabbard fell from the sabre, the soul dropped its time-worn vest, Then we said, Let this land of his labor be always the land of his rest, And always the bronze and the stone that grew soft to his touch as flame, Shaped for others, shall now be his own, new- raised and emblazed with his name, And the glimmering shaft that catches the. sun's last kiss on its head * And the Sphinx that overwatches the un- murmuring streets of the dead Shall call to life's tide where it dashes, and speak of him we deplore, Till the sun burns down to ashes, and the moon cries, I rise no more. Who shall cancel that which is sealed ? Who> shall close what the Fates have cleft?' Two men were at work in one field; one is- taken, the other left; . Boston Common and the. POEMS OP HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER He is left in life's mid meadows, nor yet have the days begun, When the hand from the valley of shadows draws down from the light of the sun, He lives, and looks round with dread, as a strengthlcss reaper who grieves, When the last low moon rises red on his rich half harvested sheaves. Hast not thou, Ierne, a blossom that scared the snake from thy soil, That shall slay the snake in the bosom and wither its deadly coil ? Yea, thou hast what we fain would inherit, though kings in these isles of the blest, ' Thou hast for the world- worn spirit some simples unfound in the West. Here the field flows with milk and honey, the river with spoil divine, Here the clear air is warm with sunny gold cups of invisible wine, Self-trust and Toil are defiant, and Freedom is mightier than these, And Wealth spreads his couch, like a giant, silk-smooth for the sides of Ease, .And gilds man and man with his million, and fast as he flies through the heat, White cabin and purple pavilion are stirred with the storm of his feet. But what soil, thou Eden of islands, can match thy red and white store, The roses of health on thy highlands, the lilies of love on thy shore ? What land lies emerald T valleyed, inlaid with lakelet and lawn, Where the spirit is swifter rallied, reclothed as with lights of the dawn ? Or where comes with starrier splendor the touch of a light-breathing fan, To scatter the chaff and make tender and affluent the spirit of man? There a courtier is found in the cot, and a prince in the poor man's shed, With a soul sorrow-born, love-begot, rocked and cradled in thoughts of the dead, A soul like a wind-harp that takes all tones of laughter and tears, Now burns, now in dying delays woos us back through its dream of the years. There the neediest spreads you the last of hie earth-apples* dug from the ground, And the salt of his wit turns the fast to a feast, where dainties abound, — Smile and tear and manna-dropped speech freelv shed on the least word he saith, And high-soaring thought beyond reach and the love of his land to the death. Sweetest isle of old white-haired Ocean, ] breathe new in this child of thy love A spirit whose musical motion is light as the wings of a dove, While hence from palace and purlieu our messenger thoughts on the breeze Shall reach him through cry of curlew and call of sundering seas, Where perchance in the shore-wind's breath- ing he looks from some headland height, His westward-bound thoughts bequeathing to the sun ere he sinks in night, Or haply mid stones of the olden and peril- ous places of fear He rears a new song-palace, golden with dreams of meadow and mere, Mab's realm, the swart Connaught Queen, faery bugles blown through the sky, Magic shores, which once to have seen is to live and never die; Where Benbulben, lonely and solemn, looks forth toward dark Donegal, O'er the endless Atlantic column that foams round Sliev League's rock-wall, Down whose cliff the Gods drave their share, and its face with long furrows ploughed, When they planted as king of the air, crag- throned and ermined with cloud, The far-sighted, sun-gazing eagle to scream to the deep his decree, Low-boomed in organ- tones regal and vassal voices of sea. saddest of all the sea's daughters, Ierne, sweet mother isle, Say, how canst thou heal at thy waters the son whom we lend thee awhile ? * Pommes-de-terre. POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 7s: When the gathering cries implore thee to help and to heal thy kind, When thy dying are strewn before thee, thy living ones crouch behind, When about thee thy perishing children cling, crying, " Thou only art fair, We have seen through Life's maze bewilder- ing how the earth-gods never spare: " And the wolves blood-ripe with slaughter gnar at thee with fangs of steel; Thou, Niobe-Land of the water, hast many children to heal. Yet heal him, Ierne, dear mother, thy days with his days shall increase, At the song of this Delphic brother, nigh half of thy pangs shall cease. Nor art thou, sweet friend, in a far land, — all places are near on the globe, — Our greeting wear for thy garland, our love for thy festival robe, While we keep through glory and gloom two altar-candles for thee, Thy "Blanid" of deathless doom and thy dead but undying " Deirdre." And may He who builds in his patience the houses which death reveals, Round whom the far constellations are dust from his chariot- wheels, Who showers his coin without scorning, each day as he issues it bright, The sun as his gold in the morning, the stars as his silver at night, The love which feedeth the sparrow and watcheth the little leaf, Which guide th the death -laden arrow and counteth each grain of grief, Change thy life-chant from its minor and spread thy spirit serene, As gold before the refiner whose face is re- flected therein. FRYEBURG. No vale with purer peace the spirit fills Than thine, Fryeburg the fair, Fryeburg the free. Dear are thy men and maidens unto me; Holy the smokeless altars of thy hills; Sacred thy wide, moist meadows, where the morn Delays for very love; divinely born Those drooping tresses of thy feathery elms, That lisp of cool delight through dreams of noon; Gentle thy Saco's tides, that creep and croon, Lapsing and lingering through hushed forest- Which love the -bird's boon. But neither vale nor hill nor field nor tree Nor stream nor forest had this day been ours, Nor would sweet English speech in Frye- burg's bowers This night be heard across her lake and lea, — Our seamless flag had been in pieces riven, Nor had we been, beneath its blue, starred heaven, A nation one and indivisible, — Had not two spirits come to range and reign Here over sand-girt Saco's green domain, The one with sword, the other with prophet- spell, — Webster and Chamberlain. Two crowns of glory clasp thy calm, chaste brow. ye strong hills, bear witness to my verse, Thou "Maledetto," mountain of the curse,* Chocorua, blasted by thy chief, and thou, Kearsarge, slope-shouldered monarch of this vale, Who gavest thy conquering name to that swift sail Which caught in Gallic seas the rebel bark And downward drove the Alabama's pride To deep sea-sleep in Cherbourg's ravening tide, What time faint Commerce watched a na- tion's ark Sinking with * Mt. Maledetto, the Chocorua of the Pyrenees, is entirely destitute of vegetation, the supposed result of a malediction like that pronounced by the Indian chieftain. POEMS OF II FN It Y BERNARD CARPENTER Speak, ye historian pine-woods, where ye stand, And thou bald scalp, like the bald crown of Time,* Lifted above thy sylvan sea sublime, And ye still shores, reaches of golden sand, Linked like a necklace round your Lovell's lake, Speak, for ye saw how, when the morning brake, Brave Chamberlain, and men like Chamber- lain, Turned like caged lions, where round them in fell scorn Leaped from their lairs a thousand flushed with morn, And fought, death-loving, grand in life's disdain, Till eve's first star was born. Then fell the peerless, fearless, cheerless chief, Paugus, between this water and that wood, Staining the yellow strand with Indian blood, Death-struck by Chamberlain; and straight in grief The Indian vanished, and the English came, And laid on this lone mere their Lovell's name, Lovell who led them: thus the northern land From Kearsarge to Katahdin, and the State Named from the Pine, lay open as a gate For Saxon steps to reach St. Lawrence Clear of wild war's debate. A century, half a hundred years, and seven, Each.like a pilgrim from eternity "With sandals of soft silence creeping by, Have paced thy streets, and hied them home to heaven, Sweet Fryeburg, since thy Lovell's battle- day Wove the pine-wreath which welcomes no decay; * Equestrian fancy calls the scalp-like rock over-hanging But grandsire Time, who crowns men with both hands, Giving to him that hath, decreed that thou, Ere fourscore years, shouldst bind about thy brow A second wreath, culled from thy meadow- lands And the elm's peaceful bough. Then Judgment rose on swift, storm- shadowed wings,* And pitying Man, heart-sick with vain desire, Sent the new Gods, mist-robed