AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN From the collection of James Collins, Drumcondra, Ireland. Purchased, 1918. CENTRAL CIRCULATION BOOKSTACKS The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its return to the library from which it was borrowed on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. TO RENEW CALL TELEPHONE CENTER, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN When renewing by phone, write new due date below previous due date. 79521 L162 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/poemsbysperanzaOOwild Painted by Bernard Mulrenin , R.H.A. Engraved by Wm. Oldham. POEMS BY SPERANZA (LADY WILDE). SECOND EDITION. GLASGOW : CAMERON & FERGUSON. 88 to 91 WEST NILE STREET. LONDON: 32 AYE MARIA LANE. V- . v- . ■ cob. a. DEDICATION. Txx I rsia»d. » Y COUNTRY, wounded to fhe hear Could I but flash along thy soul J Electric power to rive apart The thunder-clouds that round thee roll, And, by my burning words, uplift Thy life from out Death’s icy drift, Till the full splendours of our age Shone round thee for thy heritage — As Miriam’s, by the Red Sea strand Clashing proud cymbals, so my hand Would strike thy harp, Loved Ireland ! ii. She flung her triumphs to the stars In glorious chants for freedom won, While over Pharaoh’s gilded cars The fierce, death-bearing waves rolled on I can but look in God’s great face, And pray Him for our fated race, To come in Sinai thunders down, And, with His mystic radiance, crown Some Prophet-Leader, with command To break the strength of Egypt’s band, And set thee free, Loved Ireland ! IV DEDICATION. III. New energies, from higher source, Must make the strong life-currents flow, As Alpine glaciers in their course Stir the deep torrents ’neath the snow. The woman’s voice dies in the strife Of Liberty’s awakening life ; We wait the hero heart to lead, The hero, who can guide at need, And strike with bolder, stronger hand, Though towering hosts his path withstand Thy golden harp, Loved Ireland ! i Y. For I can breathe no trumpet call, To make the slumb’ring Soul arise ; I only lift the funeral-pall, That so God's light might touch thine eyes, And ring the silver prayer-bell clear, To rouse thee from thy trance of fear ; Yet, if thy mighty heart has stirred, Even with one pulse-throb at my word, Then not in vain my woman’s hand Has struck thy gold harp while I stand, Waiting thy rise Loved Ireland ! CONTENTS DEDICATION, — TO IRELAND, . THE BROTHERS, THE FAMINE TEAR,. THE ENIGMA, .... THE VOICE OF THE POOR, A SUPPLICATION, FORESHADOWINGS, . TO A DESPONDENT NATIONALIST, SIGNS OF THE TIMES, THE OLD MAN’S BLESSING, MAN’S MISSION, A LAMENT, .... THE YOUNG PATRIOT LEADER, . ATTENDITE POPULE, FORWARD, .... HAVE YE COUNTED THE COST, . THE YEAR OF REVOLUTIONS, . RUINS, DISCIPLINE, .... THE EXODUS, .... THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS, . WORK WHILE IT- IS CALLED TO-DAY, TO-DAY, A REMONSTRANCE, . FRANCE IN ’93, THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS, . WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD ? A LAMENT FOR THE POTATO, . HAVE WE DONE WELL FOR IRELAND, WILLIAM CARLETON, THE NEW PATH, O’CONNELL, .... ASPIRATIONS, .... THE PARABLE OF LIFE, . VANITAS, , FATALITY, .... DESTINY, .... MEMORY .... corinne’s LAST LOVE- SONG, . THE DYING CHRISTIAN, . SYMPATHIES WITH THE UNIVERSAL, LA VIA DOLOROSA, SHADOWS FROM LIFE, iii 7 10 12 14 15 17 20 21 23 25 27 28 30 30 33 35 33 41 43 45 47 50 52 53 55 50 63 65 66 68 71 72 75 80 81 82 84 85 85 87 88 89 CONTENTS, Mandamus through European literature: / LE REVEILLE^ ••••• •«•• OUR FATHERLAND, THE KNIGHT’S PLEDGE, OPPORTUNITY, KING ERICK’S FAITH, “FOR NORGE !” THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST, SALVATION, MISERY IS MYSTERY, FAREWELL ! CATARINA, THE POET AT COURT, THE MYSTIC TREE, ? TIS NOT UPON EARTH, THE ITINERANT SINGING GIRL, IGNEZ DE CASTRO, THE WAIWODE, THE COMPARISON, BUDRIS AND HIS SONS, THE LADY BEATRIZ, A SERVIAN SONG, INSTABILITY, A WARNING, CASSANDRA, UNDINE, THE PAST, THE FISHERMAN, THE IDEAL, ••••••••• THE EXILE, DEATH WISHES, HYMN TO THE CROSS, . JESUS TO THE SOUL, TRISTAN AND ISOLDE, TIIEKLA : A SWEDISH SAGA — PART I. — THE TEMPTATION, . “ II. — THE SIN, “ III. — THE BRIDAL, “ IV. — THE PUNISHMENT, - “ V. THE EXPIATION, “ VI.— god’s JUSTICE, “ VII. — GOD’S MERCY WHY WEEPEST THOU ? SULEIMA TO HER LOVER, A LA SOMBRA DE MIS CABELLOS, CONSTANCY, THE FATE OF THE LYRIST, THE POET’S DESTINY, DESILLUSION, THE PRISONERS, - /THE DAWN, AN APPEAL TO IRELAND, . 97 98 100 101 102 108 105 108 109 110 110 111 112 113 114 115 117 119 121 123 124 125 126 128 132 136 138 139 142 143 144 145 146 148 150 153 154 160 162 165 168 169 169 170 171 172 172 173 176 178 i POEMS THE BROTHERS. A SCENE FROM ’ 98 . “Oh! give me truths , For I am weary of the surfaces, And die of inanition.” — Emerson. I. ’TOIIS 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 none dare to speak aloud. Two youths, two noble youths, stand prisoners at the bar — You can see them through the gloom — In pride of life and manhood’s beauty, there they are Awaiting their death doom. ii. All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping, 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 they die for Fatherland. 8 THE BROTHERS. III. 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 WrK it Treason? Let them die; But tnmr olood will cry to Heaven — the Avenger Yet will hearken from on high. IV. Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely human, The base informer bends, Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true men, While he clasped their hands 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. v. There is silence in the midnight — eyes are keeping Troubled watch till forth the jury come ; There is silence in the midnight — eyes are weeping — **ijruilty !” — 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. To-morrow ! — F ain 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. THE BROTHERS. VII. 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 scaffold — One day between the torture and the crown ! VIII. 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 sake. IX. Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever Ah ! metliinks, 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. x. 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 features — - Those pale lips yet implore us, from their graves, To strive for our birthright as God’s creatures, Or die, if we can but live as slaves. 10 THE FAMINE YEAR. THE FAMINE YEAR. i. W EARY men, what reap ye ? — Golden corn for the stranger. What sow ye ? — Human corses that wait for the avenger. F ainting forms, hunger-stricken, what see you in the offing? Stately ships to hear our food away, amid the stranger’s scoffing. There’s a proud array of soldiers — what do they round your door? They guard our masters’ granaries from the thin hands of the poor. Pale mothers, wherefore weeping? — Would to God that we were dead — Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread. ii. Little children, tears are strange upon your infant faces, God meant you but to smile within your mother’s soft embraces. Oh ! we know not what is smiling, and we know not what is dying ; But we’re hungry, very hungry, and we cannot stop our crying. And some of us grow cold and white — we know not what it means ; But, as they lie beside us, we tremble in our dreams. There’s a gaunt crowd on the highway — are ye come to pray to man, With hollow eyes that cannot weep, and for words your faces wan? in. No ; the blood is dead within our veins — we care not now for life ; Let us die hid in the ditches, far from children and from wife ; THE FAMINE YEAR. 11 We cannot stay and listen to their raving, famished cries — Bread! Bread ! Bread ! and none to still their agonies. We left our infants playing with their dead mother’s hand : We left our maidens maddened by the fever’s scorching brand : Better, maiden, thou were strangled in thy own dark- twisted tresses — Better, infant, thou wert smothered in thy mother’s first caresses. IV, We are fainting in our misery, but God will hear our groan ; ITet, if fellow-men desert us, will He hearken from His Throne? t Accursed are we in our own land, yet toil we still and toil ; But the stranger reaps our harvest — the alien owns our soil. O Christ ! how have we sinned, that on our native plains We perish houseless, naked, starved, with branded brow, like Cain’s? Dying, dying wearily, with a torture sure and slow — Dying, as a dog would die, by the wayside as we go. v. One by one they’re falling round us, their pale faces to the sky ; We’ve no strength left to dig them graves — there let them lie. The wild bird, if he’s stricken, is mourned by the others, But we — we die in Christian land — we die amid our brothers, In the land which God has given, like a wild beast in his cave, Without a tear, a prayer, a shroud, a coffin, or a grave. Ha ! but think ye the contortions on each livid face ye see, Will not be read on judgment-day by eyes of Deity? 12 THE ENIGMA. VI. We are wretches, famished, scorned, human tools to build your pride, But God will yet take vengeance for the souls for whom Christ died. Now is your hour of pleasure — bask ye in the world’s caress ; But our whitening bones against ye will rise as witnesses,. From the cabins and the ditches, in their charred, uncoffin’d masses, For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes. A ghastly, spectral army, before the great God we’ll stand, And arraign ye as our murderers, the spoilers of our land. THE ENIGMA. F ALE victims, where is your Fatherland ? Where oppression is law from age to age, Where the death-plague, and hunger, and misery rage,. And tyrants a godless warfare wage ’Gainst the holiest rights of an ancient land Where the corn waves green on the fair hillside, But each sheaf by the serfs and slavelings tied Is taken to pamper a foreigner’s pride — There is our suffering Fatherland. Where broad rivers flow ’neath a glorious sky, And the valleys like gems of emerald lie ; Yet, the young men, and strong men, starve and die, For want of bread in their own rich land. And we pile up their corses, heap on heap, While the pale mothers faint, and the children weep 5 Yet, the living might envy the dead their sleep, So bitter is life in that mourning land. THE ENIGMA. 13 Oil ! Heaven ne’er looked on a sadder scene ; Earth shuddered to hear that such woe had been ; Then we prayed, in despair, to a foreign queen, For leave to live on our own fair land. We have wept till our faces are pale and wan ; We have knelt to a throne till our strength is gone; We prayed to our masters, but, one by one, They laughed to scorn our suffering land ; And sent forth their minions, with cannon and steel, Swearing with fierce, unholy zeal, To trample us down with an iron heel, If we dared but to murmur our just demand. — Know ye not now our Fatherland ? What ! are there no men in your Fatherland, To confront the tyrant’s stormy glare, With a scorn as deep as the wrongs ye bear, With defiance as fierce as the oaths they sware, With vengeance as wild as the cries of despair, That rise from your suffering Fatherland ? Are there no swords in your Fatherland, To smite down the proud, insulting foe, With the strength of dispair give blow for blow Till the blood of the baffled murderers flow On the trampled soil of your outraged land? Are your right arms weak in that land of slaves, That ye stand by your murdered brothers’ graves, Yet tremble like coward and crouching knaves, To strike for freedom and Fatherland? Oh ! had ye faith in your F atherland, In God, your Cause, and your own right hand, Ye would go forth as saints to the holy fight, Go in the strength of eternal right, Go in the conquering Godhead’s might— And save or avenge your Fatherland ! 14 THE VOICE OF THE POOR. THE VOICE OF THE POOR. i. W AS sorrow ever like to our sorrow ? Oli, God above ! Will our night never change into a morrow Of joy and love? A deadly goom is on us waking, sleeping, Like the darkness at noontide, That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping By the Crucified. ii. Before us die our brothers of starvation : Around are cries of famine and despair Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation — Where — oh! where? If the angels ever hearken, downward bending, They are weeping, we are sure, At the litanies of human groans ascending From the crushed hearts of the poor. hi. 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 ? The air around is ringing with their laughter — God has only made the rich to smile ; But we — in our rags, and want, and woe — we follow after,. Weeping the while. IV. And the laughter seems but uttered to deride us. When — oh ! when Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us From 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 us. None, none, we know. A SUPPLICATION. V. We never knew a childhood’s mirth and gladness, 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, Palls crushed, beneath the fearful demon power Of poverty and sin. VI. 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. VII. We must toil, though the light of life is 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 saying, With scarce moved breath While the paler hands, uplifted, aid the praying — “ Lord, grant us Death /” A SUPPLICATION. “de profundis clamavi ad te domine.” B Y our looks of mute despair, By the sighs that rend the air, F rom lips too faint to utter prayer, Kyrie Eleison* 16 A SUPPLICATION. By the last groans of our dying, Echoed by the cold wind’s sighing On the wayside as they’re lying, Kyrie Eleison. By our fever-stricken bands Lifting up their wasted hands For bread throughout the far-off lands, Kyrie Eleison Miserable outcasts we, Pariahs of humanity, Shunned by all where’er we flee, Kyrie Eleison. For our dead no bell is ringing, Bound their forms no shroud is clinging, Save the rank grass newly springing, Kyrie Eleison. Golden harvests we are reaping, With golden grain our barns heaping, But for us our bread is weeping, Kyrie Eleison. Death-devoted in our home, Sad we cross the salt sea’s foam, But death we bring where’er we roam, Kyrie Eleison. Whereso’er our steps are led, They can track us by our dead, Lying on their cold earth bed, Kyrie Eleison. We have sinned — in vain each warning — Brother lived his brother scorning, Now in ashes see us mourning, Kyrie Eleison. Heeding not our country’s state, Trodden down and desolate, While we strove in senseless hate, Kyrie Eleison. FORESHADOWINGS. 17 We have sinned, but holier zeal May we Christian patriots feel, Oh ! for our dear country’s weal, Kyrie Eleison. Let us lift our streaming eyes To God’s throne above the skies, He will hear our anguish cries, Kyrie Eleison. Kneel beside me, oh ! my brother, Let us pray each with the other, For Ireland, our mourning mother, Kyrie Eleison. FORESHADOWINGS. I. j^KEMUS ! Oretmus ! Look down on us, Father ! Like visions of Patmos Thy last judgments gather The angels of doom, in bright, terrible beauty, Kise up from their thrones to fulfil their stern duty. Woe to us, woe ! the thunders have spoken, The first of the mystical seals hath been broken. ii. Through the cleft thunder-cloud the wierd coursers are rushing — Their hoofs will strike deep in the hearts they are crushing; And the crown’d and the proud of the old kingly races Fall down at the vision, like stars from their places : Or emus ! Or emus! The pale earth is heark’ning; Already the spirit-steeds round us are dark’ning. hi. With crown and with bow, on his white steed immortal, The Angel of Wrath passes first through the portal ; But faces grow paler, and hush’d is earth’s laughter, When on his pale steed comes the Plague Spirit after. 18 FORE SHADOWINGS. Oremus ! Or emus ! His poison-breath slayeth ; The red will soon fade from each bright lip that prayeth. IY. Now, with nostrils dilated and thunder hoofs crashing, On rushes the war-steed, his lurid eyes flashing ; There is blood on the track where his long mane is stream- ing, There is death where the sword of his rider is gleaming. Woe to the lands where that red steed is flying ! There tyrants are warring, and heroes are dying. v. Oh! the golden-hair’d children reck nought but their playing, Thro’ the rich fields of corn with their young mothers straying ; And the strong- hearted men, with their muscles of iron, What reck they of ills that their pathway environ ? There’s a tramp like a knell — a cold shadow gloometh — Woe! ’tis the black steed of Famine that cometh VI. At the breath of its rider the green earth is blasted, And childhood’s frail form droops down pallid, and wasted; The soft sunny hair falleth dank on the arm Of the mother, whose love shields no longer from harm : For strength is scarce left her to weep o’er the dying, Ere dead by the loved one the mother is lying. VII. But can we only weep, when above us thus lour The death-bearing wings of the angels of power ; When around are the arrows of pestilence flying — Around, the pale heaps of the famine-struck lying — No, brother of sorrow, when life’s light is weakest, Look up, it is nigh the redemption thou seekest. VIII. Still work, though the tramp of the weird spirit-horses, Fall dull on*the ear, like the clay upon corses ; FORESHADOWINGS. 19 Still Freedom must send forth her young heroes glowing, Though her standard be red with their lif e-current flowing; Still the preacher must cast forth the seed, as God’s sower, Though he perish like grass at the scythe of the mower. IX. Still do the Lord’s work through life’s tragical drama, Though weeping goes upward like weeping at Rama ; The path may be thorny, but Spirit eyes see us ; The cross may be heavy, but Death will soon free us : Still, strong in Christ’s power we’ll chant the Hosanna, Fling down Christ’s defiance — T7ray£ Sarara! x. I see in a vision the shadowy portal, That leadeth to regions of glory immortai > I see the pale forms from the seven wounds bleeding, Which up to God’s Throne the bright angels are leading ; I see the crown placed on each saint bending lowly, While sounds the Trisagion — Holy, thrice Holy ! XI. I have Paradise dreams of a band with palm-branches, Whose wavings give back their gold harps’ resonances, And a jewelled-walled city, where walketh in splendour Each one who his life for God’s truth did surrender. Who would weep their death-doom, if such bliss we inherit, When the veil of the human falls oft from the spirit ? XII. The Christian may shrink from the last scenes of trial, And the woes yet unknown of each mystical vial ; But the hosts of Jehovah will gather beside him, The rainbow- crowned angel stoop downward to guide him ; And to him, who as hero and martyr hath striven, Will the Crown, and the Throne, and the Palm-branch be given. 20 TO A DESPONDENT NATIONALIST. TO A DESPONDENT NATIONALIST i. W HEREFORE wail you for the harp ? Is it broken? Have the bold hands that once struck it weaker grown ? Can false words, by false traitors spoken, Blight a cause which we know is God’s own ? No coward hearts are with us that would falter, Tho’ a thousand tyrants strove to crush us low ; No coward pen the daring words to alter, That we fling in haughty scorn ’gainst the foe. ii. Who has doomed, or can dare “ doom us to silence ?” In the conscious pride of truth and right we stand ; Let them rave like the ocean round the islands, Firm as they we stand unmoved for Fatherland. Ay, we’ll till,” spite of banded foes who hate us— But to rear the tree of Freedom God hath given ; Ay, we’ll toil — but for triumphs that await us, If not leading to the Capitol — to Heaven. hi. Shall we mourn if we’re martyrs for the truth ? God has ever tried His noblest by the cross — Let us bless Him that we’re worthy in our youth, For Country, truth, and right to suffer loss. So the word that we have spoken be immortal, Little reck we tho’ no glory may be won ; If of God, it will scorn ban of mortal — Standing ever as the archetypal sun. IY. True, the path is dark, but ever sunward, In faith, and love, and hope we journey on ; We may pause in the desert passing onward, Lay our weary heads to rest upon the stone ; SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 21 But ever in our visions, low and faintly, Come the voices of the far-off angel band, To earnest souls, in prophecy all saintly, That the good cause will yet triumph in the land. v. Fear not, oh ! my brother, then, that any Will hush Ierne’s harp at man’s command ; For phylacteries of misery too many, Are bound upon all foreheads in the land. Let others bow in abject genuflexion — Sue from Pity what they ought to claim as right ; By God’s grace we’ll stand by our election — Freedom, Knowledge, Independence, Truth, and Light ! SIGNS OF THE TIMES. W HEN mighty passions, surging, heave the depth of life’s great ocean — When the people sway, like forest trees, to and fro in wild commotion — When the world-old kingdoms, rent and riven, quiver in their place, As the human central fire is upheaving at their base, And throbbing hearts, and flashing eyes, speak a language deep and cryptic ; Yet he who runs may read aright these signs apocalyptic : Then rise, ye crown6d Elohim* — rise trembling from your thrones ; Soon shall cease the eternal rhythm betwixt them and human groans. ii. Ah ! ye thought the nations, faint and weary, lay for ever bound ; They were sleeping like Orestes, with the Furies watching round ; * “ Kings— The Earthly Elohim.” — Sir Thomas Browne. 22 SIGNS OF THE TIMES. Soon they’ll spring to vengeance, maddened by the whis- perings divine, That breathed of human freedom, as they knelt before God’s shrine. See you not a form advancing, as the shadow of the Gnomon, Step by step, in darkness, onward— can ye read the fatal omen ! Coarse the hand, and rude the raiment, and the brow is dark to see, But flashes fierce the eye as those of vengeful Zincali. m. On its brow a name is written — France read it once before, And like a demon’s compact, it was written in her gore — A fearful name — thrones trembled as the murmur passed along — Retribution, proud oppressors, for your centuries of wrong. From the orient to the ocean, from the palm-tree to the pine, From Innisfail, by Tagus, to the lordly Appenine — From Indus to the river by which pale Warsaw bleeds — Souls are wakening — hands are arming — God is blessing noble deeds. IV. Bravely done, ye Roman Eagles, ye are fluttering at last ; Spread your broad wings brave and proudly, as in old times, to the blast ; Never furl them— never flag, till with the Austrian’s slaughter. Ye crimson the full tide of the Danube’s rolling water. Who will falter now? Who’ll stand like a trembling coward dumb ! Plaudite! Freedom stands again on the Janiculum! From the Tiber to the Adige her vatic words are waking, Italy ! fair Italy ! arise the dawn is breaking ! THE OLD MAN’S BLESSING. 23 Y. The Bussian breathed on Poland, and she changed to a Zahara ; The jewels of her ancient crown adorn the Czar’s tiara. Her princes, and her nobles, tread the land with footsteps weary, And her people cry to Heaven with ceaseless Miserere. On her pale brow, thorn crowned, ye may read her shame and loss ; See, foreign rule has branded there the fatal Thanatos. But her agony and bloody sweat the Lord from Heaven will see, And a resurrection morn heal the wounds of Calvary. VI. By our prophets God is speaking, in Sinai’s awful thunders, By pestilence and famine, in fearful signs and wonders ; By our great poet-priesthood, the sacred race immortal, Whose words go forth triumphant, as through a golden portal ; By our patriots and martyrs, who, for Freedom’s holy law, Have hearts to dare, a hand to burn, like Mutius Semvola. Then, courage, Brothers ! lock your shields, like the old Spartan band, Advance ! and be your watchword evey — God for Ireland ! THE OLD MAN’S BLESSING. WINE eye is dull, my hair is white, JuX This arm is powerless for the fight, Alas ! alas ! the battle’s van Suits not a weak and aged man. Thine eye is bright, thine arm is strong— ’Tis Youth must right our country’s wrong. Arise, my son, and proudly bear This sword that I was wont to wear ; Firm grasp the hilt, fling down the sheath — A thousand vears their wrongs bequeath 24 THE OLD MAN S BLESSING. To thy young heart, thy hot revenge — Kneel down, and swear thou wilt avenge. May thy hand be fierce as Ate’s, Fighting for our old Penates ; May thy glance be lightning flashes, May thy words be thunder crashes, May that earnest, haughty frown, Like weapon, strike the foeman down. May thy smile of scorn be Blasting as the Upas tree ; Boldly like Olympian God, Hurl the tyrants from our sod, Let their wail be Ichabod ! Be to them destruction glooming — Be to them a vengeance looming, Hair-suspended o’er their race, Like the sword of Damocles, Let thy daring right hand free us, Like that son of old iEgeus, Who purged his land for evermore From the blood-stained Minotaur. Fear not death, but fear dishonour; Yield thy country all but honour. What more fitting warrior’s shroud Than the foeman’s standard proud ? Heed ye not their glozing words ; Fear ye not their myriad swords ; Never make ye peace with them ’Till ye chant their requiem. Ha ! I hear thy heart’s pulsation Throbbing vengeance for our nation ; Ha ! I see thy dark eyes shine With a fury leonine — Burning brow and clenched hand— Quivering lip and naked brand — Arise ! arise ! my patriot son, By hearts like thine is Freedom won! man’s mission. 25 MAN’S MISSION. ^pFUMAN lives are silent teaching, jOl Be they earnest, mild, and true — JSToble deeds are noblest preaching From the consecrated Few. Poet-Priests their anthems singing, Hero-sword on corslet ringing, When Truth’s banner is unfurled ; Youthful preachers, genius-gifted, Pouring forth their souls uplifted, Till tlheir preaching stirs the world ; ii. Each must work as God has given Hero hand or poet soul ; Work is duty while we live in This weird world of sin and dole. Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling, Lift their white hands up appealing To the Throne of Heaven’s King — • Stronger natures, culminating, In great actions incarnating What another can but sing. hi. Pure and meek -eyed as an angel, W e must strive — must agonise ; We must preach the saints’ evangel Ere we claim the saintly prize. Work for all, for work is holy, We fulfil our mission solely When, like Heaven’s arch above, Blend our souls in one emblazon, And the social diapason Sounds the perfect chord of love. 26 man’s mission. IV. Life is combat, life is striving, Such our destiny below ; Like a scythed chariot driving Through an onward pressing foe. Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial Will but teach us self-denial ; Like the alchymists of old, Pass the ore through cleansing fire If our spirits would aspire To be God’s refin6d gold. v. We are struggling in the morning With the spirit of the night ; But we trample on it scorning — Lo ! the eastern sky is bright. We must watch. The day is breaking ; Soon, like Memnon’s statue waking With the sunrise into sound, We shall raise our voice to Heaven, Chant a hymn for conquest given, Seize the palm, nor heed the wound. VI. We must bend our thoughts to earnest, Would we strike the idols down ; With a purpose of the sternest Take the Cross, and wait the Crown. Sufferings human life can hallow, Sufferings lead to God’s Valhalla ; Meekly bear, but nobly try, Like a man with soft tears flowing, Like a God with conquest glowing So to love, and work, and die ! A LAMENT. 27 A LAMENT. fEt ONE from us — dead to us — he whom we worshipped ^2f so ! Low lies the altar we raised to his name ; Madly his own hand hath shattered and laid it low — Madly his own breath hath blasted his fame. He whose proud bosom once raged with humanity, He whose broad forehead was circled with might, Sunk to a time-serving, driv’lling inanity — God ! why not spare our loved country the sight ? ii. Was it the gold of the stranger that tempted him? Ah ! we’d have pledged to him body and soul ; Toiled for him — fought for him — starved for him — died for him — Smiled, tho’ our graves were the steps to his goal. Breathed he one word in his deep, earnest whispering, Wealth, crown, and kingdom, were laid at his feet; Raised he his right hand, the millions would round him cling — Hush ! ’tis the Sassenach ally you greet. hi. Leaders have fallen — we wept, but we triumphed, too — Patriot blood never sinks in the sod ; He falls, and the jeers of the nation he bent to sue Rise like accusing weird spirits to God. Weep for him — weep for him — deep is the tragedy — Angels themselves now might doubt of God’s truth \ Souls from their bloody graves, shuddering, rise to see How he avenges their lost, murdered youth. IV. Tone, and Fitzgerald, and the pale-brow’d enthusiast — He whose heart broke, but shrank not from the strife ; Davis, the latest loved — he who in glory passed, Kindling Hope’s lamp with the chrism of life. 28 THE YOUNG PATRIOT LEADER. Well may they wail for him — power and might were his — Loved as no mortal was loved in the land — What has he sold them for ? Sorrow and shame it is, Fair words and false from a recreant hand. v. Time’s shade was on him ; what matter ? we loved him yet; Aye, would have torn the veins with our teeth, Made him a bath of our young blood to pay the debt — Purchased his life, tho’ we brough it by death. Pray for him — pray : an archangel has fallen low ; There’s a throne less in Heaven, there is sorrow on earth. Weep, angels — laugh, demons ! When his hand could strike the blow, Where shall we seek for truth, honour, or worth ? THE YOUNG PATRIOT LEADER. ! he stands beneath the sun, that glorious Fated One Like a martyr or conqueror, wearing On his brow a mighty doom, be it glory, be it gloom, The shadow of a crown it is bearing. At his Cyclopean stroke the proud heart of man awoke, Like a king from his lordly down-lying ; And whereso’er he trod, like the footstep of a God, Was a trail of light the gloom outvying. In his beauty and his youth, the Apostle of the Truth, Goes he forth with the words of salvation, And a noble madness falls on each spirit he enthralls, As he chants his wild Paeans to the nation. As a tempest in its force, as a torrent in its course, So his words fiercely sweep all before them, THE YOUNG PATRIOT LEADER. 29 And they smite like two-edged swords, those undaunted thunder-words, On all hearts, as tho’ angels did implore them. See our pale cheeks how they flush, as the noble visions rush On our soul’s most dark desolation, And the glorious lyric words, Right, Freedom, and our Swords ! Wake the strong chords of life to vibration. Aye ; right noble, in good sooth, seemed he battling for the truth, When he poured the full tide of his scorn Down upon the tyrant’s track, like an Alpine cataract : Ah ! such men wait an JEon to be born. So he stood before us then, one of God’s eternal men, Flashing eye, and hero mould of stature, With a glory and a light circling round his brow of might, That revealed his right royal kingly nature. Lo ! he leadefh on our bands, Freedom’s banner in his hands, Let us aid him, not with words, but doing ; With the marches of the brave, prayers of might that strike and save, Not a slaving spirit’s abject suing. Thus in glory is he seen, tho’ his years are yet but green, The anointed as head of our nation ; F or high Heaven hath decreed that a soul like his must lead, Let us kneel, then, in deep adoration. Oh ! his mission is divine ; dash down the Lotus wine— Too long is your tranced sleep abiding ; For by Him who gave us life, we shall conquer in the strife, So we follow but that Young Chief’s guiding. 30 FORWARD ! ATTENDITE POPULE. ^\H ! that I stood upon some lofty tower, Before the gathered people, face to face, That, like God’s thunder, might my words of powei Boll down the cry of Freedom to its base ! Oh ! that my voice, a storm above all storms, Could cleave earth, air, and ocean, rend the sky With the fierce earthquake shout : u To arms ! to arms ! For Truth, Fame, Freedom, Vengeance, Victory !” The mountains, could they speak, would cry in thunder, “ Too long we’ve borne the tyrant’s trampling hoof The stars would fight from Heaven with signs of wonder; The tempest waves dash back a stern reproof : But ye, writhing like worms beneath the tyrant’s spurning, Dragged in the dust behind his chariot-wheel, Is there no vengeance in your strong hearts burning, Tho’ God, and man, and earth, and heaven appeal ? Oh ! for some prophet’s voice to rouse and warn — Some angel’s strength to strike them branch and root ! Oh ! for Christ’s strength to bid, in Godlike scorn, The very stones cry out, should ye be mute ! FORWARD! I. W HAT though Freedom’s hosts are parted, Yet, beneath one banner fighting, Strong in love and hero-hearted, All, their Country’s wrongs are righting With the weapon that each deemeth best to strike oppres- sion down. FORWARD ! •31 II. And one battle-cry resoundeth From your ranks, success presaging ; And one heart within you boundeth With a martyr’s faith, engaging Each to bind upon his forehead cypress wreath or laurel crown. in. For a power without you urges That can brook no more delaying, And the heaving myriad surges, To and fro in tumult swaying, Threaten death to all who vainly would oppose them in their might. IY. Thrilling words, that burn like fire, Ye have preached to hut and hovel, Till they leap up in their ire From the death-dust where they grovel, These men of many sufferings, to die or win their right. Y. Pass the word that bands together — Word of mystic conjuration — And, as fire consumes the heather, So the young hearts of the nation Fierce will blaze up, quick and scathing, ’gainst the stranger and the foe. YI. Hand to hand with them confronted, Looking death and danger gravely In the face, with brow undaunted ; Doing nobly, dying bravely, Stern as men resolved to conquer or to perish in their woe. VII. F or the God-breath speaketh in you, Dare ye not belie your mission ; 32 FORWARD ! And the beck’ning angels win you On with many a radiant vision, Up the thorny path of glory, where the hero gains his crown. VIII. Fling abroad our Country’s banner, Foremost march to Freedom leading. Let the breath of millions fan her, Not alone the wine-press treading, For a Nation is arising from her long and ghastly swoon. IX. Go with lips that dare not falter, Offer up, with exaltations, On your country’s holy altar, Youth, with all its fervid passions, And your life, if she demands it — Can a patriot fear to die? x. What is life that ye should love it More than manlike deeds of duty ? There’s a glory far above it Crowns your brow with nobler beauty — ’Tis to die, with cheers heroic, lifting F reedom’s standard high. XI. Through the darkness and the dunlight, Of this sorrow-night of weeping, Ye shall trail the radiant sunlight, And, like strong men armed, leaping Forth to wondrous deeds of glory, make Humanity sub- lime. XII. Rising higher still, and higher. Till the Angel who stands nighest To the Throne shall tune his lyre To your praise before the Highest, And the Crown of Fame Immortal shall be yours through- out all time. HAVE YE COUNTED THE COST? 33 HAVE YE COUNTED THE COST? I. W ILL our Leaders faint and falter At the foes they have to hind — The Ignorance and Prejudice, Bigot heart and shallow mind? Do they tremble at the ordeal That is looming from afar — The battle, and the hero-death, And vict’ry’s fiery car ? ii. Ah ! the brave ones ! Lion-hearted ! They whose prophet-accents rung, As if pentecostal fires Had been kindled on their tongue ; Some with words of soft persuasion, Melting hearts of stern and strong, Like the minor chord that waketh All our tears in Irish song. hi. Some with glance, like eagles, fearless, And great thoughts that kindle deeds, Bowing souls of men before them As the storm-wind sweeps the reeds. Will they sink down, pale and weary ? Vain is preaching to the wind, Burning words and supplications — Slavish souls are deaf and blind. IV. Never! Like the protomartyr, Ages since on Judah’s plains, While around him, furious raging, Stood the fierce, unbranded Cains ; So, sublime in holy daring. Stand our Leaders calmly there, Though such grief their spirit’s clouding As might quickly fade young hair. 34 HAVE YE COUNTED THE COST? Y. Grief for the idiot people, Who, with suicidal hand, Strive to the bind the fetters closer On their prostrate, bleeding land. But a silver cord of gladness Is inwoven in the gloom — Through the midnight of our sadness, Brightest stars from heaven loom. VI. Morning comes when night is darkest, Near to evil good will spring, As the Indian serpent resteth On the leaf that heals its sting. Braver spirits will enkindle, To redeem our abject race ; Noble hearts will beat yet nobler, To retrieve our past disgrace. VII. Brighter still, and brighter shining, Seems the glory of the few, Who, in face of earth and heaven, Swear to God they dare be true. Let the masses pass on scorning, Seek not courage in their mind ; Self-devotion, patriot fervour, Spring not from the craven kind. VIII. Abject tears, and prayers submissive— Have they eyes, and cannot see ? Never country gained her freedom When she sued on bended knee. Be our Leaders, then, still daring, Bold in word, and brave in fight ; And when comes the day of trial, Then, may God defend the Right ! THE YEAR OF REVOLUTIONS. 35 THE YEAR OF REVOLUTIONS. i. IFT up your pale faces, ye children of sorrow, jLl The night passes on to a glorious to-morrow ! Hark ! hear you not sounding glad Liberty’s psean, From the Alps to the Isles of the tideless -ZEgcan ? And the rhythmical march of the gathering nations, And the crashing of thrones ’neath their fierce exultations, And the cry of Humanity cleaving the ether, With hymns of the conquering rising together — God, Liberty, Truth ! How they burn heart and brain — These words shall they burn — shall they waken in vain ? ii. No ! soul answers soul, steel flashes on steel, And land wakens land with a grand thunder-peal. Shall we, oh ! my Brothers, but weep, pray, and groan, When France reads her rights by the flames of a Throne? Shall we fear and falter to join the grand chorus, When Europe has trod the dark pathway before us ? Oh, courage ! and we, too, will trample them down, The minions of power, the serfs of a crown. Oh, courage ! but courage, if once to the winds Ye fling Freedom’s banner, no tyranny binds. hi. At the voice of the people the weak symbols fail, And Humanity marches o’er purple and pall, O’er sceptre and crown, with a glorious disdain, For the symbol must fall and Humanity reign. Onward ! then onward ! ye brave to the vanguard, Gather in glory round Liberty’s standard ! Like France, lordly France, we shall sweep from their station All, all who oppose the stern will of a nation ; Like Prussia’s brave children will stoop to no lord, But demand our just rights at the point of the sword. RUINS. IV, YVe’ll conquer ! we’ll conquer ! No tears for the dying* The portal to Heaven be the field where they’re lying. We’ll conquer! we’ll conquer! No tears for the slain, God’s angels will smile on their death-hour of pain. On, on in your masses dense, resolute, strong To war against treason, oppression, and wrong ; On, on with your chieftains, and Him we adore most, Who strikes with the bravest and leads with the foremost,. Who brings the proud light of a name great in story, To guide us through danger unconquered to glory. v. With faith like the Hebrew’s we’ll stem the Red Sea — God ! smite down the Pharaohs — our trust is in Thee ; Be it blood of the tyrant or blood of the slave, We’ll cross it to Freedom, or find there a grave. Lo ! a throne for each worker, a crown for each brow, The palm for each martyr that dies for us now ; Spite the flash of their muskets, the roar of their cannon* The assassins of Freedom shall lower their pennon ; For the will of a Nation what foe dare withstand ? Then Patriots, Heroes, strike ! God for our Land ! RUINS. I. CfHALL we tread the dust of ages, Musing, dreamlike, on the past, Seeking on the broad earth’s pages For the shadows Time hath cast ; Waking up some ancient story, From each prostrffte shrine or hall, Old traditions of a glory Earth may never more recall ? ltUINS. 37 ir. Poet thoughts of sadness breathing, For the temples overthrown ; Where no incense now is wreathing, And the gods are turned to stone. Waudering by the graves of heroes, Shrouded deep in classic gloom, Or the tombs where Egypt’s Pharaohs Wait the trumpet and the doom. hi. By the city, desert-hidden,* Which Judea’s mighty king Made the Genii, at his bidding, Raise by magic of his ring ; By the Lake Asphaltian wander, While the crimson sunset glow Flings its radiance, as we ponder On the buried towns below. iv. By the Cromleach, sloping downward, Where the Druid’s victim bled ; By those Towers, pointing sunward, Hieroglyphics none have read : In their mystic symbols seeking, Of past creeds and rites o’erthrown, If the truths they shrined are speaking Yet in Litanies of Stone. v. By the Temple of the Muses, Where the climbers of the mount Learned the soul’s diviner uses From the Heliconian fount. By the banks of dark Illyssus, Where the Parcas walked of old, In their crowns of white narcissus, And their garments starred with gold. * Palmyra, or Tadmor. 38 RUINS. VI. By tlie tomb of queenly Isis, Where her fallen prophets wail, Yet no hand has dared the crisis Of the lifting of the vail. By the altar which the Grecian Raised to God without a name ; By the stately shrine Ephesian, Erostratus burned for fame. VII. By the Libyan shrine of Ammon, Where the sands are trod with care. Lest we, bending to examine, Start the lion from his lair. Shall we tread the halls Assyrian, Where the Arab tents are set ; Trace the glory of the Tyrian, Where the fisher speads his net ? VIII. Shall we seek the “ Mcne, mene,” Wrote by God upon the wall, While the proud son of Mandano Strode across the fated hall ? Shall we mourn the Loxian’s lyre, Or the Pythian priestess mute ? Shall we seek the Delphic fire, Though we’ve lost Apollo’s lute ? IX. Ah ! the world has sadder ruins Than these wrecks of things sublime ; For the touch of man’s misdoings Leaves more blighted tracks than Time Ancient lore gives no examples Of the ruins here we find — Prostrate souls for fallen temples, Mighty ruins of the mind. RUINS. 39 X. We had hopes that rose as proudly As each sculptured marble shrine ; And our prophets spake as loudly As their oracles divine. Grand resolves of giant daring, Such as Titans breathed of old ; Brilliant aims their front uprearing, Like a temple roofed with gold. XI. Souls of fire, like columns pointing, Flamelike, upward to the skies; Glorious brows, which God’s anointing Consecrated altar-wise. Stainless hearts, like temples olden, None but priest hath ever trod ; Hands as pure as were the golden Staves which bore the ark of God. XII. Oh ! they built up radiant visions, Like an iris after rain ; How all Paradise traditions Might be made to live again. Of Humanity’s sad story, How their hand should turn the page, And the ancient primal glory, Fling upon this latter age. XIII. How with Godlike aspirations, Up the souls of men would climb, Till the fallen, enslaved nations Trod in rhythmic march sublime ; Beaching heights the people knew not, Till their Prophet Leaders led — Bathed in light that mortals view not, While the spirit life lies dead. 40 RUINS. XIV. How the pallid sons of labour, They should toil, and toil to raise, Till a glory, like to Tabor, Once again should meet earth’s gaze. How the poor, no longer keeping Count of life alone by groans, With the strong cry of their weeping, Start the angels on their thrones. xv. Ah ! that vision’s bright ideal, Must it fade and perish thus ? Must its fall alone be real ? Are its ruins trod by us ? Ah ! they dreamed an Eldorado, Given not to mortal sight ; Yet the souls that walk in shadow, Still bend forward to its light. XVI. Earnest dreamers, sooth we blame not If ye failed to reach the goal — If the glorious Real came not At the strong prayer of each soul. By the path ye’ve trod to duty, Blessings yet to man may flow, Though the proud and stately beauty Of your structure lieth low. XVII. Low as that which Salem mourneth, On Moriah’s holy hill ; While the heathen proudly scorneth, Yet the wrecks are glorious still : Like the seven columns frowning, On the desert city down ; Or the seven cedars crowning Lofty Lebanon. DISCIPLINE. 