and crowned with fire, To trace with flame-like hands the doom of kings. Through the worn world like throb of morning drum, Pealed the fierce shout, — the new Gods' reign is come; And new-risen stars, ablaze around Man's new bride, Came down to sing at Freedom's marriage feast, When through the listening lands of West and East A Daniel rose for judgment on each side Where the Atlantic ceased. Twenty rich summers glowed along his veins When from New Hampshire's high-born hills a youth Came down, a seeker and a sayer of sooth, To stand beneath these elms, and shake the reins That steer the heart of boyhood's fiery prime. They called him Daniel Webster and the chime Measured the sliding hours with smooth, slow stroke, * A Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel." Two young champions of popular freedom, each bearing this name, arose almost in the samehour on either side of the Atlantic. In 1800, while the bells of St. Patrick's Cathedral were ring- ing triumphantly over the downfall of the old Irish Parlia- ment, young Daniel O'Connell rose in the Corn Exchange, Dublin, and delivered his maiden speech. In 1802 young Daniel Webster spoke for the first time, and in the spirit of the Irish agitator's life-long political principles. POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. While he sat registering the deed, and wrought As though the wide world watched him: swift in thought, But slow in speech; yet once, when once he spoke, Then an archangel taught. 'Twas Magna Charta's morning in July, When, in that temple reared of old to Truth, He rose, in the bronze bloom of blood- bright youth, To speak, what he re -spake when death was nigh.* Strongly he stood, Olympian-framed, with front Like some carved crag where sleeps the lightning's brunt, Black, thunderous brows, and thunderous Like Pericles, of whom the people said, That, when he spake, it thundered; round him spread The calm of summer nights when the stars teach In music overhead. Lift up thy head, behold thy citizen, Fryeburg ! From thy cloistered shades came he, — Who came like many more who come from thee, — To teach the cities how the hills make men. Guard thy unabdicated pastoral throne, God-kept within thy God-made mountain- zone, Of Truth, of Love, of Peace, the worshipper; Keep fresh thy double garland, and hand down This my last leaf woven in thy Webster's crown, And leave lean Envy's loathed, unkennelled cur To bark at his renown. * Webster, in his last speech in the Senate, repeated the peroration of his Fryeburg oration; an example of the law under which many other supreme artists have been led to work over and enlarge the lines of their life's first efforts. A VACATION PRELUDE. "AAaoe /avarat. At Athens, on the second day of the Eleusinian festival, the candidates for the Great Mysteries assembled, and wait- ed for the well-known word of the prophet, Hierophant or Mystagogue, as their religious leader was variously called. At the cry, " To the sea, ye initiates I 1 ' (halade uuistai), they rose and went down to the shore, where they received bap- tismal purification, and thence proceeded to the temple of Demeter (the Earth-mother) at Eleusis, to be initiated in the greater or final Mysteries of life and death. " Hence to the sea ! souls true and tried, Plunge in the Gods' baptismal tide ! Thence to Demeter's temple-stair And learn Life's deeper secrets there ! " The Prophet speaks; they hear the call, They rise and leave thy sacred wall, Thy homes and haunts of sweet renown I Queen City of the Violet Crown ! ' Onward with heart-kept vows they creep Round the grey, olive-shaded steep, Through ways that beckon lovingly Down to old iEgeus' fabled sea; That sea that shines and shakes afar, Inlaid with many an island- star, Poseidon's bright, rock-jewelled band Clasping his loved, lost Attic land. " Hence to the sea I" that cry once more Comes, organ-voiced, from surf and shore, Comes through the hum and hurrying feet, The toil and tumult of the street. From each dull brick I learn the call Flashed as from old Belshazzar's wall; Market and church and street and store Echo the mandate, " To the shore ! " With Care's sharp thorn-wreath daily crowned, Our wave-girt city hears the sound, And stoops her toil-worn diadem To touch the healing Ocean's hem; And take new strength from him who erst With his waves rocked her, swathed and nursed, Who now with blue, large, wondering eye Hails her, his Venice throned on high. POEMS OF HEXRY BERXARD CARPEXTER. to the sea ! " the summ.ons came O'er fields adust, down skies of flame; I heard, and fondly turned to thee, gentle, glad, all-gathering Sea ! 1 saw thee spread but yestermorn, As though for Venus newly born, A couch of satin soft and blue, O'er which the sun-showers dimpling flew. To-day how changed ! the loud winds rise, The storm her sounding shuttle plies, Weaves a white water-shroud beneath, And all the sea- marge answers, " Death." Through sheeted spray what sights appear ! Faces look out and shapes of fear; Mad through the trampled surge abroad Revels and reels the Demon-god ; Whilst o'er his shouts that wax and wane Swells one long monotone of pain, As o'er some city's rabble yell Tolleth a great cathedral bell. Is this the deep-sea peace I sought ? Calm days by holy shores of Thought, Airs, that might Hope's own clarion fill. With tones divine of " Peace, be still?" And yet to me these tides that flow Are but as clouds o'er worlds below, Worlds which look up to skies, as we Look to our heaven's o'erhanging sea. Not on that sea-floor, but beneath Its snowy shroud and funeral wreath Peace dwells. What kingdoms calm and fair And changeless greet my guesses there ! Seeds of the New that is to be Sleep in the ooze of yon grey sea; Life, Love, all sweet and speechless things To crown the heart's imaginings, — Rich hills, green-skirted, forest-zoned, Cliffs on which slumbrous Powers are throned, High-pillared shades, with splendor laned, By ruthless woodman unprofaned; Close-latticed lights, cool shadowings, And murmurs of all pleasant things, Fountains that chime away their cares* In liquid lapse down crystal stairs; Glades which a tender twilight fling Like the green mist of groves in spring; Blameless white sands, and seas of pearl, Where young-eyed Dreams their sails unfurl; Doors opening from afar with tone Of mystic flutes in musings lone, Low chantings thrilled through dim-lit seas, Old harp-notes, half-heard prophecies; Pale temples veiled in sapphire gloom Where the great ghosts of glorious doom In transport list, till heaven-born Fate Shall ope her sire's tremendous gate; Caves where the gentle, gracious Hours, Who bring all good things, weave strange And faint Hopes wait in Lethe grots, Brow-bound with fresh forget-me-nots; Genii, low dwellers of the glen, And souls forlorn that shall be men, Mute lips that once have kissed the wrong, Which Time shall purge and light with song; Strong angels, waiting for the day When they shall shoulder seas away And show to God new blessed hills ' Starred with undying daffodils; When Earth, with bridal morning strewn, Like a pure goddess grandly hewn, Shall, re-baptized and born again, Rise from her centuries' trance of pain. Thus in thy heart, Deep, are stored Kings' treasure- chambers, unexplored; Thy terrors, tumults, fears are found But on thy surface, in thy sound. " Hence to the sea ! " I heard that call, And left the world's loud palace-wall To find thee, thou vast Unknown, By shores of mystery and of moan. Yet, nameless Dread, that seem'st but so, Calm are thy depths of peace below; Roll dark or bright, O Spirit Sea, Why should I fear to sink in thee ? POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 791 THE REED. ET ARUNDINEM IN DKXTBAM EJUS. Beneath the memnonian shadows of Mem- phis it rose from the slime, A reed of the river, self-hid, as though shun- ning the curse of its crime, And it shook as it measured in whispers the lapses of tide and of time, It shuddered, it stooped, and was dumb, when the kings of the earth passed along, For what could this reed of the river in the race of the swift and the strong, — Where the wolf met the bear and the pan- ther, blood-bathed, at the banquets of wrong? These loved the bright brass, the hard steel, and the gods that kill and condemn; Yea, theirs was the robe silver-tissued, and theirs was the sun-colored gem; If they touched thee, reed, 'twas to wing with swift death thy sharp arrowy stem. Then the strong took the corn and the wine, and the poor, who had scattered the seed, Went forth to the wilderness weeping, and sought out a sign in their need, And the gods laughed in rapturous thun- der, and showed them the wind- shaken reed. dower of the poor and the helpless ! key to Thought's palace unpriced ! When the strong mocked with cruel crimson, and spat in the face of their Christ, When the thorns were his crown — in his faint palm this reed for a sceptre