41 XVIII. Poet wanderer, hast thou bent thee O’er such ruins of the soul ? Pray to God that some Nepenthe May efface that hour of dole. We may lift the shrine and column, From the dust which Time hath cast; Choral chants may mingle solemn, Once again where silence passed ; XIX. But the stately, radiant palace, We had built up in our dreams, With Hope’s rainbow-woven trellis, And Truth’s glorious sunrise beams ; Our aims of towering stature, Our aspirations vain, And our prostrate human nature — Who will raise them up again ? DISCIPLINE. I. ® LOSE the starry dream-portal, We must tread earth again, Flashes no light immortal Now on life’s dreary plain. We must wait, like the Stoic, Brave, enduring, and strong, Till the soul’s strength heroic Bends the fetters of wrong. II. By the lore life has brought us, We shall fathom man’s soul ; By the tears sorrow taught us, We shall measure their dole. Guide them on through affliction, All earth’s Saviours have trod, 42 DISCIPLINE. Till from life’s crucifixion They can soar up to God. hi. From the heart of man weeding Up each rough brier and thorn, With a hero-pride treading Down the world’s shallow scorn ; With a saint’s self-denying Toiling still for our land ; With a Christ-strength defying Earth and Hell’s gathered band. IV. In the soul’s earnest travail Must the God-work be wrought ; By the world’s woe and cavil, Must the deep heart be taught. Blighted youth, crushed ambition, On the altar must lie ; ’Tis the world-old tradition, Thus the Prophet must die. v. But this deep lore can only Be learned in the gloom, Where the gifted tread, lonely, The Prophet-path of doom : For by life-blood, and brain-sweat, Is the altar-flame fed ; And from hearts crushed by pain, yet Must the incense be shed. ' VI. Still, ’tis grand this wild warring, Upon life’s battle-field ; Fear not the heart’s marring If the soul never yield. Fight for God’s Truth yet longer, ’Gainst the fierce storms of life, For the strong soul grows stronger By the combat and strife. THE EXODUS. THE EXODUS. I. “ MILLION a decade !” Calmly and cold The units are read by our statesmen sage Little they think of a Nation old, Fading away from History’s page ; Outcast weeds by a desolate sea — Fallen leaves of Humanity. ii. 44 A million a decade !” — of human wrecks, Corpses lying in fever sheds — Corpses huddled on foundering decks, And shroudless dead on their rocky beds ; Nerve and muscle, and heart and brain, Lost to Ireland — lost in vain. hi. 44 A million a decade !” Count ten by ten, Column and line of the record fair ; Each unit stands for ten thousand men, Staring with blank, dead eye-balls there ; Strewn like blasted trees on the sod, Men that were made in the image of God. IY. 44 A million a decade !” — and nothing done ; The Caesars had less to conquer a world ; And the war for the Eight not yet begun, The banner of Freedom not yet unfurled : The soil is fed by the weed that dies ; If forest leaves fall, yet they fertilise. Y. But ye — dead, dead, not climbing the height, Not clearing a path for the future to tread ; Not opening the golden portals of light, Ere the gate was choked by your piled-up dead Martyrs ye, yet never a name Shines on the golden roll of Fame. 44 THE EXODUS. VI. Had ye rent one gyve of the festericg chain, Strangling the life of the Nation’s soul ; Poured your life-blood by river and plain, Yet touched with your dead hand Freedom’s goal Left of heroes one footprint more On our soil, tho’ stamped in your gore — VII. We could triumph while mourning the brave, Dead for all that was holy and just, And write, through our tears, on the grave, As we flung down the dust to dust — u They died for their country, hut led Her up from the sleep of the dead.” VIII. “ A million a decade !” What does it mean ? A Nation dying of inner decay — A churchyard silence where life has been — The base of the pyramid crumbling away : A drift of men gone over the sea, A drift of the dead where men should be. IX. Was it for this ye plighted your word, Crowned and crownless rulers of men ? Have ye kept faith with your crucified Lord, And fed His sheep till He comes again ? Or fled like hireling shepherds away, Leaving the fold the gaunt wolf’s prey ? x. Have ye given of your purple to cover, Have ye given of your gold to cheer, Have ye given of your love, as a lover Might cherish the bride he held dear, Broken the Sacrament-bread to feed Souls and bodies in uttermost need ? THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS. 45 XI. Ye stand at the Judgment-bar to-day — The Angels are counting the dead-roll, too ; Have ye trod in the pure and perfect way, And ruled for God as the crowned should do ? Count our dead — before Angels and Men, Ye’re judged and doomed by the Statist’s pen. THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS. “Os liabcnt, et non loquuntuv : Oculos habent, et non vide-nt.’* B EAD I — DEAD J Ye are dead while ye live ; Ye’ve a name that ye live — but are dead. Neither counsel nor love did ye give, And your lips never uttered a word While swift ruin downward sped, And the plague raged on undisturbed. Not a throb of true life in your veins, Not a pulse in your passionless heart, Not a thought in the dull, cold brains, Of how ye should bear your part, When summoned the strife to brave, For our Country, with Death and the Grave. Ye have gold for the follies of fashion, And gold for its tinsel glare, But none for the wild, sobbing passion Wrung from the lips of despair. False Shepherds and Guides are ye, F or the heart in each bosom is cold As the ice on a frozen sea ; And your trappings of velvet and gold 46 THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS. Lie heavy and close as a pall, When the steps of the hearers fall On a grave, with measured tread ; For ye seem to live — but are dead. Ye are dead ! — ye are dead ! stone by stone The temple is crumbling down ; It will fall with a crash of doom, For the night deepens dark in its gloom. But ye look on with vacant stare, Like men lying still in the tomb. Stand forth ! face the sun, if ye dare, With your cold eyes unwet by a tear, For your Country laid low on your bier, And say — have ye stretched forth a hand To raise up our desolate Land ? She dies — but ye flourish and grow In the midst of the deadly maze : Like the palm springing heavenward? — No, But like weeds in the churchyard fed By the vapours of death below, Breathing round you a poisonous haze. Go ! — go ! True life is not so — For decay lies beneath your tread, And the staff in your hand is a reed — Too weak for your Country’s need ; For you seem to live — but are dead. Ye are dead ! — ye are dead ! Fling the clay On the noble names — noble no more ; Leave the sword in the sheath to rust ; Let the banners be trailed in the dust ; And the memory perish away Of the dead, who are dead evermore ; Blot them out from the book writ in gold. Noble neither in deed nor in soul, Are ye worthy to stand in the roll Of the glorified heroes of old? WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY. 47 Has Ireland need of such sons f Floating down with a silken sail, On the crimson tide of her life, that runs With a mournful, ceaseless wail, Like rain pouring down from the eaves. And ye laugh when the strangers deride Her trials, the saddest and sorest, And plunge the sword deep in her side ; And no kindly heart sighs or grieves For her branches, all bare as a forest, When the autumn wind scatters the leaves. Laugh low with your perfumed breath, For the air is heavy with death. But ye hear not the gliding feet Of the Future, that stands at your door ; For the roses lie heavy and sweet, And too thick on your marble floor, And the dead soul is dead to his call. And your eyes are heavy with wine ; Ye see not the letters of flame, Traced by a hand divine — The writing of God on the wall — 44 Ye are weighed, and found wanting” — Oh, shame! Your life is a gilded lie ; And the wide world that doom has read, With a shudder and chill of dread ; For the judgment of God is nigh, And the universe echoes the cry — You’ve a name that ye live — but are dead. WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY. “TStO man hath hired us” — strong hands drooping, Listless, falling in idleness down ; Men in the silent market-place grouping Round Christ’s cross of silent stone. 48 WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY. “ No man hath hired ns” — pale hands twining, Stalwart forms bowed down to sue. u The red dawn is passed, the noon is shining, But no man hath given us work to do.” Then a voice pealed down from the heights of Heaven Men, it said, of the Irish soil ! I gave you a land as a Garden of Eden, Where you and your sons should till and toil ; I set your throne by the glorious waters, Where ocean flung round you her mighty bands, That your sails, like those of your Tyrian fathers, Might sweep the shores of a hundred lands. Power I gave to the hands of your leaders, Wisdom I gave to the lips of the wise, And your children grew as the stately cedars, That shadowed the rivers of Paradise. What have ye done with my land of beauty — Has the spoiler bereft her of robe and crown ? Have my people failed in a people’s duty ? Has the wild boar trampled my vineyard down ? True, they answered, faint in replying — Our vines are rent by the wild boar’s tusks ; The corn on our golden slopes is lying, But our children feed on the remnant husks. Our strong men lavish their blood for others ; Our prophets and wise men are heard no more ; Our young men give a last kiss to their mothers, Then sail away for a foreign shore. From wooded valleys and mountain gorges, Emerald meadow and purple glen, Across the foam of the wild sea surges, They flee away like exiled men. Yet, the chant we hear of the new Evangels, Rising like incense from earth’s green sod ; WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY. 49 We — we alone, before worshipping Angels, Idly stand in the Garden of God. Then the Lord came down from the heights of Heaven, Came down that garden fair to view, Where the weary men waited from morn till even, For some one to give them work to do. Ye have sinned, He said, and the angel lustre Darkened slowly as summer clouds may ; Weeds are growing where fruit should cluster, Yet, ye stand idle all the day. Have ye trod in the furrows, and worked as truly As men who knew they should reap as they sow ? Have ye flung in the seed and watched it duly, Day and night, lest the tares should grow ? Have ye tended the vine my hand hath planted, Pruned and guided its tendrils fair ; Ready with life-blood, if it were wanted, To strengthen the fruit its branches bear ? Have ye striven in earnest, working solely To guard my flock in their native fold 1 Are your hands as pure, and your hearts as holy, As the saints who walk in the City of Gold % Go ! work in my vineyard, let none deceive ye, Each for himself his work must do ; And whatever is right shall my Angels give ye, The work and the workman shall have their due. — Who knoweth the times of the new dispensations ? Go on in faith, and the light will come ; The last may yet be the first amongst nations, Wait till the end for the final doom. The last may be first ! Shall our Country’s glory Ever flash light on the path we have trod ? Who knows ? — who knows % — for our future story Lies hid in the great sealed Book of God. 50 TO-DAY ! TO-DAY! I. H AS the line of the Patriots ended, The race of the heroes failed, That the bow of the mighty, unbended, Falls slack from the hands of the quailed? Or do graves lie too thick in the grass For the chariot of Progress to pass? ii. Did the men of the past ever falter ? The stainless in name and fame. They flung life’s best gifts on the altar To kindle the sacrifice flame, Till it rose like a pillar of light Leading up from Egyptian night. in. Oh ! hearts all aflame, with the daring Of youth leaping forth into life ! Have ye courage to lift up, unfearing, The banner fallen low in the strife, From hands faint through life’s deepest loss, And bleeding from nails of the cross ? IV. Can ye work on as they worked — unaided, When all but honour seemed lost ? And give to your Country, as they did, All, without counting the cost ? For the children have risen since then Up to the height of men. v. Now, swear by those pale martyr-faces, All worn by the furrows of tears, By the lost youth no morrow replaces, By all their long-wasted years, By the fires trod out on each hearth, When the Exiles were driven forth ; TO-DAY ! 51 VI. By the young lives so vainly given, By the raven hair blanched to grey, By the strong spirits crushed and riven, By the noble aims faded away, By their brows, as the brows of a king, Crowned by the circlet of suffering — VII. To strive as they strove, yet retrieving The cause from all shadow of blame, In the Congress of Peoples achieving A place for our nation and name ; Not by war between brothers in blood, But by glory made perfect through good. VIII. We are blind, not discerning the promise, ’Tis the sword of the Spirit that kills ; Give us Light, and the fetters fall from us, For the strong soul is free when it wills. Not our wrongs but our sins make the cloud That darkens the land like a shroud. IX. With this sword like an Archangel’s gleaming, Go war against Evil and Sin, ’Gainst the falsehood, and meanness, and seeming That stifle the true life within. Your bonds are the bonds of the soul, Strike them off, and you spring to the goal ! x. 0 men who have passed through the furnace, Assayed like the gold, and as pure ! By your strength can the weakest gain firmness The strongest may learn to endure, When once they have chosen their part, Though the sword may drive home to each heart. 52 A REMONSTRANCE. XI 0 Martyrs ! The scorners may trample On the broken hearts strewed in their path ; But the young race, all flushed by example, Will awake to the duties it hath, And re-kindle your own torch of Truth With the passionate splendours of youth ! A REMONSTRANCE, ADDRESSED TO D. FLORENCE M‘CARTHY, M.R.I.A.* O' TAND on the heights, O Poet ! nor come down O Amid the wise old serpents, coiled around The Tree of Knowledge in Academies. The Poet’s place is by the Tree of Life, Whose fruit turns men to Gods, and makes them live, Not seeking buried treasure in the tombs. Leave the dim records of a by-gone age To those great Archivists, who flash the torch Of Truth along Time’s mouldering records, Illuminating all the fading Past, Like golden letters on an ancient scroll. The Poet soars with eagles, breathes pure ether, Basks in the light that suns the mountain peak, And sings, from spirit altitudes, such strains, That all the toilers in life’s rugged furrows Are forced, for once, to lift the bow’d-down head, And look on Heaven. Flashes from Poet’s words Electric light, strong, swift, and sudden, like The clash of thunder-clouds, by which men read God’s writing legibly on human hearts. * On reading his Essay on the Collation of Certain Ancient Spanish Manuscripts, printed from the proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy. FRANCE IN ’93. 53 O Poet-Prophets ! God hath sent ye forth With lips made consecrate by altar fire, To guide the Future, not to tread the Past ; To chaunt, in glorious music, man’s great hymn, The watchword of humanity — Advance ! Advance in Wisdom, Nobleness, and Truth, High aims, high purposes, and self-control, Which is self -reverence, knowing we shall stand With crowned angels before God’s great throne The Poet nerves the arm to do great deeds, Inspires great thoughts, flings o’er the tears of life The rainbow arch, to save us from despair ; Quickens the stagnant energies to act, Bears the advancing banner of the age, Full in the van of all Humanity ; And, with a strength, God- given, rolls the stone, As angels may, from off the Sepulchre Where souls lie bound, bidding them rise and live. O Poet ! preach this Gospel once again — True Life, true Liberty, God’s gifts to man ; Freedom from servile aims and selfish ends, That swathe and bind the kingly spirit down, Like Egypt’s grave-clothes on the royal dead ; Scatter the golden grain of lofty thoughts From which spring hero-deeds — that so, in truth, Our Future may be nobler than our Past, In all that makes a nation’s life divine — This is the Poet’s mission, therefore — Thine. FRANCE IN ’93. I. ARK ! the onward heavy tread- Hark ! the voices rude — ’Tis the famished cry for Bread From a wildered multitude. 54 FRANCE IN ’93. They come ! They come ! Point the cannon — roll the drum ; Thousands wail and weep with hunger — Faster let your soldiers number. Sword, and gun, and bayonet A famished people’s cries have met. ii. Hark ! the onward heavy tread — Hark ! the voices rude — ’Tis the famished cry for Bread From an armed multitude. They come ! They come ! Not with meek submission’s hum. Bloody trophy they have won, Ghastly glares it in the sun — Gory head on lifted pike. Ha ! they weep not now, but strike. hi. Ye, the deaf ones to their cries — Ye, who scorned their agonies — ’Tis no longer prayers for bread Shriek in your ears the famished ; But wildly, fiercely, peal on peal, Besoundeth — Down with the Bastile ! Can ye tame a people now? Try them — flatter, promise, vow, Swear their wrongs shall be redressed— But patience — time will do the rest ; Swear they shall one day be fed — Hark ! the People — Dead for Dead ! IY. Calculating statesmen, quail ; Proud aristocrat, grow pale ; Savage sounds that deathly song : Down with tyrants ! Down with wrong ! Blindly now they wreak revenge — How rudely do a mob aveinge ! THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS. 55 What ! coronetted Prince or Peer, Will not the base-born slavelings fear ? Sooth, their cry is somewhat stern : Aristocrats, a la Lanterne! Ghastly fruit their lances bear — Noble heads with streaming hair ; Diadem and kingly crown Strike the famine-stricken down. Now, the People’s work is done — On they stride o’er prostrate throne ; Royal blood of King and Queen Streameth from the guillotine ; Wildly on the people goeth, Reaping what the noble soweth. Little dreamed he, prince or peer, Of who should be his heritor. Hunger now, at last, is sated In halls where once it wailed and waited ; Wild Justice fiercely rives the laws Which failed to right a people’s cause. On that human ocean floweth, Whither stops it no one knoweth — Surge the wild waves in their strength Against all chartered rights at length — Throne, and King, and Noble fall ; But the People — they hold Carnival ! THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS. A Spanish Ballad, 1492. I. H O ! Spaniards ! rise for Liberty — your country on ye calls, To fight to-day, in proud array, before Granada’s walls ; A proud array is here to-day, full fifty thousand strong, Of Fantassins and Cavaliers Gonzalo leads along. 56 THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS. II. From Leon to Granada — from Corunna to Seville, Gather, Spaniards, gather, by the banks of the Xenil ! Eight hundred years of blood and tears beneath a foreign sway — Eight hundred years of blood and tears must be avenged to-day. in. Think of your ancient glory, Oh ye lions of Leon ! And how in ancient story your great lion name was won; Think of Zamora’s conquest field, and royal Douro’s flood — How ye bridged with Moslem corses, and swam it in their blood. IV. And, mountaineers, have ye no tears to be avenged to- # day— Asturians, and Gallicians, and wild dwellers by Vizcay ? Ye, the unconquered remnant of the brave old Celtic race — For ne’er could Homan, Goth, or Moor, your nationhood efface. v. Ye, too, proud Gothic nobles ! by your memories as men, Will never fail, or shrink, or quail to meet the Saracen ; Ye, ’fore whose conquering arm were the bravest forced to yield, Who smote the Suevi in their tent — the Homans in the field. VI. Now, now, oh, shame and misery ! a stranger rules your lands ! — A stranger’s spoil is your native soil — a stranger’s voice commands ; Ye, princes once and chieftains, ere the false foe crossed the flood, Now, drawers of their water and base hewers of their wood ! THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS. 57 VII. And, Adalusian Brothers, of the old Vandalic race, Will ye alone ’midst Spaniards, he proud of your disgrace? They flatter, fawn, but hate you, these proud foes to whom you’ve sold Your Liberty for mocking smiles — your country for their gold. VIII. They own your stately palaces, they desecrate your shrines, They trample on your vineyards, yet ye stoop to drink their wines ; Ye wear their silk, their gold, their gems, and to their feasts ye run ; Now shame for ye, my brothers, is it thus that Freedom’s won? IX. Back to your wild sierras, better die there in your homes Than cringingly bow low beneath your masters’ haughty domes ; Their Syrian silks, their Indiam gems, go — fling them to the sea, But keep their Syrian steel, for it will help to set us free. x. Oh! by your ancient memories, rise Prince, and Peer, and Chief — Smite down the foe that wrought our woe at Gebel el Tarif. The robber horde awaits your sword — draw, Spaniards ! for your land ! The crown ye lost by Boderic, regain it by Fernand ! XI. No coward fears — eight hundred years ye’ve lived as slaves, not men ; But swords makes bright each chartered right — ye’ll have your own again. 58 THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS. Brave hearts and leal of proud Castile — Revenge, on Mauritania ! Rend earth and sky with your gathering cry : Charge ! Cierra Espana ! XII. As tempests sweep the surging deep, thus on the Moorish ranks Dashes the Spanish chivalry; they charge on van and flanks. From Calpe’s rock the thunder-shock re-echoes o’er the main — Now, God and Santiago, for our Liberty and Spain ! XIII. Little they think of mercy, these slaves of eight hundred years ; Never they spare a foeman, these bold true Iberian spears. Crescented hosts your taunting boasts this day find answer meet, For the light of Heaven is darkened by the dust of your flying feet. XIV. Granada falls! From the Castle walls tear down the Alien’s rag — On turret and Alcazar, comrades, up with our ancient flag! It floats from the proud Alhambra ! Thank God, we’ve lived to see Our ancient standard waving once again above the Free ! xv. Pass out, ye weeping people ; aye, weep — for never more Shall ye gather in Granada by the sound of Atambor ; F or, by the rood, ye Moslem brood, we swore it in Castile, Never again should Spain be ruled by foreign Alquazil. XVI. 0 Moorish King ! by suffering thou has earned a name to-day* — But we give thee life, Abdallah; pass onwards on thy way. * Abdallah is known in history as " El triste Rey.” WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD ? 59 Accursed race, the foul disgrace thy rule hath brought on Spain, Is cleansed away in blood to-day — we drive thee ’cross the main. XVII. By Elvira’s gate he goeth, all solemnly and slow — - One last look at Granada, ere they pass that gate of woe. u Oh, better far thy scimitar had laid thee with the dead, Than weep for what thou could’st not keep” — the proud Zoraya said.* XVIII. Allah, Allah Hu Akbar ! what sorrow like my sorrows? Thus he goeth weeping by the way of Alp uj arras ; Allah, Allah Hu Akbar ! on his tomb is written down — The King who lost a Kingdom when great Spain regained her Crown. WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD? I. B EAUTIFUL Ireland ! Who will preach to thee ? Souls are waiting for lips to vow ; And outstretched hands, that fain would reach to thee, Yearn to help, if they knew but how, To lift the thorn-wreath off thy brow. H. Passionate dreamers have fought and died for thee, Poets poured forth their lava song ; But dreamer and poet have failed as a guide for thee — Still are unriven the chains of wrong. in. Suffering Ireland ! Martyr-Nation ! Blind with tears thick as mountain mist ; Can none amidst all the new generation Change them to glory, as hills sun-kissed Flash lights of opal and amethyst? * This taunt of the Sultana mother is related by Conde. 60 WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD? IV. Welcome a Hero ! A man to lead for ns, Sifting true men from chaff and weeds ; Daring and doing as those who, indeed, for us Proved their zeal by their life and deeds. v. Desolate Ireland ! Saddest of mothers, Waits and weeps in her island home ; But the Western Land — has she help for others Who feeds her eagles on blood of brothers ? Not with cannon or roll of drum, Or foreign flag can our triumph come. VI. Why seek aid from the arm of a stranger ? Trust thy sons, O Mother ! for good ; Braver can none be in hours of danger, Proudly claiming thy rights withstood. VII. Then, Ireland ! wake from thy vain despairing ! Grand the uses of life may be ; Heights can be reached by heroic daring, Crowns are won by the brave and free, And Nations create their own destiny. VIII. But, Time and the hour fleet fast unbidden, A turbid stream over golden sands ; And too often the gold is scattered or hidden, While we stand by with listless hands. IX. Then seize the least grain as it glistens and passes, Swift and sure is that river’s flight : The glory of morning the bright wave glasses, But the gold and glory soon fade from sight, And noon-tide splendours will change to night. WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD? 61 X. All ! life is too brief for languor or quarrel, Second by second the dead drop down ; And souls, all eager to strive for the laurel, Faint and fall ere they win the crown. XI. Ireland rests mid the rush of progression, As a frozen ship in a frozen sea ; And the changeless stillness of life’s stagnation, Is worse than the wildest waves could be, Rending the rocks eternally. XII. Then, trumpet-tongued, to a people sleeping, Who will speak with magic command, Bidding them rise — these dead men, keeping Watch by the dead in a silent land ? XIII. Grandly, solemnly, earnestly preaching, Man’s great gospel of Truth and light ; With lips like saints’ in their love beseeching, Hands as strong as a prophet’s to smite The foes to Humanity’s sacred right. XIY. Earth is thrilling with new aspirations, Rending the fetters that bar and ban ; But we alone of the Christian nations Fall to the rear in the march of Man. xv. Alas ! can I help ? but a nameless singer — W eak the words of a woman to save ; We wait the advent of some light-bringer, Strong to roll the stone from the grave, And summon to life the death-bound slave. 62 WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD? XYI. Down from heights of the Infinite drifting, Raising the prisoned soul from gloom ; Like the white angels of God uplifting Seal and stone from the Saviour’s tomb. XVII. Yet, hear me now, for a Nation pleading ; Strike ! but with swords yet keener than steel ; Flash on the path the new Age is treading, As sparks from grooves of the iron wheel, In star-flames its onward march reveal. XVIII. Work by the shore where our broad ocean rages, Bridging it over by wraiths of steam ; Linking two worlds by a chain that sages Forged in the heat of a science dream. XIX For Nature has stamped us with brand immortal, Highway of nations our Land must be : We hold the keys of the Old-world portal, We guard the pass of the Western Sea — Ireland, sole in her majesty ! xx. Work ! there is work for the thinker and doer, And glory for all when the goal is won ; So we are true to our Country, or truer Than Planets are to the central Sun. xxi. Call from the hills our own Irish Eagle, Spread its plumes on the w The Green ” of old ; With a sunrise blaze, as a mantle regal, Turning the dust-brown wings to gold — Symbol and flag be it then unrolled ! A LAMENT FOR THE POTATO. 63 XXII. Face Heaven’s light with as proud a daring, Tread the heights with a step as grand, Breast the wild storm with brave hearts unfearing As kings might do for their rightful land. XXIII. Irish daring by land and by river, Irish wealth from mountain and mine, Irish courage so strong to deliver, Irish love as strong to combine Separate chords in one strain divine ; XXIV. These are the forces of conquering power, Chains to sever, if slaves we be ; Then strike in your might, O Men of the hour ! And Ireland springs on the path of the free ! A LAMENT FOR THE POTATO. A.D. 1739. (from the irish). T HERE is woe, there is clamour, in our desolated land, And wailing lamentation from a famine-stricken band; And weeping are the multitudes in sorrow and despair, F or the green fields of Munster lying desolate and bare. Woe for Lore’s* ancient kingdom, sunk in slavery and grief ; . Plundered, ruined, are our gentry, our people, and their Chief ; * Lore, or Lorcan, an ancient King of Munster, the grandfather of the great King Brian Boru. 64 A LAMENT FOR THE POTATO. For the harvest lieth scattered, more worth to us than gold, All the kindly food that nourished both the young and the old. Well I mind me of the cosherings, where princes might dine, And we drank until nightfall the best seven sorts of wine ; Yet was ever the Potato our old, familiar dish, And the best of all sauces with the beeves and the fish. But the harp now is silent, no one careth for the sound ; No flowers, no sweet honey, and no beauty can be found; Not a bird its music thrilling through the leaves of the wood, Nought but weeping and hands wringing in despair for our food. And the Heavens, all in darkness, seem lamenting our doom, No brightness in the sunlight, not a ray to pierce the gloom ; The cataract comes rushing with a fearful deepened roar, And ocean bursts its boundaries, dashing wildly on the shore. Yet, in misery and want, we have one protecting man, Kindly Barry, of Fitzstephen’s old hospitable clan ; By mount and river working deeds of charity and grace : Blessings ever on our champion, best hero of his race ! Save us, God ! In Thy mercy bend to hear the people’s cry, From the famine-stricken fields, rising bitterly on high; Let the mourning and the clamour cease in Lore’s ancient land, And shield us in the death-hour by Thy strong, protecting hand !* * This Irish poem, so pathetic and expressive in its simplicity, first appeared in the Dublin University Magazine , in the Essay oil “The Food of the Irish/’ by Sir William Wilde. It is quoted by him as “ highly characteristic both of the feelings of the people and the extent of the calamity of that time ; besides being a good specimen of the native poetry of the Irish more than a hundred years ago.” HAVE WE DONE WELL FOR IRELAND? 65 HAVE WE DONE WELL FOR IRELAND? COUNTRY, writhing in thy chain With fierce, wild efforts to he free, Not seeing that with every strain The bonds close firmer over thee ; Or grasping blindly in thy hate The temple pillars of the State, To hnrl them down on friend and foe, Crushed in one common overthrow — - Can none of all thy Poet band Preach nobler aims, loved Ireland ? As David drove with magic chords The Evil Spirit back to night ; As Moses by his mighty words Led Egypt’s bondmen up to light ; Hast thou no Poet, strong to calm Thy troubled soul with holy psalm ? Or trusted Chief, who, safely on Across the fatal Rubicon, Could lead thee with pure heart and hand To Freedom — my own Ireland ? By those doomed men, in dull despair Slow wasting in a dungeon’s gloom ; By all youth’s fiery heart can dare Quenched in the prison’s living tomb — • By the corroding felon chain, That tortures with Promethean pain Of vultures gnawing at the core Of their lost lives for evermore — I ask you, People of our Land, Have ye done well for Ireland ? By History traced on dungeon walls, By scaffolds, chains, and exiles’ tears, Slow marking, as the shadow falls, The mournful sequence of the years ; (16 WILLIAM CAKLETOX. By genius crushed and progress barred, By noble aspirations marred, Till with a smouldering fire’s life They burn in deadly hate and strife — I ask you, Rulers of our Land, Have ye done well for Ireland? O Men ! these men are brothers too, Tho’ frenzied by a fatal dream, Their living souls were meant to do Some noble work in God’s great scheme, Perchance to hew down, branch and root, The tree that bore such bitter fruit ; But, left unguided in the Right, They grope out blindly in the night Of their dark passions ; striking down Their Country’s proud hopes with their own. But now, ye say, the Land hath rest — Aye, with the death weights on her eyes; And fettered arms across her breast, And mail’d hands stifling down her cries. So rests a corpse within the grave O’er which the charnal grasses wave. Oh, better far some kindly word To stay the vengeance-lifted sword, Or Love, with queenly, outstretched hand, To soothe thee — fated Ireland ! WILLIAM CARLETOX. died, January 30th, 1809. ^UR land has lost a glory ! Never more, Tho’ years roll on, can Ireland hope to see Another Carleton, cradled in the lore Of our loved Country’s rich humanity. WILLIAM CARLETON. 67 The weird traditions, the old, plaintive strain, The murmured legends of a vengeful past, When a down- trodden people strove in vain To rend the fetters centuries made fast ; These, with the song and dance and tender tale, Linked to our ancient music, have swept on And died in far-off echoes, like the wail Of Israel’s broken Harps in Babylon. No hand like his can wake them now, for he Sprang from amidst the people : bathed his soul In their strong passions, stormy as the sea, And wild as skies before the thunder-roll. \ Yet, was he gentle ; with divinest art And tears that shook his nature over much, He struck the key-note of a people’s heart, And all the nation answered to his touch, Even as he swayed them, giving smiles for gloom, And childlike tenderness for hate that kills — As rain clouds threat’ning with a weight of doom Flash sudden, silver light upon the hills. But, he had faults — men said. Oh, fling them back. These cold deductions, marring praise with blame ; When earthquakes rend the rocks they leave a track For central fires issuing forth in flame; And by the passionate heat of gifted minds The ruddest stones are crystallised to gems Of glorious worth, such as a poet binds Upon his brow, right royal diadems ! Like the great image of the Monarch’s dream, Genius lifts up on high the head of gold, And cleaves with iron limbs Time’s mighty stream, Tho’ all too deep the feet may press earth’s mould. Yet, by his gifts made dedicate to God In noblest teachings of each gentle grace, Through every land that Irishmen have trod We claim for him the homage of our race. 68 THE NEW PATH. With pen of light he drew great pictures when Nothing hut scorn was ours ; and without fear He flung them down before the face of men, Saying, in words the whole world paused to hear So brave, so pure, so noble, grand, and true Is this, our Irish People. Thus he gave His fame to build our glory, and undo The taunts of ages, — strong to lift and save So, with a nation’s gratitude we vow In every Irish heart a shrine shall be To The Great Peasant, on whose deathless brow Pests the star-crown of immortality. The kings of mind, unlike the kings of earth, Can bear their honours with them to illume The grave’s dark vault ; so Carleton passes forth, As through triumpal arches, to the tomb ! THE NEW PATH. I. W E stand in the light of a dawning day, With its glory creation flushing ; And the life-currents up from the pris’ning clay Through the wmrld’s great heart are rushing. While from peak to peak of the spirit land A voice unto voice is calling : The night is over, the day is at hand, And the fetters of earth are falling ! ii. Yet, faces are pale with a mystic fear Of the strife and trouble looming ; And we feel that mighty changes are near, Tho’ the Lord delayeth his coming. TIIE NEW PATH. 69 For the rent flags hang from each broken mast, And down in the ocean’s surges The shattered wreck of a foundering Past Sinks mid the night wind’s dirges. hi. But the world goes thundering on to the light, Unheeding our vain presages ; And nations are cleaving a path to Right Through the mouldering dust of ages. Are we, then, to rest in a chill despair, Unmoved by these new elations ; Nor carry the flag of our Island fair In the onward march of nations ? IV. Shall our hands be folded in slumber, when The bonds and the chains are shattered ; As stony and still as enchanted men, In a cave of darkness fettered ? The cave may be dark, but we’ll flash bright gleams Of the morning’s radiance on it, And tread the New Path, tho’ the noontide beams, As yet, fall faintly upon it. v. For souls are around us, with gifts divine, Unknown and neglected dying ; Like the precious ore in a hidden mine, Unworked and as useless lying. We summon them forth to the banded war, The sword of the Spirit using, To come with their forces from near and far, New strength with our strength infitsing. VI. Let each bear a torch with the foremost bands, Through the Future’s dark outgoing; Or stand by the helm, mid the shoals and sands Of the5 u All ! such deep and tender loving hath recall’d me from the grave — And this heart with soft approving bids you keep the life you gave ; XIV. “Woman’s soothing grief to lighten hath a mystic healing power, And their sympathy can brighten man’s most dark and destined hour. Let the holy words be spoken that bind soul to soul for life ; Let me place the symbol token on this hand — my wedded wife !” Oh ! never yet did an angel breathe diviner words of bliss, Never mortal heard evangel of a joy like unto this ; In my gladness, smiling, weeping, knelt I down before him there, Blessing God with wild words leaping from my full heart’s inward prayer; xv. And a glory, ruddy, golden-hued, streamed down on me from high, As with lifted hands enfolden gazed I up into the sky — Ever brighter, flashing downward, till my pained eyes ached with light, And I turned from gazing sunward back to earth’s more calm delight. But — was it spell, or was it charm ? — when I turned me to the room, Fading seem’d the loved one’s form, half in light and half in gloom — Throbb’d my brain in wild confusion, slowly died his words in air, All around me seemed illusion, save that streaming golden glare. 96 SHADOWS FROM LIFE. XYI. On my fevered eyelids aching, madly press’d my hands I keep — Then arose like one awaking from a strange and magic sleep ; [Round I gazed in wild amazement for the glorious light that shone, Was morn streaming through my casement, but it shone on me alone ! The last cold words he had written still lay there beside my bed; The last flowers he had given lay beside them, faded, dead ; Life’s lonely bitter desolation was true, for aye, I deem, But, joy’s blessed revelations, that — oh, that — was but a dream ! Ufankrags %o«g| European literature LE REVEILLE. I T was the lark — not the nightingale — Poured forth her notes of warning ; Upwards she flew from the sun-lit vale, Awoke by the light of the morning. The day, the day is bright ! The night Hath fled that in darkness bound ye ; Fling ye the myrtle of love aside, And grasp the sword whate’er may betide — For the Foemen are gathering round ye ! It was the lark — not the nightingale — Arouse ye from apathy’s slumber ! Few and dull do your watchfires pale, But they soon shall the stars outnumber. Awake, awake to life ! The strife For God and your right advances ; Leave the white arms of weeping beauty, The van of the battle’s your post of duty, Where glitter the Foeman’s lances ! It was the lark — not the nightingale — The gate of the morning uncloses ; She sings of the thundering cannon’s hail — She sings of the battle’s roses ; On the warrior’s breast They rest — 98 OUR FATHERLAND. The crimson roses that free the world ! Up, then, in Liberty’s cause ye are sent — Let the wide heavens be but one warrior’s tent When the banner of Freedom’s unfurled. It was the lark — not the nightingale — Leave, then, O youth, thy dreaming! As dashes the torrent adown the vale, O’er all barriers wildly streaming, So of thy young heart’s blood, The flood Pour down on the thirsty land ; And Liberty’s cause, that would else have died, Will bloom afresh from that crimson tide ; So pledge ye your heart and hand. It was the lark — not the nightingale — Who chanted a Nation’s rise ; Borne on the wings of the morning gale, It peals through the azure skies. Liberty’s torch is bright ! The light May mock our tyrant’s scorning, For millions of hearts will be kindled ere noon ; And the freedom we dream’d of in darkness, full soon We’ll achieve in the light of the morning ! OUR FATHERLAND. W HY pour the ruby wine, For glad carousal, brothers mine, In the sparkling glass that flashes In your hand, When, mourning, sits in dust and ashes Our Fatherland? OUR FATHERLAND. 99 II. What means the joyous song Of the festive bridal throng ? Oh ! let music no more waken The echoes of our strand, For the bridegroom hath forsaken Our Fatherland ! hi. No more your masses falter, Trembling priests, before the altar. Can prayer avail the dead or dying ? Oh ! vain demand ! Prostrate, trodden on the ground, is lying Our Fatherland ! IV. Ye princes, fling ye down Your blood-bought jewelled crown — Bear the circlet on your brow no more, Nor signet on your hand ; For, shivering, stands before your door Our Fatherland ! Y. Woe to ye rich ; in gloom Hath toll’d your hour of doom— There, reck’ning up your gold, ye sit in state In palace grand, While Lazarus is dying at your gate, Our Fatherland ! vi. And woe to you, ye poor — Want and scorn ye must endure ; Yet before ye many noble jewels shine In the sand. Ah ! they are patriots’ tears — even mine — For Fatherland ! LOO THE KNIGHT’S PLEDGE. VII. But the Poet’s mission Is but prophetic vision ; To him the daring heart is granted — Not the hand. He may cease — the death-song has been chanted For Fatherland ! THE KNIGHT’S PLEDGE. T HE tedious night at length hath pass’d ; To horse ! to horse ! we’ll ride as fast As ever bird did fly. Ha ! but the morning air is chill ; Frau Wirthin, one last goblet fill, We’ll drain it ere we die ! Thou youthful grass, why look’st so green 1 Soon dyed in blood of mine I ween, With damask rose thou’lt vie. The goblet here ! with sword in hand I pledge thee first, my Fatherland, Oh ! blessed for thee to die ! Again our mailed hands raise the cup : Freedom, to thee we drink it up. Low may that coward lie Who fails to pledge, with heart and hand, The freedom of our glorious Land — Her F reedom, ere we die ! Our wives — but, ah ! the glass is clear, The cannon thunders — grasp the spear, We’ll pledge them in a sigh. Now, on the Foe like thunder crash! We’ll scathe them as a lightning flash, And conquer, though we die ! OPPORTUNITY. 101 OPPORTUNITY.* FROM THE ITALIAN OF MACHIAVELLI. “Chi sci in, die non par Donna mortale?” W HO art thou, glorious Form, flashing by me, So beautiful, so Godlike — wilt thou fly me ? Why o’er thy face and bosom fall thy tresses streaming ! And why the airy pinions on thy white feet gleaming ? My name is Opportunity. Pause or rest I never : Mortals rarely know me till I’m gone for ever. To seize me passing on to few is granted ; Therefore one foot upon a wheel is planted — Therefore the light wings bound on them, to make me So quick in flight that none shall overtake me. Down fall my tresses, face and bosom veiling, That none may know me ’till to know be unavailing ; Then, mockingly, I fling aside the veil, and please me With their vain hope, and vainer haste to sieze me. And who is this dark form that follows thee with weep- ing, Ever as a shadow on thy bright track keeping ? Her name’s Repentance. When I fleet quickly by them, She stoppeth weeping, vainly weeping nigh them. But thou, poor mortal, precious moments wasting, Idly thou dreamest while I’m onwards hasting. Wilt thou not wake ? Alas ! weep now, I’ve passed for ever. Weep, for Repentance henceforth leaves thee never. * “Thoughts come again, convictions perpetuate themselves opportunities pass by irrecoverably.”— Goetiie. 102 king- shuck’s faith. KING ERICK’S FAITH. I. 1PN Upsal’s stately Minster, before the altar, stands The Swedish King, brave Erick, with high uplifted hands — His royal robes are round him, the crown upon his head, And thus, before his people, right sovranly he said : — ii. 44 God ! whoso trusteth in Thee will never rue his trust ; If God the Lord be with us, our foes shall flee like dust.” He spake — from priests and people rose up the answering cry — 44 If God the Lord be with us, all danger we defy!” ii. Scarce through the aisles is dying their mingled voices’ din, A pallid slave, disordered, comes rushing wildly in. 4 4 Now God us aid ! — Skalater, the Dane, has come agen, Fast pouring down the mountains with seven hundred men !” IV. King Erick heard him calmly, then strong in faith replied — 44 What man can fight against us, with God upon our side?” A second slave comes rushing all breathless as the first — 44 The gate is down — Skalater each bar and bolt hath burst !” v. King Erick’s brow grew paler, but still he looked on high — 44 If God the Lord be with us, no danger need we fly !” In comes another, trembling, but ere he uttered sound The Danish axes glisten — they cleave him to the ground. u FOR NORGE ! ” 103 VI. Then rose a fearful tumult — then rose a wildered cry — Skalater comes in fury — defenceless we must die — Skalater comes in fury, with all his pagan hordes, And Priest, and King, and Altar must fall beneath their swords. VII. King Erick’s glance grew prouder ; he grasp’d the golden rood — He held it high to Heaven, as on Skalater strode : Lo ! from each wound, the seven, pours forth a thousand rays, And down to earth Skalater sinks dazzled by the blaze. VIII. They’re prostrate on their foreheads, the seven hundred Danes, Praying the God to spare them who guards the Christian fanes ; But Erick and his people lift up the joyful cry — Our God, the Lord, has conquered ; all praise to Him on high ! “FOR NORGE!" FROM THE DANISH. F OR Norway, Freedom’s fatherland, Fill up the wine-cup flowing, And pledge it, brothers, hand in hand, To keep the hot blood glowing. 