sufficed; This reed in whose fire-pith Prometheus brought life, and then Art began, When Man, the god of time's twilight, grew godlike by dying for Man, Ere Redemption fell bound and bleeding, priest-carved to the priests' poor plan. Come hither, ye kings of the earth, and ye- priests without pity, draw near, Ye girded your loins for a curse, and ye builded dark temples to Fear, Ye gathered from rune-scroll and symbol great syllables deathful and drear. Then ye summoned mankind to your Idol, the many bowed down to the few, As ye told in loud anthems how all things were framed for the saints and for you, " Lord, not on these sun-blistered rocks, but on Gideon's fleece falls thy dew." Man was taken from prison to judgment; a bulrush he bent at your nod; Ye stripped him of rights, his last garment,, and bared his broad back for the rod,. And ye lisped, as he writhed down in an- guish, " This woe is the sweet will of God." But lo ! whilst ye braided the thorn- wreath for Man and the children of men, Whilst ye reft him of worship and wealth, and he stood mute and dazed in your den, A reed-stalk remained for a sceptre; ye left in his hand the pen. Sweet wooer, strong winner of kingship, above crown, crosier and sword, By thee shall the mighty be broken, and the spoil which their might hath stored Shall be stamped small as dust and be wafted away by the breath of the Lord. His decree is gone forth, it is planted, and these are the words which he spake, — No smouldering flax of first fancy, no full flame of thought, will he slake, , No bruised reed of the writer shall the strength of eternities break. Behold your sign and your sceptre. Arise,. imperial reed, Go forth to discrown king and captain and disinherit the creed; strike through the iron war-tower ar cast out the murderer's seed; 79'.' POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. Go forth — like the swell of the springtide, sweep on in measureless sway. Till raised over each throned falsehood, in bright omnipresence like day. Thou shalt bruise them with rod of iron and break them like vessels of clay. THEODOSIUS. All things are beautiful that God hath made, — Green earth, skies grey or crimson, sheen or shade, The golden river-dust, the mid-sea slime, The mold-warp's home, and hills the throne of Time, Rich dawn, with thrush, and saffron-flower- ing reed, And darkness, friend of death, and worm and weed. Shadows of silence, and great lights of sound Alike are dear to the heaven they float around, And God hath blest them, whether in field or flood, In earth or air, and called them very good. But ere these leave the embrace of their kind Nurse, Man clothes them with the garment of his curse, And driving out with flame-sword, seraph- wise, He disinherits them of their Paradise. J Tis the old story of the scapegoat still, We lay on other lives our self -wrought ill; Man points at Woman, Woman at her feet, " The Serpent tempted me, and I did eat." In the far East, as story telleth us, Dwelt the great Emperor Theodosius, By the rough Thracian strait, where Io roamed Salt fields of sea, wind-fretted and o'er- foamed. All power was his, the King's twain-handed might, And Life, and Law, and all, save sacred sight. But, God be praised, the chance that seals one sense, Stays not the whole flow of man's providence. So at his palace door a bell he hung, Which, when it woke him with its iron tongue, Cried ever in his ear, " Sire, descend, And give me justice, and be misery's friend." Then would you hear the shuffling, sightless feet Which brought him to the hall and judg- ment seat, Where he sat down, this Emperor Theodose, And sentence gave 'mid his magnificoes. So the world sought him as some isle o' the sea, Where men breathe rights and all the men are free. Now fell it on a day when Spring's new flame Pricked bird and flower and leaf, a serpent came And built her home and stowed her innocent freight In a green plat, hard by the palace-gate, And there she dwelt, a helpless, harmless thing, With sweet, strange mother-love encompass- ing And coiled in sleep about her little ones, As God's vast life rings round his stars and suns. One morn, while absent from her dear abode, There came with short, light leaps, a song- less toad Through thickening grass-plumes, to the serpent nest, Where her brood lay just sleep-warm from her breast, And swallowing these, his body burdensome He straight laytlown in that unchilded home. Swift came the serpent- mother back again; One glance around, then fierce with death- like pain, POEMS OP HENEY BERNARD CARPENTER. 793 She flashed straight at the murderer of her God-armed with right to cast out and destro3 r , Not yet: for oft the gods are kind to guilt, And fools grow fat where the pure blood lies spilt. Driven out, this creature, childless, exiled, poor, Slow wound her weak folds to the emperor's door, Where, gathering all her battle-broken strength She flickered up and writhed her sliding length Round the smooth bell-rope toward the speechless bell, Which, drawing down, she woke the sum- moning knell, "Descend and give me justice." Straight uprose And took his seat, that Emperor Theodose, Saying, "Go, bring him hither," and one came, In black velure and taffeta robe of flame, Peeping with outstretched neck and watery laugh, Who smote the snake thrice with his ivory staff, And switched her from the grunsel, and re- turned. Scarce had the sightless Theodosius learned Prom the cold courtier's tongue the serpent's crime, When hark ! the bell knolled out the second time, " Descend and give me justice," and to end The full appeal, it rahg once more, " De- scend." Then called the blind king to his seneschal, A reverent man, of face angelical, With love-lit eyes, voice musical and low, White hair and soft step like the falling snow; " Hie thee, and fetch this thing whatso it be; Who doeth kind deed, the only king is he." And with soft step the senior went, and found The stricken serpent half-way to the ground. And caught her well-nigh dead, reft of all hope, Failing through faintness from the throbbing rope, And bore her, inly pitying her woes, And laid her down before King Theodose. then, I ween, a work right marvellous Was wrought of him, who somewhere teach- eth us, — Certes, all things are possible with God. Yet men will say in time's last period This was not so, these tales are light as sand, Faith-forged in Jewry or old Grecian Land, Not knowing how in antique days, by oak And fountain, beasts and birds together spoke, Under the forest's shadow- woven tent, In session sage and peaceful parliament; Till Man came a ad henceforth from bird and beast The primal word's divisible language ceased, And so to place their thoughts above our reach They chose their free-born, inarticulate Yet sometimes these, when heavenward raised by wrong, Change cry for speech, as men change speech for song; Or, as when Slavery's bow at Man is bent, Man cries to God, and then is eloquent, Nor count it strange that He who once came down In tongue of fire to be the Prophet's crown, And shook his soul as with the rushing South, Should ope in one brief speech a serpent's mouth. So with raised head the serpent thus began "Smite me, but hear. I come to thee, Man; For unto thee, they say, the seat is given Of Mediator- God 'twixt us and heaven. In thy sere autumn, when hopes fade and fly, Thou yearnest upward to the listening sky ro4 POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. And criest and sighest and sayest, ' Lord, how long ? ' To some one, whom ye call the Sweet and Strong — What that one is to thee, art thou to us, Girt with great strength and knowledge glorious. Shall Mercy drop to thee her royal meat Who keepst her crumbs from them that kiss thy feet. Think not, great king, that we who roam and range Wild ways of life, which teach us uses Are aliens to what makes the best in men, In soldier, statesman, sire and citizen, — The lover's anguish dipped in tides of death, Child-trust, and mother-love that fashioneth All thought and thew, life's prodigality That breathes the noble rage to save or die; — These which are ours we share with thee, Man, v In Life's wide palace cosmopolitan. Hear me. There came a toad into my nest, Whiles I was absent on a needful quest, And killed my pretty brood, and now he keeps That home from her who at thy footstool creeps. Full well I know that something just and good Ere many suns will give me back my brood, But give me now the lair which is my own, — Guard my ground nest, and I will guard thy throne." Long mused the blind king Theodosius, But when at last his heart full piteous Sent its red message to his cheek, he spake: — "Ah me ! sad woes ye bear for human sake, Poor hunted lives, beast, bird and creeping thing, From Man who is your brother, not your king. But chiefly on thy head that lies thus low Have we laid down the weight of all our woe. Give ear and hear me, my most