104 “ FOR NORGE ! ” By gyves and fetters rent we swear, No tyrant’s hand shall ever dare To chain our souls, while swords we hear To guard old Norway’s Freedom ! ii. Again the wine-cup passes round ; We’ll drain it to the glory Of all the Chiefs and names renowned In Norway’s ancient story. Across our gloomy northern night Their clashing arms flashed the light, And won for us, in hero fight, The prize of Norway’s Freedom. m. And now to all the brave ones here, And to the maids that love us — To men who never knew a fear, Maids pure as saints above us. The Norway maidens ! fill on high — The Norsemen, brave to do and die ! And shame to him who passes by The pledge to Love and Freedom ! IV. And yet one cup to Norway’s land, Her snow and icy fountains, The rocks that guard her stormy strand, The pines upon her mountains ! Aye — three times three fill up the wine, Pledge mountain, torrent, rock, and pine — Pledge all that marks the snowy line Where Norsemen guard their Freedom ! THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST. 105 THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST. FROM LAMARTINE. I. L ONELY stream of rushing water, From the rock that gave thee birth, Hast thou fallen, 0 Naiad’s daughter ! Mingling with the common earth ? Shall Carrara’s snowy marble Never more thy waves inurn ; That with wild and plaintive warble, By their broken temple mourn ? ii. Nor thy dolphins lying shattered, Fling their columns up again, That in radiant glory scattered, Fell to the earth a jewelled rain Must the bending beeches only, Yeil thy desolate decay, Spreading solemnly and lonely O’er thy waters, dark as they % in. Pallid Autumn-leaves are lying On thy hollow marble tomb, And the willows round it sighing, Wave their bannerets of gloom. Still thou flowest ever, ever — Like a loving heart that gives Smiles and blessings, though it never Meeteth smile from one who lives. 106 THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST. IV. Roughest rocks to polished beauty Changing as thou flowest on ; Such the Poet’s heaven-taught duty. Mid the stony-hearted throng ! Thus thy voice to me hath spoken, Falling, falling from on high, As a chord in music, broken By a gently-murmured sigh. v. Ah ! what sad yet glorious vision Of my youth thy scenes unroll, When I felt the Poet’s mission Kindling first within my soul ; When the passion and the glory Of the far-off future years, Shone in radiant light before me, Through the present dimm’d by tears. VI. Can thy stream recall the shadow Of the spirit-haunted boy, Who in sunlight, through the meadow, Roamed in deep and woundrous joy ? Yet bright memory still reaches, All athwart thy glistening beams, Where, beneath the shading beeches, Lay the sunny child of dreams ; VII. Weaving fancies bright as morning, With its purple and its gold ; Strong to trample down earth’s scorning With the faith of men of old. Ready life itself to render At the shrine to which he bowed, Knowing not the transient splendour Gilded but the tempest-cloud. I THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST. VIII. On my heart was still’d the laughter, Cold the clay around the dead, When I came in years long after Here to rest my weary head. Waked the sad tears fast and warm, Once again the ancient place, Till, like droppings of the storm, They fell heavy on thy face. IX. Human voice was none to hear me In that silence of the tomb ; But thy waters, sobbing near me, Seemed responsive to the gloom ; And I flung my thoughts all idly On thy current in a dream, Like the pale leaves scattered widely On thy autumn- drifted stream. x. Yet ’twas in that mournful hour Rose the spirit’s mighty words ; Never soul could know its power Until sorrow swept the chords — • Blended with each solemn feature Of the lonely scenes I trod, For the sacred love of Nature Is the Poet’s hymn to God. XI. Did He hear the words imploring Of a strong heard tempest-riven ? Did the tears of sorrow pouring Rise like incense up to Heaven? Ah ! the heart that mutely prayeth From the ashes of the past, Finds the strength that ever stayeth, Of the Holy, round it cast ! 107 108 SALVATION. XII. But the leaf in winter fadeth, And the cygnet drops her plumes : Time in passing ever shadeth Human life in deeper glooms ; So, perchance, with white hair streaming, In my age to thee I’ll turn — Muse on life, with softened dreaming, By thy broken marble urn. XIII. While thy murmuring waters falling Drop by drop upon the plain, Seem like spirit-voices calling — Spirit-voices not in vain ; For life’s fleeting course they teach me, With life’s endless source on high, Past and future thus may reach me, While I learn from thee to die. XIV. 0 stream ! hath thy lonely torrent Many ages yet to run ? 0 life ! will thy mournful current See many a setting sun? 1 know not ; but both are passing F rom the sunlight into gloom — Yet the light we left will meet us Once again beyond the tomb ! SALVATION. W HEN the gloom is deepest round thee ; When the bands of grief have bound thee, And in loneliness and sorrow, By the poisoned springs of life Thou sittest, yearning for a morrow, That will free thee from the strife ; MISERY IS MYSTERY. 100 Look not upwards, for above thee Never sun or star is gleaming ; Look not round for one to love thee ; Put not faith in mortal seeming ; Lightly would they scorn, then leave thee. Trust not man — he will deceive thee. But in the depths of thy own soul Descend ; mysterious powers unroll — Energies that long had slumbered In its mystic depths unnumbered. Speak the word ! — the power divinest Will awake, if thou inclines t. Thou art lord in thine own kingdom ; Pule thyself — thou rulest all ! Smile, when from its proud dominion Earthly joy will rudely fall. Be true unto thyself and hear not Evil thoughts, that would enslave thee, God is in thee ! Mortal, fear not ; Trust in Him, and He will save thee J MISERY IS MYSTERY. I. M ISERY his heart hath broken — • Misery is mystery ! Let the sad one lonely be ; As the Ancients shunned the token Of *u lightning-blasted tree. ii. Breathe no word, his doom is spoken — Misery is mistery ! By its scathing lightning fated, Human hearts are consecrated, For a higher destiny. 110 CATARINA. FAREWELL ! L ET mine eyes the parting take, Which my faint lips never can ; Moments such as these might break Even the sternest heart of man. Mournfully doth Joy’s eclipse, Shroud in grief Love’s sweetest sign ; Cold the pressure of thy lips, Cold the hand that rests in mine. Once the slightest stolen kiss — O, what rapture did it bring ! Like a violet’s loveliness, Found and plucked in early spring. Now, no more my hand shall twine, Rose wreaths, sweetest love, for thee ; Without, is summer’s glorious prime, Within, weird autumn’s misery. CATARINA. FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.. ; ‘Um mover d’olhos brando e piadoso.” JK MOVEMENT of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent, «Os> A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy, ’Twere easy to transform it to a tear. A gentle, timid motion, like young flowers Beneath the murmuring west wind undulating. A graceful, modest ardour — yet at times Most grave and quiet majesty, as one Who knows — that rarest knowledge — her own worth. THE POET AT COURT. Ill A childlike nature, index of a soul Where goodness is intuitive — not put on To gain false praises for a falser virtue. A bashful softness when she tells her love — A tremour as of guilt, with low- drooped eyes And red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene, Like to a temple of all holy things, Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance, Enduring all with angel smiles of love. This, the celestial beauty of my Circe — This is the magic potion which has changed Earth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven ! THE POET AT COURT. I. K E stands alone in the lordly hall — He, with the high, pale brow ; But never a one at the festival 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. ii. 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 — ^he universe is his own. 112 THE MYSTIC TREE. III. No star on his breast is beaming, But the light of his flashing eye Reveals, 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 ! THE MYSTIC TREE. FROM OLENSCITLAGER. F S branches up to Heaven a tree is sending, Rare to see, For with flowers, fruit, and seed at once is bending That mystic tree. Round the giant stem, all rugged, rude, and mossy, Roses twine, And the young flowers veil it with their glossy Hues divine. The leaves rustle thickly, many-formed, So green and bright ; The branches spread out broadly to be warmed In Heaven’s light. Now curve they down, all drooping, to the meadows And cool springs; Now upwards on the blue air fling their shadows Like seraphs’ wings. Pause ye beneath its golden avalanches — Well it’s worth ; For when the breath of Heaven stirs the branches, The fruit falls to earth. ’tis not upon earth. 113 Mocking apes all day there, in their folly. Play antic wiles ; All night rest the branches, still and holy As cathedral aisles. The nightingale, soft in the moonlight singing, Stops her grief ; For the magic tones of Oreads seem ringing From every leaf. The tree is loved by all, but comprehended Scarce by one ; Yet each basketh in its glory, many-blendcd, As ’neath a sun. Many pause, the bright fruit harvest reaping, Of golden gleam ; But he who lovetli shadow saith in weeping — Here let me dream. Lighter spirits, passing, stop where glisten Brightest flowers ; While others pause, enchanted, but to listen The music of its bowers. And he who nothing loveth goes his way, Unheeding all ; But they who love the universe will say — Sing on, JEAN PAUL ! ’TIS NOT UPON EARTH. ATHY comest thou here, so pale and clear, » » Thou lone and shadowy child ? “I come from a clime of eternal sun, Tho’ my mother’s home is a dreary one; But Love hath stolen my heart away, And to seek it through the world I stray.” 114 THE ITINERANT SINGING GIRL. Oh, turn thee back to thy native land — Turn, ere thy heart is blighted ; For, alas! upon this desert strand True love has never alighted. “My native land is beyond the skies, Where the perfumed bowers of Eden rise. But my mother’s home is the spectral tomb ; Yet I’ll back and rest in its shadowy gloom, For the grave is still and Heaven is fair, And the myrtle of love fadeth never there !” THE ITINERANT SINGING GIRL. 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 colour 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. IGNEZ DE CASTRO. 115 IGNEZ DE CASTRO. FROM THE PORTUGUESE. “Longe de caro esposo Ignez formosa.” I. F AR from her Royal lover, by Mondego’s sunny tide, Does the Lady Inez wander, Don Pedro’s lovely bride ; Her long hair fell around her, like a veil of a golden light. And the jewelled zone that bound her in the noontide sparkled bright. ii. But heavy showers are falling fast adown her azure eyes, As on Heaven with anguish calling, she lifts them to the skies. Where is her princely lover ? Is there none to save her nigh? Does he know that King Alonzo hath sworn that she shall die ? hi. She trembles at each murmured sound that’s wafted on the breeze : It is the murderer’s footstep that rustles through the trees ; But wearily, all wearily, with watching and with weeping, She sank in troubled slumber, while her maidens guard were keeping. IV. She dream’d that in the palace, by her Royal lover’s side, She sat upon the high throne, as his crowned Queen and bride ; And words of love he murmured, and the crowd knelt down to praise, And she proudly took their homage, but blushed beneath his gaze. 116 IGNEZ DE CASTRO. y. Fair cloth of silver brighter than the sunbeam’s woven tight, And marble pillars whiter than the pale queen of night — Flowers and odours blending, all lovliest things were there. Incense-clouds upsending, for her — the beautiful, the fair ! VI. Her robes of tissue golden outvied her golden tresses, As she lay enfolden in her lover’s soft caresses ; But brighter than the diamonds that circled round her brow, Were the flashing eyes beneath them — he murmured with a vow. VII. And redder than the rubies that enclasped her jewelled zone, Were the roses on her cheek when he whispered — Thou’rt mine own. And he stooped his plumed head gently to kiss her — so she dreamed — But his lips were icy cold, like the touch of death it seemed. VIII. And she started from her slumber all tearfully and pale. For hurrying steps and voices were heard, and woman’s wail — a 0 God ! the hour has come,” they cried — “the murderers are near ! Why weep ye so, my maidens, now? — your cheeks are blanched with fear. XI. “I see — I see their shadows — down the marble steps they run ; I see their daggers gleaming in the red light of the sun — O Pedro ! Pedro! save me!” — help from God nor man is nigh : All vainly to her murderers for mercy did she cry. HE WAIWODE. 117 x. Then she raised her eyes to Heaven, and threw back her golden hair, And in the streaming sunlight calm and saintly stood she there ; While upon her snowy bosom she meekly crossed her hands — You'd take her for an Angel as she there in beauty stands. XI. What ! shrink ye now, false cravens ! — do ye fear yon pale-faced girl? Tigers, traitors, as ye are, dare ye touch one golden curl ? King Alonzo’s gold is tempting, yet fain ye now would fly From the calm and holy glance of that tearful azure eye. XII. It was but for a moment’s pause — the next their daggers gleam, And she falls, the young and lovely, by Mondego’s fated stream ; Like red rain on the young flowers, pours forth life’s crimson tide — And softly murmuring, Pedro ! she looked to Heaven, and died. THE WAIWODE. FROM THE UUSSIAN. OECKETLY by night returning, Jealous fears within him burning, The Waiwode seeks his young wife’s bed. And with trembling hand, uncertain, Backward draws the silken curtain — Death and vengeance — she has fled ! 118 THE WAIWODE. With a frown like tempest weather, Fierce he knits his brows together, Tears his beard in wrathful mood — Roars in thunder through the castle, Summoning each trembling vassal, “ Ho there ! slaves — ye devil’s brood ! “ Who left the castle gate unguarded, And slew the hound? — some hand unbarr’d it Quick ! prepare ye sack and cord ! My arms here, fellows — loaded, ready ! How, slave, your pistols, follow — steady — Ha, traitress ! thou shalt feel this sword Close in the murky shadows hiding, Slave and master, onward gliding, Reach the garden. There, indeed, listening to the soft appealing Of a youth before her kneeling, Stands she in her white naridd. Through the marble fountain’s playing, Passion’s words they hear him saying — u How I love thee, yet thou’st sold All thy beauty’s glowing treasures, All this soft hand’s tender pressures, For the Waivvode’s cursed gold. “How I loved, as none can love thee ; Waited, wept — if tears could move thee — Ah ! and is it thus we meet ? He ne’er strove through tears and troubles, Only clang’d his silver roubles, And thou fullest at his feet. Yet once more, through night and storm, I ride to gaze upon thy form, Touch again that thrilling hand ; Pray that peace may rest upon thee In the home that now has won thee, Then for ever fly this land.” THE COMPARISON. 119 Low she bcndeth o’er him weeping, Heeds not stealthy footsteps creeping, Sees not jealous eye-balls glare — “ Now, slave, steady, — Fool, thou tremblest Vengeance if thy heart dissemblest — Kill her as she standeth there.” a Oh, my Lord and master, hear me — Patience yet, or much I fear me I shall never aim aright. See, the bitter night wind’s blowing Numbs my hand, and brings these flowing Icy tears to dim my sight. “ Silence ! thou accursed Russian. Hold — I’ll guide the pistol’s motion ; See’st thou not her gleaming brow ? So, steady — straight before thee — higher — When I gave the signal, Are — Darker doom awaits him — Now !” A shot, a groan, and all is over ; Still she standeth by her lover — ’Tis the Waiwode falleth dead ! Was ever known such sad disaster ? The bungling slave hath shot his master Straight and steady through the head. THE COMPARISON. FROM THE PORTUGUESE. L oveliest of flowers That in the garden grows, Brightest, sweetest, fairest, Crimson blushing rose. 120 THE COMPARISON. Envy of all others, No charm thy beauty misses, Favourite of Phoebus, Blushing at his kisses. ir. Yet as he outshineth, Glorying in his might, The pale, uncertain splendour Of Luna’s silver light — So does Amarilla, When compared unto thee, Heedless wanton, careless Of the thousand lips that woo thee. in. Thou hast cruel thorns Beneath thy rich leaves lying, But she is soft and gentle As ^Eolian music sighing ; Thou heedest not the murmur Of Zephyr when he sings, But see her dark eyes flashing When I touch my golden strings. IV In the month of flowers, When flaunting in thy pride, Crimson-rob6d Queen, I shall place thee side by side ; Then, Cupid, come and tell me, On thy judgment I’ll repose, Which is fairest, brightest, Amarilla or the Pose? Stay! here is Yenus coming, The goddess will decide — Ah! tis not the Paphian Queen, But Amarilla, my young Bride ! BUDRIS AND IIIS SONS. 121 BUDRIS AND HIS SON'S. FROM: THE RUSSIAN. I. S PRING 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 ; But now my feeble frame sinks to the grave. ii. 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 Prussian ; Woiwod, Kiestut, be thy prey the Russian — Vitald the lances of Poland may dare*, hi. Prom 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 Kolivan — So saints speed the ride of the bold Lithuan ! iv. In the cursed Prussian land there is wealth for tne bold : Ha, boy! never shrink from their ducats of gold; Take their costly brocades, where the golden thread flashes, The amber that lies where the Baltic wave dashes, Be the prize but as rich as your forefathers won, And the gods of old Litwa’]* will guard thee, my son. * Novgorod the Great. f Lithuania. 122 BUDRIS AND IIIS SONS. V. No gold, my young Yitald, will fall to thy share, Where the plains of the Polac lie level and bare ; . But their lances are bright, and their sabres are keen, And their maidens the loveliest ever were seen : So speed forth, my son, and good luck to the ride That brings a fair Polenese home for thy bride. VI. Not the azure of ocean, or stars of the sky, Can rival the colour or light of her eye ; Like the lily in hue, when its first leaves unfold, Is the bosom on which fall her tresses of gold ; Fine and slender her form as the pines of the grove, And her cheek and her lips glow with beauty and love. VII. 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 — u Alas ! for my brave sons, I fear they are slain !” VIII. The snow in the valley falls heavy and fast — Through the forest a horseman comes dashing at last, With his mantle wrapped closely to guard from the cold: u Ha, Olgard ! hast brought me the ducats of gold? Let’s see — is it amber thou’st won for thy ride ?” a Oh, father — no, father — a young Polish bride !” IX. 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 — a How now, my brave son — hast thou brought me a prize 1 Is it silver of Argun thou’st won for thy ride ? Come show me 1” u No, father — a young Polish bride !” TIIE LADY BEATRIZ. ■ 12 x. Faster and thicker the snow-showers fall — A horseman rides fiercely through snow-fiakes and all ; Budris sees how his mantle is clasped to his breast — 44 Ho, slaves ! ’tis enough, bid our friends to the feast ! I’ll ask no more questions, whatever betides, We’ll drain a full cup to the three Polish brides!” THE LADY BEATRIZ. ROMANCE. FROM THE SPANISH. THIRTEENTH CENTURY. “Bodas hacian en Francia." T HERE were stately nuptials in France, In the royal town of Paris : Who is it leads the dance ? The lovely Lady Beatriz. Who is it gazes on her, With looks so earnest and bright ? ’Tis her noblest Page of Honour, Don Martin, Count and Knight. The bride and her maidens advance — Young Count, why lookest thou so ? Are thy dark eyes fixed on the dance, Or on me ? Oh ! I fain would know. I gaze not upon the dance, Sweet Beatriz, lady mine ; For many a galliard I’ve seen in France, But never such beauty as thine. 124 A SERVIAN SONG. Then if thou lovest me so, young Count, Oh ! take me away with thee ; For nor gay nor young, though a prince’s son r Is the bridegroom they’d wed with me. There was mourning in France, I ween, In the royal town of Paris ; For no more was seen either Count Martin Or the lovely Lady Beatriz. A SERVIAN SONG. I. TIEREFORE neighest thou so sadly f Mu Stampest with the hoof so madly? Speak, my steed — why at the tent, With thy stately neck down bent? ii. Have not my own hands caress’d thee ? Proudly in gay trappings dress’d thee ? Yet thou com’st not as of old, Champing at thy curb of gold. hi. Hast thou not, in bright hues glowing, Silken shabrack downward flowing, Silver hoof and broidered rein, Gemm’d with trophies from the slain ? IV. And the horse, he answered sadly — Stamp I with the hoof so madly ? Tramp of steed I hear afar, Trumpet clang and din of war. INSTABILITY. 125 Y. But soon a stranger will bestride me, Other hand than thine will guide me, Never more by thee caress’d, Or proudly in gay trappings dress’d. VI. See, the foe, with fury glowing, Rends my glittering shabrack flowing, Curb of gold and broidered rein Fiercely does he cleave in twain. VII. And my stately neck is drooping, ’Neath a fearful burthen stooping— There a dead man lies supine, Cold as ice — the Form is thine! INSTABILITY. TTwOM THE SPANISH. — SIXTEENTH CENTUHY. * ‘Como esrny aleprre Tvistezas teino.” W HEN the day is brightest, Darkness draweth near ; When the heart is lightest, Coming grief I fear. Eyes of heavenly splendour, Radiance o’er me fling ; But when their light’s most tender I fear its vanishing. 126 A WARNING. Lips, where passion keepeth Holiest incense, bend to mine ; But when woman speaketh, Who would trust so false a shrine ? Even in twined caresses Where love has woven his spells, Of the mutual love that blesses, I hear a voice which tells. As light with darkness weddeth, So must pleasure with annoy, And sorrow ever treadeth On the doomed path of joy. A WARNING. FROM THE DANISH. I. *50) AIR G-UNXVER roam’d in the sunset light, Through wood and wold, In sweet dreams of love, but her heart was bright As proven gold. Yet ever a voice to the maiden spoke, Beware — beware of the false men-folk ! ii. Fair G-univer fished by a lonely stream, With silken line, And smiled to see in the silvery gleam Her image shine. Yet ever a voice still whispered there, My child, of the false-men folk beware ! A WARNING. 127 III. Lo ! a Merman rose from the sedgy reeds, With glittering eyes, And a mantle of pale-green ocean weeds Draped kingly-wise ; And wreath’d with the mist of his flowing hair. Was a crown of the river-lotus fair. IV. Sweet Guniver, said he, in tones that fell So low and clear, Like music that breathes from the caverned shell In the listner’s ear : I’ve gazed on thy beauty down deep in the sea, And my heart pines away for the love of thee. Y. Yet I ask thee to grant but one demand, Oh ! let me rest My burning lips on thy snow-white hand, One instant blest : And dream not of harm, for a Merman’s truth Is pure as a maiden’s in stainless youth. VI. Fair Guniver, heed not the tongues that tell Of man’s vain wile, For our artless souls, thou knowest full wpll, Disdain all guile. Is it much to ask for thy hand to rest One moment, in love, on thy throbbing breast? VII. ’Tis a gentle prayer, she answered, to sue For one alone ; So, beautiful Merman, here take the two Within thine own ; And if, as thou sayest, my hand can bless, Place both to thy lips in one love caress. 128 CASSANDRA. VIII. He took lier white hands, and he drew her down, With laughter hoarse ; But the fishermen weep, for they look upon Fair Guniver’s corse. And still, by her lone grave, the same voice spoke, Beware — oh! beware of the false men-folk! CASSANDRA. FROM SCHILLER. ?fOY in Ilion’s hall resoundeth, Ere the mighty city fell ; Festive hymns of triumph sounded With the gold harp’s richest swell. Each stern warrior rests at last From that strife of direst slaughter; For the brave Pelides weds Royal Priam’s loveliest daughter. ii. Troop on troop, with laurel garlands, Slowly swept the bridal train Onward to the sacred temple Where arose the Thymbrian’s fane. By them ran, with long hair streaming. Ivy-crowned Masnades ; One alone, of sorrow dreaming, Wandered in her wretchedness. CASSANDRA. 129 III. Joyless, while they chant their praises — None to soothe her, none to love — Did Cassandra tread the mazes Of Apollo’s laurel grove ; To the wild wood’s deepest shadow Fled the mystic maiden now, And she dashed the priestess- fillet Wildly from her throbbing brow. IY. w Everywhere are sounds of gladness, From each happy heart awoke ; I alone must rove in sadness, I alone must grief invoke. Joy illumes my father’s features, Garlanded my sisters stand — Yet I hear the rushing pinions Of Destruction o’er our land. u Wildly high a torch is flashing, But ’tis not from Hymen’s hand ; Upward see the red stream dashing, But ’tis not an altar brand. Costly viands, festal dances, Wait the bridegroom and the bride — Yet the Avenger’s step advances, Who will crush them in their pride. VI. “ And they mock my prophet wailing, And they scorn my words of woe ; Fatal gift and unavailing — Still I’ve wandered to and fro, Shunn’d by all the happy round me, Scorned by all where’er I trod ; Heavily thou hast foredoomed me, Oh ! thou mighty Pythian God ! 130 CASSANDRA. VII. “ Why on me was laid the mission : Lift the future’s mystic shroud ? Why to me the seer’s vision ’Mid a spirit-darkened crowd? When the mortal arm is weak, Wherefore give the prophet’s power? Can it turn the stream, or break Clouds of woe that darkly lower ? VIII. a Wherefore lift the pall o’ershading Dark and dread Futurity? Ignorance is joy unfading — Knowledge, death and misery. Oh ! recall thy mournful mission — Take the future from my sight 5 Fatal is the prophet’s vision To the form that shrines its light. IX. u Give me back the happy blindness, E::e my childhood felt thy spell ; Never sang I in joy’s wildness Since I heard thy oracle. Clear the future lies before me, But the present veiled away ; Oh ! to life and joy restore me — Take thy cruel gift away ! x. a Never round my perfumed tresses May the bridal wreath entwine ; ’Mid thy temple’s drear recesses Doomed in loneliness to pine. Never o’er my youth of weeping Did one happy moment rise — Never aught but sorrow reaping From thy fatal mysteries. CASSANDRA. 131 XI. u See my gay companions round me, Blessed with all that love can give ; I alone, my youth consuming, Live to weep, and weep to live. Vain to me the sun, the skies, The flowers on the green earth bending ; Who the joys of life would prize That could know their bitter ending t XII. u Thou, Polyxena, art happy In thy love’s first deep excess , Hellas gives her bravest hero To thy young heart’s fond caress. Proudly is her bosom heaving, Conscious of her bridegroom’s love, Whilst her dreams of pleasure weaving, Envies not the Gods above. XIII. “ And I, too, have trembled gazing Upon one my heart adored — In his deep eyes’ soft appraising Beading love’s unspoken word. Bridal vows I’d fain have uttered, Oh, to him how willingly ! But there stepped a Stygian spectre Nightly between him and me. xiv. “ Pale and hideous phantoms haunt me, From the realms of Proserpine; Ghastly shades of gloom confront me, Everywhere my steps incline ; Even in festive scenes of pleasure, Stifling bright youth’s careless glee— Oh ! that I could know the treasure Of a young heart’s gaiety ! « 132 UNDINE. XY. “ Ha ! the murderer’s steel is beaming ! The murderer’s eye glares wildly bright ! Whither shall I fly the gleaming Of the Future’s lurid light ? All in vain I turn my glances — Still the vision’s ghastly hand Points my doom as it advances : Death within the stranger’s land.” XVI. Does the prophet-maiden falter ? Hark ! those wild disordered cries l Slain before the sacred altar, Dead the son of Thetis lies. Eris shakes her wreathed serpents— All the Gods their temples shun-^ And a thunder-cloud is resting Heavily on Ilion ! UNDINE. FROM THE DANISH. TTYNDINE by the lonely shore 5 In lonely grief, is pacing ; The vows her perjured lover swore No more with hope retracing. Yet none in beauty could compare With ocean’s bright-haired daughter. Her cheek is like the lotus fair That lieth on the water ; UNDINE. 138 II. Her eye is like the azure sky, The azure deep reflecteth ; Her smile, the glittering lights on high, The glittering wave collecteth. Her robe of green with many a gem And pearl of ocean shineth, And round her brow a diadem Of rosy coral twineth. in. Like diamonds scattered here and there, The crystal drops are glistening Amid her flowing golden hair, As thus she paceth listening — Listening through the silver light, The light that lover loveth ; Listening through the dark midnight, But still no lover cometh. IV. An earthly love her heart enthralls, She loves with earth’s emotion ; For him she left her crystal halls Beneath the crystal ocean. Abjured them since he placed that day The gold ring on her finger, Though still the sparkling diamond spray Around her robe would linger. Y. And she hath gained a human soul, The soul of trusting woman ; But love hath only taught her dole, Through tears she knows the human. So from her sisters far apart, Her lonely path she taketh, With human sorrow in the heart That human love forsaketh. 134 UNDINE. VI. She weaves a crown of dripping reeds, On which the moon shines ghastly — “ A wedding crown my lover needs, My pale hands weave it fastly.” She treads a strange and solemn dance, The waves around her groaning, And mingles, with prophetic sense, Her singing with their moaning. VII. “My bridegroom, nought can save thee now, Since plighted troth is broken — The fatal crown awaits thy brow, The fatal spell is spoken. Thou’rt standing by another bride, Before the holy altar — A shadowy form at thy side Will make thy strong heart falter. VIII. u To her, within the holy church, Thy perjured vows art giving ; But never shalt thou cross the porch Again amidst the living. I wait thee ’neath the chill cold waves, While marriage-bells are tolling ; Our bridal chant, ’neath ocean’s caves, Be ocean’s billows rolling.” IX. The bridegroom, in his pride of youth, Beside the fair bride standeth — “ Now take her hand to plight thy troth,” The solemn Priest commandeth. But lo ! a shadowy form is seen Betwixt the bridal greeting, A shadowy hand is placed between, To hinder theirs from meeting. UNDINE. 135 X. The priest is mute, the bridegroom pale — He knows the sea-nymph’s warning; The fair bride trembles ’neth her veil, The bridal’s turned to mourning. No more within the holy church, Love’s holy vows are giving ; They bear the bridegroom from the porch — The dead amidst the living ! Note to Undine. These Undines, or Ocean Nymphs, according to the Northern Mythology, are gentle, beautiful, harmless creations in the form of woman, but without a soul. They can attain this only by union with a mortal, and as they have a passionate desire to ascend into the higher life of humanity, they seek such earthly unions, not guilefully, like the Sirens, but lovingly, aspiringly, as the human might aspire to the angel. It is a beautiful mythus, and veils a deep and profound meaning. De La Motte Fouque has made it familiar to all readers by his exquisite romance of “Undine,” and Bulwer has revealed some of the hidden truths shadowed forth by the fable, in his two novels of “Ernest Maltravers ” and “Alice” — namely, the power of love to create an intellect, in fact, a soul in woman. For, to the deep-thinking, close-observing psychologist, there is no truth more evident than that, under the influence of love, a woman’s intellect, genuis, energy, all the powers of her mind seem capable of infinite expan- sion. And just in proportion as love has need of them, do the particular qualities start into life and unimagined vigour ; be it fortitude, heroism, mental energy, even physical courage, love seems to have the power to create them all. Nothing is impossible to a woman that loves , as nothing is impossible to a man who wills. Another truth is symbolised in this ocean hieroglyphic — namely, that it is the instinct of a woman’s nature to aspire, while the instinct of a man’s nature is to deteriorate — to gravitate towards the animal, to a lower sphere of existence. Woman always loves heavenward ; she has the instinct of ascension like flame and ether. Man always loves earthward ; he gravitates to earth, not to spirit : so that we may formulize thus : — Love gives soul to a woman, but takes it from a man. This is assuming what, indeed, is true, that man always bestows his love, by preference, on fair Undines with- out souls. When united to. such he necessarily divides his soul with her, for all things in nature tend to an equalization, and as he gives half so he loses half. What the result would be if a man of genius wedded a priestess of the eternal fire we have no means of ascertaining ; for history contains no solitary instance of 136 THE FAST. a man of genius becoming united to his equal : that true correla- tive of his soul, of which Plato speaks, but which no one, so destiny seems to decree, shall ever find on earth. We may imagine, indeed, the possibility of a beautiful, lofty, soaring spirit, standing ever beside man in the combat of life. A serene influence, almost as invisible, yet as sustaining as the ether of heaven, filling him with all divine impulses, strengthening all his noble aspirations, exciting his spirit upwards by all rich and radiant foreshadowings of glory, as Minerva stood, bright in deity, yet loving as humanity, beside her favourite warrior on the plains of Troy. But this is but a fabulous hypothesis ; for, as we have said, man always loves earthward, and when united to the soulless Undine, quickly vanishes with her into the ocean of inanity. Here is another cryptic meaning in the myth— the union is represented as indissoluble. He leaves the human, and descends to her sphere — to a lower state of existence. A man without the influence of love may rise to any height ; love is not the absolute requirement for his elevation, as it is for woman’s ; but, bound to an inferior nature, he must fall, and does fall invariably, irrecoverably, pre- cisely down to her level. There is no hope for him. He cannot resist the fatal miasma of commonplace. He falls for ever into the dull abyss of mediocrity. We are not proof against any of the daily influences, however trivial, that surround us. Always there is a tendency to assimilation, either by ascension or dete- rioration, and Tennyson’s proposition is as true in the converse, as in the original statement : — As the wife is so the husband — he will sink down day by day. What is fine within him growing coarse to sympathise with clay. And now, as every fable must have a moral, what shall we learn from this mythus of the fatal termination of men who “ herd with narrow foreheads ?” The moral is obvious. Let all genius remain unwed — All unmated — all unmated, Because so consecrated. THE PAST. ®ROM tlie far off time of my youthful prime jE A light comes evermore ; Oh ! it seems so bright in its far-off light, The glory I had of yore. THE PAST. 137 What the swallow sang with its silvery clang, When autumn and spring were near ; What the church hells rung and the choristers sung, The chant and the song I hear. Oh ! that parting day when I went away, How my heart to joy awoke ! And again I came, hut ah ! not the same, For the trusting heart was broke. Since that parting day — that parting day — Through the fair bright world I’ve ranged, And the world is there still as bright and fair — But I — ’tis I have changed. Oh ! childhood’s truth, with its words of sooth, And its lips as pure as gold, Like a bird it sung, and its untaught tongue Was wise as the prophets of old. Bright home and hearth, in this joyless dearth, Could thy holy vision gleam But once, once more from the far-off shore Of the past, as a heavenly dream ! Oh ! the swallow may come from her southern home, The spendthrift regain his gold, The church bells ring, and the choristers sing Again as they did of old ; But the hopes of youth and its trusting truth, And bright sunny laughter gleams, Once passed and o’er, can return no more, Except in the land of dreams. 138 THE FISHERMAN. THE FISHERMAN. i. T HE water rushes — the water foams — A fisherman sat on the hank, And calmly gazed on his flowing line, As it down in the deep wave sank, The water rushes — the water foams — The bright waves part asunder, And with wondering eyes he sees arise ■ A nymph from the caverns under. ii. She sprang to him — she sang to him — Ah ! wherefore dost thou tempt With thy deadly food, my bright-scaled brood From out their crystal element ? Could’ st thou but know our joy below, Thou would’st leave the harsh, cold land, And dwell in our caves ’neath the glittering waves, As lord of our sparkling band. hi. See you not now the bright sun bow To gaze on his form here ; And the pale moon’s face wears a softer grace In the depths of our silver sphere. See the fleecy shroud of the azure cloud In the heaven beneath the sea ; And look at thine eyes, what a glory lies In their lustre. Come, look with me. IV. The water rushes — the water foams — The cool wave kiss’d his feet. The maiden’s eyes were like azure skies, And her voice was low and sweet. THE IDEAL. 139 She sung to him — she clung to him, — O’er the glittering stream they lean ; Half drew she him, half sunk he in, And never more was seen. THE IDEAL. PROM SCHILLER. OO wilt thou, Faithless ! from me sever, $ 3 / With all thy brilliant phantasy ? With all thy joys and sorrows never For prayers or tears come back to me ? Oh, golden time of youthful life ! Can nothing, Swift One, stay thy motion ? In vain! thy waves, with ruthless strife, Flow on to the eternal ocean. ii. Quenched are the glorious suns that glowing Bright o’er my youthful pathway shone, And thoughts the prescient heart o’erflowing With burning inspirations, gone. For ever fled the trusting faith In visions of my youthful dreaming, Reality has risen to scathe Their all too fair and godlike gleaming. hi. As once with wild desire entreating, Pygmalion the stone enclasped, ’Till o’er the marble pale lips fleeting Life, hope, and passion glowed at last ; 140 THE IDEAL. So, around Nature’s cold form weaving My youthful arms, her lips I pressed, Until her lifeless bosom heaving, Throbbed life-like on my poet-breast. IY. An answering chord to passion’s lyre Within her silent frame I woke ; She gave me back my kiss of fire, And in my heart’s deep language spoke. Then lived for me the tree, the flower, The silver streams in music sang ; All soulless things in that bright hour, With echoes of my spirit rang. Y. The while it sought with eager strife, To clasp Creation with its arm, And spring incarnated to life In deed, or word, or sound, or form. How glorious then the world upfolded, Within its shrouding calyx seen ! How little when Time’s hand unroll’d it ! That little, oh ! how poor and mean ! YI. But, as the wayward, rippling motion Of some bright rock-stream gathers strength, Until, in kingly waves of ocean, It dashes down the height at length : With storm, and sound, and power, crushing The granite rock, or giant tree ; Proud in its chainless fury rushing, To mingle with the rolling sea. VII. So, filled with an immortal daring, No chains of care around his form, Hope’s impress on his forehead beaidng, The youth sprang forth amid Life’s storm. THE IDEAL. 141 Ev’n to dim ether’s palest star Wing’d fancy bore him on untiring ; Nought was too high, and nought too far, For those strong pinions’ wild aspiring ! VIII. How swiftly did they bear him, dashing Through all youth’s fiery heart could dare ! How danced before life’s chariot flashing Bright aerial visions there ! Love in her sweetest beauty gleaming, Fortune with golden diadem crown’d, Truth like the glittering sunlight streaming, Fame with her starry circlet bound ! IX. Alas ! those bright companions guided Through only half of life’s dark way ; All false and fleeting, none abided With the lone wanderer to stray. First light, capricious Fortune vanished — Still love of lore consumed his youth ; But doubt’s dark tempest rose and banished The sun-bright form of radiant Truth. x. I saw the sacred crown degraded, Of Fame, upon a common brow — And, ah ! ’ere yet life’s summer faded,, I saw Love’s sweetest spring-flowers bow. And ever silenter, and ever Lonelier grew the dreary way — Scarce even could hope, with frail endeavour Shed o’er the gloom a ghastly ray. XI. But who, amid the train false-hearted, Stayed lovingly with me to roam — Still from my side remains unparted, And follows to my last dark home ? 142 THE EXILE* Thou, who with joys and sorrows blending, Thy gentle hand to soothe each wound, And bear life’s burdens, ever lending, Thou, Friendship, early sought and found. XII. And thou, with Friendship wedded ever, To calm the tempest of the soul — Exhaustless study ! wearying never, Creating while the ages roll. Still the world-temple calm uprearing, Tho’ grain on grain thou can’st but lay, And striking, with a ceasless daring, Time’s minutes, days, and years away. THE EXILE. I. S PRING’S sweet odours from the meadow Fling their fragrance far and wide, And the tall trees cast the shadow Of the winter’s gloom aside ; But for me no spring is bearing Gladness to my heart despairing ; Comes no more with soothing power Kindly voice, or friendly hand, Song of home, or breath of flower, From my own dear native land. ii. High in Heaven, circling nightly, Moon and stars shine overhead ; Mighty rivers rush on brightly To the ocean’s distant bed ; But for me, in sorrow pining, Star and stream in vain are shining, DEATH WISHES. 143 Foreign skies are drear above me, By a foreign ifiiore I stand, Thinking of the friends that love me, In my own dear far-off land DEATH WISHES. ! might I pass as the evening ray Melts in the deep’ning twilight away; Calmly and gently thus would I die, Untainted by ills of mortality. Oh ! might I pass as the silver star That glitters in radiant light afar. Thus silent and sorrowless fade from sight, Lost in the deep blue ether of night. Oh ! might I pass as the fragrant breath Springing from violets crushed to death, And rise from the dull, cold earthly sod, As an incense-cloud to the throne of God. Oh ! might I pass as the morning showers Drank by the sun from the cups of flowers : Would that the fire of eternal love Thus exhaled my life-weary soul above ! Oh ! might I pass as Aeolian notes, When over the chords the soft wind floats : But ere the silver strings are at rest, Find an echo within the Creator’s breast. “ Thou wilt not pass in music or light, Nor silently sink in the ether of night, Nor die the gentle death of the flower, Nor be drank by the sun like a morning shower. u Thou wilt pass, but not till thy beauty is withered, Not till thy powers and hop^es lie shivered: Silence and beauty are Nature’s death-token ; But the poor human heart, ere it die — must be broken I” 144 HYMN TO THE CROSS. HYMN TO THE CROSS. SAVONAROLA. ®ESUS, refuge of the weary, Object of the spirit’s love, Fountain in life’s desert dreary, Saviour from the world above ! Oh, how oft Thine eyes, offended, Gazed upon the sinner’s fall ; Yet, Thou on the Cross extended, Bore the penalty of all ! For our human sake enduring Tortures infinite in pain ; By Thy death our life assuring, Conquerors through Thee we reign. Still we passed the Cross in scorn, Breathing no repentant vow, Though from ’neath the circling thorn, Dropped the blood-sweat off Thy brow. Yet, Thy sinless death hath brought us Life eternal, peace and rest ; What Thy grace alone hath taught us, Calms the sinner’s stormy breast. Jesus, would my heart were burning With more vivid love for Thee ! Would mine eyes were ever turning To Thy Cross of agony ! Would that on that Cross suspended I the martyr’s palm might win — Where the Lord, the heaven-descended, Sinless suffered for my sin ! JESUS TO THE SOUL. 145 Cross of torture ! may’st thou rend me With thy fierce, unearthly dole ; Welcome be the pangs that lend me Strength to crush sin in my soul. So, in pain and rapture blending, Might my fading eyes grow dim, While the freed heart rose, ascending To the circling Seraphim. Then in glory, parted never From the blessed Saviour’s side, Graven on my heart for ever Be the Cross, and Crucified ! JESUS TO THE SOUL. SAVONAROLA. F AIR SOUL, created in the primal hour, Once pure and grand, And for whose sake I left my throne and power At God’s right hand — By this sad heart, pierced through because I love thee, Let love and mercy to contrition move thee. Cast off the sins thy holy beauty veiling, Spirit divine ! Yain against thee the host of hell assailing — My strength is thine. Drink from my side the wine of life immortal, And love will lead thee back to Heaven’s portal. Quench in my light the flame of low desire, Crush doubt and fear; Even to my glory may »each soul aspire, If victor here. Die now to earth, with earthly vanity, And live for evermore in Heaven with me. 146 TRISTAN AND ISOLDE. I, for thy sake, was pierced with many sorrows. And bore the Cross ; Yet heeding not the galling of the arrows, The shame or loss. So, faint not thou, whate’er the burden be, Bear with it bravely, even to Calvary. Still shall my spirit urge if thou delayest, My hand sustain ; My blood wash out thy errors if thou strayest — Plead I in vain ? An hour is coming when the judgment loometh ; Eepent, fair soul, ere yet that hour cometh. [The Italian original of these two beautiful Hyn?ns will be found in Doctor Madden’s most admirable and interesting life of Savonarola.] TRISTAN AND ISOLDE. THE LOVE SIN. 