honored lords, And you, ye learned clerks, wise in your words, Stand forth and answer me: Who first de- creed Discord for all things sown of mortal seed ? Who blew through earth the ban of civil war Which flames above us, reddening Ares' star ? God, will ye say ? Heaven wot, that cannot be. Hear Nature's Miserere Domine : Go up, man-scorned, an awful litany Folding the feet of God with folds of moan And crying, Our eyes look unto Thee alone. Not God. Who then ? Ye durst not answer me — 'Tis Man, who blots her fountain, slays her tree, Blasts her sweet river, tears her breast of green, And calls her beasts now clean and now un- clean, Stooping her names of serpent, ape and dog To suit the sins of man's own catalogue; For through man's heart distil those drops of gall Which must o'erflow and on some creature fall. dull of spirit and cold of heart to make This cleanser of the dust, the earth-loving snake, The authoress of your ills, the fount of sin; Forgetting in your doctrines' battle-din How God ordained that since the world began Each thing in turn should be the friend of Man. What ! shall the Lamb that healeth all of us Tread on the Snake of iEsculapius ? Say, are not innocent Wisdom and wise Love Wedded for aye — the Serpent and the Dove ? sweet Lord Christ, when thou didst come on earth Thou madest the stall of ox thy bed of birth ; When in chill desert thou didst leave our feasts [beasts;' To share Life's hunger, thou wast ' with the When on to Zion Town they saw thee pass, 'Twas not on war-steed, but on lowly ass; And when to win us worlds by thy self- loss Thou didst lift up for us the bitter cross, Then didst thou take the thorns we oft had POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. ;;>.> To, be thy crown, of all great crowns the first. Help me, dear Christ, in pity thus arrayed Like thee, to love all things which God hath made, So Pain shall school me into sympathy, And what I should have been, I yet shall be. " Then Theodose sent one from all the rest To reinstall the serpent in her nest, Who came and finding there the murderer Crushed him and cast him out; and some aver That from the bruised head of the loathly thing There oozed a sea-green gem, forth issuing; Wherefore and how it boots not here to tell, — with God all things are possible. After these things it fell on a bright day Near the calm shut of eve, this blind king lay* Wrapped in his purple, gold-embroidered pall, And slept a space in the same palace hall, When lo ! a thing most rare was brought to As though new-raised in beauty from the grass That serpent through the palace came again, No more updrawing her loose length with pain, But glittering like a stream with rains fresh- dewed, Amber, and silver-mooned, and rainbow- hued, Eyed like a moist large planet of the South That shines a promise of rain in days of drouth. So swept she glorying up the porphyry floor, And in her mouth a bright great emerald bore. Therewith, (but whence it came none ever knew,) Through all the house a wondrous music grew, Such concords as are heard from stop and string At heavenly doors by spirits first entering, — Immortal airs, touches of mellow sound That came in long-drawn sighs, above, around, And march-like music swoln to mighty tone, Like preludes from aerial clarions blown, And whispers as of multitudinous feet, Which . died away with waifs of scent most sweet. Soul-charmed, the serpent toward King Theodose crept, And there she hung above him, as he slept With silent face, and silent, pale, dead eyes Turned in, as 'twere, on Life's mute mys- teries; Then, as the downward-swaying branch lets fall Its waxen fruitage to the lips that call, So she soft-stooping o'er his sleep, un- known, — Dropped on his eyes the magic emerald stone. Meanwhile blind Theodosius dreamed a dream. In the high heaven he saw a coming gleam, Which brightening as hf came to where he lay, Opened at last like the full flower of day. It was God's angel, strong Ithuriel, Armed with that glowing lance, which, sooth to tell, Unlocks all doors of light in earth or skies, With whose bright point he touched the sightless eyes, And said, " Receive thy sight;" thus much he spoke And vanished, and King Theodose awoke. Opening his new-born eyes he looked abroad, Oh wonder ! Oh the beautiful earth of God I He gazed on the rich picture, fresh and fair, The grateful lields of green, and liquid air, But first toward heaven; and its blue gulfs of sky. [of light What sees he there ? Up through long lanes Thy city, Lord, rose on his tranced sight, Pillar and palace built of mist and gem, And sun-clad wall of New Jerusalem, Where men walk free from sin and terror r% POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. With smile sent back on time and passed years. Then, as the pageant faded from his eyes, He watched beneath its vanishing traceries The dawning eventide of one faint star And lilac cloud's flame- bordered bank and bar, And lower down, the green wood's tender gloom And lawns that fed on dews and balm and bloom, Whilst, like a meteor, through his palace door The serpent shivered and was seen no more. BEYOND THE SNOW. Bare boughs; athwart each suppliant arm The sun's pale stare at pale November, No autumn's amorous breath to warm His red last leaf's expiring ember; House after house, a glimmering street; A herald grain of coming sleet; The struggling dayfires' lessening glow; Hour when light ghost- winds wailing go, When men least hope and most remember, Before the snow, before the- snow. A village cot; eyes fiery blue, Blithe voice beneath the roof's high rafter, Ripe cheek, crisp curls of chestnut hue, Quick heart that leaps to love and laughter That feeds on all from star to sod, And loving all things lives in God; Light feet borne daily to and fro On sweet errand none may know, Swift sped with hopes like wings to waft her Along the snow, along the snow. A midnight room; the Of those that watch with tear-stained faces; The helpless love-look bent by each Who stoops, but speaks not, and embraces; Love braving Death with that last cry, " She is mine, she is mine, she shall not die;" Then homeward steps returning slow To tin' great tear's unworded woe, And many darkened dwelling-places Across the snow, across the snow. A hollow grave; and gathered there Strong breaking hearts that bear and break not, Round the closed eyes and lifeless hair Life's few that follow and forsake not; Tears, the drink-offering to the dead, The bruised heart's grape-wine softly shed; Long downward looks; they will not go, They fain would sleep with her below In dreamless rest with those that wake not Beneath the snow, beneath the snow. A green plot sweet with shade and sound, A white porch and a name engraven, Where Death unveiled as Love sits crowned In garden-lawns with lilies paven, And she a daughter of that land, A silent rose in her right hand, And in her left a scroll where glow Mysteries of might which man shall know In Love's warm-shadowed leafy haven the snow, beyond the snow. THE SIRENS. ON DE BEAUMONT'S PICTURE " LES SIRENES." Dainty sea-maids ! bright-eyed sirens ! laughing over dead men's graves ! What has drawn you from the inland to this wilderness of waves ? Why those lucent arms uptossing o'er your shoulders round and rare ? Why those musical throats bent back beneath the sunlight of your hair 'i Oh, the bosoms' rosy treasures tempting to- ward their fragrant home ! Oh, the ivory thighs unkirtled on the white . flowers of the foam ! Bitter is the sea about you with the brine of daily tears, POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 7'JT In the sea-grave lie beneath yon withered hearts and wasted years. Back ! ye deathward-singing Sirens ! One by Galilee's calm sea Calls you hence, — " cease your angling, drop your nets, and follow me," — Calls you home to Love-'s high service in se- clusion's holy glen, But he never called you shoreward to be fishers after men. SONNET. JAMES ABRAM GARFIELD, SEPTEMBER 19TH, 1881. Lo ! as a pure white statue wrought with care By some strong hand that moulds with tear and sigh Beauty more beautiful than things that die, And straight 'tis veiled; and whilst all men repair To see this wonder in the workshop, there ! Behold, it gleams unveiled to curious eye, Far-seen, high -placed in Art's pale gallery, Where all stand mute before a work so fair; So he, our man of men, in vision stands, With Pain and Patience crowned imperial; Death's veil has dropped; far from this house of woe He hears one love-chant out of many lands, Whilst from his mystic noon-height he lets fall His shadow o'er these hearts that bleed below. A NEW ENGLAND WINTER SONG. FOREFATHERS' DAY, DECEMBER 22. Who cradled thee on the rock, my boy, Far, far from the sun- warm South ? Who woke thee with shout and shock, my boy, And spray for a kiss on thy mouth, As the low sad shores grew dim with rain And the grey sea moaned its infinite pain To grey