'ONE, unless the saints above, XU Knew the secret of their love ; For with calm and stately grace Isolde held her queenly place, Tho’ the courtiers’ hundred eyes Sought the lovers to surprise, Or to read the mysteries Of a love — so rumour said — By a magic philtre fed, Which for ever in their veins Burn’d with love’s consuming pains. Yet their hands would twine unseen, In a clasp ’twere hard to sever ; And whoso watched their glances meet* Gazing as they’d gaze for ever, TRISTAN AND ISOLDE. 147 Might have marked the sudden heat Crims’ning on each flushing cheek, As the tell-tale blood would speak Of love that never should have been — The love of Tristan and his Queen. But, what hinders that the two, In the spring of their young life, Love each other as they do ? Thus the tempting thoughts begin — Little recked they of the sin ; Nature joined them hand in hand, Is not that a truer band Than the formal name of wife ? Ah ! what happy hours were theirs ! One might note them at the feast Laughing low to loving airs, Loving airs that pleased them best ; Or interchanging the swift glance In the mazes of the dance. So the sunny moments rolled, And they wove bright threads of gold Through the common web of life ; Never dreaming of annoy, Or the wild world’s wicked strife ; Painting earth and heaven above In the light of their own joy, In the purple light of love. Happy moments, which again Brought sweet torments in their train : All love’s petulance and fears, Wayward doubts and tender tears; Little jealousies and pride, That can loving hearts divide : Murmured vow and clinging kiss, Working often bane as bliss ; All the wild, capricious changes Through which lovers’ passion ranges. 148 THEKLA. Yet would love, in every mood, Find Heaven’s manna for its food ; For love will grow wan and cold, And die ere ever it is old, That is never assailed by fears, Or steeped in repentant tears, Or passed through the fire like gold. So loved Tristan and Isolde, In youth’s sunny, golden time, In the brightness of their prime ; Little dreaming hours would come, Like pale shadows from the tomb, When an open death of doom Had been still less hard to bear, Than the ghastly, cold despair Of those hidden vows, whose smart Pale the cheek, and break the heart. THEKLA. A SWEDISH SAGA. THE TEMPTATION. N the green sward Thekla’s lying, Summer winds are round her sighing, At her feet the ocean plays ; In that mirror idly gazing She beholds, with inward praising, Her own beauty in amaze. And with winds and waves attuning Her low voice, in soft communing Said : u If truly I’m so fair, Might the best in our Swedish land Die all for love of my white hand, Azure eyes and golden hair. 7 ’ THEKLA. 149 And fair Thekla bent down gazing, Light her golden curls upraising From her bosom fair to see, Which, within the azure ocean, Glittered hack in soft commotion, Like a lotus tremblingly. Saying soft, with pleasure trembling, “ If so fair is the resembling, How much fairer I must be ! Rose-lipped shadow, smiling brightly, Are we angels floating lightly Through the azure air and sea ? “ Oh ! that beauty never faded, That years passing never shaded Youthful cheek with hues of age ! Oh ! thou fairest crystal form, Can we not time’s hand disarm Hark ! the winds begin to rage ; And with onward heaving motion Rise the waves in wild commotion — Spirits mournfullest they seem Round the crystal shadow plaining, Shivered, shattered, fades it waning From the maiden like a dream. And from midst the drooping oziers Of the sunny banks’ enclosures Rose a woman weird to see : Strange her mein and antique vesture, Yet with friendly look and gesture To the trembling girl spake she. “ As the cruel winds bereft thee Of the shadow that hath left thee, Maiden, will thy children steal One by one these treasures from thee. Till all beauty hath foregone thee : Mother’s woe is children’s weal. 150 THEKLA. “ For tlie beauty of the mother Is the children’s — sister, brother, As she fades away, will bloom. Mother’s eyes grow dim by weeping, Wan her cheak, lone vigils keeping : Youthful virgin, ’ware your doom ! “ Wifely name is sweet from lover, Yet ere many years are over, From the fatal day you wed, Sore you’ll rue the holy altar, And the salt sea will grow salter For the bitter tears you’ll shed. u See the pallid cheek reflected, Hollow, sunken eyes dejected, Look of weary, wasting pain ; All changed for thy beauty rarest : Maiden, tell me, if thou darest Then come here, and look again. “ But should lovers’ pleading gain thee, Haste thee quick and I will sain thee Ere the marriage vows are said ; By the might of magic power, I can save thee from the hour Of a mother’s anguish dread.” Answered Thekla : “ Save me ! save me! Witch or woman, then I crave thee, From a mother’s fated doom ! So my beauty never fading Thou canst make with magic aiding, Fatal Mother, I shall come.” THE SIN. ’Neath the casement stood a Bitter, Sings by night with sweetest tone : 44 Thekla, dearest Thekla, listen, Wilt thou be my bride, mine own? TIIEKLA. 151 u Castles have T, parks and forests, Mountains veined with the red gold ; And a heart that pineth for thee, With a wealth of love untold. “I will deck my love in jewels, Gold and peril on brow and hand, Broidered robes and costly girdles, From the far-off Paynim land. “ Here I hang upon the rose-tree, Love, a little golden ring ; Wilt thou take it ? wilt thou wear it, Love V 9 Thus did the Ritter sing. Then upon his black steed mounting, Kissed his hand and doffed his plume. Lovely Thekla stole down gently, Sought the gold ring in the gloom. a Little ring, wilt thou deceive me ? Like the rose dost hide a thorn V 9 As she takes it, close beside her Sounds a ringing laugh of scorn. And the fatal Mother, mocking, Points her finger to the ring : 44 What, my maiden ! sold thy beauty F or that paltry glittering thing ? “ Plucked the bauble from a rose-tree ? Ring and rose and doom in all ; Roses bright from cheek of beauty, Roses bright must fade and fall. 64 Wilt thou follow me V 9 They glided Over heath, through moor and wood, Till beside an ancient windmill, In the lone, dark night they stood. All the mighty wheels were silent, All the giant arms lay still — 14 Bride and wife, but never mother, Maiden, swear, is such thy will? 152 THEKLA. a Dost swear T “ I swear !” They glided Up the stairs and through the door, With her wand the magic Mother Draws a circle on the floor. Grains of yellow corn, seven, Takes she from a sack beside, Draws the gold ring of her lover From the finger of the bride. — “ Seven children would have stolen Light and beauty from thine eyes, But as I cast the yellow corn Through thy gold ring, each one dies. Slowly creaked the mill, then faster Whirled the giant arms on high ; Shuddering, hears the trembling maiden Crushing bones, and infant’s cry. Now there is a deathlike silence, Thekla hears her heart alone — Again the weird one flings the corn, Again that plantive infant’s moan. Two — three — four — the mill goes faster, Whirling, crushing. — Ah ! those cries ! “ Bride, thou’lt never be a mother ; Thy beauty’s saved — the seventh dies !’ r Seven turns the mill hath taken, Seven moans hath Thekla heard \ Then all is still. The moon from Heaven Shines down calm upon the sward. “ Now take back thy ring in safety ; Mother’s joy or mother’s woe, Wasting pain or fading beauty, Maiden, thou shalt never know ! “ Home, before the morning hour !” Home in terror Thekla flies, Shuddering, she hears behind her Laugh of scorn, infants’ cries. THEKLA. 155 THE BRIDAL. The guests have met in the castle hall. Who rides through the castle gate, With banner and plume ? The young bridegroom And a hundred knights in state. The guests have met in procession fair, Around the bride they stand ; The myrtle wreath on her golden hair, The bride ring on her hand. So bright her beauty she dazed men’s eyes, Like the blinding, glorious sun. “Never knight,” they murmured, “gained such prize Since ever the world begun.” Seven maidens held up her train of white, Inwrought with the precious gold, And over it flowed in a stream of light Her long, bright hair unrolled. Seven pages, each with a lighted torch, Precede her as she moves With the long array to the ancient church Within the beechen groves. The priest stood mute with the holy book, And scarce could utter a prayer, As that lovely vision of light and youth Knelt down before him there. She vows the vows. Erick bends to place The gold ring on her hand, Prouder then, as he gazed on her face, Than if King of the Swedish land. The lights were bright in the hall that night, But brighter Thekla’s glance, As in wedded pride, by Erick’s side, She led the bridal dance. 154 THEKLA. “ Drink ! and wave high the flaming pines ; God bless the bride so fair ! May a goodly race, like clustering vines, Twine round the wedded pair 1” The ‘‘vivas” rung for the noble race, Till they stirred the banners of gold, And the bridegroom bow’d with a stately grace But the bride sat mute aud cold — F or the air seemed heavy as that of graves, And the lights burned lurid and chill ; And she hears the dash of the far-off waves, And the creak of the mighty mill. The “vivas” sound like an infant’s wail, Or a demon’s laugh of scorn. “ Oh ! would to God,” she murmured, all pale. “ That I had never been born !” THE PUNISHMENT. Full seven years have passed and flown — But years o’er Thckla lightly pass, As rose leaves, falling one by one, From roses on the summer grass. “It is our bridal day,” she said ; “We’re bidden to a christ’ ning feast I’ll wear the robe I had when wed, The robe I love of all the best. “ I’ll wear my crown of jewels rare : On brow and bosom let them shine ; Yet diamonds in my golden hair Were dull beside these eyes of mine!” She laughed aloud before the glass. “ Some women’s hair would turn to grey With cares, ere half the years did pass I’ve numbered since my wedding day. THEKLA. 155 u But they were mothers — fools, I trow. Life’s current all too quickly runs ; I would not give my beauty now For all their goodly race of sons.” She sprang upon her palfrey white, While Erick held the broiderd rein, And showered down her veil of light Upon the flowing, silky mane. The guests rose up in wonderment — Such beauty never had been seen — And bowed before her as she went, As if she were a crowned queen. The knights pressed round with words of praise, And murmured homage in her ear, And swore to serve her all their days, E’en die for her — would she but hear. But vainly, all in vain they sought One answering smile of love to win. Upon her soul there lieth nought Save that one only, deadly sin. u I pray you now I fain would have So fair an angel hold my child,” The mother said ; and smilling, gave To Thekla’s arms her infant mild. Advancing slow, with stately air, Beside the font she took her place, The infant, like a rosebud fair, Nestling amid her bosom’s lace. She lays it on the bishop’s arm, The while he makes the blessed sign, And sains it safe from ghostly harm By Father, Spirit, Son Divine. Then reaches out her hands again To take it — but with moaning sound, Like one distraught with sudden pain, F alls pale and fainting to the ground. 156 THEIvLA. 44 She has no children,” Erick said, As pleading for the strange mischance ; 44 This only grief since we were wed Has saddened sore her life, perchance.* 44 She has no children !” murmured low The happy mothers, gathered near ; 44 No child to love her — bitter woe ; No child to kiss her on her bier !” But graver matrons shook the head : 44 That witchlike beauty bodes no good ; Witch hands can never hold, ’tis said, A child just blessed by holy rood.” They raised her up ; she spake no word, But slowly drooped her tearful eyes ; The rushing wave was all she heard, The whirling wheels, the infants’ cries. And Erick said, with bitter smile : 44 You play the mother all too ill ; Madonnas do not suit your style.” Her thoughts were by the lonely mill. They set her on her palfrey white ; She heeds not all their taunting sneers, But showers down her veil of light, To hide the conscious, guilty tears. They rode through all his vast estate, But rode in silence — he behind, Sore pondering on his childless fate, With ruffled brow and moody mind. They rode through shadowy forest glades, By meadows filled with lowing kine, By streams that ran like silver threads Down from the dark-fringed hills of pine*. 44 Alas !” he thought, 44 no child of mine When I am dead shall take my place ; Must all the wealth of all my line Pass to a hated kinsman’s race ? THEKLA. 157 • u Now, by my sword, I’d give up all, Wealth, fame, and glory, all I’ve won, So that within my father’s hall Beside me stood a noble son !” He saw her white veil floating back Along the twilight gray and still, Like ghostly shadows on her track — Her thoughts were by the lonely mill. And now they neared the ancient church, The ancient church where they were wed ! The moonlight full upon the porch Shone bright, and Erick raised his head. O Heaven ! There upon the lawn The palfrey’s shadow stands out clear, But Thekla’s shadow — it is gone ! Nor form nor floating veil is there. He spurred his steed with bitter cry : “ Could she have fallen in deathly swoon V* But no, there, slowly riding by, He sees her by the bright full moon. With gesture fierce he seized her rein : Woman or fiend ! Look, if you dare, The palfrey casts a shadow plain, But yours — O horror ! — is not there !” She gathered close her silken veil, And wrung her hands, and prayed for grace, While down from Heaven the calm moon pale Looked like God’s own accusing face. He flung aside the broidered rein : u O woe the day that we were wed ! A witch bride to my arms I’ve ta’en, Branded by God’s own finger dread.” She followed, weeping, step by step, Led by the unseen hand of Fate, Still keeping in the shadows deep, Until they reached the castle gate. 158 TI1EKLA* He strode across the corridor, And rolling back upon its ring The curtan of her chamber door, He motioned her to enter in. She laid aside her silken veil, The golden circlet from her head, And waited, motionless and pale, Like one uprisen from the dead. Could she deny, e’en if she would? The moonlight wrapped her like a sheet* And in the accusing light she stood, As if before God’s judgment-seat. Brief were his questions, stern his wrath ; A doom seemed laid on her to tell, How, with the ring of plighted troth, Her hand had wrought the murd’rous spell. How she had marred his ancient line, And broke the life-chord that should bless, And sent the seven fair souls to pine Back to the shades of nothingness— That so her beauty might not wane, Her glorious beauty — fatal good ; Yet one she would not lose to gain The rights of sacred motherhood. And still she told the tale as cold — The witch-tire burning in her eyes — As if it were some legend old, Drawn from a poet’s memories. He cursed her in his bitter wrath, He cursed her by her children dead, He cursed the ring of plighted troth, He cursed the day when they were wed. Fierce and more fierce his accents rose : u Away !” he cried, “ false hag of sin ; I see through all this painted gloze The black and hideous soul within. THEKLA. 159 ' a OTi ! false and foul, thou art to me A devil — not a woman fair ! Like coiling snakes I seem to see Each twisted tress of golden hair. u I hate thee, as I hate God’s foe. Forth from my castle halls this night : I could not breathe the air, if so Thy poison breath were here to blight.’'' She cowered, shivered, spake no word. But fell before him at his feet, As if an angel of the Lord Had smote her at the judgment-seat. And on her heart there came at last The dread, deep consciousness of sin, That ghastly spectre which had cast Upon her life this suffering. And from her hand the gold ring fell — Her wedding ring — and broke in twain ; The fatal ring that wrought the spell, The accursed ring of love and pain. The spell seemed broken then : the word Came, softly breath’d : “ Oh, pardon ! grace !” And pleadingly to her dread lord She lifted up her angel face — With golden tresses all unbound, Still lovely through her shame and loss, Around his feet her arms she wound, As sinner might around the cross. He dashed her twining hands aside, He spurned her from him as she knelt. “ O hateful beauty !” Erick cried, u The source of all thy hellish guilt. u Pray for a cloud that can eclipse That long, white streak of moonlight pale. No word of grace from mortal lips Can bring a ruined soul from Hell. 160 THEKLA. u Away ! I would not pardon, not (I swear it by the holy rood) Unless upon that hated spot An angel with a lily stood !” She shuddered in the moonlight pale, That doomed and banned her from his sight, Then rose up with a bitter wail, And fled away into the night ! THE EXPIATION. Tull seven times the summer sun Had waked the dreaming summer flowers, And seven times they slept again Beneath the winter snow and showers ; And still, through summer’s parching heat, Through winter’s storm, and rain, and snow, Had Thekla dragged her weary feet In one long pilgrimage of woe. The beasts fled back at her approach, The shunshine ceased to flicker round, The flowers withered at her touch, And fell like corpses to the ground. Where’er she passed there lay a gloom, The young birds shivered in the nest, All nature echoed back her doom, And spurned the sinner from her breast. She flung her sighs out to the wind : The peasants heard that mournful wail, And, crouching down by winter fires, Said : u ’Tis the witch-fiend in the vale.” They laid down food beneath the trees, And waited, trembling, till she came, Then fled away, for none would speak To one so bann’d by sin and shame. TflEKLA. 1G1 She gathered autumn leaves and moss, Within a cavern lone and deep, And there she crept each night to rest, To rest, but never more to sleep. No human voice came near to soothe, Her anguish dimm’d no human eye, The bond of sisterhood was rent Between her and Humanity. But ever when the moon was full, All in the moonlight weird and still Came evermore upon her ear The moanings by the lonely mill ; And seven dread shadows entered in And gathered round her lowly bed, The ghastly witnesses of sin, A silent freezing sight of dread. All night they stayed, those phantoms pale, Those formless phantons dim and drear, And looked at her with fixed cold eyes, That chilled her very blood with fear. In vain she tried to hide her face ; She felt their presence still around, And well she knew no pitying grace From these dread beings could be found. She could not weep, she dare not pray, But lay like one in coffined clay, Till those weird phantoms, one by one, Melted away in the morning sun, Which fell like the light of the judgement-day, When the doom of the Lord is done. Oft wandering round the ancient church, The ruined church where they were wed, She vainly tried to cross the porch, And lay therein her weary head ; And her weary load of shame and sin Upon the altar steps within. 162 TIIE1CLA. But never, since the fatal night She tied away from Erick’s sight, Curs’d with liis ban of deepest hate, Had human hand unbarred the gate ; Nor priest nor chorister was there, Nor sacred rite nor holy prayer : Foredoom’d and desolate it stood All in the lonely beechen wood. God’s curse it is a bitter thing To fall on a human soul, Alone with its awful suffering, With its deadly sin and dole ; ’Mid the ghastly wrecks of a human life, And memories of shame, When thoughts of a past that would not sleep. Like barbed arrows came. GOD’S JUSTICE. And Erick roamed in distant lands, But cannot fly his weary fate ; Before him in the lonely night, Before him in the noonday bright, His guilty wife for ever stands, A thing of loathing and of hate. Alone, as under blight and ban, He roams, a saddened, weary man. Yet yearnings came to him at last, And, drawn as by a spirit hand, He homeward turned, his wanderings past, To his own distant Swedish land ; And rose up with a spirk grace, As pleading to him for her life, Before him, with her angel face, His beautiful, his sinning wife. TIIEXLA. ioa The ship sailed fast through storm and wrack, The ship sailed slow the Isles between, And Erick, watching on the deck, Saw rise before him, low and green, The Sweedish shores in level lines, The fringed shores of lordly pines : A spirit’s touch, a spirit’s power, Seemed on him at that magic hour. * * * # * He stood within his castle halls, The grass grew rank around the gate, The weeds hung from the mouldering walls, And all around was desolate. The bridal room was closed from sight, For none had dared to enter in, Since by God’s awful, searching light The sinner had confessed her sin. Her golden ring of hellish ban Still lay upon the marble floor, Her broken ring — the fatal sign Of love that could return no more. B Mio CABELLOS. 1G<> Then still thy fears ! Behold thy glorious home, Yon star-roofed azure dome— How infinite thy F a tiler’s house appears ! There, ah ! there we’ll rest, Poor weak ones, on His breast ; Then, mourner, let thy frail heart break in tears, But still thy fears ! SULEIMA TO HER LOVER. FROM THE TURKISH. T HOU reck’nest seven Heavens ; I but one : And thou art it, Beloved ! Voice and hand, And eye and mouth, are but the angel band Who minister around that highest throne — Thy godlike heart. And there I reign supreme, 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 : u I love thee ! How I love thee !” A LA SOMBRA DE MIS CABELLOS. FROM THE SPANISH. — SIXTEENTH CENTURY. * ■ M Y 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 ? 170 CONSTANCY. With a comb of gold each night I combed my tresses bright ; But the sportive zephyr tossed them to and fro 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 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, Encirling him within its mazy flow ; And pillowed on my breast, He lay in sweet unrest : Ah ! does he now remember it or no ? CONSTANCY. FROM THE RUSSIAN. RAVEN on a branch is sitting ; By him comes another flitting — Brother, where so quickly flying ? Hast thou scented dead or dying ? ii. Food and plenty sent to cheer us, Croaks the other, we have near us. Yonder there, amid the gorse, Ties the murdered Baron’s corse. i THE FATE OF THE LYRIST. 