grass and pale sands, thy sole do- main? Who cradled thee on the rock ? I brought thee into the wilderness, When thou didst cry to me, And I gave thee there in thy sore distress The rock and the cloud and the sea; With baptismal waves thy limbs were wet, And the ragged cloud was thy coverlet, — Thus saith the Lord God : Dost thou forget ? I cradled thee on the rock. Who shadowed thee with the cloud, my boy, And the stars forgat to shine, [b°y> And the sun lay as dead in his shroud, my And thy tears were to thee for wine ? Who took from thee every pleasant thing, Sweet sounds that are drawn from stop and string, Day's dream and the night's glad banqueting? Who shadowed thee with the cloud ? I broke thy slumber with clarion storms, I called like a midnight bell, Till thou saw'st through the dark the spirit forms, Heaven's glow and the glare of hell; And then, that thou mightest know God's grace And drink his love-wine and see his face, I drew thee into my secret place, — I shadowed thee with the cloud. Who fenced thee round with the sea, my boy, And locked its gates amain ? Who, to set thy fathers free, my boy, Burst the bars of the deep in twain, And led them by ways they knew not of, When the black storm spread its wings above And thundered, My God is Law, not Love ! Who fenced thee round with the sea ? I set thee beyond where the great sea ran, I made thee to dwell apart, For in the divisions of man from man Come the mighty searchings of heart; POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. T, the Lord, who moved on the waters old, To see his realm re-born Who sought for a heart like the sea's heart, AVhich late the old worlds could scorn —bold, Now nearer to life's flowering marge of Unchartered, chainless and myriad-souled — morn; I fenced thee round with the sea. To see his country's chief and chosen thereof In war and peace its eagle and its dove, Called here to reap the far fruits of past pain And bear New England's blessing to New ODE TO GENERAL PORFIRIO DIAZ.* Spain With the strong Northman's love. EX-PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF MEXICO. ill. I. The Pine-tree waves her peace-pledge to the Open thy storm-dark doors, dear Northern Palm, Land, Sending sweet grace and greeting, not as Star-diademed, pale Priestess of the free, they | Wailed round by wind and water and that Who greet and give not. For in time's grey sea past day, Whose morning psalm salutes his Pilgrims' Ere thy quick South roused from their strand, summer-calm thou to whom all great things thought Her baby Hopes adream on wings warm- and done furled, Are dear, all fights for Freedom lost or Our seedplot for all gardens of the world won, Nursed through its bud and birth Queen of the earth's free states, One tree till the whole earth Open to him thy gates, Owned its circumferent leaves and giant This champion of the children of the Sun; girth; To him who with his king-destroying rod Whence winnowed by the northwind's Wiped the last king-curse from the wings of power southern sod, A fire-seed smote thy soil, and lo ! a Bring the loud welcome which the free- bower, man brings A blossom- blaze, a May time glorious. When his full harp is struck through gardener, what is this thou bringest us ? all its strings Our freedom's far-sown flower. With music born of God. IT. ii. Tree of Liberty, thou Tree of Life, He comes a hero to a heroes' home. Without thee what were all the golden New England's lulls, peal forth your thrice South? [mouth, All Hail, The Cid's rich song from ripe Castilian Far as the Gulf, till every seaward sail The eyes' black velvet of each gay girl-wife, Bends low to hear, and Orizaba's dome The scarlet nopal, jasmine's earth-born Heaves his flame-hearted breast of barren star, brown The low bird-language of the light guitar And breaks the frosts that bind his helmet- Wooed by love's wandering hand, crown, And teocalli grand With scroll and sculptured face of mild command, * Read at the banquet in Boston, April 11th, 1883. POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. Queretaro's wave-worn arches, one long mile Of marching giants, Viga's floating isle, Cholula's hill-shrine of the all-worshipped Sun, Huge cypress shade, all Aztec spoils in one. Without thee were most vile. Look whither Nature leads thee, soldier- priest; Not South to soil war-scourged and thunder-scarred, Not "West where friendship fails thee ocean-barred, Not to the palsied, mad, monarchic East, Dazzling with sunlike gems of gay romance And backward gaze fixed in tradition's trance, Who sent across the main The monkish spawn of Spain, And Austria's yellow plague and black Ba- zaine, To lash thy land with battle's gory shower And cage thee in Puebla's dungeon-tower, Whence rushed thy eagle spirit new-fledged, and burst [cursed, The death-folds of the serpent crowned and When hell lost half her power. The strongest Gods dwell ever in the North, In labor's land and sorrow's; but at length Labor and sorrow bring the perfect strength. See, from Ezekiel's northern hills leaps forth The car of crystal floor and sapphire throne, In amber-colored light and rainbow zone, On self-moved beryl wheels. Through fire-mist that reveals Man, its great charioteer, aloft, alone, Where round him float three mystic shapes divine, Cloven foot of steer and starred wing aquiline, And lion's regal mane ready to rise Like slumbering Law on all its enemies, In strength, guest, like thine. So to thy home sweeps down unconquerable Our iron chariot of the prophet's dream, Fire-fledged and clothed in cloud and wreathed with steam, Flashed like a poet's thought through all — cleft hill, Rent rock and rolling flood and fiery sand, Laden with Life's humanities, not the brand Of widow-making war, To blast thy fields afar Like burnings of the intolerable star. So flies the thunder-bearing steed of flame Waking each southern silence with his name* King of his kinsmen round the stormy cape, Whose heart, head, hand to purpose, plan and shape, Win him a conqueror's flame. Thee, latest-born, self-liberated State, Earth, heaven and thy two Oceans wait to bless, Our blessing also take, with love not less, As of thy sister ever inseparate, And take thy place iu the immemorial line Of those that soared and sang with hopes like thine, And with voice piercing strong And' clear and sweet prolong The choral thunders of their mighty song, Till earth's new man, thrilled by the spirit breeze, Shall wake to morn's memnonian melo- dies, Bright as when daybreak from his rosy home Stains with his blood-red life the furrowed foam Of sunward-surging seas. POEMS OF FRANCES BROWNE. LOSSES. Upon' the white sea-sand There sat a pilgrim hand, Telling the losses that their lives had known; While evening waned away From breezy cliff and hay, And the strong tides went out with weary moan. One spake, with quivering lip, Of a fair freighted ship, With all his household to the deep gone down; But one had wilder woe — For a fair face, long ago, Lost in the darker depths of a great town. There were who mourn'd their youth With a most loving ruth, For its brave hopes and memories ever green; And one upon the west Turn'd an eye that would not rest, For far-off hills whereon its joys had been. Some talk'd of vanish'd gold, Some of proud honors told, Some speak of friends that were their trust no more ; And one of a green grave, Beside a foreign wave, That made him sit so lonely on the shore. But when their tales were done, There spake among them one, A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free; " Sad losses have ye met, But mine is heavier yet ; For a believing heart hath gone from me." "Alas!" these pilgrims said, "For the living and the dead — For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, For the wrecks of land and sea! But, however it came to thee. Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest SONGS OF OUR LAND. Songs of our land, ye are with us for ever, The power and the splendor of th.-ones pass away; But yours is the might of some far flowing river. Through Summer's bright roses or Au- tumn's decay. Ye treasure each voice of the swift passing ages, And truth which time writeth on leaves or on sand ; Ye bring us the thoughts of poels and sages, And keep them among us, old songs of our land. The bards may go down to the place of their slumbers, The lyre of the charmer be hushed in the grave, But far in the future the power of their numbers Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and brave. It will waken an echo in souls deep and lonely, Like voices of reeds by the summer breeze It will call up a spirit for freedom, when only Her breathings are heard in the songs of our land. POEMS OP FRANCES BROWNE. For they keep a record of those, the true- hearted, Who fell with the cause they had vowed to maintain; They show lis bright shadows of glory de- parted, Of love that grew cold and the hope that was vain. The page may be lost and the pen long for- saken, And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave heart and hand ; But ye are still left when all else hath been taken, Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of our land. Songs of our land, ye have followed the stranger, With power over ocean and desert afar, Ye have gone with our wanderers through distance and danger, And gladdened their path like a home- guiding star. * With the breath of our mountains in sum- mers long vanished, And visions that passed like a wave from the sand, With hope for their country and joy from her banished. Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our land. The spring time may come with the song of our glory, To bid the green heart of the forest re- joice, But the pine of the mountain though blasted and hoary, And the rock in the desert, can send forth a voice. It was thus in their triumph for deep deso- lations, While ocean waves roll or the mountains shall stand, Still hearts that are bravest and best of the nations, [land. Shall glory and live in the songs of the^ POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE, LL.D. THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. BALLAD OF "Oh, mother, have you heard the news?" " Oh, father, is it true ?" "Oh, brother, were I but a man" — '■' Oh, husband, they shall rue!" Thus, passionately, asked the boy, And thus the sister spoke, And thus the dear wife to her mate, The words they could not choke. '"The news! what news?" "Oh, bitter news — they've fired upon the flag — The flag no foreign foe could blast, the trai- tors down wouk#drag." " The truest flag of liberty The world has ever seen — The stars that shone o'er Washington And guided gallant Greene! The white and crimson stripes which bode Success in peace and war, Are draggled, shorn, disgraced, and torn — Insulted star by star; That flag which struggling men point to, rebuking kingly codes, The flag of Jones at Whitehaven, of Reid at Fayal Roads." ■" Eh, neighbor, can'st believe this thing; The neighbor's eyes grew wild; Then o'er them crept a haze of shame, As o'er a sad, proud child; His face grew pale, he bit his lip, Until the hardy skin, By passion tightened, could not hold The boiling blood within; He quivered for a moment, the indignant stupor broke, [awoke. And the duties of the soldier in the citizen On every side the crimson tide Ebbs quickly to and fro; On maiden cheeks the horror speaks With fitful gloom and glow; In matrons' eyes their feelings rise, As when a danger, near, Awakes the soul to full control Of all that causes fear; The subtle sense, the faith intense, of wom- an's heart and brain, Give her a prophet's power to see, to suffer, and maintain. Through city streets the fever beats — O'er highways, byways, borne — The boys grow men with madness, And the old grow young in scorn; The forest houghs record the vows Of men, heart -sore, though strong; Th' electric wire, with words of fire, The passion speeds along, Of traitor hordes and traitor swords from Natchez to Manassas, And like a mighty harp flings out the war- chant to the masses. And into caverned mining pits The insult bellows down; And up through the hoary gorges, Till it shouts on the mountain's crown; POEMS OP JOHN SAVAGE. Then foaming o'er the table-lands, Like a widening rapid, heads; And rolling along the prairies, Like a quenchless lire it spreads; From workman's shop to mountain top there's mingled wrath and wonder, It appalls them like the lightning, and awakes them like the thunder. The woodman flings his axe aside; The farmer leaves his plough; The merchant slams his ledger lids For other business now; The artisan puts up his tools, The artist drops his brush, And joining hands for Liberty, To Freedom's standard rush; The doctor folds his suit of black, to fight as best he may, And e'en the flirting exquisite is " eager for the fray." VIII. The students leave their college rooms, Full deep in Greece and Eome, To make a rival glory For a better cause near home; The lawyer quits his suits and writs, The laborer his hire, And in the thrilling rivalry The rich and poor aspire! And party lines are lost amid the patriot commotion, As wanton streams grow strong and pure within the heart of ocean. \ The city marts are echoless; The city parks are thronged; In country stores there roars and pours The means to right the wronged; The town halls ring with mustering; From holy pulpits, too, Good priests and preachers volunteer To show what men should do — To show that they who preach the truth and God above revere, Can die to save for man the blessings God has sent down here. And gentle fingers everywhere The busy needles ply, To deck the manly sinews That go out to do or die; And maids and mothers, sisters dear, And dearer wives, outvie Each other in the duty sad, That makes all say " Good-by" — The while in every throbbing heart that's passed in farewell kiss Arises pangs of hate on those who brought them all to this. The mustering men are entering For near and distant tramps; The clustering crowds are centering In barrack-rooms and camps; There is riveting and pivoting, And furbishing of arms, And the willing marching, drilling, With their quick exciting charms, Half dispel the subtle sorrow that the women needs must feel, When e'en for Eight their dear ones fight the Wrong with steel to steel. With hammerings and clamorings, The armories are loud; Toilsome clangor, joy, and anger, Like a cloud enwrap each crowd; Belting, buckling, cursing, chuckling, Sorting out their "traps "in throngs; Some are packing, some knapsacking, Singing snatches of old songs; Fifers finger, lovers linger to adjust a badge or feather. And groups of drummers vainly strive to reveille together. And into many a haversack The prayer-book 's mutely borne — Its well-thumbed leaves in faithfulness By wives and mothers worn — And round full many a pillared neck, O'er many a stalwart breast, 804 POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE. The sweetheart wife's — the maiden love's Dear effigy's caressed. God knows by what far camp-fire may these tokens courage give, To fearless die for truth and home, if not for them to live. And men who've passed their threescore Press on the ranks in flocks, Ty ears > Their eyes, like fire from Hecla's brow, Burn through their snowy locks; And maimed ones, with stout hearts, per- sist To mount the belt and gun, And crave, with tears, while forced away, To march to Washington. : "Why should we not ? We love that flag ! Great God ! " — they choking cry — : We're strong enough! We're not too old for our dear land to die! " And in the mighty mustering, No petty hate intrudes, No rival discords mar the strength Of rising multitudes; The jealousies of faith and clime Which fester in success, Give place to sturdy friendships Based on mutual distress; For every thinking citizen who draws the sword, knows well The battle's for Humanity — for Freedom's citadel ! 0, Heaven! how the trodden hearts, In Europe's tyrant world, Leaped up with new-born energy When that flag was unfurled! How those who suffered, fought, and died, In fields, or dungeon-chained, Prayed that the flag of Washington Might float while earth remained! And weary eyes in foreign skies, still flash with fire anew, When some good blast by peak and mast unfolds that flag to view. And they who, guided by its stars, Sought here the hopes they gave, Are all aglow with pilgrim fire Their happy shrines to save. Here — Scots and Poles, Italians, Gauls, With native emblems trickt; There — Teuton corps, who fought before Fur Freiheit undfiir Licht; While round the flag the Irish like a human rampart go! They found Cead mille failtlie here — they'll give it to the foe. xvm. From the vine-land, from the Khine-land, From the Shannon, from the Scheldt, From the ancient homes of genius, From the sainted home of Celt, From Italy, from Hungary, All as brothers join and come, To the sinew-bracing bugle, And the foot-propelling drum; Too proud beneath the starry flag to die, and keep secure The Liberty they dreamed of by the Danube, Elbe, and Suir. From every hearth bounds up a heart, As spring from hill-side leaps To give itself to those proud streams That make resistless deeps! No book-rapt sage, for age on age, Can point to such a sight As this deep throb, which woke from rest A people armed for fight. Peal out, ye bells, the tocsin peal, for never since the day When Peter roused the Christian world has earth seen such array. Which way we turn, the eyeballs burn With joy upon the throng; Mid cheers and prayers, and martial airs, The soldiers press along; The masses swell and wildly yell, On pavement, tree, and roof, POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE. And sun-bright showers of smiles and flowers Of woman's love give proof. Peal out, ye bells, from church and dome, in rivalrous communion "With the