1 III. Who slew him ? Wherefore? Woe the day ! Did the Baron’s falcon say ? Or the Baron’s steed so wild — Or the Baron’s wife so mild ? IV. Her flight far off the falcon’s winging ; On the steed a slave is springing ; And she ? — by the pale moonlight hath fled With the living from the dead. THE FATE OF THE LYRIST. T HE soul is ever clinging unto form ; Action, not abstract thought, alone can warm The great heart of Humanity — in life’s fierce storm Pass they the Lyrist by. The Dramatist may wear triumphant bays ; And see the wondering people’s tranc’d amaze, The while unrolls great Homer to their gaze, His gorgeous, many-coloured tapestry. But lofty Pindar’s heaven- directed flight, Petrarca’s song, mystic and sad as night, Fall dull upon the common ear — their might Is to the world a mystery. Such spirits dwell but with the spiritual — Their godlike souls disdaining to enthrall ; Within the limits of the actual, Men pass, unheeding the divinity. Their name, indeed, is echoed by the crowd ; But from amidst the masses earthward bowed, Few lift the head, with kindred soul endowed, To list their Orphic melody. 172 DESILLUSION. THE POET’S DESTINY. T HE Priest of Beauty, the Anointed One, Through the wide world passes the Poet on. All that is noble by his word is crown’d, But on his brow th’ Acanthus wreath is bound. Eternal temples rise beneath his hand, While his own griefs are written in the sand ; He plants the blooming gardens, trails the vine — But others wear the flowers, drink the wine ; He plunges in the depths of life to seek Rich joys for other hearts — his own may break. Like the poor diver beneath Indian skies, He flings the pearl upon the shore — and dies ; DESILLUSION. T OO soon, alas ! too soon I plunged into the world with tone and clang, And they scarcely comprehended what the Poet wildly t sang.. Not the spirit-glance deep gazing into nature’s inmost soul, Not the mystic aspirations that the Poet’s words unroll. Cold and spiritless and silent — yea, with scorn received they me, Whilst on meaner brows around me wreath’d the laurel crown I see. And I, who in my bosom felt the godlike nature glow, I wore the mask of folly while I sang of deepest woe. But, courage ! years may pass — this mortal frame be laid in earth, But my spirit reign triumphant in the country of my birth ! THE PRISONERS. 173 l THE PRISONERS. CHRISTMAS, 18G9. H AS not vengeance been sated at last ? Will the holy and beautiful chimes Ring out the old wrongs of the past, Ring in the new glories and times ? Will the eyes of the pale prisoners rest Once again on their loved mountain scenes, When the crimson of East or of West F alls o’er them as mantles on Queens ? Will they muse once again by the sea, List the thunder of waves on the strand, As exultant, as fearless and free As the foam-flakes that dash on the land ? Will they lift their wan faces to God * In the radiant, bright, infinite air, Press their lips to the old native sod In a rapture of praise and of prayer ? ii. Ah, the years of their young lives pass over, Still wept out in dungeons alone, Where the lips of a wife, child, or mother Were never yet pressed to their own ; Years of torture and sorrow and trials, ' In the gloom of the desolate cell, Where the wrath of the sevenfold vials Seem poured to turn Earth to a Hell ; Where strong brains are seared into madness, And burning hearts frozen to stone, And despair surges over life’s gladness, And young life goes out with a moan. 174 THE PRISONERS. Go, kneel as at graves, weeping woman — When the last fatal sentence was said, All ties that are tender and human Were rent as from those that are dead. hi. They were young then, in youth’s glorious fashion With a pulse-throb of fire in each vein, And the glow and the splendours of passion Flashing up from the heart to the brain. Sharp as falchions their keen words reproving — Great words moved by no coward breath — And no crime on their souls save of loving Their Country with love strong as death. Oh, their hearts, how they leaped to the surface, As a sword from the scabbard unsheathed, Their pale faces stern with a purpose, Their brows with Fate’s cypress enwreathed. Grave, earnest, the judgment unheeding, Or the wreck of their lives lying prone, From these doomed lips the strong spirits’ pleading Soared up from man’s bar to God’s Throne. IY. “ We but taught men,” they said, “ from the pages Graven deep in our history and soil, From the Litanies poured through the ages Of sorrow, and torture, and toil ; By the insults, the mockings, the scornings, The bondage on body and soul ; By the ruin, the slaughters, the burnings, When death was the patriot’s goal ; By the falsehood enthroned in high places, By the feeble hearts cowering within, By the slave-brand read plain on their faces, Though the ermine might cover the sin. We were broken and sundered and shattered, Made thrall by the tyrant’s strong arm, To the wild waves and fierce winds were scattered As dead leaves swept on by the storm. THE PRISONERS. 175 For each age gave a traitor or tyrant To build up the wrongs that we see, But each age, too, gives heroes aspirant Of the Fame or the death of the F ree I” v. Oh, Chimes ringing out in our city, Oh, Angels that walk to and fro. Oh, Christ-words of pardon and pity, Can ye speak to those souls lying low In a sorrow no festal chime scatters, In a night where no Angel appears, The wasted limbs heavy with fetters, The weary heart heavy with tears ; With the ghost of dead youth crushing on them, And the gloom of the years yet to be, With a blackness of darkness upon them As of night when it falls on the sea ? VI. When the Christmas bells ring out at even The song of the Angels’ bright spheres, Their sad eyes will strain up to Heaven, Their bread will be bitter with tears. Through our laughter will come that sad vision, Through the ivy-wreathed wine-cup’s red glow, Through our wassail the wail from their prison, Lamentation and mourning and woe. With sorrow wrapped round like a garment, With ashes for joy as their crown, With bonds tight’ning close as a cerement They wait till God’s morning comes down ; Yet no echo from their lips will falter Of the solemn, sweet carol or song, But a cry, as of souls ’neath the Altar, “ How long ! oh, our Lord God , how long ?’ 176 THE DAWN. * THE DAWN. W HAT of the night, 0 Watcher on the Tower ? Is the Day dawning through the golden bars ? Comes it through the midnight, over clouds that lower, Trailing robes of crimson mid the fading stars ? “ Through the rent clouds I see a splendour gleaming, Rolling down the darkness to the far Heaven’s rim, While through the mist the glorious Dawn upstreaming Rises like the music of a grand choral hymn.” From the deep valleys where the whirlwind passes, Hear you the tramp of the coming hosts of men, Strong in their manhood, mighty in their masses, Swift as rushing torrents down a mountain glen ? “Far as eye can reach, where purple mists are lifted, Thousands upon thousands are gathering in might, Powerful a$ tempests when giant sails are rifted, Beautiful as ocean in the sun’s silver light.” See you their Banner in the free air proudly Waving, as an oriflamme a king might bear, Bias it no legend — dare we utter loudly All that a people may have written there? “ I see their Banner in the red dawn flashing — Haughty is the legend, plain to all men’s sight, Traced in their heart’s blood, which the breeze upcatching, Flings out in flame-words — Liberty and Right! u Onward they come, still gathering in power, Serried ranks of men o’er the crimson -clouded lawn ; Banners glisten brightly in the golden shower Pouring through the portals of the golden Dawn. THE DAWN. 177 “ Each bears a symbol, glorious in its meaning, Holy as the music of the crown’d Bard’s Psalm : Faith gazing upward, on her Anchor leaning, Peace with the Olive, and Mercy with the Palm.” Long have we waited, O Watcher, for the vision, Splendid in promise we now can see it rise, Scattering the darkness, while with hero-mission Brave hands uplift Hope’s banner to the skies. Not with vain clamour, but the soul’s strength revealing In the golden silence of all great true deeds, Banded in strength for human rights appealing, Banded in love for our poor human needs. Bitter was the Past ; let it rest, a new rEon Preaches a new Gospel to man not in vain, Earth through all her kingdoms echoes back the Pcean Chanted once by Angels on the star-lit plain. Brotherhood of Nations, disdaining ancient quarrel, Brotherhood of Peoples, flushed with a nobler rage, Palm branch and Olive let us mingle with the Laurel In the radiant future of the coming Age! 178 AN APPEAL TO IRELAND. AN APPEAL TO IRELAND. i. T HE sin of our race is upon us, The pitiless, cruel disdain Of brother for brother, tho’ coiling Round both is the one fatal chain ; And aimless and reckless and useless Our lives pass along to the grave In tumults of words that bewilder, And the conflicts of slave with slave. ii. Yet shadows are heavy around us, The darkness of sin and of shame, While the souls of the Nation to slumber Are lulled by vain visions of fame ; True hearts, passion-wasted, and breaking With sense of our infinite wrong, Oh ! wake them, nor dread the awaking, We need all the strength of the strong. hi. For we rage with senseless endeavours In a fever of wild unrest, While glory lies trampled, dishonoured, Death-pale, with a wound in her breast ; Had we loosened one chain from the spirit, Had we strove from the ruin of things To build up a Temple of Concord, More fair than the palace of Kings ; IV. Our name might be heard where the Nations Press on to the van of the fight, Where Progress makes war upon Evil, And Darkness is scattered by Light. AN APPEAL TO IRELAND. 179 They have gold and frankincense and myrrh To lay at the feet of their King, But we — what have we but the wine-cup Of wrath and of sorrow to bring ? Y. Let us ask of our souls, lying under The doom of this bondage and ban, Why we, made by God high as Angels, Should fall so much lower than man ; Some indeed have been with us would scale Heav’n’s heights for life- fire if they dare— But the vultures now gnaw at their hearts Evermore on the rocks of Despair. YI. Let us think, when we stand before God, On the Day of the Judgment roll, And He asks of the work we have done In the strength of each God -like soul ; Can we answer — u Our prayers have gone up As light from the stars and the sun, And Thy blessing came down on our deeds As a crown when the victory’s won. VII. 4t We fought with wild beasts, wilder passions, As of old did the saints of God, Tho’ our life-blood ran red in the dust Of the fierce arena we trod ; We led up Thy people triumphant From Egypt’s dark bondage of sin, And made the fair land which Thou gavest All glorious without and within. VIII. u We changed to a measure of music The discord and wail of her days, F or sorrow gave garments of gladness, F or scorn of her enemies praise ; 180 AN APPEAL TO IRELAND. We crowned her a Queen in the triumph Of noble and beautiful lives, While her chariot of Freedom rolled on Through the crash of her fallen gyves.” IX. I ask of you, Princes, and Rulers, I ask of you, Brothers around, Can ye thus make reply for our people When the Nations are judged or crowned ? If not, give the reins of the chariot To men who can curb the wild steeds — They are nearing the gulf, in this hour We appeal by our wrongs and our needs. x Stand back and give place to new leaders ; We need them — some strong gifted souls, From whose lips, never touched by a falsehood, The heart’s richest eloquence rolls. True Patriots by grandeur of purpose, True men by the power of the brain : The chosen of God to lift upward His Ark with hands clear of all stain. XI. We need them to tend the Lord’s vineyard, As shepherds to watch round His fold, With brave words from pure hearts outpouring, As wine from a chalice of gold ; That the souls of the Nation uplifted, May shine in new radiance of light, As of old stood the Prophets transfigured In glory with Christ on the height. XII. Far out, where the grand western sunsets Flush crimson the mountain and sea, And the echoes of Liberty mingle With the roar of the waves on the lea ; AN APPEAL TO IRELAND. 181 Where over the dim shrouded passes The clouds fling a rainbow-hued arch, And through giant-rent portals a people Go forth on their sad, solemn march : XIII. I had dreams of a future of glory For this fair motherland of mine, When knowledge would bring with its splendours The Human more near the Divine. And as flash follows flash on the mountains, When lightnings and thunders are hurled, So would throb in electrical union Her soul with the soul of the world. XIV, For we stand too apart in our darkness, As planets long rent from the sun, And the mystical breath of the spirit Scarce touches our hearts sweeping on. I appeal from this drear isolation To earth, to the mountains, and sky — Must we die as of thirst in a desert, While full tides of life pass us by ? XY. Yet still, through the darkness and sorrow, I dream of a time yet to be, When from mountain and ocean to Heaven Will rise up the Hymn of the Free. When our Country, made perfect through trial, White-robed, myrtle-crowned, as a Bride, Will stand forth, “ a Lady of Kingdoms,” Through Light and through Love glorified. POPULAR PUBLICATIONS ISSUED BY CAMERON & FERGUSON, 88 & 94 WEST NILE STREET, GLASGOW. Any of the Boohs mentioned in this List, as well as the other Publications of Cameron & Ferguson, may be had of the Booksellers , or will be sent, post free, to any person who forwards to the Publishers, at the above address, the required number of postage stamps . GLASGOW: CAMERON AND FERGUSON 88 WEST NILE STREET. LONDON: 12 AYE MARIA LANE, PATERNOSTER ROW. FORM OF ORDER FOR CAMERON & FERGUSON’S PUBLICATIONS. Should persons in the country or at a distance from a Book- seller be unable to procure any of Cameron & Ferguson’s Publications, a note, as below, accompanied by the proper amount of Stamps, will ensure their dispatch by return of post : — Post Town,. Date, Messrs. CAMERON & FERGUSON, GLASGOW. Gentlemen, Please forward, per return of Post, the undernoted Books, for which I enclose the required amount in Postage Stamps. Yours respectfully, Full Name , Address , < BOOKS WANTED. Free by Post for Stamps. POPULAR PUBLICATIONS RELATING TO IRELAND, PUBLISHED BY CAMERON & FERGUSON. *** The Publishers will forward Free , to any Address in the United Kingdom , any of the Boohs mentioned below , or others of their Publications , on receipt of Stamps to the amount required. THE HISTORY OF IRELAND from the Earliest Period to the Emanci- pation of the Catholics. With a copious Index. By the Hon. Thomas D’Arcy McGee, B.C.L. Crown 8vo, 768 pp. In two volumes, Pictorial Enamelled Boards, 2s. per volume, free by post for 28 stamps ; or Two Volumes in One, bound in extra Green Cloth, full gilt back, price 5s. Eree by post for 72 stamps. THE HISTORY OF IRELAND from the Siege of Limerick to the Present Time. By John Mitchel. Demy 8vo, 576 pp. In Two Volumes, Pictorial Enamelled Boards, Is. 6d. per volume, free by post for 22 stamps. The Two Volumes in One, splendid Coloured Pictorial Enamelled Boards, price 3s., free by post for 46 stamps ; or bound in extra Green Cloth, price 3s. 6d., free by post for 50 stamps. THE IRISH BRIGADE AND ITS CAMPAIGNS in the Great American War; with some account of the Corcoran Legion, and sketches of the principal Officers. A record of Ireland’s modern glory. By Captain D. P. Conyngham, A.D.C. Crown 8vo. In Enamelled Boards, with Battle Illustration Printed in Colours. Price 2s, free by post for 28 stamps ; or in extra Green Cloth, full gilt back, price 3s, free by post for 41 stamps. THE IRISH AT HOME AND ABROAD— tic Limerick and Cremona; or the Jacobite Official Narrative of the Siege of Limerick by the Prince of Orange, printed at Paris in 1690 ; and a Contemporary Account from Milan of the Surprise of Cremona, in 1702, by Prince Eugene of Savoy, &c. By J ohn Cornelius O’Callaghan. Demy 8vo. Price 6d., free by post for 7 stamps. THE HISTORY OF THE IRISH BRIGADE in the Service of Erance, from the Revolution in Great Britain and Ireland, under James II., to the Revolution in France, under Louis XVI. By John Cornelius O’Callaghan. Demy 8vo., with Illustrations. In Monthly Parts, price 6d., free by post for 7 stamps. DICK MASSEY; a Tale of the Irish Evictions. Strikingly illustrative of the Irish Land Question. By T. O’Neil Russell. Foolscap 8vo. Enamelled Pictorial Boards, price Is., free by post for 14 stamps. TONAL DUN O'BYRNE ; a Tale of the Rising in Wexford in 1798. By Denis Holland. Foolscap 8vo. Enamelled Pictorial Boards, price Is., free by post for 14 stamps. THE GREEN AND THE RED ; or Historical Tales and Legends of Ireland. Crown 8vo. Boards, price Is., free by post for 14 stamps. 2PHENRYS IRISH TALES; containing The Insurgent Chief, and The Hearts of Steel. Crown 8vo. Green Enamelled Boards, price Is., free by post for 14 stamps. GLASGOW : CAMERON & FERGUSON, 88 to 94 West Nile St LONDON: 12 AVE MARIA LANE. POPULAR PUBLICATIONS RELATING TO IRELAND, PUBLISHED BY CAMERON & FERGUSON. *** The Publishers will forward Free , to any Address in the United Kingdom, any of the Books mentioned below , or others of their Publications , on receipt of Stamps to the amount required. THE RISING OF THE MOON , and other National Songs and Poems. By John K. Casey (Leo). Foolscap 8vo. Green Cloth, price Is., free by post for 14 stamps ; or in .Illustrated Covers printed in Colours, price 6d., free by post for 7 stamps. IRISH POEMS AND LEGENDS , Historical and Traditionary. By T. C. Irwin. Foolscap 8vo. Green Cloth, price Is., free by post for 14 stamps ; or in Enamelled Paper Covers, price 6d., free by post for 7 stamps. SONGS OF THE RISING NATION. By Ellen Forrester, and her Son, A. M. Forrester. Crown 8vo. Green Cloth, price 3s., free by post for 40 stamps. THE POETICAL WORKS OF LADY WILDE (Speranza). Price Is., or free by post for 14 stamps. Superior Edition, Cloth, Gilt, price Is. 6d., free by post for 20 stamps. MOORE'S POETICAL WORKS , Elegantly Bound in Cloth extra, Full Gilt Side and Back, and Edges. Price Is. 6d., free by post for 20 stamps ; or in Plain Edges, Gilt Title on Side and Back, price Is., free by post for 14 stamps ; or, People’s Edition, Enamelled Pictorial Cover,, price 6d, free bv post for 7 stamps. THE SUNBURST RECITATION BOOK; a Selection of the most celebrated Addresses by Irish Orators and Patriots at the Bar, from the Dock, in the Senate, and on the Battle-field. Foolscap 8vo. Price 6d., free by post for 7 stamps. O'DONNELL ABOO , the celebrated Irish National Song, with Pianoforte accompaniment. Full music size, with beautiful Pictorial Wrapper, emblazoned in Green and Gold. Price Is., free by post for 13 stamps. THE LAST STRUGGLES OF THE IRISH SEA SMUGGLERS; a Romance of the Wicklow Coast. By Dr. Campion. Price 6d., free by post for 7 stamps. MICHAEL DWYER , the Insurgent Captain of the Wicklow Mountains. By J. T. Campion, M.D. Crown 8vo. Pictorial Enamelled Cover, price 6d., free by post for 7 stamps. THE IRISH LEGEND OF M‘ DON NELL AND THE NORMAN DE BORG OS. Foolscap 8vo. Pictorial Enamelled Boards. Price Is, free by post for 14 stamps. THE IRISH QUESTION. Why is Ireland Discontented ? A Letter to the Right Honourable John Bright, M.P. Ireland since the Union ; a Lecture delivered to the Members of the National League. By W. J. O’N. Daunt. Demy 8vo. Price 3d., free by post for 4 stamps. GLASGOW : CAMERON & FERGUSON, 88 to 94 West Nile St. LONDON: 12 AYE MARIA LANE. CAMERON & FERGUSON’S NEW SERIES OF SHILLING VOLUMES *** The undermentioned or others of Cameron & Ferguson’s popular publications will be sent post free to any person in the United Kingdom who forwards to the Publishers' address at 88 West Nile Street, Glasgow, the required number of Postage Stamps. HISTORICAL ROMANCES. RICE ONE SHILLING, OR FREE BY POST FOR FIFTEEN STAMPS. 1. McHenry’s Irish Tales ; containing “ The Insurgent Chief ” and “Hearts of Steel.” Crown 8vo, Green Enamelled Boards. 2. Romances of the Heroism of Scotland; containing “The Scottish Chiefs” and “St. Clair of the Isles.” Crown 8vo, pictorial enamelled boards. 3. The Green and the Red; or, Historical Tales and Legends of Ireland. Crown 8vo, pictorial enamelled boards. 4. Irish Legend of M'Donnell and the Norman de Borgos. Foolscap 8vo, pictorial enamelled boards. 5. Donal Dun 0‘Byrne ; or, The Insurgent Captain of the Wicklow Mountains. By Denis Holland. Cap 8vo, pictorial enamelled boards. 6. Dr. Campion’s Irish Tales; containing “Michael Dwyer,” “The Last Struggles of the Irish Sea Smugglers,” and Minor Tales. Green enamelled boards. 7. The Knights of the Pale ; or, Ireland Four Hundred Years Ago : a Historical Romance. By C. M. O’Keefe. Crown 8vo, illustrated covers. 8. “The Ribbonman;” or, The Secret Tribunal: an Irish Romance of the Present Day. By Thomas Waters. Foolscap 8vo, boards. SHILLING LIBRARY OF HIGH-CLASS FICTION. POST FREE FOR FIFTEEN STAMPS. Enamelled Boards or Stiff Covers , with Coloured Pictorial Illustration. 1. Rose Waldron ; or, a Drag on the Wheel. Foolscap 8vo, boards. A Novel of Modern Fashionable Life. By N. J. Gannon. 2 . Dick Massey ; a Tale of the Irish Evictions. Foolscap 8vo, boards. By J. O’Neil Russell. 3. Kept His Trust ; or, The Doctor’s Household : the Record of a Noble Life. Crown 8vo. THE SENSATION SHILLING VOLUMES, CONSISTING OF NOVELS AND ROMANCES, PRICE ONE SHILLING EACH, OR POST FREE FOR FIFTEEN STAMPS. 1. Five Sea Hovels. Crown 8vo, illustrated cover. 2. Romances of the American War, containing Eight Exciting Tales of Love and Battle. Royal 8vo, with pictorial cover, and 8 full page illustrations. 3. Tales of the Far West, abounding in Excitement and Adventure. Crown 8vo, illustrated cover. 4. The Story Teller; a Series of British and American Tales. RoyaL 4to, illustrated. 5. Round the Camp Fire; or, Tales of the Bivouac and Battlefield. Foolscap 8vo, boards, pictorial cover. 6. Adventures on the Prairies ; and Life among the Indians. Royal 8vo, illustrated. 7. Romances of Crime ; or, The Disclosures of a Detective. By James M‘Levy. Foolscap 8vo, pictorial coloured boards. 8. The Phantom of the Forest; a Romance of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. Crown 8vo, illustrated cover. 9. Five Fine Old Novels. Crown 8vo, with full page illustrations and pictorial cover. 10. At War with Society ; or, Tales of the Outcasts. By James M‘Levy. Foolscap. 8vo, pictorial coloured boards. The extraordinary value and hulk for the money offer ed in this List is quite unprecedented in the publishing world . GLASGOW AND LONDON: CAMERON