wild, upheaving masses, for the army of the Union! Onward trending, crowds attending, Still the army moves — and still: Arms are clashing, wagons crashing In the roads and streets they fill: O'er them banners wave in thousands, Pound them lraman surges roar, Like the restless-bosomed ocean, Heaving on an iron shore: Cannons thunder, people wonder whence the endless river comes, With its foam of bristling bay'nets, and its cataracts of drums. " God bless the Union army! " That holy thought appears To symbolize the trustful eyes That speak more loud than cheers. " God bless the Union army, And the flag by which it stands, May it preserve, with freeman's nerve, What freedom's God demands! " Peal out, ye bells — ye women, pray; for never yet went forth So grand a band, for law and land, as the muster of the North. SHANE'S HEAD. Goi/s wrath upon the Saxon! may they never know the pride, Of dying on the battle-field, their broken spears beside; When victory gilds the gory shroud of every fallen brave, Or death no tales of conquered clans can whisper to his grave. May every light from Cross of Christ that saves the heart of man, Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the Saxon clan; Por sure, God! — and you know all whose thought for all sufficed, — To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want another Christ. Is it thus, Shane the haughty! Shane the valiant! that we meet? Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide me to defeat ? Have 1 no chief — or you no clan, to give us both defence, Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold eloquence? Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dub- lin's Castle-tower, Thy shaggy hair is wind-tost, and thy brow seems rough with power; Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest treach'ry stung, Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery tongue. That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of Columbkill, Whose warrior words fenced round with spears the oaks of Derry Hill; Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves, And hunted hordes of Saxon into holy Irish graves. The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met their ears, And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his stormy cheers, Ay, Shane, across the thundering sea, out- chanting it your tongue, Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the Saxon Court among. POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE. Just think, Shane! the same moon shines on Liffey as on Foyle, And lights the ruthless knaves on hoth, our kinsmen to despoil; And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the shield of us and ours, A murdered, truukless, blinding sight above these Dublin towers. Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart is paler still — My heart ? I had no heart — 'twas yours, 'twas yours! to keep or kill. And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief, — your life, your soul, your pride, — ,Bu^ they sought it in thy bosom, Shane — with proud O'Neill it died. You were turbulent and haughty, proud, and keen as Spanish steel, But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's Chief— O'Neill ? Who reared aloft the " Bloody Hand" until it paled the sun, And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief had never done. He was " turbulent " with traitors — he was " haughty" with the foe — He was "cruel," say ye Saxons? Ay! he dealt ye blow for blow! He was " rough " and " wild," and who's not wild, to see his hearthstone razed ? He was " merciless as fire " — ah, ye kindled him, — he blazed! He was "proud:" yes, pi - oud of birthright, and because he flung away Your Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock does mocking spray, He was wild, insane for vengeance, — ay! and preached it till Tyrone Was ruddy, ready, wild too, with " Eed hands " to clutch their own. " The Scots are on the border, Shane — ye saints, he makes no breath — I remember when that cry would wake him up almost from death: Art truly dead and cold? Chief! art thou to Ulster lost? Host hear, dost hear? By Randolph led, the troops the Foyle have crossed! " He's truly dead! he must be dead! nor is his ghost about — And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a shout: The pale face droopeth northward — ah! his soul must loom up there, By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough Foyle, or Bann the Fair! I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must wander there, proud Shane, In search of some O'Neill, through whom to throb its hate again! WASHINGTON. Art in its mighty privilege receives Painter and painted in its bonds forever; A girl by Eaphael in his glory lives — A Washington unto his limner gives The Ages' love to crown his best endeavor. The German Emperor, with whose counter- part The gorgeous Titian made the world ac- quainted, Boasted himself immortal by the art; But he who on thy features cast his heart, Was made immortal by the head he painted ! For thou before whose tinted shade I bow, Wert sent to show the wise of every nation How a young world might leave the axe and plough To die for Truth ! So great, so loved wert thou, That he who touched thee won a reputa- tion. POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE. IV. IX. The steady fire that battled in thy breast, Could I have followed thee through town Lit up our gloom with radiance, good and camp! though gory; Fought where you led, and heard the Like some red sun which the dull earth ca- same drums rattle; ressed Charged with a wild but passion-steadied Into a wealthy adoration blest tramp, To be its glory's great reflected glory. And witnessed, rising o'er death's ghastly damp, v. The stars of empire through the clouds of Thou — when the earthly heaven of man's soul — The heaven of home, of liberty, of honor — battle! X. Shuddered with darkness — didst the clouds Oh! to have died thus 'neath thy hero gaze, uproll And won a smile, my bursting youth And burst such light upon the nation's dole would rather That every State still feels thy breath Than to have lived with every other praise, upon her. Saving the blessing of those epic days When you blest all, and were the nation's VI. father. Could I have seen thee in the Council — bland, XI. Firm as a rock, but as deep stream thy The autumn sun caresses Vernon's tomb, manner; Whose presence doth the country's honor Or when, at trembling Liberty's command, leaven Facing grim havoc like a flag-staff stand, Two suns they are, that dissipate man's And squadrons rolling round thee like a gloom; banner ! For one's the index to Earth's free-born bloom, VII. The other to our burning hope in Heaven! Could I have been with thee on Princeton's XII. morn! Or swelled with silence in the midnight Thy dust may moulder in the hollow rock; muster; But every day thy soul makes some new Behold thee ever, every fate adorn — capture! Or on retreat, or winged victory borne — Nations unborn will swell thy thankful flock, The warrior throbbing with the sage's And Fancy tremble that she cannot mock lustre: Thy history's Truth that will enchant with rapture. VIII. Could I have shouted in the wild acclaim XIII. That rent the sky o'er Germantown How vain the daring to compute in words asunder; The height of homage that the heart would Or when, like cataract, 'gainst the sheeted render! flame And yet how proud — to feel no speech af- You dashed, and chill'd the victor- shout to fords shame, Harmonious measure to the subtle chords On Monmouth's day of palsy-giving thun- That fill the soul beneath thy placid splen- der: dor! POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE.* DEATH OP THE HOMEWARD BOUND. Paler and thinner the morning moon grew, Colder and sterner the rising wind blew — The pole star had set in a forest of cloud, And the icicles crackled on spar and on shroud, [cry, When a voice from below we feebly heard " Let me see, let me see my own land ere I die. ii. "Ah ! dear sailor, say ! have we sighted Cape Clear ? Can you see any sign ? Is the morning light near? You are young, my brave boy ! thanks, thanks for your hand, [land. Help me up till I get a last glimpse of the Thank God. 'tis the sun that now reddens the sky, I shall see, I shall see my own land ere I die. " Let me lean on your strength, I am feeble and old, And one half of my heart is already stone- cold: Porty years work a change ! when I first cross'd this sea, There were few on the deck that could grap- ple with me; Bui my youth and my prime in Ohio went by, And I'm come back to see the old spot ere I die." '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 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 J " 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 Kin- sale; Off Ardigna Bay it came slower and slower, And his corpse was clay-cold as we sighted Tramore; At Passage we waked him, and now he doth lie In the lap of the land he beheld but to die. HOMEWAED BOUND. THE RETURN OF THE IRISH EXILE. POEMS OF THOMAS D'AROY McGEE. THE ANCIENT RACE. 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 ? 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 ? 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. 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. 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. 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 ! 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 ! What shall befall the ancient race ? Shall all forsake their dear birth-place, Without one struggle strong to keep The old soil where their fathers sleep ? The dearest land on earth's wide space — Why leave it so, ancient race ? What shall befall the ancient race ? Light lip one hope for the ancient race Priest of God — Sog garth 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 ? 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 ! 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 ! POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. THE EXILE'S REQUEST. i. Oh, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, Let it be some token still of the green old land once. mine; A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the art of Italie. 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. m. 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. THE SEA-DIVIDED GAELS. i. Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be, In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the At- lantic sea/ — Whether they guard the banner of St. George in Indian vales, Or spread beneath the nightless North ex- perimental sails — One in name and in fame Are the sea-divided Gaels. Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land — Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Lewellyn's band — Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies de- generate in tales, And the cloisters of Iona are bemoan'd by northern gales — One in name and in fame Are the sea-divided Gaels. 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. 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 The past or future honors of the far-dispersed Gaels: One in name and in fame Are the sea-divided Gaels. POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 811 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 fallen 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 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 Cloiteachs 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: 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 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. * The incident 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 last extremity, was Philip doubt. 812 POEMS OF THOMAS D'AECY McGEE. Tliere 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; But of all the sea-shapes he hath worn, may mariners never know Such fate as Heinrich Hudson found, in the labyrinths of snow — * The cold north seas' Columbus, whose bones lie far interr'd [ever heard. Under those frigid waters where no song was 'Twas when he sail'd from Amsterdam, in the adventurous quest Of an ice-shored strait, through which to reach the far and fabled West; His dastard crew — their thin blood chill'd beneath the Arctic sky — Combined against him in the night; his hands and feet they tie, And bind him in a helmless boat, on that dread sea to sail — Ah, me ! an oarless, shadowy skiff, as a schoolboy's vessel frail. Seven sick men, and his only son, his com- rades were to be, Bat ere they left the Crescent's side, the chief spoke, dauntlessly: "Ho, mutineers ! I ask no act of kindness at your hands— My fate I feel must steer me to Death's still- silent lands; But there is one man in my ship who sail'd with me of yore, By many a bay and headland of the New World's eastern shore; From India's heats to Greenland's snows he dared to follow me, And is he turn'd traitor too, is hb 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 hi3 side; The cable's cut — away they drift, over the midnight tide. No word from any lip came forth, their strain'd eyes steadily glare At the vacant gloom, where late the ship had left them to despair. On the dark waters long was seen a line of foamy light — It pass'd, like the hem of an angel's robe, away from their eager sight. Then each man grasp'd his fellow's hand, some sigh'd, but none could speak, While on, through pallid gloom, their boat drifts moaningly and weak. Seven sick men, dying, in a skiff five hun- dred leagues from shore ! Oh ! never was such a crew afloat on this world's waves before; Seven stricken forms, seven sinking hearts of seven short-breathing men, Drifting over the sharks' abodes, along to the white bear's den. Oh ! 'twas not there they could be nursed in homeliness and ease ! One short day heard seven bodies sink, whose souls God rest in peace ! The one who first expired had most to note the foam he made, And no one pray'd to be the last, though each the blow delay'd. Three still remain. "My son! my son! hold . up your head, my son ! [is gone." Alas ! alas ! my faithful mate, I fear His life So spoke the trembling father — two cold hands in his breast, Breathing upon his dead boy's face, all too soft to break his rest. The roar of battle coiild 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." POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 813 Another night; uncheerily, beneath that heartless sky, [passing by, The iceberg sheds its livid light upon them And each beholds the other's face, all spectre- like and wan, And even in that dread solitude man fear'd the eye of man ! Afar they hear the beating surge sound from the banks of frost, Many a hoar cape round about looms like a giant ghost, And, fast or slow, as they float on, they hear the bears on shore Trooping down to the icy strand, watching them evermore. The morning dawns; unto their eyes the light hath lost its cheer; Nor distant sail, nor drifting spar within their ken appear. Embay'd in ice the coffin-like boat sleeps on the waveless tide, Where rays of deathly-cold, cold light con- verge from every side. Slow crept the blood into their hearts, each manly pulse stood still, Huge haggard bears kept watch above on every dazzling hill. Anon the doom'd men were entranced, by the potent frigid air, And they dream, as drowning men have dreamt, of fields far off and fair. What phantoms fill'd each cheated brain, no mortal ever knew; What ancient storms they weather'd o'er, what seas explored anew; What vast designs for future days — what home hope, or what fear — There was no one 'mid the ice-lands to chron- cle or hear. So still they sat, the weird faced seals be- thought them they were dead, And each raised from the waters up his cautious wizard head, Then circled round the arrested boat, like vampires round a grave, Till frighted at their own resolve — they plunged beneath the wave. Evening closed round the moveless boat, still sat entranced the twain, When lo ! the ice unlocks its arms, the tide pours in amain ! Away upon the streaming brine the feeble skiff is borne, The shaggy monsters howl behind their fare- wells all forlorn. The crashing ice, the current's roar, broke Hudson's fairy spell, But never more shall this world wake his comrade tried so well ! His brave heart's blood is chill'd for aye, yet shall its truth be told, When the memories of kings are worn from marble and from gold. Onward, onward, the helpless chief — the dead man for his mate ! The shark far down in ocean's depth feels the passing of that freight, And bounding from his dread abyss, he snuffs the upper air, Then follows on the path it took, like lion from his lair. [company, God ! it was a fearful voyage and fearful Nor wonder that the stout sea-chief quiver 'd from brow to knee. Oh ! who would blame his manly heart, if e'en it quaked for fear, While whirl'd along on such a sea, with such attendant near ! The shark hath found a readier prey, and turn'd him from the chase; The boat hath made another bay — a drearier pausing place — O'er arching piles of blue-vein'd ice admitted to its still, White, fathomless waters, palsied like the doom'd man's fetter'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. 814 POEMS OF THOMAS IVARCY McGEE. 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 sleepeth 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 crea- tion to unfold, Spanning this mighty orb of ours as through the spheres it roll'd. His name is written on the deep, the rivers as they run Will bear it timeward o'er the world, telling what he hath done; The story of his voyage to Death, amid the Arctic frosts, Will be told by mourning mariners on earth's most distant coasts. hk I Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: August 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 (724)779-2111 •" '" ■ II